It’s the morning of the Offering, and, of course, I awaken before dawn. Long before morning bells. Today is the day I will deliver the worst news possible to someone, for their loved ones. Then I will stand on high above the ceremony and watch as it’s carried out.
I feel sick.
Terrified.
Unprepared.
But I have no choice but carry it all out flawlessly.
First, though, I have to put on a brave face for my parents. Pretend I’m enjoying a hearty breakfast when my stomach is a roiling cyclone of anxiety.
When Salazar opens the door, leads me into the room and to the table where they sit, I’ll admit, my parents are a very welcome sight.
Upon seeing me, they both stand, step away from their chairs, and walk to meet me. My mother rushes over first, wraps me into her arms, and immediately starts fawning over me like I’m a child.
“Are you eating well? Are they tending to your wound?” she asks, still hugging me.
“Yes, Mother, I’m fine, truly.” We mutually pull away. “I’m being treated like an heir.” I smile. She laughs lightly and gives my hands—already held within hers—a tight squeeze.
“We were so worried, my son.” My father, as expected, is much more reserved. However, he too strides up to me, gives me a highly uncharacteristic and lingering embrace. It’s strange but not completely uncomfortable. In fact, because it’s genuine and not for show, I accept it fully.
I pull back, look at them both, “It’s so nice to see you.” And I mean it.
We sit down over an obscene amount of food and drink for three people, but I’m actually able to push a bit of my anxiety and anticipation over the days’ events to the shadows of my mind. For the most part.
My parents ask lots of questions, and I explain what’s happening, how the High Regent has me sort of engaged in heir training. They seem pleased with the arrangement. My mother keeps going on about the palace, the splendor of it all, from the perfectly curated lawns to the ornate molding along the ceiling.
The room we’re in is brimming with white floral arrangements and floor-to-ceiling windows that frame a picturesque view of the lush palace grounds. Because of my early schedule today, we’re able to watch as the Sun rises up, filtering through the garden trees.
“We haven’t been here in years—I can’t believe I’ve forgotten how breathtaking it is,” she breathes dreamily, taking in the gold-leaf trim of the side table.
“What were you here for then?”
She straightens her ruby necklace (the one she keeps locked away and only shows the world on special occasions), smooths her long hair as it cascades over her left shoulder. “What’s that, dear?” she asks, though I know she must have heard me, and the way she glances at my father further tips me off.
Father clears his throat, tugs at the front of his black vest so it lays flat. “We were asked to come along with several other families of high standing. It was an interview of sorts … The High Regent was starting his search for an heir.” He takes a long sip of coffee.
So they’ve known for years this was a possibility? I force my nerves to stay calm. I sip my own coffee, focusing on my voice, keeping it light because there’s no point in showing my anger. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Mother scoots forward in her seat, takes my hand again. “There was no reason because a decision wasn’t made. We didn’t want to get your hopes up only to have your dreams crushed if it didn’t happen.”
My Sun … They really don’t know me at all, do they?
“Makes sense,” I say without emotion.
“But look at you now! Heir to all of Bellona. A hero who escaped the Night.” I hate how proud my mother is, how it would tear her in two if she knew the truth of why I’m here. How it was that I really escaped.
It goes on this way for about an hour. Pleasantries, a short, on-the-surface tour of the palace with the head of Raevald’s house staff, then goodbye because, according to Salazar’s fine-tuned schedule, I’m set to deliver news to the one being Offered at the turn of the hourglass.
At the front door, I shake my father’s hand. The man is beaming with pride, but not for me or out of anything I’ve done. He’s satisfied with this new position our family’s in, with the prospect of power and connections.
My mother, on the other hand, gives me another embrace, leaves a soft kiss on my cheek. And, as she pulls away, her eyes say so much more. There’s a split second, I swear, she tries to communicate something. But it’s over before I can begin to decipher what that something could possibly be, and I’m left wondering if I only imagined it. “We’ll see you at the Offering.” She smiles.
My stomach drops.
I glance toward the sky. The Offering is at midday—only a few hours away.
They bid farewell and best of luck and are whisked away as quickly as they arrived.
THE MORNING IS bitingly cold and there’s an eerily appropriate whistle along the wind. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Raevald somehow summoned it for this particular moment.
Basso and Dogio alike fill the relatively small market square. They surround the dried-out, icy fountain and spill into the alleyways that branch off the piazza. A handful of children sit on parents’ shoulders so they can see. Everyone is bundled up with hats, scarves, gloves.
I’m more Imperi—crisp, put together—than I’ve ever been, thanks to Salazar. It’s my first appearance as The Heir Who Escaped the Night, and I’ve been ironed and pressed for the occasion. It was decided I’d keep the short shadow of a beard that grew while prisoner to the Night. Salazar said it gave me more of an air of authority and wisdom. I’m just happy not to worry over shaving it.
I’m wearing a black wool fedora and accompanying black scarf wrapped around my neck. My coat and gloves are also black, and my Imperi officer’s sash has been upgraded with new adornments, pins I’m not even sure I actually earned but haven’t had the chance to ask about.
There’s a podium standing front and center on a temporary wooden platform. The backdrop is one of Raevald’s signature red curtains. They’ve expertly set the stage for my debut.
Making my way up to the podium, Salazar offers a quick pep talk. “Don’t screw up, Denali. I’d like to leave here alive.” I only raise an eyebrow. The guy’s really something else. Somehow, he looks even more put together than I do, all sharp lines and black crisp edges. Pen and list at the ready. Somehow both annoyingly efficient but also endearingly supportive.
Each step of my boots echoes through the strained silence as I march across the stage. I stop front and center before the podium, and the first item I spot is a single medallion, golden Sun embossed on the side facing me.
My first thought is, Thank the Sun. I was worried how things would go without this to buffer the announcement. The medallion is considered divined by the Sun. I did not want the impression to be that I was somehow taking on that responsibility. Despite the current High Regent considering himself godlike, I will never assume as much. Not even while playing heir.
My second thought is of the crushing reality I’m about to face. Because someone’s name is printed on the back of this gold medallion. And everyone is waiting.
Watching.
Without ceremony, because there’s no other way to get through it, I jump in feet first and turn the medallion over.
A single name stares back: JAMES REED.
James.
Reed.
I breathe a shuddery sigh, trying my damnedest to keep some sort of composure. To steady my stomach from completely turning over and being sick right here in front of most of Bellona.
James is all of twelve.
A child.
James was my young Dogio mentee.
It was only a month ago that I helped him turn the hourglass over for fishing at the Hole.
But that was then.
No one’s fishing these days.
And I know why Raevald would choose James. I see what he’s doing. He needs to trust that I can make the hard calls, put the Sun and Bellona before all else.
Also, he’s a monster.
I stand tall. Swallow hard. Then gaze out over the crowd. All eyes are on me, and that haze of fog that’s persisted since I came back from the Lower still hangs low, clinging to the ground like it’s the new norm. And maybe it is. Battle smoke always wraps around your ankles, tugging you down.
Before I begin, I seek James out of the crowd. I’m both trying to spot him and hoping I don’t. Part of me prays he’s absent. That would make this easier for the both of us.
Then, as if my eyes are led straight to James by some divine force—and perhaps it is—I find him. He’s off to the side, surrounded by kids his own age. But there’s no doubt. I’m staring at a slightly older James Reed.
He wears a junior Imperi soldier’s uniform.
He looks to have grown taller. Sprung up like a weed in only the few weeks since I’ve seen him.
I quickly glance away before he notices the heir is staring at him.
I stand tall. Clutch the edges of the podium. Someone coughs. A child cries out. All goes silent.
“People of Bellona”—I gaze out over the crowd—“it is my great pleasure to see you all today. You’ve been dragged out into the cold and fog for this short announcement, and I don’t take that plight lightly.” I lean forward. “Your attendance here today, while, yes, required, is very much appreciated by me personally.” There’s a small round of murmuring. I catch a woman smiling. And I suppose it’s odd, well, not the norm anyway, that I’d thank them. But if I’m going to play this part, I’m still going to do it my way. It’s complete shit they’ve had to come here for this announcement instead of being able to deal with the outcome in the privacy of their own homes. We all know it. There’s no point in glazing over it. Still, for appearance’s sake, I add, “The High Regent sends his thanks as well.” Not much of a reaction is garnered for that, but I force myself to stand taller, to continue, to get through this unscathed.
“It’s a miracle I stand before you now. For weeks I was trapped several layers underground, my hands ever bound, fearing the absolute worst. I witnessed fellow Imperi soldiers take a sword to the heart under the evil watch of the moon.” I survey their faces, see I’ve got their full attention. “The Night will not stop until this war is over. Until one side has won and the other’s been forced to surrender or, Sun help us, is defeated.” At this, I catch several sets of tired, saddened eyes. “I don’t want the fighting to continue any more than you all do, which is why we’re here. There’s to be an Offering. We need the Sun’s help more than ever. Now is the time.”
“We didn’t get our medallions!” a Dogio man calls out at me.
Salazar takes a defensive step forward, but I put my hand up to stop him.
“You’re right, the medallions weren’t handed out. We live in a different era now. Gone are the days when we could afford to send a soldier door-to-door to every household delivering medallions. The tradition, while still revered, isn’t an option in wartime.” This seems to placate the man and others who seemed bothered by the change. Many are nodding. “We need the Sun’s approval, the Sun’s blessings, and we need it now.” I lift the large golden coin, hold it between my thumb and pointer finger. “Which brings me to this.” All eyes go to the medallion. “I’ve been summoned here to you by the High Regent, who was moved by the Sun to break from ceremony and announce our Offering’s name. This individual will not only make the ultimate sacrifice for our nation but will do so selflessly and knowing they helped their people survive. Today’s Offering will be”—I pause for breath, maybe even for a bit of dramatic effect, before announcing—“James Reed.”
The name feels horribly wrong. It’s like I’m committing the deed myself by announcing it. As if this is all on my shoulders.
And what if it is?
I know I’m not the one who chose him or the one setting him adrift into the Great Sea, and he can still back out.
Though …
Had I not returned as heir—had the High Regent not decided to test me—I’m not sure James would be the one chosen today. I’m not sure there would even be an Offering today.
But it’s too late.
I’ve already said his name.
I force myself into Heir Denali’s skin. Here, it’s all steel and iron and spikes like the gate that protects Imperi Palace.
Every set of eyes is pointed toward James, who sits on a nearby ledge. They’re all adorned in the same uniforms.
James makes eye contact with me.
First there’s fear—I see it, and it’s undeniable. The way his brow furrows and his nostrils flare. Then, the moment he realizes everyone is watching, he squares his shoulders. Nods and marches up to meet me.
You could hear a mouse scurrying over the stone ground, it’s so silent.
All but his footfalls have gone completely quiet. Even the breeze has hushed for this moment.
My stomach lurches, pushing acidic warmth up into my throat. I swallow it back down. Force a confident, compassionate smile on my face. I’ve seen Raevald give his own version hundreds of times.
Young James Reed no longer seems so young. The James I knew a few weeks ago is suddenly worldlier. Wiser.
But he’s still a boy.
Yes, he’s been training for war, but with this small ceremony, war’s come to him much sooner than expected. His light hair is cut short all over, left a bit longer on top so it flops over his eyes as he strides toward the platform.
When he arrives before me, I hold the medallion up for all to see. “Do you accept this great responsibility, James?”
Say no … You can say no … It won’t be pretty but who cares—you’ll live. I would do anything to be able to stop the ceremony. Pull him aside and explain these things to him.
Without hesitation, his sight not so much as wavering away from mine, he answers. “Yes. I do.” He’s stoic. Poised.
So much more than I feel in this moment.
And I didn’t expect anything else.
I pass the medallion over to him.
“Thank you for your service, James,” I say, being sure to make eye contact, trying to convey I’m sorry! and It shouldn’t be you! and I have no choice!
He takes the medallion, looks it over as if being sure it is indeed his name printed along the front, then turns and rejoins his fellow junior officers.
I want to say something meaningful. Something that justifies taking this boy from his family and years of life ahead of him. That it will all be worth it and how brave and selfless he is for his fellow Bellonians. But I don’t have any words that do any of that. Nothing I can say right now is justification enough. Instead, I nod toward the crowd, bid them good day, and tell them I look forward to seeing each and every one of them under the midday Sun at the Offering.
I close with, “Blessed be the light.”
But the only thing I can think of is how I thanked James Reed for his service, and how service isn’t at all the right term to explain his sacrifice.
Sacrifice doesn’t even cut it.
No.
If I’m being completely honest, what James and his family will go through today is no different than what Arlen went through only two nights ago: public execution.
I RETURN TO my room for a quick rest and to prepare for the Offering.
When I arrive, I’m greeted by an unwelcome surprise: the book I was reading back in Raevald’s secret cellar is sitting on my desk. Attached is a note. It reads: If you would like to borrow something to read, feel free to ask next time. R.
Damn it, Salazar, you sniveling rat.
And damn me … I’ve given Raevald’s right-hand man too much trust. He’s too cunning. Just like Raevald, but perhaps even better because he’s not nearly as obvious.
I risked too much by wandering around that first night.
Nothing is more important than keeping up this façade. It’s the same speech I just gave myself while traveling back from the medallion ceremony.
I must remember …
I’m being watched. Always.
I mustn’t ever let my guard down.
The sneaking around and carelessness and risk-taking must stop.
It’s not worth it.
Except.
Now I know where Veda’s atlatl is.
It’s then, just after I throw Raevald’s note in the fire, that I notice the tea service that’s been left for me.
I’m not hungry. In fact, I’m not sure I could eat a crumb of anything.
As quickly as I discount it do I spot it.
A blueberry muffin accompanying my tea.
A blueberry muffin only one person could have baked.
Bronwyn.
Dorian said she’d be the go-between. That I’d know when she contacted me.
Not a moment to waste, I break the muffin open and inside, folded up into a small square of paper, is a letter from Veda. I glance at the door. Stop and listen for footsteps.
All is silent.
I quickly unfold the letter, sit next to the fire.
The letter will soon be ash.
And Bronwyn is somewhere inside this palace, playing cook or baker or Sun knows who.
This realization both comforts and unnerves me. I’m doing a lot I’m not proud of right now, even though it’s in the name of the greater good. Of keeping up the act. Of advancing forward so that at some point I will have the power and influence to change things. That it’s a long, risky game, and I pray it’s all worth it. Even though I know Veda must know all of this … Doesn’t make any of it less unnerving.
I read the letter at least five times. I scrutinize it. Imagine Veda leaning over the paper writing it, blowing those stray hairs that fall onto her forehead out of her eyes, deciding what words to use, whether to be proper or familiar. I come to the conclusion she chose an odd combination of both, which leaves a lingering smile upon my lips.
Mostly, she’s alive and well.
Thank the Sun and moon both, she’s alive and well.
I’d hoped it based on poor Officer Givanni’s account, the manhunt that came up empty, the freshly posted wanted flyers.
But now … now I know without doubt.
It was Veda I saw dressed as a Basso prisoner just outside the palace the day I returned. We were so close … Yards away … Oh, to have been able to see her face to face. Brush her hand. Look into her eyes.
But it’s a good thing I wasn’t the wiser because I’m not sure I could have kept my composure.
I allow myself to breathe the first sigh of relief I’ve allowed in days. I sink into the plush chair, soak in the warmth from the fire.
Veda is alive and back in the Lower.
The Lunalette.
I read her letter once more before I burn it in the hearth.
I’m already thinking of a response.
But it will have to wait.
IT’S NEARING MIDDAY, yet the afternoon has somehow darkened in the short time between naming James as the sacrifice and now. Or perhaps it’s the Island of Sol itself that’s so dark.
Death looms over this Coliseum like a black stain, the sea surrounding it only helping the darkness spread.
It would seem the evil has finally reached our island. A disease set to spread, and I fear we won’t be discovering a cure anytime soon.
Yet I’m surrounded by celebration, the usual pomp and circumstance that accompanies the Offerings. Raevald was clear he wanted everything to carry on as usual. That we won’t let the war dictate how we observe our most sacred of ceremonies.
But the juxtaposition—the forcefulness of the one attempting to cover up the other—is dizzying.
I stand next to, but slightly behind, Raevald in his Coliseum balcony. We’re to wave every now and then, greet Bellonians while perched on high as they enter the arena.
And I notice that even when he sits, the High Regent will continue to tower above all. Raevald’s chair is raised a good six inches over mine. Poor Salazar sits even farther back, just at the red curtain, mostly out of view.
It’s not long until the Sun is perfectly high in the sky above the Coliseum. Its midday position marks the start of the Offering.
Raevald stands, and with some unseen, unspoken force, the crowd instantly quiets. He lifts the golden speaking trumpet to his mouth. “Welcome, Bellonians. Dogio—” He raises his hands toward the paid section where only Dogio sit. “Basso—” He does the same for the Basso side of the Coliseum. “It’s been far too long since we last met here, in this sacred arena, where the Sun can shine down on all of us. One people. Joined in one desire: victory over the Night!” The arena erupts in enthusiastic hollers and applause. “How dare they attack us in this ancient structure where ceremony meets fate? How dare they invade our land, our beaches, stake claim over the Crag? The Night is the definition of dark. Evil. And we, Bellona, are the light. The good in this world shines down with the Sun and on his people. Underground? Living in darkness and decay?” He takes a small step so he’s standing against the railing. Placing his hands on the stone, he gazes out over his great congregation. “The Night is the rotten underbelly of our glorious island. And we cannot let the disease spread. We must defeat them.”
Again, the crowd roars. He patiently waits until he has their undivided attention, surveying the packed Coliseum with pride. “But enough about that. Today is a glorious occasion and one I’m confident will turn the tide and give us more strength over our enemies. We’ve won back our heir—” Here he’s actually interrupted with applause, and I catch him flinching under the intrusion. It’s slight, but it’s there—he hadn’t expected it. And he doesn’t like not having control, but … “Yes … Of course…” Raevald joins in, slowly bringing his hands together and tipping his head toward me.
Unsure of how to proceed, I stand and wave, nod toward the crowd. Humble. Thankful. Playing the part of grateful heir. But this time the Bellonians don’t quiet on their own. And this time the High Regent actually hushes them by forcefully placing the speaking trumpet back to his mouth. “Because of how blessed we’ve been”—he shakes his head in what I’d bet is feigned disbelief—“truly, the Sun has blessed us … And because of that, in thanks, I’m going to turn this ceremony over to your heir.” He wouldn’t. “Future High Regent to all of Bellona.” He can’t. “Heir Nico Denali!”
We did not go over this. This wasn’t the plan.
The man hands me his prized golden speaking trumpet and takes a seat.
The High Regent actually takes a seat during one of his esteemed Offerings. The crown jewel of his legacy.
Just. Like. That.
As I make my way to the railing, all I hear is my own breath. Each beat of my heart. The silence is suffocating, closing in all around me. Sure, this Coliseum is the largest structure in all of Bellona, but in this moment, it might as well be a matchbox.
Clearing my throat, I sneak a quick glance back at Raevald. Palms pressed together, his hands are poised beneath his chin like he’s praying. Perhaps he is. Praying I won’t embarrass him. Praying I don’t accidentally fall over the railing. Or, on second thought, maybe he’s praying for that to happen. I’m getting the very real sense he’s not too thrilled when I receive more attention than he does.
He catches my eye. Raises his eyebrows. Doesn’t give me anything to go on. Zero direction.
This is another test, I know it is. And it’s confirmed further when Salazar sneaks into my periphery. From behind the High Regent, he’s waving his arms, nudging me to turn back around and get on with it.
Right.
The Offering.
I take a breath. Place the metal mouthpiece to my lips. “Blessed be the light.”
“Blessed be the light,” the crowd responds back.
This goes far beyond you, Nico. Beyond poor, poor James Reed. Even beyond Raevald. You must do this and do it right.
I’m not sure what comes over me, but it’s as if Nico steps away and the heir steps in. Takes control. And I let him, because this is life or death.
With casual confidence, I place one hand in my pocket, hold the cone at my lips with the other. “The High Regent is right. It’s a miracle by divine order that I stand before you now. We cannot let such miracles pass in vain or without thanks. We need the Sun to continue to bless us, which brings me to…” I pause for effect. “Your Offering.”
It’s subtle but significant, and something I know won’t be lost on Raevald. Changing the wording from “the Offering” to “your Offering” grants them ownership of something sacred. Something that could help us win the war. And when you have ownership over something, you treat it with reverence. With care. You’re less likely to fight it. It’s sick to twist what’s about to happen in this way, but right now I’m Heir Denali, High Regent Raevald’s successor.
Heir Denali will twist things for the greater good.
“Bring out the Offered!” I shout into the cone. “That praiseworthy soul.” Without an ounce of shame, I steal Raevald’s usual, well-rehearsed monologue. It’s just what he doesn’t expect and what he didn’t know he wanted.
Four stories below and across the arena, standing tall, donning the ceremonial white tunic, golden Imperi Sun blazing over his heart, is James Reed. A child mere months ago. Then a soldier. Now, the Offered.
I don’t blink as the soldiers slash his palms, bloody the altar in a sign of his sacrifice.
I don’t dare search the crowd for his family, see if his parents, whom we’ve had over for dinner, for the Ever-Sol Feast, are cheering him on or weeping uncontrollably.
And even as my throat tightens, I refuse to so much as flinch when he’s walked to the raft … As he doesn’t hesitate once to step on board … And again, when he bravely stares ahead at the Great Sea …
It’s where he’ll die.
Where, after a day of drifting, this time tomorrow, under the midday Sun, the intricately crafted raft will give way. James Reed, my former Dogio mentee, will offer his life for his god and his people.
For the greater good.
And a piece of me will die alongside him.
For the greater good. The thought of James on that raft all alone … Surrounded by nothing but endless sea … No one left for him to be brave for … Terrified as I would be …
The image pushes a suffocating weight down over me I’m worried I’ll never shake.
And part of me hopes I never do.
I’ll need to remember this moment to keep from falling in too deep. I will not become the heir Raevald hopes I will.
I’ll remember this moment to ensure I become the opposite.
For the greater good.
I snap out of my daze when I realize my hands are coming together in applause, that the entire Coliseum is alight with joy and hope over the day’s Offering. That, blessed be the light, all will be well.
Before Raevald leaves he leans into my ear. Breath warm, spiced of brandy, he says, “Well done, Denali.” He pulls back to make eye contact. “You continue to impress me … Don’t mess up.” He stands, stabbing me with a look that clearly promises several levels of hell should I mess up.
Flanked by his personal guards, Raevald disappears behind the curtain. Salazar says something about leaving together, but I explain that I’d like to stay and observe the festivities that are already underway below on the arena floor. He eyes me suspiciously but leaves saying he’ll return in one hour to escort me back to Imperi Palace.
In reality I’m not watching the festivities. Any celebration in this moment is wrong.
Instead, I watch James float out to sea. He’s still, but his head is facing the island. His people. The life he once had.
Tomorrow he will die.
I continue watching James until he’s no longer visible, a tiny blip along the horizon I’m not sure is James at all or a trick of the light.
Then I stand and walk around the curtain, marching down the empty hall and around a corner to the nearest wastebasket. It’s there, bent over the metal can, that I’m the sickest I’ve ever been in my life.
AS PROMISED, Salazar escorts me back to the palace. I’m in a complete daze, the undead walking among the living as if I’m one of them.
I glance toward Salazar, who’s already staring my way. Does he sense my dismay? My doubt? The hot, bubbling sick aching to come back up once again?
I swallow back the disgust, shove the horror of an image I’ll never forget of James set adrift from my head. Then I force a sort of smile, hoping he won’t ask me about my trouble.
We’ve always moved in the same Dogio and Imperi circles, Salazar and I, but never really engaged one on one. I do see why Raevald trusts him, why he’d keep him near.
He’s also as sarcastic as he is confident and loyal. It works for him, though. I can’t help wondering if he gets away with murder when it comes to banter with the High Regent. I bet.
Bless him, he stays quiet the walk back to the palace and once we get to my room, he helps me remove my cold-weather clothes—coat, gloves, scarf. He hangs or folds everything in perfect order, brushing any lint away.
“It’ll get easier,” he says, finally breaking the silence as he sits in the chair next to my civilian boots and runs a polishing cloth in small circles over one of the toes. “I mean, it has to, right?”
I sit on the bench at the foot of my bed. “My Sun, I hope so.” My tone is lackluster despite my attempt to cover it with something akin to enthusiasm.
“But…?” When I look across the room he’s staring, scrutinizing my expression, when I realize how scrunched my forehead is.
Instantly, I smooth my emotion over. Place my figurative heir hat on. Raevald warned me not to mess up. The last person I want to show my hand to is the High Regent’s eyes and ears.
“But…” I meet his eyes and stand, removing my red sash. “I look forward to every last responsibility I’m given. It’s a blessing to be in this position, and I welcome the challenge and duty of being heir and eventually High Regent.” I run my fingers over the scruff on my chin, then toy with the pen and ink on the desk. “It was an important day, is all. Much to think about.”
“Of course.” He sets my boot back on the floor and goes to work on the other but stops mid-circle. “Denali?”
“Yes?”
“You don’t have to convince me…”
“Oh?”
“I wouldn’t want the job to save my life.” I don’t think he’s testing me, but I can’t allow myself to react—the guy practically lives in Raevald’s back pocket—so I only nod. “I’m a friend, not a judge. My role is to guide you and see to your needs. I’m not a spy for the High Regent—as much as I’m sure he’d like me to be.” He raises an eyebrow, releases a laugh as if he’s not telling me the full story behind that comment.
Salazar finishes polishing my other boot and sets them next to his chair. When he stands, he starts for the door but stops before me. “Just don’t take yourself too seriously. There’ll be time enough for that.” And he gives me one of his exceptionally hard pats on my shoulder. “You’re to meet with the High Regent in half an hour for drinks in the sitting room.” He opens the desk drawer as he passes, pulls out some stationery and a fresh pen and ink. “Take a breather, write a letter, gaze out the window, and appreciate the gardens.” Then another friendly wallop before walking away.
“Salazar?” I call after him. He turns to face me. “Thanks.”
Giving an exaggerated bow of the head, he says, “Of course, my lord.”
Without missing a beat, he leaves, and I’m left wondering why the hell he’d mention writing a letter at this moment of all moments.
But no …
There’s no way.
It was Bronwyn who delivered that muffin, I know it.
Right?
THIS IS THE scene when I step into the sitting room to meet Raevald:
The High Regent sits sentry to the fire, half-full glass of brandy in hand. Before him is a small table, and upon the table are stacks and stacks of paperwork. He glances up when I enter but doesn’t react to me or my presence other than by taking a sip of his drink.
“My lord.” I bow my head and then sit in the chair across from Raevald—the one on the other side of the hearth. It too is slightly lower, and I begin to wonder if he’s had all his chairs raised enough so he’s always sitting taller but not enough that it’s terribly noticeable. What a petty, odd thing to do. And also, undoubtedly characteristic of him.
Raevald pours a second glass of brandy, hands me the crystal, and then refills his own glass.
I take a small sip—the taste, the bitter bite makes me retch slightly. I now equate these sensations to Raevald, and after today, I’m certain for the rest of my life, the sour of brandy will make me queasy.
But it’s the High Regent’s favorite. It would seem, by the way he’s lazily shuffling through the papers, how his eyelids are heavier than usual, Raevald’s had his fill already.
But I don’t dare begin our conversation. Especially after what he said at the Offering. He’s far from trusting me, and I fear that on some level he could be onto the game I’m playing.
More, he’s always playing his own.
Everything to this point has been a test. I don’t expect that to change anytime soon. He has this need to be in control at all times and I intend to play into that. If I’m to make any progress, gain any useful information, he has to know I’m one hundred percent in.
Raevald looks up at me. “It was a good day today.”
Yeah. The best.
But I nod, feign another drink of my brandy so it only wets my lips. “An excellent day. The ceremony was very well received.”
“Yes … We’re sure to be rewarded with great blessings.”
“Indeed.” I hate this weird small talk we engage in. Especially now with such heaviness weighing down the air around us.
It’s like we both know the other is full of shit but won’t dare hint at it, much less admit it. It’s a game. A challenge. And it’s with that thought that I make what could either be a horrendous misstep or a crucial advantage. I decide to be honest—well, as honest as I can be while also flattering him to no end. “Can I ask you a candid question, my lord?”
“Of course.” He picks up the smallest pile of papers and begins thumbing through them.
“How do you do it?” I say. He glances up over the top of the documents. “How is it you stay so poised? I’ll admit, it was hard being the one to send that sacrifice into the Great Sea today. I know it was right, and I know it’s for the greater good—blessed be the light. But I suppose my question is this: How do you stay so strong?”
To that, he sort of snickers under his breath. Instantly, I regret my question.
“My boy,” he says, fanning out the papers before him. “Do you see these papers?” I nod. “Each one contains a name, and each name represents a person. Someone who once lived and breathed and walked among us on this island.” I take a real drink this time because I fear his next words. “This is only a sampling of those who have been sacrificed either in Offering or in private to keep the favor of the Sun.”
In private … I don’t dare ask because I know the answer: those he executed that couldn’t be justified by Offering.
“Look at the state of things today. Had these citizens not made the greatest of sacrifices, can you imagine the mess we’d be in? I’d be long dead along with you and your family. Most other high-standing Imperi and Dogio? Imprisoned or executed. And anyone left would be calling themselves members of the Night.” He looks at me pointedly. “That, Mr. Denali, is how I stay strong.” Then he leans forward in his chair. “Because I know I’m doing the right thing.” He glances at the other stacks of papers … seems to consider something but quickly moves on, an expression of not quite yet softening his features. “I’m disappointed in you, Nico.” His words are harsh but also strangely sincere. “You have charisma and are able to work the crowd excellently. Not everyone has that—it’s a Sun-given talent and yet…” He brings his hands, palm to palm, just below his chin. “You show your emotion too easily.” He tsks at me. “The crowd didn’t see it—I doubt even Salazar, keen as he is, noticed it—but I saw how hard it was for you to send that sacrifice to the sea today.” I take another sip of the brandy and it takes everything I have to keep it down. “I don’t like sacrificing Dogio, especially those who serve in my army. But…” Again he considers something, then seems to brush it away. “It’s the Sun’s will, and we must abide by that will. Our god reigns supreme.” He glances up over the rim of his glass, mumbles as he takes another drink, “Even over me.”
“Yes, sir. Blessed be the light.” I recite the words with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.
He raises an eyebrow and finishes the rest of his brandy. Sets his empty glass on the table with a clang. “I have a small reward for you.” He leans forward, eyes set on me. “It’s in regard to your mother.”
“My … mother?”
He nods. “She has powerful connections—ones that have influence, significant pull over the cogs that keep this island running smoothly and the Imperi in good standing with the Dogio.”
“She’s always been very active in the community.”
“Yes, well, she would like to see you more, and because she does so much for the community and since you’ve shown promise and cooperation in handling your duties, I would like to reward you both. I’ve promised to relinquish you from your duties to join her for tea once a week.” I can only imagine how completely incensed he must be that my mother has any control over him and his heir. I’d laugh if I wasn’t part sick from brandy and the rest sick from earlier.
“Sir … what a generous gift.” I nod and graciously accept his “reward” like I live to impress him and only him.
In reality, my insides boil with hate for this man before me, and all I want is to work to take him down.
“Salazar will deliver details.”
“Thank you, my lord.” I turn to leave, but he begins talking again, so I stop. Face him.
“My son began as a promising young heir as well.” He eyes me, watching for a reaction, allowing his mouth to quirk up into a crooked sneer. “Did you receive the book I had Salazar leave you?”
“I did.”
“Good … Good … I figured, if you’re going to go snooping around my personal things, you might as well use the space as a library.”
“I apologize, High Regent … I was lost.” I allow my eyes to roam corner to corner, feigning amazement. “The palace is vast.”
“Ah, yes, well, I believe you might have seen a portrait or two of my son, Vincent?”
I shake my head, because I’m not about to admit I squeezed my way into that secret room. “I’m sorry, my lord, I don’t think I did.”
He enjoys a long breath, ignoring my lie. “As I was saying, he was promising … Extremely adept, genius, really. And the charisma … You remind me a lot of him.” He gazes skeptically across the space at me. “Until he was stupidly taken prisoner by a Basso girl and lured to join the Night.”
“My lord, I assure you—”
“Yes?”
I harden my stare. “She’s dead to me.”
The High Regent grants me a fake smile and a slight nod. “I wasn’t going to do this, but … If you’re truly devoted to becoming High Regent, this should please you. I know it pleases me.” He pushes that thick pile of papers closer into his chest but hands me a single sheet. “Basso reported taken by the Night.”
I walk forward, take the paper from him, and only glance at the busily scrolled names covering every inch of the surface. “Forgive me, High Regent, but why should this please me?”
“Because I’m certain they’re all dead, Nico.” I breathe, shove every impulse I have deep, deep down. “Killed by the Night like so many before them. And they certainly won’t be the last. We’re fighting more than just an army of soldiers. We’re fighting pure evil. And that is what should please you. This war is your war now—you’re going to take down evil.”
I nod. “And that pleases me to no end.”
“That will be all.”
“Yes, my lord.” I give a small bow and walk out the door, up the stairs, and down the hall.
Each step I take, the truth of what’s on this single piece of paper grows more worrisome.
Until I reach my room and place it on the desk.
And it’s suddenly real.
The page lands light as a feather and is stained with black ink.
But it might as well be dripping red.
Saturated with the blood of hundreds of lives lost.
Heavy with Veda’s truth.
The truth, I realize, I hadn’t truly believed until this moment.
Immediately, I draw up a copy.
Then write a letter to Veda.
Honorable Lunalette,
My insight is this: If you and I do end up inheriting this war, we will be in charge and calling the shots. If that’s the case, peace will not only be an eventual reality but a fairly immediate one.
Now, what to do in the meantime? Playing heir is … well, it’s a nightmare. Living hell. And I’ll only say this to you—I’m quite lost.
How do we begin waging peace now? Start sowing the seeds of change, as it were, but from a secondary place of power? I would like to work together with you on this if possible as I believe the sooner our two sides can come together—even if only through Lunalette and heir and over pen and paper—the better.
And I did see you, of course I saw you. I’ll admit, I didn’t put two and two together. The disguise was effective, and you were a good distance away, but the pull … the pull of you, Veda, regardless of what you’re wearing or the length of your hair, is ever constant.
Finally, and most pressing, enclosed is a list in Raevald’s own hand of Basso taken by the Night. Please compare the names with Basso who have joined the Night in recent years. If the names don’t match up, we have a stitch of proof they died the way you’ve always said: on Raevald’s orders and at the sharp end of an Imperi sword.
I think of you often, Veda, and wonder if you are keeping the mud beetles at bay, pesky things.
Yours,
Nico Denali, Heir to Bellona
The smile stretched across my face is inescapable.
Too soon, it falters.
I look at the long list of Basso names. Raevald was riding high on ego and brandy to hand this over to me. Also, he’s beginning to trust Heir Denali.
And I bet he has a copy somewhere because, even drunk on brandy and power, he’s not stupid.
I stare down at the letter, the list folded up within it. I almost throw the letter in the fire.
Am I being too risky?
My words alone could have me executed for treason, not to mention I’m secretly sending it to the enemy.
But somehow she got to me first. Bronwyn, whoever it is, Veda trusted they’d get her letter to me without endangering me. Even though we’re technically on different sides, she’d never put me in harm’s way.
I have to trust someone in this or else what the hell am I doing? And if I can’t trust her, trust that we’ll be able to set things right at some point in the future, then I’ve no business being here at all.
The risk is real, but it’s worth it to finally have contact.
Without another thought, I seal the letter in a blank envelope, scribble a V on the front, and wait.
But that’s no good.
I stand, walk to the door, and ring the kitchen bell.
Shove the letter in my pocket.
In a matter of minutes, there’s a knock at my door.
“Yes?”
“The kitchen sent me; we assumed you wanted your evening tea early?”
I’m fairly sure I recognize her voice.
Bronwyn.
“Oh, yes. Come in,” I say, keeping up the ruse just in case. I’m not going to react until I’m without any doubt it’s her.
The girl is tall like Bronwyn and wears a bonnet that covers her hair, which I can tell is light.
Maybe-Bronwyn’s head is down as she focuses on the tea tray. It isn’t until she sets it down on the table, asks me, “Sugar and milk?” and makes eye contact that I recognize her.
“Hey,” I say under my breath.
She gives a slight grin. “Hi.” Then clears her throat. “A selection of baked goods here—” She pulls the linen back to reveal an assortment of breads in a basket. “What you don’t eat, I’ll collect on the hour.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, my lord.” Bronwyn gives a nod. I try to catch her eye—oh how I want to talk to her, find out how Veda is, if she’s seen her—but she’s completely committed to her role and reminds me I should be too.
I only nod back.
And she leaves.
I drink my tea, take the letter out of the envelope and fold it at least twenty times so it’s the tiniest square of paper and shove it inside the only blueberry muffin in the basket. I take the rest out, arrange them on the plate so it’s the blueberry muffin and only the blueberry muffin left. Sun almighty, I hope she understands it. I assume she’ll look for the note and not choose a piece of bread at random.
Yes, she’s not stupid, Nico.
Okay.
There’s a knock at the door. “Lord Denali?” Salazar.
“On my way!” I call. The last thing I need is him offering to dispose of the dishes.
I shrug into my coat, wrap my scarf once around my neck and leave. When I step outside into the hallway, Salazar waits, nose in his schedule. He’s donned a hat, his ginger hair peeking out under the sides. “Ready?” he says.
“Ready.” For what, I have no idea.
But if it’s another one of Raevald’s tests, Sun help me.