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A Hovel and a Hag

Now…

Time is measured by a single star creeping across the sky outside my tiny, glassless window. I watch it, waiting.

I’m always waiting. Waiting to sneak out. Waiting to be called upon to fulfill my duties. Waiting for Omma, who has raised me since birth, to tell me what to do. Waiting to be anything but who and what I am.

Mereneith Evangeline XII of Aryd.

A second-born princess in a long line of royal twins—one to rule, the other to serve as nothing more than a secret body double in dangerous circumstances.

Which means, of all the waiting I do, I’m basically just waiting to die.

I pull my knees to my chest, watching the night sky. Not much longer now.

I’ve been sneaking out since I was a child. Foolish and reckless? Maybe, but the desert is the only place where I get to be Meren. Where Cain lives.

Cain is a Wanderer, part of the nomadic people who travel the deserts, stopping by the city periodically to trade their wares. Between his travels and Omma’s sharp eye keeping me in place, it’s been ages since I’ve escaped this house.

My blood thrums with excitement at the thought of seeing him again, not just because he’s my only real friend, but also because Cain teaches me things that Omma would never allow. Things that might give me a chance to survive if the king of Tyndra ever comes for us.

Eidolon: the goddess-damned reason I’m so stuck.

The stories Omma and Grandmother have told us are terrifying. The immortal king has been stealing and murdering queens of Aryd for centuries. Only a handful of generations have been spared, which is how our grandmother retains her throne and Omma her life.

He is always coming for us—we just don’t know when or why. And that unpredictability is what scares me most.

I sit up straighter. No. I refuse to think about the cruel fate the mother goddess and her six daughters have woven for me. Not tonight. Tonight is mine.

Or it will be, if I can get out of this damn house without getting caught.

The instant my star disappears from view, I’m on my feet, adjusting my disguise. A black body-hugging top, breeches, and worn calfskin boots, all threadbare, as would be for a poor city waif and not a princess in hiding.

Some days, I wonder which is the disguise.

After checking for the knife I always hide on me somewhere, I pin my headscarf into place, leaving only my eyes exposed. I wear it any time I’m out of the house and in the city. Goddess forbid anyone mistakes me for Princess Tabra, heir apparent to the throne.

As Tabra’s identical twin, I have the same long black hair, same golden skin that can freckle in the sun, same unusual shade of amber eyes and stubborn chin. I am an exact copy, down to each mole and scar.

You don’t want to know how I got the scars.

I eye the window. I haven’t tried escaping that way before for a good reason, but the Hag has caught me every other way and I’d like to save my coins if I can. As I swing my leg over, my stomach pitches, and I grip the windowsill hard. Heights and I do not get along.

I huff out an irritated breath. Princess Mereneith, Imperium and fearless body double to the future Queen of Aryd, afraid of falling to her death from only one story up.

If Cain could see me now, I’d never hear the end of it.

Not looking down, I scoot across the tile-covered roof to the corner and the drainage pipe bolted to the wall. Black dots freckle the edges of my vision. Is the air thinner up here? Or maybe I forgot to breathe. Ugh.

I grab hold of the pipe and, without letting myself think about it, make my way down into the alleyway below, taking a shuddering breath when my feet finally hit the ground.

Never doing that again.

At least I get lucky. The alley is empty. No sign of Omma’s watchdog.

I scrunch my nose in disgust. It always smells like piss out here. The small, weathered hovel where Omma and I live is tucked between two taller inns, like a tiny child squished between broad-shouldered men in a pew at temple. These are establishments for the rougher sort of travelers, drunks, and whores. That’s what Omma calls them, at least, though the women who work there have always been kind to me. Except for the selkie, but she’s mean to everyone.

Ignoring my shaking hands, I pull my pack from the pile of trash where I’d stashed it earlier. Never go into the desert unprepared, Cain always tells me. He would know.

Sandrats skitter out of my way, baring tiny, razor-sharp teeth. The menaces have gnawed a hole in the canvas. Typical.

Bag secured over one shoulder, I move quickly to the end of the alley. The street ahead is quiet. Perfect. It’s safer if I get outside the walls before the city fills with people out to enjoy the cool of the night.

But when I go to take a step, a gnarled hand wraps around my arm and tugs me back with surprising strength. A string of frustrated curses crosses through my mind, but for once I manage not to voice them.

The Hag—I’ve never heard anyone call her anything else—glares in my general direction. For years, my great-aunt has paid this blind old beggar woman to monitor the house—and me—when she’s gone. But Omma is cheap, even when protecting the royal quasi-princess, and the Hag is only a Vex.

Her lack of powers doesn’t make her any less intimidating, though.

“You shouldn’t go out tonight,” she says in a voice only a mother could love, hooked fingers twitching against my arm.

No one is talking me out of this. I shift from foot to foot, antsy to get out of there. “Listen—”

She holds up a hand to stop me and huffs out a sigh. “Just…watch yourself tonight, girl.”

I frown. She’s never bothered to warn me before, much less let me go. “Why?”

“I may be half blind, but my ears work fine. Talk of more folk disappearing. Taken in the night.” She pauses, then lowers her voice to a hush. “I believe the Shadowraith walks among us again.”

Shadowraith.

A shiver races along my spine. Everyone in my city of Enora has heard of someone who knows someone who’s gone missing. They call them the Vanished. Is this the reason?

I think back over the words she said. “Wait. Again?”

She shakes her head. “It’s not the first time shadows have come.”

It’s not? Why has Omma never mentioned it?

“But this is different.”

I breathe out through my nose. I have so many questions, but the Hag has already given me more than I expected. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll be careful,” I say. And then, whether to reassure her or me, I toss her an overconfident smile and add, “The shadows and I have a certain…fondness for one another.”

And it’s true. The shadows are the only way I can ever escape. They hide me, and, in return, I tell them all my wishes.

Mostly wishes for a different life.

Maybe I would feel differently if I came face-to-face with the Shadowraith, though. A girl of eighteen summer solstices, an Imperium whose underwhelming powers to control sand wouldn’t make a dent. I mean, what could I do? Throw sand in its eyes? If it even has them. I shudder at the thought.

I’m not supposed to use my powers, anyway—especially not in public.

Hard rule. One of many.

I square my shoulders. I already have enough worries just getting out of the city, but the Hag’s warning is more than most would bother to do for me. Rather than hand over the tiny purse of coins I always bring in case she catches me—which she often does—I pull out the last of the storm-asps I snuck out of the palace last time I was there. It was supposed to be a gift for Cain.

“Here,” I say and place the sleek, pewter-scaled snake into her hand. A rare delicacy usually reserved for authoritates’ tables.

Her crow of delight follows me around the corner and into the darkened cobbled streets where the Shadowraith may well be lurking.