“Will you tell Ehri or shall I?” she’d asked Yerwei.
“Tell her what?”
“My mother—”
“I heard nothing. I’m glad she went peacefully.”
That was the way their pact had been formed over her mother’s cooling corpse. And how a new queen had been made.
Now Makhi leaned her arms on the balcony and breathed in the scents from the garden—jasmine, sweet oranges. She listened to the laughter of her niece and the gardener’s boy. When she’d taken her sister’s crown, she hadn’t realized how little it would solve, that she would be forever competing with kind, oblivious Ehri. Only one thing would end that suffering.
“I will see my sister wed. But first I must send a message.”
Yerwei moved closer. “What is it you intend? You know your ministers will read the note, even if it is sealed.”
“I’m not a fool.”
“One can be foolish without being a fool. If—”
Yerwei’s sentence broke without warning.
“What is it?” asked Makhi, following his gaze.
A shadow was moving over the plum orchards beyond the palace wall. Makhi looked up, expecting to see an airship, but the skies were clear. The shadow kept growing, spreading like a stain, speeding toward them. The trees it touched toppled, their branches turning black, then vanishing, leaving nothing behind but gray earth and a curl of smoke.
“What is this?” Yerwei gasped.
“Akeni!” the queen screamed. “Akeni, get down from the tree! Come away from there right now!”
“I’m picking plums!” the girl shouted, laughing.
“I said right now!”
Akeni couldn’t see beyond the walls, this black tide of death that came on without a sound.
“Guards!” the queen yelled. “Help her!”
But it was too late. The shadow slid over the palace wall, turning the golden bricks black and descending over the plum tree. It was as if a dark veil descended over Akeni and the gardener’s boy, silencing their laughter.
“No!” Makhi cried.
“My queen,” said Yerwei urgently. “You must come away.”
But the blight had stopped, right on the edge of the fountain, clear as the mark of high tide on the sand. All it had touched lay gray and wasted. All that lay beyond was lush and green and full of life.
“Akeni,” the queen whispered on a sob.
Only the wind answered, blowing in off the orchard, scattering the last, faint tendrils of shadow. Nothing remained but the sweet smell of flowers, happy and unknowing, their faces turned to the sun.
2
NINA
NINA TASTED THE SALT AIR on her tongue, letting the sounds of the marketplace wash over her—the call of vendors hawking their wares, the gulls in the Djerholm harbor, the shouts of sailors aboard their ships. She glanced up to the cliff top where the Ice Court loomed above it all, its high white walls gleaming bright as exposed bone, and she restrained a shiver. It was good to be out in the open, away from the cloistered rooms of the White Island, but she felt as if the ancient building was watching her, as if she could hear it whisper, I know what you are. You do not belong here.
“Kindly shut up,” she muttered.
“Hmm?” said Hanne as they made their way down the quay.
“Nothing,” Nina replied hastily.
Talking to inanimate structures was not a good sign. She’d been cooped up too long, not just in the Ice Court but in Mila Jandersdat’s body, her face and form tailored to keep her true identity secret. Nina cast another baleful glance at the Ice Court. Its walls were said to be impenetrable, never breached by an attacking army. But her friends had breached it just fine. They’d blown a hole in those grand walls with one of Fjerda’s own tanks. Now? Nina was more like a mouse—a big blond mouse in too-heavy skirts—nibbling away at the Ice Court’s foundation.
She paused at a wool vendor’s stall, the racks crowded with the traditional vests and scarves worn for Vinetk?lla. Despite her best intentions, Nina had been charmed by Djerholm from the first time she’d seen it. It was tidy in the way only a Fjerdan town could be, its houses and businesses painted in pink and blue and yellow, the buildings snug against the water, huddled close together as if for warmth. Most cities Nina had seen—how many had there been? how many languages had she spoken in them?—were built around a town square or a high street, but not Djerholm. Its lifeblood was salt water and its market faced the sea, sprawled across the quay, shops and carts and stalls offering fresh fish, dried meats, dough wound around hot irons and cooked over coals, then dusted with sugar. The stone halls of the Ice Court were imperious and cold, but here there was mess and life.