We definitely weren’t leaving now. Other curious (nosy) people emerged from shadows and doorways, gaping at the flags and soldiers and armor. Strongholders knew royals could be useless at best, treacherous at worst. But the army was still quite a thing to see.
Mounted soldiers followed those on foot, and the market’s shadows had lengthened by the time the first carriage rolled through the gatehouse, pulled by a pair of sleek black horses. It was silver and gleaming atop black wheels, its roof rising to a steep and dramatic point, its shutters tightly closed. The carriage was circled by guards wearing dark uniforms like the other soldiers, but minus the armor and helmets. Three more conveyances followed, all closed tight. I guessed the prince didn’t want to grace us with a glimpse today.
“I bet he’s ugly,” Wren said.
I didn’t care much about the man, but I was dazzled by the shine. “Can a man with silver carriages be ugly?”
“You mean, will the coin make him handsome? I’d say it depends on the size of the coin, but he’s royal. They’re all ugly of heart.”
“Fucking Lys’Careths,” I murmured.
“Fucking Lys’Careths,” she agreed.
And they weren’t the only trouble brewing. A pain in my chest—a sharp pinch near my heart—alerted me to a new danger, and a faint green haze bloomed in the air like clouds at the edge of a storm.
“Aether,” I warned. “Strong.” Aether was the stuff of the Aetheric realm—its energy and substance. Anima bore traces of it, but this was more than a trace . . .
“Where?”
I looked up, around, trying to locate the Anima as Aether spread like smoke in the dry air. “I can’t tell. It’s spread out.”
“Friend or foe?” Wren asked.
“Not a friend.” There was a sharpness to it, as if the Aether’s edge had been honed to a fine blade.
Sparks fired at the edges of the magical haze as the pale outline of a wide-winged moth fluttered toward us. “Luna,” I said quietly, as the soldiers continued marching.
The moth shuddered, then expanded into a new shape—the hazy outline of a slender young woman with pale skin, straight blond hair chopped at the chin, and eyes that swam with silvery magic. An Anima—and our friend. She was the only thing from the Aetheric who didn’t cause me pain. Maybe because we’d known her for years, or maybe because she was a Guardian, a kind of emissary between our world and hers, and with more skills and power than a standard Anima.
She nodded a greeting at Wren. Anima, if they were powerful enough, could choose to be visible to humans who couldn’t otherwise sense them.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Someone is manipulating Aether,” Luna said in the silent language of gestures she’d created and had taught us to speak. Anima used Aether to appear in this world. Creating sound required even more power than being seen, so speaking with her hands allowed her to conserve her power; it also helped her stay hidden.
“That’s not possible,” Wren said.
For nearly a century, the Aetheric god roamed Terra for his amusement—seeing the sights, dining with the Terran gods, spilling Aether into our world. Humans had learned to use and manipulate that magic, and they’d called themselves practitioners. He disappeared suddenly a decade ago, apparently weary of humans. Without him, Aetheric magic all but evaporated. Even the ability to see Anima and detect Aether was relatively rare.
“It shouldn’t be possible,” I corrected.
Luna nodded. “A practitioner has been revealed.”
“I just wanted a little damned sunshine,” I muttered. “A few coins.”
“Instead you got a prince too scared to show his face and the first Aetheric manipulator in years,” Wren said sourly. “Lucky you.”
I looked at Luna. “Where is the practitioner?”
Luna shook her head. “Hiding from me. I’ll keep looking,” she said, and disappeared.
“I don’t like this,” Wren said, and slipped her small blade into her hand. She’d learned how to fight as a child, when that had been her only way to stay alive.
Someone ran through the alley, pushing past us to get to the road. It was a man in the usual tunic and trousers of a strongholder. But the hands that shoved me were hot enough to burn, and a river of Aether flowed behind him.
Its color was wrong. Not the color of new leaves, but of rotting ones.
He rushed into the market proper, toward the marching lines of soldiers. And then he simply disappeared. None of the soldiers had seen him.
“Did a man just run past us,” Wren asked quietly, “and then disappear?”
“Yeah,” I said, relieved that I hadn’t imagined him. But where in Oblivion had he gone?
He appeared again from nothing, three strides closer to the second carriage, still hidden by twilight shadows, but for the glow of the magic that trailed him. And now he held a short sword.
I had to make a choice. And I had to make it fast.
Maybe I should have stayed in the alley, safe and hidden. Even if our fates were mostly decided, our choices might add new threads or snip old ones from the tapestry. But if you snipped too many, the tapestry might simply unravel.
Doing nothing was a choice; ignoring someone in danger was a choice. So I snipped the thread that held me to the shadows and hoped I’d survive. I ran into the road screaming. “Assassin! He has a sword!”
“Protect the prince!” someone called out, and the carriages jerked to a halt.
Soldiers unsheathed their weapons, but the man disappeared. The soldiers nearest me—who’d seen no other trouble—turned in my direction, thinking I was the threat.
“Not me!” I watched the faint wisp of green move in the air above the entourage. “He’s going for the carriages!”
The man appeared again, crouching atop the second carriage.
“Second carriage!” I shouted.
Now they saw him, and they converged as the attacker raised his weapon above the highest point of the carriage’s vaulted roof and struck. The crack felt loud enough to split the sky in half; wood splintered, hurling shards through the air and leaving a gaping hole. There was no noise from the carriage, and the man’s smile fell away when he looked inside.
I could see his face clearly now—skin red and flushed, his lips an unhappy line. I didn’t recognize him, and I didn’t understand the green glow of Aetheric power in his eyes. He wasn’t doing magic—negotiating it or directing it—and he carried a Terran sword. But magic rose from his body like flames from a burning building.
He was human but filled with Aetheric magic. That must have been the work of the practitioner, but I couldn’t see him in the crowd—or the source of the magic.
With a flicker, he disappeared again. I squinted and could see the faint green haze that spread through the air where he’d disappeared, like a ripple in water. Like he’d dipped a toe into the Aetheric.
That shouldn’t be possible. Living humans weren’t supposed to be able to travel into the Aetheric. But an Anima could.
“What is it?” a man asked, his voice so close I nearly jumped in surprise. “The attacker?”
Then he took my arm. I looked down at the long, tan fingers, and then up at the person those fingers belonged to.
He was several hands taller than me and wore the uniform of the carriage guards, which fitted around his strong shoulders and muscled arms. His hair was dark and straight and pulled back at the temples, and his skin was sun-tanned, making his eyes—the dark blue of the sky before a summer storm rolled through—seem to glow with purpose. His brows were long and dark, his nose just a bit wider at the bridge, maybe because of some past fight. His lips were full and deeply curved, but they were drawn into an unhappy line. The hand that wasn’t gripping my arm had already pulled a sword, and he looked very prepared to use it.
He was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. And he was a Lys’Careth henchman who’d kill me where I stood if he believed I was a threat to his master.
I couldn’t help but stare at him despite the danger. He stared back and so we stood together as chaos rose around us—the moment surely no longer than a heartbeat, but time expanding and stretching around us as if to keep us together within its embrace.
Nearby, someone called out a warning. The moment had been brittle, and it shattered.
“The assassin,” he said, his voice deep and insistent and carrying the aristocratic tones of Carethia’s capital, the City of Flowers. “Do you know what’s happening to him?”
I slipped my arm from his grasp. “I think he’s being used by an Aetheric practitioner.”
“Used?”
“He seems to be”—and I wouldn’t have believed it, if I had any other reasonable explanation—“possessed by an Anima.” Tales of possession were at least as old as Carethia, or the nations the Emperor Eternal had cobbled together to make it. I hadn’t thought they were true. Not until today.
He stared at me for a heartbeat, as if trying to accustom himself to the idea, while soldiers circled around the carriages, waiting for it to appear again.
“What in Oblivion am I supposed to do with that? And that’s an actual question. I’ll happily entertain suggestions.”
“You’re the one with the sword.”
“Which is little use against an enemy I can’t see.” His voice was dry as Vhranian sand.
“Maybe try to force the Anima out. Exorcise it. If the human is unconscious, the Anima might need to leave it. But be careful with the human; this probably wasn’t his choice.” After all, who would willingly agree to be controlled by an Anima?
“Wouldn’t be mine,” the guard said. “Why does it keep disappearing?”
“I think it’s slipping in and out of the Aetheric. And no, I’m not sure how.” I’d been scanning the market, from pacing soldiers to horses eager to move, shoppers and sellers terrified and thrilled by the action. And finally found the green haze to my left.
“There!” I said, pointing. “First carriage. Near the front horses.”
But before the guard could move toward it, a whistle sliced through the market—and it wasn’t one of the prince’s soldiers.
They emerged from the growing shadows, sending startled market sparrows into the sky in a cloud of furious cries: a dozen people in worn tunics and trousers layered with vests and scarves, linen masks tied across their faces. They pounced like the tigers on the prince’s fluttering banners.
“Death to the emperor’s spawn!” they shouted together, and rushed toward the soldiers. The soldiers scrambled to face them, and the market became chaos, with unit leaders yelling orders to bring their troops back into position and the clang of metal on metal.
One of the new assassins dashed toward us.
“Behind you!” I shouted at the guard. He turned to face the attacker, then dropped into a low spin to avoid the assassin’s sword. The blade missed him but was still moving as it came toward me. I pivoted swiftly to avoid it and found myself face to face with the guard again.
“You’re fast,” he said, admiration warm in his eyes.
“I am.” Wren had named me “Fox” for a reason.
But then his eyes narrowed. “Get down!”
I trusted him, dropped, and heard the whistle of the blade overhead. The guard flipped backward, came up again, and kicked the blade from the assassin’s hand.
“You’re good,” I said.
As if in answer, he grabbed my arms and pulled me toward him, an assassin’s blade splitting the air where I’d been standing a moment ago.
“I am,” he said with a responding grin, his body warm against mine. There was a hum in my blood that demanded we stay just as we were, to make this moment last. But we both saw the next assassin in line.
The guard turned me to the left, then kicked hard at the man, sending him sprawling.
I caught the haze of green to my left. “Second carriage!” I said, just in time for the assassin to thrust his blade through one of the carriage’s closed shutters. Then he and the blade disappeared again.
More cursing from the guard. “I need you to be my eyes.”
My heart thudded like the drums atop the wall—a hard, insistent warning. But when he held out his hand, I offered mine willingly.
I tried to block out the frenzy of fighting and the market’s sharp shadows, and watch for a sign.
“First carriage,” I said, and pulled the guard toward it, our fingers entwined. I dodged a human assassin as she turned her blade our way. One swipe of the guard’s sword and the assassin was down.
“Where?” the guard asked when we reached it.
For a moment, I saw nothing. Felt nothing but his very human heat. And then the air rippled and shimmered with color.
“He’s here,” I said. “Moving around us.”
The guard drew me toward him again, aligning our bodies. And instead of waiting for the man to appear, he took the offensive. He spun us around, whipping his blade in a complex pattern of slices and swirls.
The creature shifted in and out of visibility, trying to inflict damage with his sword and avoid taking any from the guard’s. The air was tinted green with Aether, the pain now a throb in my heart.
Sword met flesh, triggering a sound of agony and blood seeping into the dirt. The human appeared, his eyes now brown and glassy from shock. He stumbled back several strides, then crumpled to the ground. At the same time, the Anima made its exit—the ghost of a woman in a pale dress dissolving in a spiral of Aether.
The fist around my heart loosened its grip, leaving behind a dull, drumming ache.
There was another shrieking whistle, and the assassins stepped back from their fights, ran toward the edges of the market, and scampered away into the shadows of dusk.
The guard stopped, his fingers still at my back, breath fast from the fight. For a moment, there was only stillness, as if the stronghold had let out a long breath. And then sound began to fill the market again.
I stepped away from the guard, putting space between us. The moment was over, but my heart still raced, and I didn’t think that was all from the fight. There was no sign of the practitioner, nor any trail from the Anima’s departure. The magic, at least for now, was done, but for the Aetheric residue—like faint smoke—that drifted from the human’s body and the sword he’d dropped.
“It’s done?” the guard asked.
“The Anima’s gone. And if the Anima—or the human—were being manipulated by someone, their magic is gone now, too.”
“Because the Anima couldn’t do this on its own.”
I nodded. “There’d have to be a practitioner.”
“Quite a damned welcome.”
“I don’t remember any assassins or practitioners in the stronghold before your prince showed up.”
“Not a fan of the royal family?”
I wanted to tell the truth: The royal family didn’t care if we lived or died. But I didn’t think he’d be a receptive audience. “If you can’t say something nice,” I said mildly, “it’s best to stay quiet.”
Another guard, his dark wavy hair curling with sweat around his light brown face, approached us and looked at my guard with worry in his amber-colored eyes. “Nik?”
“I’m fine,” said the guard named Nik, the man I’d been fighting alongside. “You?”
“Good,” the guard said.
A woman pushed through the crowd, ran to the assassin on the ground, and dropped by his side. The man was unconscious, blood beginning to spread on his tunic from the gash made by Nik’s sword. I didn’t like blood and felt the sweat breaking on my brow. I looked away, breathing slowly.
Soldiers stalked toward them, fury in their eyes directed at the man who’d tried to kill their prince.
“Don’t touch him!” the woman screamed.
I started toward them, but Nik took my hand to hold me back. “He just tried to kill us.”
“The Anima tried to kill us,” I said. “He’s probably another victim.”
Nik looked at me for a moment, then nodded. He walked toward the group. “Stand down,” he called out, and the soldiers immediately stepped back. He must have been highly ranked, but who could tell when the uniforms were all the same?
“Madam,” Nik said, crouching beside the woman, “it appears this man tried to harm the prince.”
Some of the soldiers exchanged glances at “appears.”
Her eyes went round as the full moons, lips quivering. “No. He’s my husband. He would never.” She stared down at the man, as if trying to read an explanation on his face. Then she looked up pleadingly at Nik. “He’d never hurt anyone, especially not a fine noble. There must be a mistake. Or . . . or maybe he’s sick. He’s so hot. Why is he so hot?”
The Aetheric, I thought. There was still a green tinge in the air around him, and his cheeks were red and he was dripping sweat. The drumming in my chest grew more insistent as I moved closer.
I worked to ignore it. “Is that his sword?” I asked. It lay in the dirt beside him and looked to be worth good coin.
“Sword?” The woman looked at it, brow clenched with confusion. “We don’t have any weapons.”
Nik gave a nod to the guard with the wavy hair, who picked it up and directed a soldier to put it in the carriage. Then he took a fold of cloth from his uniform, crouched, and offered it to the woman. “For his wound,” he said. She took it with shaking hands and daubed at the blood.
The scenery swam a little, so I breathed out through pursed lips. Around us, the marketgoers who’d watched the fight began to head toward home. Soldiers picked up fallen banners. The prince hadn’t lost any of his men, but two of the assassins were dead and had been left behind by their comrades. The soldiers picked them up and placed them onto the front bench of the first carriage.
And still no one had emerged from inside the carriages. Because the prince was a coward, or because he intended to say alive longer than his predecessor?
“We need a healer,” Nik said, drawing my attention back to him. He looked at the wavy-haired guard. “Has Sanj arrived?”
“Not here yet. The other carriages are behind us.”
“Damn it,” Nik murmured, and shifted his gaze to me. “Is there a healer nearby?”
Before I could answer, the Western Gate garrison’s soldiers in their long, belted tunics of rich navy and gold chose that moment to stride into the road.
“Who’s in charge here?” asked the one in front. He was thick-chested, with a square jaw and small eyes. I knew him. His name was Rill. He was a bully trimmed out like an officer.
“Who are you?” Nik demanded.
“Rill. Acting commander of the garrison.”
The wavy-haired guard stepped up to him. “I’m Galen, a member of the imperial guards. Nice of you to finally show up.”
“We protect the stronghold from outsiders,” Rill said. “We aren’t personal security for the Lys’Careths.”
“No,” Galen said. “You prefer to watch from atop the wall. But had he been injured on your watch, the son of the Emperor Eternal, forever may he rule—”
“Forever may he rule,” Rill muttered in obligatory response.
“—there would be Oblivion to pay. You would have allowed an assassination to take place while you stood by. That’s treason.”
Rill made a disdainful sound, but the fight had gone out of him.
Galen took a step closer, clearly uncowed. “You will appear at the palace at dawn to explain how this breach was allowed to happen.”
“Says who?”
“Says our liege, the gods-blessed Prince of the Western Gate.”
Rill’s jaw worked as he chewed through possible responses. “I’ll consider your request.”
“Wasn’t a request,” Galen said. “But do consider it.”
As if confirming his authority, Rill adjusted his jacket and pointed at the injured man. “Take him into custody,” he said, and garrison soldiers moved in.
The woman covered the man’s body with hers to shield him. And then Nik stood up, which had Rill’s eyes narrowing at this new threat.
“No,” Nik said, and the word fell heavy as a stone. “You failed to stop an Aetheric attack on a Gated prince. There’s no way you’re taking the witness with you.”
“Aetheric attack,” Rill said with a sound of disgust. “There’s no damned Aether out here. Just charmsellers looking for coin. He’s probably just drunk.”
The powerful could afford to not worry about good luck or bad ghosts. The rest of us lived too close to poverty and ruin to ignore them.
“Try again. An Aetheric practitioner did this damage.”
That had Rill’s eyes popping wide. “There’s no practitioner here or anywhere else in years. Even if there was, it’s because you brought him.”
“Dawn,” Galen said again.
Rill wanted a fight, but he was at least smart enough to realize he was outnumbered by soldiers and wouldn’t win that battle. So he looked around the market. “Everyone clear out! Home before curfew or spend a night in the garrison.”
The battle lost, Rill strode out of the market, soldiers behind him.
“Are they always so charming?” Nik asked.
The soldiers were no friends of ours, but they were powerful. And in my experience, powerful people allied with each other against the powerless. So I chose my words carefully. “There’s been no prince or commander for half a year. The garrison is the only law here, and he’s accustomed to being obeyed.”
“We’ll see,” Nik said, then turned back to the woman. “Would you like us to send for a healer?”
“We don’t have coin for that. I want to take him home. Away from all this.”
“Where do you live?” I asked. “And what are your names?”
“District. I’m Ferren. He’s Innis. Our home’s near the garrison stables.”
“All right,” Nik said with a nod, then gestured a handful of soldiers closer. “These people are going to help you get home. We’ll send someone to talk to you tomorrow in case your husband remembers anything. In the meantime, we’ll have a soldier stand guard outside your house to make sure no one—magical or not—bothers you. If you change your mind and want a healer, just tell the soldier. They’ll arrange for it; no coin necessary.”
While the soldiers helped the woman to her feet, Nik led me a few strides away. “District?”
“Settlements outside the wall,” I said. “Rougher living, but cheaper than living inside it.”
“What’s your name?” he asked.
Anonymity was the thief’s best friend, especially when the rich or royal were involved. But I wanted him to know something about me. I kept my gaze on his, noting the length of his dark lashes and the tiny spots of gold in his irises.
“Fox.” I was being more noticeable than my dad would have liked, but the prince’s guards undoubtedly had ways to learn our identities.
“On behalf of the army of the Western Prince,” he said, “thank you for your help. You’ve done a great service to Carethia and the Lys’Careths.”
If Wren was close enough to hear that, I’d never live it down. “You’re welcome. Watch that he doesn’t end up dead. They have a bad habit of doing that.”
“So I’ve heard. Goodbye, little Fox,” he said, then walked back to the second carriage. After a few words with a nearby soldier, he climbed onto the front bench, picked up the horses’ reins, and clucked his tongue to get them moving.
“Move out!” one of the soldiers shouted. The envoy marched forward, and the world faded to ordinary again, like cloth bleached of its color by the sun. I found myself . . . disappointed.
“A great service to the Lys’Careths,” Wren said, stepping beside me.
Damn it. “I was hoping you’d missed that. You good?”
“Fine. You?”
I nodded, my gaze on the soldiers as they marched toward the palace. We should go,” I said quietly, because nothing else awaited me here. “The Lady will have questions.”
“When she finds out you saved the prince’s life? Yes. Probably.”
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