The Soul’s Keep doesn’t have windows.
It’s a cavern that curls around us in a wall of black, with floors as bright as clouds. A harmony of light and dark, as is the Armonían way.
Cigar smoke swirls into the air, a mix of blues and bright reds, from whatever flavors have been infused inside. It coats the black, and the sparks of flame that ignite them give light where there was none before.
We settle at a table in the farthest corner, where a small torch flickers on the wall in place of a window, like a blinking sun.
It’s quiet, bar the sound of occasional laughter and the slap of a deck of cards across the splintered tables.
I used to dream of drinking in a place like this, beside my father.
A small nook in the world, where we could laugh and talk about the day’s training. Strategize together, as I was so sure he’d done with his father before him.
A barkeep crosses the floor and over to us, his long blond hair tied in a ribbon at his neck. “What can I get you?” he asks.
His eyes only briefly dart to Selestra before he shakes his head and dismisses her green hair.
“Rum,” I tell him. “Four glasses.”
He nods and holds out a hand. “Eight pieces of silver Chrim.”
I nearly topple out of my chair at the thought.
I should have known to bring more Chrim, but I thought the supplies I’d brought would last. I didn’t realize I was traveling with wolves, who’d go ravenous at the first sign of bread.
I hand the barkeep the eight silver Chrim and look dismally down to the handful I have left.
If we have any luck, there will be no need to barter once we reach Polemistés.
“I thought we were stopping to think of a plan,” Selestra says. “Not to become drunkards.”
I don’t miss the way her eyes spring to the door, like she’s nervous the guards might break it down at any moment to capture her.
“I can do both,” I say, settling farther into the cushion of the log chair. “Besides, I’m dying of thirst.”
“If only,” Selestra mutters under her breath.
The barkeep returns with our drinks, sliding the tray into the center of the table with enough force that the rum sloshes over the shallow rims of the glasses.
I take a long and generous sip from my glass.
It burns going down.
Selestra eyes the rum with mistrust.
“It’s not poison,” I tell her.
“Don’t be so sure,” Micah says, wincing as he takes a slow drink.
Irenya doesn’t have such hesitation and practically downs her glass in one swig.
Selestra lets out a sigh as she presses it to her lips, then gasps out in horror after swallowing her first taste.
“That’s disgusting,” she says, outraged.
“That’s rum.” I raise my glass in a toast.
“I can have yours if you like.” Irenya reaches for Selestra’s drink.
“Help yourself,” Selestra says, pushing it toward her friend. “But I’m not carrying you out of here.”
Irenya snorts a laugh into the glass, just as the door to the Soul’s Keep opens to let in another round of patrons.
Each of them looks to Selestra as they walk in. They’re drawn to her somehow. Even with so many women coloring their hair to match hers, Selestra doesn’t blend in.
I think it would be impossible.
Some people are made to puncture through the world and something about her shines a little brighter, stabs a little sharper. Even I’m not blind to it.
“We need to cut your hair,” I say.
Selestra looks over to me, surprise coating her face.
“What?”
“It’s too recognizable.”
“Everyone here has green hair,” she protests.
“But none as long as yours,” I say. “It makes you look far too much like your mother.”
Selestra grimaces, the thought of it clearly not something she’s ever wanted. I almost want to apologize for the slight. I’ve lived for years trying to match my father’s legacy, but it seems Selestra would much prefer to escape any legacy of her mother.
“I thought we were safe here for now,” she says.
“We’re not safe anywhere,” I tell her. “But that’s the price to pay for adventure.”
“Adventure?”
Selestra’s eyes flash when she scowls, like orbs of light. Under the close torch flame, I can see for the first time that she has freckles. Just a handful, dotted across her cheeks, one toward the tip of her nose.
I’m not sure why I focus on that.
“If we’re truly not safe anywhere, then I don’t want to waste any more time on mythical swords or wetting our lips with rum all evening,” Selestra says. She stands suddenly and gestures for Irenya to do the same. “I’m going to find us an inn and we’re going to stay there until this month is over.”
She turns toward the door. Without thinking, I reach out for Selestra’s arm, holding her in place before they can go.
Selestra jolts with the shock of it. She isn’t used to people touching her. Even if my hands only wrap around her gloves, I know it must still feel strange.
It feels strange to me too.
The last time we touched—the last two times—death shortly followed. It’s like she carries it around with her. The shadow of death, in her skin.
I think then that her gloves aren’t really gloves at all, but chains, keeping death at bay.
Either way, I can’t let her out of my sight.
I need Selestra to find the magic my father spoke of. Her power is the key to destroying the king and to keeping me alive. I’m not going to have her wandering around Armonía without me.
“Seryth will find us wherever we go,” I remind her. “The only place he can’t follow is Polemistés, which just so happens to be where the key to killing him lies. In this little game, we’re not hiding. We’re seeking.”
“So no matter what,” Selestra says, “we’ll never be safe?”
“You’re safe right now,” I promise. “With me.”
Selestra’s eyes fix on my hand, still closed around her wrist.
Slowly, she pulls her arm from me. “Am I?”
Her voice is throaty.
“I swear it.”
Selestra blinks at the vow. She glances back at the door again, then, resigned, settles into her chair.
“If you truly are determined to go on this suicide mission to Polemistés, then why can’t we find a ship to take us the rest of the way?” she asks. “Surely it would be safer to go somewhere the king can’t follow, rather than waste time fixing the balloon.”
“We need the balloon to bypass the whirlpools,” I explain. “A ship won’t do. Too many have been lost to them before.”
“How many?” Selestra asks, looking uncertain.
“A lot.”
“I heard the one by the Southern Isle is as big as a city,” Irenya says in a hushed whisper. Her eyes are wide and rum soaked. “That it has arms and mouths, like a great beast of the sea. Sirens used to make their home there until Isolda and the king banished them all outside the Six Isles.”
Selestra turns to her friend with wide eyes. “What?”
“And then there’s the Polemistés Forest of the Damned too,” Irenya says. “I’ve heard such stories about that!”
Micah groans.
He looks like he might throw up again.
“I hate ghosts,” he says.
“Ghosts?” Selestra says the word like it’s a curse.
Like there’s one right behind me.
“It’s another one of the Polemistés barriers to the outside world,” I explain. A place where monsters lurk behind every tree, and in every breath of wind is the soul of a warrior, ready to cut down those who dare venture inside. “It’s a place for the damned, not the living.”
“How can you expect to fight ghosts?” Selestra asks.
“I don’t,” I say. “Leo’s butterfly is our way to bypass every defense Polemistés has. We can fly over their walls and haunted forests.”
The entire reason I hunted Leo down and risked my life to pay him so much gold Chrim was to have a way of escape that would keep us safe.
“Then if we truly need the balloon fixed, I think there’s a better way than to risk trusting the town fabric weaver,” Selestra says. She turns to Irenya.
“Me?” her friend asks, shocked.
“You,” Selestra confirms with a nod.
Irenya looks thoroughly panicked. “I couldn’t,” she says. “I wouldn’t know where to start. That fabric is different from any we’ve had at the castle. What if I make a mistake?”
“You won’t,” Selestra assures her. “You might be an apprentice, but we both know you surpass the dressmaker herself.” Selestra turns to me, looking surer than I’ve seen her before. “You’ve seen how intricate the gowns we wear are. Many are Irenya’s designs, or things she’s stitched without help.”
I have to admit, the idea is intriguing and one I hadn’t thought of before.
“You know fabrics better than anything or anyone,” Selestra says to her friend. “I know you can do this.”
Irenya smiles at her, relaxing somewhat. I can see how emboldened the princess’s approval makes her feel. Selestra’s right: I’ve seen the gowns at court, and if Irenya is responsible for any of those intricacies, then patching up a balloon should be quick work.
Irenya downs Selestra’s rum for courage. She slams it onto the table and lets out a breath. “Okay,” she says. “I mean, yes. I can do it. I think.”
“What supplies would you need?” I ask.
“The most important would be the right fire-resistant fabric to patch the holes.”
I nod. “Then that’s our next step. We find the fabric, let Irenya work her skills, and then we fly across the whirlpools and into Polemistés before the king can find us.”
“I really hope your magic sword is worth risking our lives for,” Selestra says. “What if you get to Polemistés and it doesn’t even exist?”
“It exists,” I say firmly. “It has to.”
Selestra might think that magic is gone, that there’s nothing left but what lives inside her, but it isn’t true. There are still sprinkles of it across the Six Isles. Small glimpses of magic that have escaped the king. Things like Leo’s butterfly or the mosaic cobblestone that glitters across the town.
Or whatever forces are keeping Polemistés from falling.
Maybe Selestra doesn’t believe in the stories—I didn’t either—but she can’t deny the island’s survival. She can’t chalk it all up to them being good warriors.
There’s something there that’s protecting them and I need to take it so I can protect the world.
“If Irenya fixes the balloon, then we only have one worry left,” I say.
“One big worry,” Micah corrects him.
Selestra looks between us. “What?”
“My death,” I say simply. “The greatest worry of all.”
“Your death,” she repeats.
“The halfway point of the month is tomorrow and after that the king himself can hunt me. If I’m going to escape, I’ll need another vision.”
Selestra pales the moment I say it.
Her hands tighten around the arms of her chair and I feel her desire to spring back up from it and run toward the door, rather than give me what I need.
Unlike her mother, she hasn’t made quick friends with death.
“We made a deal,” I remind her. “Your escape from the castle in exchange for helping me survive this month. You gave me your word.”
“I know,” Selestra starts. “But it isn’t that simple.”
“I’ve gotten you this far, princess,” I say. “Now it’s time you held up your end of the bargain.”