Malice, page 3
I thought I’d said the words too quietly to hear, but Rose jerks upright like she’s been stabbed, eyes smoldering amber. Calliope yips as Rose shoves her to the floor. My pulse speeds up. For a moment I think Rose might use her perfectly polished nails to tear into my face instead of the silk upholstery she’s currently strangling. But then her shoulders soften.
“Alyce.” Her voice is sweet enough to make my teeth ache. “Would you be a dear? You clearly have nothing to do and I need some enhancements.” She withdraws another sheaf of paper from a pocket at her waist and holds it out to me. Even from here, I can see that the writing takes up both sides. A trip to the apothecary to fetch the ingredients is bad enough so close to the ball, but then I’ll have to lug the heavy sack back through the Grace District. And I’m already tired from my own day.
“I have a patron coming.”
“Really?” Rose raises her eyebrows. “Shall we check with Delphine?”
I bite my tongue, gaze darting to the appointment book. I’ve finished for today. My morning was full to the gills, but it’s midafternoon and the nobles are busy getting ready for dinners and parties. I could have a walk-in, which sometimes happens. But Delphine would just tell them I’m otherwise engaged and schedule a later appointment. Still, that doesn’t mean I have to be Rose’s errand girl.
“We have servants to do such chores.”
“Oh. Is that not what you are? Forgive me.” She smiles, snakelike, and I fight the impulse to stuff that list down her throat. “But since you are free and all the servants are busy helping the Graces.” She bobs the paper in my direction, as if offering a treat to her insipid dog.
Laurel looks at me, a question in her eyes. I consider just walking away. But then Rose would only whine to Mistress Lavender, who would then probably have me fetch what Rose needs anyway, along with everything on everyone else’s lists. And then Rose would have the satisfaction of both winning and seeing me scolded. I grit my teeth and yank the paper out of her hand hard enough to rip the corner.
At least this way I’ll get a break from her company.
* * *
—
Rose’s list is filled with the usual enhancements. Flowers like juniper and mountain laurel and others that we don’t grow in our own garden. There are also robin’s eggs and crow feathers and birch wood. Unlike the Etherians themselves, who wield their magic with their staffs, a Grace must employ enhancements to shape her elixirs. So when a patron wants their eyes shaded a certain color—as with Lady Dulcet’s frequent requests for Rose to turn hers lavender—a Grace might take the desired hue from a plant and mix it with her own gilded blood. Laurel uses sage and yew and mint in her elixirs to stimulate different parts of her patrons’ minds.
I also need enhancements, though I have nowhere near the store of knowledge about my own abilities that the Graces enjoy. Grace magic has been studied since the first Fae-blessed infant appeared in Briar. The number of Graces born per year varies—sometimes as many as twelve and sometimes none at all. But always female and always marked by a shock of vibrant hair, golden eyes, and golden-colored blood to match. Once identified, the infants are given over to the care of the Crown and raised in nurseries, where they spend their first fifteen years learning their craft and determining the nature of their gift. Eventually each is presented at the Blooming Ceremony to begin her work.
But that was not my story. There was no bittersweet parting as my parents handed me off to the Grace Council and accepted their stipend. No coddled childhood in a nursery with Grace mothers coaxing and sheltering my burgeoning gift.
I was discarded. A squalling infant brought to the Grace Council by a fishmonger in the Common District. All Mistress Lavender told me about the man was that he vehemently swore he wasn’t my father and that he claimed to have found me bundled into a basket in a deserted alley near the harbor. No one knows how I got there, or why I was left, or who my true parents might be. And though my blood carried a spark of magic, I wasn’t permitted to taint the other Grace children in the nursery with my presence. Mistress Lavender volunteered to take me in—persuaded by a bump in salary, no doubt—and sequestered me in the attic room of Lavender House.
Twenty years later, I’m still there.
The Grace pennants in the pink, yellow, and green of our house snap above me as I push the front door open. Almost without my bidding, my gaze travels to the coral-tinged tips of the Etherian mountain range in the north, the border between the mortal lands of Briar and the Fae courts.
In Briar itself, the only magic that exists is that which the Graces and I provide with our blood. But every soul in the realm knows the stories surrounding the Etherian lands. It’s said that the soil in the Fae courts can sprout anything from treasure-bearing trees to treacle-petaled flowers, each one grown from the seed of a whispered wish. That birds sing the future in their melodies. That fish can grant a heart’s greatest desire if swallowed whole when caught. Nearly a thousand years ago, Briar was only a barren wasteland. But that didn’t stop countless mortals from sailing across the Carthegean Sea, marching through our future realm, and trying to breach the mountains and claim the magic of the Fae.
The Etherians soon grew tired of pushing back army after army. And once Briar was established—the only mortal realm on this side of the Carthegean Sea—the first queen swore to protect the mountain border from encroaching humans. As part of this alliance, the Fae granted Briar permission to mine Etherium—a magic-rich mineral found in the heart of the Etherian Mountains. The ground-up powder can be used to cure ailments, enhance beauty, and I’ve even heard that a strong enough dose can bring feelings of euphoria. With the healing Graces in Briar, we have little need of Etherium’s medicinal properties. But the nobles in the Grace District like to keep vials on hand in order to nurse wine-soaked heads, and small dishes are always provided for patrons to enjoy in the Grace parlors. But the true bliss the mineral brings is in its lucrative overseas trade. The realms across the Carthegean Sea can’t get enough Etherium. And our seemingly endless, exclusive supply is the reason Briar boasts the title of wealthiest realm in the world.
But not even Briar’s ocean-deep coffers grant us the right to set foot beyond the mountains. Etheria belongs to the Fae alone. It’s a restriction that many of the nobles complain is unjust. Some, usually drunk, even claim that they would explore Malterre, the land where the Vila once dwelled. If I look closely enough, I think I can see the shadows dance in the distance. Hear the cry of a lonely raven and detect the pungent bite of sulfur.
The home of my ancestors.
Malterre is abandoned now, salted with a poison that wiped out nearly all of the cursed race of Vila when humans and Etherians banded together to end the War of the Fae. But the fact of their near extinction does not curb the gruesome tales still circulating about the creatures. That the Vila plucked mortal infants straight from their cradles and replaced them with changelings. That they lured humans to their lairs and used them as slaves. That a mere look from one could turn your blood to ice or stop your heart.
These stories prey on my mind every waking moment. They dig their mutinous claws into my very dreams. I see them etched into the expressions of everyone who has the misfortune of crossing my path.
And with every slurred oath uttered behind my back, I am reminded:
I am half Vila. And everyone in Briar wishes I were dead.
CHAPTER FOUR
Even in this summer’s humid breeze, I will not leave the house uncloaked. Laurel argues that the practice makes me even more conspicuous when all the ladies are in silks and light lace shawls and working their fans to keep cool. But she has never had to navigate the streets as the Dark Grace.
Before venturing off into the Grace District, I steal around the back of the house and fetch Callow, knowing she will be grateful for the fresh air. Mistress Lavender doesn’t approve of my taking my bird with me when I travel the district, but I don’t care. Callow’s talons are a familiar, comforting pressure against my shoulder, and she helps keep people at bay.
As we weave through the district, the homes of the upper nobility and the other Grace houses soar overhead, all columns and ironwork and huge windows that dazzle in the bright, sea-salted sunlight. The streets are lined with poplars and hydrangeas and azalea bushes that give off a rich, sticky-sweet scent. With such lush surroundings, it’s hard to believe the level of poverty that exists beyond the thick stone walls to the east in the Common District, a labyrinth of drab buildings that houses those who can’t afford the ornate residences of the Grace District. Merchants, servants, and even disgraced nobility are all relegated to the Common District, unable to cross into the glittering world of the wealthy unless on official errands. In fact, the only shops permitted in the Grace District are those belonging to upscale clothiers like Madame LaRoche, merchants of fine goods, and apothecaries like Hilde.
I don’t bother to try to hail a carriage. They wouldn’t take me with Callow on my shoulder, and this close to the princess’s birthday celebration, they’re all overburdened anyway, teeming with passengers worrying over errand lists twice as long as mine. Besides, I find the drivers unfathomably annoying. Either they refuse to stop for me, or they spend the entire drive quaking in fear that I’ll use my Vila blood against them. The last trip I took almost landed me in a ditch after I popped my head through the front window to amend my destination and nearly frightened the driver to death.
Liveried servants scuttle around the horses’ clopping hooves, earning colorful oaths from the coachmen. In all the tumult, everyone is too busy even to notice me, only wincing when they draw too near and Callow snaps at them. I encourage her to bite their noses off.
The crowd carries me closer to the royal residence than I’d like. The palace, a behemoth of turrets and spires and battlements, looms over the Grace District. It’s carved out of the very rose-stained stone of the Etherian mountain range, which rises at its back. I’ve heard the entrance to the Etherium mines is below the palace itself. Crates of the powdered mineral trundle away toward the Common District and the harbor to be sold overseas, or to be bottled and stocked at the apothecaries here in the Grace District.
Near the palace’s elaborate gates of solid white gold stands the towering bronze statue of Leythana, Briar’s first queen. The sun gleams against her broad shoulders. The Briar crown—a wreath of brambles and roses and thorns—sparkles on her head. Droplets of gold track down her forehead like melting wax, a symbol of the Etherian blood that blessed her rule.
Leythana’s is a story I know well. During the time before Briar, when the mortals would send their futile campaigns across the Carthegean Sea, a Vila snuck into the court of the High King of the Fae and stole his staff.
High King Oryn was furious. The staff was the instrument of his power, and all of the Fae courts trembled to think what a Vila would do with that prize. But not even the fiercest Fae warriors dared to go into Malterre and retrieve the staff for their king. The Vila’s land—saturated as it was with dark magic—would poison any Etherian who set foot in their domain. And so Oryn set a challenge.
The mortal who managed to retrieve his staff would win the right to rule the empty borderland. It was an arrangement that suited the High King well, as the victorious mortal would serve as warden to the Fae border, thus putting an end to the constant onslaught of foreign armies trying to breach the mountains.
It seemed a simple challenge to the knights and princes and even kings who were valiant enough to make the quest. But those men focused on threats and brute force to recover the staff, killing the Vila and laying siege to Malterre. Every one met his death in battle.
Until Leythana.
Using her own mind as a blade, Leythana negotiated her way into Malterre under the flag of diplomacy. This was a woman who was rumored to mount the heads of her enemies on the masts of her ships, but not a single drop of blood—mortal or Vila—was spilled in her endeavor. She convinced the Vila to return the staff to the High King. Established her own truce with the dark creatures, promising that Malterre would remain unmolested while she ruled Briar. Once Leythana returned to Etheria with the Fae staff, Oryn was so grateful that he fashioned a wreath of bramble and thorn, gilded it, then blessed it with his very blood. It was a blessing that symbolized the Fae alliance, promised Fae protection, and ensured that only the new queen’s heirs could rule Briar from that day on. The crown itself would kill any usurper.
As a child, when I was subjected to every manner of experiment to determine how a half-Vila infant had appeared in Briar, I dreamed of what it took for Leythana to earn that crown. Our first queen was a warrior. Legend says she sailed into the realm she was destined to rule on ships constructed of dragon carcasses, their great wings fashioned into sails and their enormous jaws roaring at the bows.
I’d read and reread Leythana’s story until it was written on my heart. Repeated it to myself when the healing Graces came, their brutal, cold hands holding me down while they drew vial after vial of my blood. Pictured myself wearing that Fae-blessed crown as they dunked my head under vats of Etherium-seasoned water until it filled my lungs. Pretended that as they poured countless sticky-sour tinctures and serums down my throat I needed only to endure. One day it would be worth it. One day I would be like that first queen—untouchable.
Someone hurtles past me so fast he drops his bundles, jarring me out of the cesspool of my memory. Callow screams and he fires off complaints and curses at me, then I see myself mirrored in his gaze and he begins spluttering terrified apologies instead.
And once again I’m reminded that my imaginings were nothing but childhood fancy.
I’ll never be a heroine like Leythana. In Briar, I’ll only ever be a villain.
* * *
—
Hilde is the one woman in Briar who doesn’t treat me like I’m a pile of horse droppings on the street. Perhaps that’s because she sees her fair share of oddities in her line of work. Or because she’s like me, in a way. Both of us pinned by circumstance in a place we don’t belong. I visit her personally for my own enhancements instead of enlisting a servant to fetch them like the other Graces do.
She waves from behind her counter as I enter, the little bell on the door jangling merrily. A few of her other customers glance up. I let my hood fall around my shoulders and scowl at them. The shop is empty in seconds.
“Always one to make an entrance.” Hilde shakes her head. Sweat glistens on her tawny brow, and she wipes it away with a long, lean-muscled forearm. In a realm where nearly everyone sports Grace-gifted features, Hilde is refreshingly plain. Her black hair, sprinkled with gray, is swept into a messy bun beneath her cap, and fine scars—the marks of her trade—etch themselves across the backs of her hands and along her fingers.
“Sorry.” I settle Callow on the counter and unfasten my cloak. The scent of enhancements is so thick I can taste the earthy sage and the tang of citrus, laced with the undercurrent of coppery blood. “I didn’t mean—”
“They’ll be back.” Hilde shoos away my apology. She fishes a few dead beetles from a jar for Callow, who gobbles them up as if she hadn’t already eaten her weight in venison trimmings this morning. “I’ll not be lacking for the coin, I can tell you that much. Not with everyone losing their minds over that ball. Now what can I get for you today, Alyce?”
I hand over the list. Hilde doesn’t flinch as her fingers brush mine.
“This isn’t your usual sort.”
“It’s not for me.” I don’t even try to keep the salt out of my tone. “Rose sent me.”
Hilde snorts. “I see. High and mighty Grace too busy to come here herself?”
“But never too busy for Madame LaRoche.”
“What a surprise.” Setting the parchment on her counter, Hilde begins filling the order. I let my attention drift. Dried plants hang in bundles from the eaves—sachets of periwinkle and yellowed bouquets of calla lilies and leathered strips of birch bark. Vials of every shape, size, and color crowd the shelves. Stuffed wildlife with glass eyes snarl down at me from high corners. Hilde’s pets, she calls them.
“I don’t see why you let them order you about.” The apothecary’s voice is muffled as she roots around in the back stores. “They aren’t any different than you are.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“Why?” She reappears, half of Rose’s order stacked precariously in her arms. “Because your blood is green and theirs is gold?” She wrinkles her nose. “I’ve never liked gold much myself. Too gaudy.”
“I don’t think the rest of Briar agrees with you.” I begin helping her pile the items into a sack. “They started a war over it once.”
“The rest of Briar can take a dive off the Crimson Cliffs as far as I’m concerned.”
A strangled laugh escapes me.
“What? So they can. Obsessed with charm and beauty and whatever other fripperies those Graces can dish out. Mark my words, Alyce. When the Etherians created the Graces, they weren’t doing us a favor.”
I stifle a groan. Hilde and her conspiracies. She’s been breathing in too many of her potions. Graced children are the most coveted in the realm. Expecting mothers, especially those in the Common District, pray that the Etherians will visit and Grace their unborn babies.
“More of your stories, Hilde?” Callow pecks at a glass case filled with withered snake carcasses and I nudge her away.
“Don’t sass me, little miss.” Her honey-brown eyes narrow. “If you used your brain, you’d know I’m right. The entire realm has gone mad for Grace elixirs. Nobles rip one another to bits to get a particular shade of hair or a clever tongue. It’s a Fae trick, girl. They’re laughing at us from their courts. Same as when they set that challenge.”
