59. Hiems

hiems ~mis, f.

1. winter

It’s all a little much, in Mirelle’s vaunted opinion.

Perhaps it’s the princess’s young age, but such a lavish fete would ill suit Mirelle—she’d much rather have a small gathering with liquor and a roaring fire with friends…if there were friends to be had, that is. She shakes her hair out and pulls her fur wrap about her neck tighter like a lion’s mane, a pride without a pride.

Her heels click as she searches the wintry tunnels of the princess’s manse. For what, she isn’t sure. A familiar face? Someone who will talk with her instead of bowing and going on their way? Rax would stop, she knows—she’s his fiancée; he has to—but she cannot seem to find him.

Three girls approach opposite, flush with wine and ferocious giggling, but they quiet at Mirelle’s gaze and incline their heads meekly. The riotous giggling echoes again only after they pass her. She scoffs—she doesn’t know why she’s wandering like this. She has half a mind to get herself lost just so someone will come and find her, and so her shoes take her deeper, following a crystal river upstream and around gentle swells of pastel ice until she finds a dozen doors—one of them half open. The holocandlelight spilling from it is warm, but the voices aren’t.

“…von Axton failed in killing the girl.”

“The helping hand you hired isn’t getting anywhere, either.”

“Then what do you suggest I do? We’re running out of options.”

“And we’re running out of family members, Grigor. Five funeral ceremonies in three months—it’s madness.”

Mirelle’s eyelashes flicker. The voice is unmistakable—Grigor Ashadi-Hauteclare, her father—and Uncle Seren’s voice is just as clear.

“If—” Father lowers his tone to a bare whisper. “If the duke had finished his plaything and her whelp properly, we wouldn’t be having this problem.”

“Are you saying it’s our fault, then?” Uncle Seren snaps. “That we deserve this wanton murder for trying to rid ourselves of a mistake?”

“She’s a mistake with talent in the arena. The girl has House Lithroi on her side—you know what that means. Bellesera knew it best of all, but she ignored it in favor of trusting the arena to cull the problem, and here we are.”

“It’s only a matter of time, though, isn’t it? Until the bastard meets your daughter on the field.”

“Seren—”

“It’s not hard to remove the mortal limiter protocols on a steed,” Uncle Seren interrupts him. “Not as hard as the SCC makes you think. It’d take a few dozen bribes, but there’s more than enough now with the Velrayd dower. We have someone modify Ghostwinder before the match, and the bastard problem is solved.”

The hairs on the back of Mirelle’s neck stand. She’s disgusted at the mere idea of it—of cheating in the arena. The mortal limiter protocols are necessary—they absorb the buildup generated between two steeds’ nerve fluids when they impact; if one steed’s protocol is disabled, the other is deluged with all the buildup. Two rounds of impact without the protocol is enough to induce overload in even the most hardened, untouched rider. Father will shoot it down viciously as the underhanded trick it is. After all, he was the one who read her the stories of the knights. He instilled in her to fight clean and fair and shining, that none might doubt her—

“It’s a viable strategy, but I won’t have my daughter getting blood on her hands.”

Her brain goes white. The ice ripples his words in stark clarity—no decrying, no disgust; only acquiescence.

“It would be an accident, Grigor. Even for your daughter.”

Say no. Say no, say no, say no, say no—

The ground cracks beneath her heel. The sound of footsteps brings fear. Her own footsteps scatter back up the tunnels until she can hear the fete again—synth-harps and the rapid shuffle of dancing—and a warm hand suddenly claps on her shoulder.

“There you are.” Father smiles down at her. “You’re out of breath—have you had your fill of dancing?”

She can’t see it in his brown eyes—no malice, no dishonor. Nothing but Father. Was he always this good at hiding things? She manages a smile back. “Indeed. I was searching for Rax.”

“Hah! It’s about time someone reminded him how lucky he is to have you.” He laughs, the baritone of her childhood. He is the smell of her childhood—chalk and rosemary and the faint mineral of steam-pressed cloth as he puts a light kiss to her forehead just in the center of her halo. She smiles until her face hurts, until she can gather courage enough to reach out and squeeze his fingers. She doesn’t want it to be true…but she heard it.

“You’re clammy, darling,” he remarks.

“It’s all the ice.”

“Of course. Strange choice, that—must’ve cost a pretty credit.” He fastens the fur cape around her neck tighter. “Go. Have fun. I’ll tell your mother to expect you late.”

Her face is frozen and her turn stiff. Her footsteps made slow, different. Just in case.

They’re going to kill the murderer.

And they’re going to use me to do it.

If Father agrees to Uncle Seren’s ploy to tamper with Mirelle’s steed, then she’ll be left with only two options: win against Synali in the first round, or let her die.

Mirelle is a rider. A knight. She’ll defeat Synali von Hauteclare, but she won’t do it with tricks; it’ll be done with lances and maneuvers and skill. She will remain uncorrupted. The murderer won’t drag her down into the desperate, dishonorable dirt as she has Father.

And then she sees them on the ballroom floor.

In the midst of a crowd of practiced whirling is the stop-start of a strikingly inefficient dance. A tall figure with white hair smiles, and a girl flushes in his arms—a girl with ice eyes.

A girl not her.