Mikaen gently lowered the piece of pottery into its case, returning both princes to their tiny cupboard. He placed the box on his desk and rested his palm atop the lid. “Thank you, brother.”
“Know this,” Kanthe said. “To the best of my abilities, I will always be at your side. This I swear.”
“I’m going to hold you to that promise.” Mikaen faced around; a boyish grin played about his lips. “That is, if you don’t get yourself killed in those swamps. I tried to dissuade Father from sending you, but his mind is set. You know how stubborn he can be.”
All too well.
Still, Kanthe inwardly cringed. He remembered Mikaen whispering in the king’s ear at the council table, only to be scolded away. Kanthe had thought that particular exchange had been motivated out of jealousy, not concern.
Kanthe stepped forward and hugged his twin brother. Mikaen stiffened for a breath, then relaxed, finally encircling Kanthe in a hard embrace. The years fell away between them.
“I can try again,” Mikaen offered in his ear. “To convince the king that you should remain here.”
Kanthe broke their hold. They were left grasping each other’s forearms, as if the brittle pottery had come to life.
“No, dear brother,” he said, “it’s high time for this prince to get out of the cupboard.”
Once and for all.
FIVE
RUMORS OF RUIN
Those who ascend the heyest
Risk suffering the grettest fall.
Those who turn their back in fear Will n?ffre knou what awaits
Biyonde the far horizon.
—Words etched on the ninth step of the ninth tier of every school across the Crown; tradition holds it be kissed by each Ascendant
14
NYX STARED IN the silver mirror at the miracle before her.
“It suits you,” Jace said. “Like you were always meant to wear it.”
Nyx smiled shyly, smoothing a palm down the ceremonial robe. One side was starkly white, so bleached that it ached the eye in bright sunlight. The other was as black as burnt coal, so dark it seemed to draw shadows to it with every swish. She had never imagined she would ever wear such finery, certainly not a robe of Ascension.
In three days, she and the other aspiring ninthyears would climb the steps to the summit. Starting down at the first tier, their ascent would begin with the dawn bell and take until the final ring of Eventoll. They would traverse the course on their hands and knees, contemplating where they had started and where they were headed. Only once they kissed the ninth step leading up to the top could they stand and take their place at the summit of the Cloistery.
For seven years, she had watched the procession from the side, both envious and proud of those crawling skyward.
And soon I will be among them.
“I can hardly believe it,” she mumbled to the mirror.
“I never doubted it,” Jace said, grinning broadly.
She smiled back at him in the reflection, but her expression was strained by guilt. Jace had failed his fifthyear. He would never wear this robe. Yet, over the past span of days, he had never once showed a flicker of jealousy or spite. Even now, she read the pride shining in his bright round eyes, in the genuineness of his smile. He also showed no resentment for the crick in his healing nose. The break was surely still sore after the pummeling he had suffered because of her.
The wound tempered her jubilation, reminding her that she had enemies.
With the midsummer break ending in three days, many of the students who had left for home or escaped the hottest part of the year for more pleasant climes were already returning. The stairs between levels had grown more crowded. The noise and bustle of the school increased each day.
During this time, Nyx had kept wary watch for any of her former classmates, especially those who had hunted her, one in particular. So far, there had been no sign of Kindjal, the sister of Byrd. She glanced down to her palms, expecting to see blood there.
Jace must have sensed the darkening of her mood. He shifted and rubbed his ink-stained hands. He had come straight from the scriptorium to review her final fitting. He still wore a leather apron from liming fresh hides this morning.
“Now that we know your robe is properly hemmed,” he said, “you had best return it to its chest until the ceremony. I’ll step outside. Once you’re done, we should start on that last volume of Hálendii histories and review those geometrical theorems that you were struggling with.”
“Of course,” she said, but it came out like a groan. She apologized with a warmer smile at Jace. “I’ll be right out.”
Jace met her gaze for a breath, then turned away, his cheeks blushing nearly as bright as the red locks that poked from beneath his leather cap. He hurried out of the dressing chamber. Once alone, she faced the mirror again. She chewed her lower lip, reluctant to take the robe off. She had worked so hard to obtain it. She feared if she slipped it off that it would vanish away, like in some taunting dream.
She pinched the rich linen, testing its thickness and solidity.
“This is mine,” she whispered, staring at her face, watching her lips move. “I’ve earned it.”
She tried to force those words into her heart, as she had every day. But again, she failed. She knew the only reason she was wearing this robe was because Prioress Ghyle had convinced the others that her survival was some portentous blessing of the Mother, marking Nyx as worthy of Ascension.
Unfortunately, Nyx could not convince herself of the same.
Especially considering how far I’m behind in my studies.
She glanced back to the door.
Jace had spent most of the past fortnight instructing her here, in a set of rooms near the fourth tier’s healing wards. The space—abandoned by a physik who had left for the jungles of the Shrouds in search of new herbal medicums—had been granted to her by the prioress. Nyx had no other place to go. She was no longer a seventhyear, and as she was skipping the eighth, she had no room on that level. Even the ninth was forbidden to her until after the formal ceremony.
She could have gone home to her dah and brothers, but the prioress had wanted her close to Physik Oeric in case her health worsened. Plus, she had a slew of studies she needed to complete, to fill the gaps in her knowledge from skipping her eighthyear and to do her best to catch up to the ninthyears.
Ghyle had given Nyx and Jace a long list of assignments, the essentials of the eighthyear lessons. The prioress had also sent over a bevy of novitiates and alchymical students to help with this task. Still, most of the work had fallen on Jace’s considerable shoulders.
Up until now, Nyx had been proud of her accomplishments, confident that she could tackle any thorny problem if given enough time. No longer. She felt like a firstyear again, unsure, lost, struggling. Jace even had to teach her to read. He had always been her eyes in the past. Now that she could see, she needed to learn to read on her own, and she still fared poorly at it.
It was all too much, too daunting.
She covered her eyes with her palms, letting the darkness calm her.
I can do this.
Her only hope of making that come true was Jace. Even after she ascended, he would continue to aid her. The prioress recognized that Nyx would need his ongoing support—both in her studies and as a friend. All the other aspiring ninthyears had climbed through the tiers together as a class. She would be joining them as a stranger, an interloper, and likely viewed as someone unworthy to be among them.