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OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS, the rumors in the palace began spinning out of control. Before, Avenah and Kamene’s relationship had simply reminded the court of Shilanar and Amese, but now, the court was beginning to anticipate how Avenah would follow in his predecessor’s footsteps.
Not only did Avenah persecute his enemies with every bit as much ruthlessness as Shilanar, they said, but he would crush his opposition to create true peace during his reign. Not only did Avenah’s power command enough respect to win him royal brides (or rather hostages) from every noteworthy foreign nation, but he would inspire the kind of fear that would have kingdoms showering Lesra Kar with tribute. Not only did Avenah have a love as fierce as Shilanar’s...but apparently, all that was holding him back from true greatness was the destruction of that love.
It was this last part that truly frightened Cyrele, because the court were beginning to anticipate a tragic end for Kamene’s entire household. If only the Viemians had all died in that fire, Enosis had reported overhearing, then we would already be in the next golden age of our kingdom.
It finally reached the point where Avenah’s fog barrier was no longer merely for show. Matiser personally came to the Raya Wing to explain that they would be locked in, for now, but it was truly for their own safety.
“The same assassin who set the fire could be fueling this gossip,” Matiser had told them, voice cold. “Perhaps he hopes someone else will succeed where he failed. But it makes no difference. We’ll find whoever did this, worry not.”
Cyrele had no doubt he could make even a hardened assassin tremble in fear...except there was no assassin. Kamene had started the fire. And if the princes discovered the truth, they would realize that they had been tricked. Then there was no telling what they would do in retaliation.
Yet if they didn’t discover the truth, they would hardly stop investigating the matter. They would keep going until they were reasonably convinced they’d found the culprit...or until they’d found an appropriate scapegoat to publicly take the fall for the crime. No matter how their investigations went, someone would get hurt. And there was nothing Cyrele could do to stop it.
And all the while, Cyrele could not determine the purpose of these vicious rumors. They had started shortly after Kamene’s household had returned to the Raya Wing following the fire, after that questionable meeting with Senna. But why would any of those things have prompted one of the major players to spread such talk? Cyrele didn’t see how any of them—Matiser, Avenah, Senna, Akaterin, or even Aralath—would benefit from this.
“But someone must be behind this,” Enosis insisted when Cyrele brought up her confusion. “Or else the Karits would have been able to redirect the gossip by now.”
And Cyrele couldn’t disbelieve her—not only was Enosis better versed in court politics, but Akaterin herself had claimed that she could manage the talk of the court, back when Avenah had set off the initial mess of rumors about his relationship. So was the perpetrator someone Cyrele didn’t know about yet? Some other Karit vying with Avenah for power? Or perhaps one of Avenah’s other wives, who’d somehow found a way to exert influence against a rival even from afar?
Then within the week, the question answered itself. Because Senna strode into the chambers with a few of her servants—clearly adept enough with the power of the third temple to manage Avenah’s fog, though little did the prince know—and told them it was time.
“Time?” Kamene asked, clearly upset. “You wanted to wait until Avenah’s attention wasn’t on me. Now everyone’s attention is on me.”
“No one’s attention is on you,” Senna said, disturbingly nonchalant. “Everyone, including Matiser and Avenah, think you’re locked away behind his little flesh-eating fog.”
“Flesh-eating fog?” Cyrele repeated in a whisper before she could stop herself.
“A triviality,” Senna waved her off. “The point is that very few people can get past the fog. Matiser is watching the ones that can, but he doesn’t expect me to be one of them. Or Kamene to be one of them, for that matter.”
Kamene’s eyes widened. “Me?”
The look Senna gave the other princess was decidedly unimpressed. “Yes, you. I don’t know how you were exposed to a dose of the third temple’s power or why your ability to draw on fire appears so much stronger than the other elements, but it doesn’t matter. Your exposure must have been recent. That means you should have enough power to handle the fog on your own, even if the Maelstrom’s storm is still too much for you.”
Few people being able to get past the barrier, everyone talking about them but not looking at them, Senna standing before them so unruffled that it was as if everything had gone according to her plan...
Cyrele met Enosis’ eyes and saw the same horrified realization in them that she herself felt. Enosis turned her gaze back to Senna, watching the princess like she’d never seen her before. “You fanned the rumors,” she said.
“Of course,” Senna sniffed. “And I was right to. Matiser and Avenah are looking for a threat outside this fog. Everyone else assumes you are trapped here. Meanwhile, absolutely no one is constantly checking to make sure you’re still stuck here. Don’t you see how perfect this is? When we leave, Matiser and Avenah will be still be chasing clues that lead nowhere. By the time they realize you’re gone, they won’t even know where to start searching for you.”
And Kamene’s household couldn’t reconsider their decision to leave with Senna, because their lives would be in danger if they stayed. Senna had trapped them even more effectively than Avenah’s fog had.
Kamene’s displeasure was visible in her expression, but she remained silent. Of course she did—how could she protest? They were all at Senna’s mercy now.
“My servants will help carry your essentials,” Senna said, turning to look right at Cyrele. “You in particular must take care to ensure you have everything you need to practice your craft. There will be no going back until I’ve claimed the power of all four temples. After that, I can rid the world of the Karits myself and no one ever need fear us again.”
#
CYRELE RETURNED TO the room she shared with Enosis to pack, trailed by one of Senna’s guards—the same one who’d held down Kamene and put a knife to her finger, threatening to cut if off. It was a clear message that she was to be supervised until their departure.
Enosis followed behind them, accompanied by her own escort. And no doubt Kamene was receiving the same treatment. Cyrele couldn’t decide if Senna’s actions stemmed from distrust or an excessive need for control, but she was certainly proving to be a more uncomfortable ally than Akaterin regardless.
There was nothing for it but to pack like the Karit expected them to, but...Cyrele glanced at the trunk where she’d placed her mirror, tucked into a bag at the bottom, with a sudden sense of doubt. She didn’t have to bring it with her to the Temple of Shattered Dreams—and it was broken anyway! Why would she want it?
Yet the thought of leaving it here sat badly with her. Not because she needed it herself, but because she couldn’t help but fear what might happen if an artifact as advanced as the mirror fell into the wrong person’s hands.
Perhaps that was a silly fear. There were so few glyphwriters in Lesra Kar. And yet, the library of glyphwriting scrolls suggested there had been a greater glyphwriting presence here than she’d expected, at least at some point in history. Was that presence truly gone in the present? Or was it just hidden?
Cyrele didn’t want to take any more risks than she needed to, not when the situation was so out of hand already. And it wasn’t as if there were no benefits to taking the mirror, even broken as it was. After all, its back was coated in scarlet wax—an enchanted material that transferred the magic of any glyphs drawn on it to any material it touched. It was the only supply of the precious material that Cyrele had.
Mind made up, she opened the trunk and began packing her possessions—some clothes, a flint, her chisels—into the bag containing the mirror, covering the mirror such that no one would know it was there if they didn’t search inside the bag. All the while, the guard eyed each item in her hands with suspicion...but he never thought to check whether the bag she placed them into had been empty to start with.
The watchfulness of the guards made Cyrele wonder what exactly they were so afraid of. Did they think she could plan her escape with ordinary household items? But just as she dismissed the idea that escaping was possible, she began wondering if there was something else that she could do.
There was a small window of time between this moment and their impending departure that Cyrele could use to hide a message. To find help now that she’d gotten far more than she could handle in Princess Senna. The question was, should she use it? And if so, who could she rely on?
Certainly not one of the princes, and likely not Akaterin as well. Her only real option was Aralath—but that would make everything she’d done to avoid involving Aralath meaningless. Was the situation truly dire enough to warrant rethinking her decision? Did Senna’s surprising ruthlessness pose that much of a risk to Cyrele’s plans? Cyrele could still sabotage the first vault to keep it from opening...but what then? What would happen when she didn’t deliver on her promises to Senna? The princess had already threatened Kamene with dismemberment.
Perhaps no one would be able to stop Senna from getting what she wanted now that they’d given her the tools she needed. But she’d never know if she could’ve changed what was coming for them if she didn’t try. That was the whole point of undermining the vaults in the first place—to try to make a difference, even knowing the odds were against her from the start.
She had to get a message to Aralath. But the guard watching her would never let her write anything down, let alone hide it for the right person to find. So how could she leave her message without the guard noticing?
The task seemed nearly impossible, but...she did have one idea.
Taking the bag full of her possessions, she stepped back out of the room, pausing to see if the guard would stop her. He followed, but didn’t intervene. So she walked all the way to the library, where she gathered a bunch of scrolls in her arms, including the three she’d abandoned when Aralath had last come to visit her. One theoretical treatise with unknown information, one discussion of the first temple, and one artifact meant to protect its holder against some mystery threat.
“These are blank,” Cyrele said, showing them to the guard. “I may need them as material for my glyphwriting.”
The guard peered at the scrolls, then nodded.
Cyrele carried the scrolls out of the library and into next room—what might have once been the old queen’s study. Placing all of the scrolls on the desk, Cyrele carefully began fitting them into her bag, keeping track of where the scroll discussing the Temple of Shattered Dreams was at all times. Every other scroll went into her bag, but the one about the Temple of Shattered Dreams remained on the desk, next to a set of unlit candles.
She could only hope that Aralath would notice the out-of-place scroll and investigate it until she found the glyphwork and the mention of the first temple. Even then, Aralath might not realize that Cyrele had left behind a scroll discussing the first temple on purpose. It was all so little to go on, but perhaps a professional spy would be up the task? In any case, it was all Cyrele could afford to do.
“The last one won’t fit,” Cyrele muttered, heart racing while she waited for the guard to question her, half-expecting him to scrutinize her every action. “But that’s fine, I have enough.”
She grabbed her bag and hurried out of the room, refusing to look at the guard as she passed him. To her relief, she heard his footsteps following behind her without a moment of hesitation. But for all that she felt as if she’d taken a massive risk, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d managed to accomplish anything at all with it.