Antari. Kosika didn’t know that word, and it must have shown on her face, because Nasi rose, unfolding her narrow limbs from the chair. She was clearly older than Kosika, but still half-grown. Closer to Lark’s age, maybe nine or ten, her cheeks full, but her arms and legs thin, as if she were sprouting up at different rates.
Nasi went to a shelf by the bed and lifted a small mirror. She came over and held it up for her to see. Kosika studied her reflection.
She was still an in-between girl, with in-between skin and in-between hair. But only one of her eyes was its usual in-between shade. The other was now black from edge to edge and lid to lid, like someone had poured ink into the socket. Kosika recoiled at the sight, scrubbing furiously as if she could clear the stain. But when she pulled her hand away, it was still there.
“Eyes like that are rare,” said Nasi. “It’s a mark of magic. The last king had an eye like yours, and he woke up the world. Now you have one, and they think maybe it’s a sign. Maybe the magic will keep coming back, so long as an Antari stays on the throne. Maybe you can keep the city from plunging into war. Maybe they will look at you and see a good omen, a beacon of change. Or maybe,” she went on, “they will see a helpless child standing in their way, and cut your throat.”
Kosika swallowed, but she couldn’t take her eyes from the mirror. She reached out and touched the glass, even as her heart thrilled in her chest.
“What do I have to do?”
“Nothing,” said Nasi. “Just stay. And stay alive.” She handed the mirror off to Kosika. “And try not to destroy any more of the city.”
With that, she went toward the door, and knocked three times.
“What are you doing?”
“Letting them know you’re awake.”
A heavy bolt slid free, and the door swung open onto a hallway, and a silver guard—a Vir. He looked past Nasi to her, and then sank to one knee, head bowed.
“Kosika,” he said softly, and it took her a moment to realize he was not addressing her by name, but title.
Little queen.
III
NOW
The sun was high by the time Kosika reached the second station on the pier.
Her fingers were sticky with sugar, and stained red. She’d eaten the bun on the walk from the castle to the plaza at the river’s edge, dusting the last traces of pastry from her palms along with flecks of drying blood.
The crowd along the Sijlt was twice as large as that in front of the castle, and twice as boisterous, the mood made bright by the second tithe’s reward: a steaming cup of cider wine. The drums played on, counting out the city’s pulse, but here they were joined by other music. Nearby a woman sat on a rooftop, singing a song about the Someday King, and merchants sold food to go with the gifted drink, and Kosika’s arrival was heralded with cheers, and bows, the crowd parting to allow their queen and her guard, then folding closed again, as if she were a fire, and they hoped to feel her heat.
Nasi and two of the Vir had yet to make their second tithe, so Kosika stopped to watch and wait. Lark caught her gaze, lifted a cup of wine, and winked, and she fought the urge to roll her eyes, even as her cheeks warmed. She wasn’t sure why his smile did that to her. She didn’t want his attention, not like that. And yet, when he turned that smile on a pretty girl in the crowd, she felt the warmth curdle.
“I don’t blame you,” observed Nasi, wrapping the strip of white cloth around her hand. “He is pleasing to look at.”
“Then you may have him,” said Kosika, too fast.
“How kind,” said Nasi, “but I prefer your company.”
Kosika ducked her head to hide her smile.
The truth was, she loved them both, always had, but these days, Kosika loved Nasi and Lark with a need that frightened her, a hunger that climbed into her bones and burned there, and made her want to hold them close, to bind them to her. She thought of the Danes, binding Holland, and wondered if it had been an act of hate, or necessity—a need to keep him close, to feel them linked. Not that she would ever follow in their footsteps.
Then the way was clear, and it was time.
Kosika approached the pier, and the second altar.
This Holland Vosijk stood waiting for her, no longer on his knees, but standing upright on a plinth over the water. A polished black crown circled his stone temples, and his two-toned gaze looked straight ahead, at his city, at her. A carved cloak lifted behind him, caught in a permanent breeze, and his boots vanished into the basin at his feet, his reflection rippling in red.
“First, you were a servant,” Kosika said under her breath. “Then, you were a king.”