The Third Daughter, page 14
Because they’re too embarrassed to look, too disgusted by your emotion, the darkness chimed in.
But that meant Elodie wasn’t. This strong, thoughtful whirlwind of a girl saw Sabine’s sadness and instead of turning away, she kept watch. She witnessed Sabine war with herself, and she was waiting on the other side.
The air off the harbor was brisk and bright, drying the sweat on the back of her neck. Leaves tumbled from the trees, crunching underfoot. The streets were empty—either she and the princess had missed the rush of the clamoring crowd on their way to the procession or, more likely, no one in Harborside cared to attend.
They passed the bridge that would take them to the Iron District and instead forged forward, along the circular path down toward the castle on the hill. The trees that lined the High Road were lush, older, and more sprawling in their coverage than the sickly trunks of Harborside. These trees leaned lazily, painting the ground gold with turning leaves.
As the road snaked to the left, a chorus of cheers erupted and Sabine caught sight of the crowd, thousands deep, spilling through the city square. All the market stalls had been broken down, folded up, and stored in alleyways, disrupting the rats. It was astounding how many people could cram into the marketplace. It made the space feel smaller, somehow.
“Citizens of Velle,” a voice boomed from the top of the bell tower in the same church where Sabine and her siblings had sought shelter only two days prior. “The New Maiden has called, and you have answered.” A man stood, clutching the balcony with knuckles so white Sabine could see them from where she stood at the very back of the crowd. The same place where she’d witnessed every other parade before.
“The New Maiden promised that She would return,” the man continued. Atop his head was a monstrous crown the size of a baby, crushed purple velvet enveloped by gold leaf, glittering in the morning sun. “But none could predict the way She would do so. Your Maiden, your queen, has made the ultimate sacrifice. She has given Her life for us. For you. For Velle.”
Gasps echoed up from the crowd. Sabine turned frantically to Elodie. “She’s dead?”
But the princess shook her head, looking furious. “Just wait. He’s baiting the crowd.”
“Oh, no, good people of Velle,” the man said, holding up a hand. “She is not gone. She has merely fallen into eternal slumber, ensuring that She will always be here. Will always speak for you. To you.”
“How can she speak if she’s asleep?” Sabine whispered. Beside her, Elodie was glowering up at the man, her nose scrunched and her jaw set.
The two of them might have been unlikely allies, but Sabine was grateful to have someone beside her who felt the same disillusionment.
“She has chosen me to be Her voice!” The man’s words echoed with resounding bravado, his excitement so vivid it almost sounded like fear. “I have proven my devotion, my dedication to Her word. After all, the New Maiden is discerning.” He paused, ceremoniously, to allow for the murmurs that ricocheted through the crowd.
Sabine noticed Elodie roll her eyes. Even the darkness was skeptical. He’s awfully sure of himself, speaking on behalf of a woman with no voice.
Sabine didn’t know if she should be worried that she was now consistently agreeing with her sadness.
“And now, Velle”—the man clasped his hands together joyfully—“I shall present your eternal queen!”
Trumpets blared. The shock of brass blasting in Sabine’s ears compromised her balance. When she regained her senses, she was clutching Elodie’s arm tight enough to bruise. But the princess didn’t shrug her off or push her away. Instead, one of Elodie’s pale hands wrapped around Sabine’s own.
Her veins were a clear blue. Not like yours. Sabine pulled away, and then the festivities began.
Even from her limited vantage point, she could see the way the clergy folk burst forward, flowing from the doors of the church, draped in white robes, sharp slashes of purple across their chests like gambling debts in a ledger, gold pendants glittering about their necks. They looked like a procession of ghosts. The smaller ones carried leather-bound books, flipping through pages to murmur passages beneath their breath. Behind them came the stronger ones with shoulders broad enough to carry a giant glass box, nearly blinding in the sunlight. Black spots danced in the forefront of Sabine’s vision, impossible to dissolve, even as she furiously batted her eyes open and closed.
When her vision finally cleared, Sabine realized with horror what was being carried: the body of a girl, dressed all in white, her blonde hair fanned out across a bed of roses. Someone had painted her cheeks and lips with red. She looked garish lying there, too bright even in her in-between state.
The Third Daughter. The New Maiden laid out in all her glory.
It was disturbing, the way that the crowd shouted and clamored as Brianne’s body passed, the glass coffin sparkling in the sun, gleaming with the confidence of a sharp smile. Although the girl’s expression was serene, Sabine couldn’t help but note the way her jaw was clenched ever so slightly. She was just a child.
Still, Sabine couldn’t stop staring at the motionless body of the New Maiden. Her magic had done this. She had done this. She didn’t know if she should be terrified or proud.
Terrified, her heart said. But the velvet voice of her darkness told her: proud. Sabine had always wanted to be something. Someone. And now she was, however invisibly. Not a single person in this crowd knew Sabine, but they were humbled by what she had done. Isn’t that almost the same thing?
“This is impossibly vulgar,” Elodie whispered, as the glass coffin came closer to where they stood. The white-robed clergy folk did not seem to struggle beneath the box’s weight.
“It’s awful.” Sabine tore her eyes from the glittering glass box. “Why are they doing this?”
“Seeing is believing, Sabine,” the princess muttered darkly. “Ironic, considering.”
“Faith is sightless?”
“Faith is not based in reason or proof. It’s ridiculous.”
“Hmm.” Sabine made a half-hearted noise.
“What?” Elodie snapped. “I heard the judgment in your… sound.”
Sabine scratched her neck, which was warm beneath her hand. “Isn’t that what the monarchy expects, too?”
Elodie looked incredulously at her. “Of course not.”
Sabine raised her eyebrows. “Church and crown are not so different. They promise greater good, then take all our money to buy outlandish headpieces.” She nodded up at the Chaplain, who stood above, surveying the crowd. His crown had slipped forward, over his brow. His beard was disheveled, eyes bright.
“That I can’t dispute. Ridiculous, pathetic man,” Elodie said, shaking her head, fist tightened around the velvet of her dress.
“What is this all for?”
“For that.” Elodie was still staring up at the Chaplain. “For him to feel tall. For him to speak to his people on behalf of the voiceless New Maiden. To claim Velle’s throne so he can indulge his own interests, not Hers.” She sighed darkly. “This is what I was trying to avoid. Instead I made it worse.”
“What’s his story, anyway?” The man was dressed in holy robes, his gold pendant flashing sharply in the sunlight, yet his eyes seemed cloudier than those of the clergy folk. Perhaps they were simply reflecting the deep purple of his cloth, but Sabine thought there may be more to that granite gaze.
Nothing good comes from men made of stone.
Elodie’s face twisted into a grim smile. “Don’t you know? The Chaplain is the Third Daughter’s father.”
Sabine raised an eyebrow. “Does that mean he’s your—?”
“Lady above, no,” Elodie sounded incensed. “My father is a delight. He runs a cluster of farms in the Highlands. Keeps horses and bees. He’d never orchestrate a coup.” She shook her head. “In fact, all of my siblings have different fathers. This one just happens to be the worst.”
Sabine looked up at the Chaplain with renewed scrutiny. She was no stranger to slimy men. To the kind who slicked their greasy hair back with long fingers and pointed glances. The kind who tossed a coin, flipping head over tail over head again, in the direction of any pretty girl they passed. But the Chaplain’s slime was subtler. Harder to detect and therefore more repugnant once it was known.
A glimmer of gold caught Sabine’s eye as a red-clad Loyalist stepped out of the shadows behind the Chaplain. Sunlight flashed across the medal pinned to his chest as he peered down at the gathered crowd. For a single second, the Loyalist’s gaze met hers.
Her darkness began to scream.
19
Sabine went slack, the full weight of her crashing into Elodie before stumbling sideways into the man beside her. His face was buried behind a gigantic brown beard, but his eyes were kind, shifting quickly from surprise to concern as he spotted the apothecary clutching her head, her face twisted in pain.
“That’s all right, there you are,” the stranger said, hoisting Sabine’s arm over his shoulder to keep her upright. The girl’s skin was pale, and wisps of her brown hair stuck to her sweaty forehead. She was, rather decidedly, not all right. “What’s the matter with her?” Elodie hadn’t the faintest idea.
“Too much peich-nat,” she lied. The air was filled with the sickly sweet scent of nut wine, and glass bottles clinked under cloaks as the people of Velle celebrated the New Maiden’s everlasting reign. It was a plausible explanation if ever there was one.
“I’m sorry,” the apothecary croaked, turning toward Elodie. Her eyes were darker than Elodie had ever seen them. Instead of their usual bright brown, they were murky, almost muddy. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
The bearded man cleared his throat, glancing over his shoulder at the group he was with. They were cheering and hollering, shouting for the New Maiden. “Can you carry her?”
Elodie searched the faces of the crowd desperately, as though a solution might emerge. But she had only herself to rely on.
“Please,” Sabine croaked. She sounded so pained it very nearly broke Elodie’s heart.
“Give her here.”
The man moved Sabine from his shoulder onto Elodie’s. She was several inches shorter than the other girl yet had no choice but to make do. Sabine’s arm was flung around her neck, and Elodie could smell Sabine’s bright bite of herbs, the floral grassiness of the dirt beneath her fingernails, the salinity of the sweat that pooled above her lip.
She shifted her shoulder, adjusting Sabine, whose head had lolled against her neck. The apothecary’s skin was still a ghostly white, and her expression had not improved. Her face was scrunched up in agony, and her teeth chattered as though she had been left out in the snow for hours and her bones had been infected with a deep-rooted chill.
All around them, bodies pushed closer as the glass casket came their way. Elodie searched for an exit, but every break in the crowd revealed a flash of bright red. Loyalists. They were posted everywhere—at the doors of the chapel, standing watch at the corners of the High Road, lingering six steps behind Chaplain René, whose arms were still spread wide above the crowd, a hawk using its full wingspan to intimidate its prey. Once, Elodie would have run toward the guards. Now, she shrank away.
She’d never been so aware of a color before. Red was for flowers, for vegetable soups, for velvet gowns. But here it set her heart racing with fear as it flashed in her peripheral vision. While she did not know every Loyalist’s face, they certainly knew hers. And Elodie Warnou’s face was supposed to be in Ethliglenn, along with the rest of her.
She buried herself deeper into Sabine’s cloak as she tried to keep the apothecary upright. The thin garment wasn’t much of a shield, but having something to hide behind offered her a sliver of comfort as she snaked the two of them through the masses.
“Sabine,” she hissed, sweat dripping down her spine even as a sharp breeze whipped at her neck. “Are you all right? Can you speak?”
The other girl squeezed her eyes shut. “No.” She gritted her teeth, shaking her head sharply. “Pain.”
Elodie tried to remember the moment before Sabine had slumped, tried to fathom what might have happened to send her into such a state. Sabine had been speaking, standing, studying the Chaplain, and then suddenly, something was wrong. It was almost as though his poison extended far beyond his silver tongue.
Sabine groaned, huddling even closer, her breath warm on Elodie’s exposed clavicle. Elodie’s arms were beginning to shake from supporting the other girl’s full weight, but she refused to let go. When she nearly rammed into the broad back of an ironsmith, Elodie realized with a panic that she’d led them into the depths of the crowd, rather than away from it. All around her, the whispers grew like frenzied birdcalls, clamoring for the New Maiden, thanking the New Maiden, praising the New Maiden.
It was strange, hearing the calls for the New Maiden, when all Elodie could see in the glass coffin was her youngest sibling. She’d never thought of Brianne as anything but her silly little sister, despite the fact that she fulfilled the prophecy. She was the New Maiden first, monarch second. And it showed in her education, her demeanor, her personality.
Brianne had been raised by the Church, tutored by the Chaplain, fawned over by the clergy folk. Tera Warnou had argued with the Chaplain countless times about the need for Brianne’s education to cover a more robust portfolio of subjects and strategies. But it was a fight she’d never won.
If Elodie hadn’t known better, it might have even seemed like the queen had found relief in the distance between herself and her third daughter. In Brianne’s absence, Elodie had been trained to do the job the youngest Warnou would one day inherit. The problem was that on the other side of the castle, Chaplain René had been scheming even harder.
He had campaigned too intently and gloated too loudly over his appointment as the Queen’s Regent for it to have been incidental. Had Elodie been less focused on her bruised ego and more perceptive of his agenda, this entire mess could have been avoided.
She had to get them out of there, out of the main square, the public eye. She’d put herself at risk far too much already. If the Chaplain caught wind of her disobedience, Elodie would be shipped off to Ethliglenn accompanied by a guard. She would never find a way to wake Brianne.
She managed to duck down a side street teeming with rubbish. A fowl carcass was splayed out beside a stone wall, its bones nearly picked clean. A dash of soup, possibly regurgitated, was splattered across the concrete, beans and vegetables pale and lifeless. Elodie shuddered as she passed, Sabine still sagging beside her.
“Sabine,” Elodie pleaded, as she accidentally kicked what looked like a pig vertebra, “do you think that you can stand on your own?”
Sabine leaned over and vomited on the cobblestones, right beside the soup.
“I’ll take that as a no.” Elodie sighed, stepping delicately around the mess. “That’s fine. No trouble.” She hoisted Sabine even higher on her shoulder. “Please, wake up.”
“I’m awake,” Sabine snapped. “But I… oh no.” She paused. Put a hand to her mouth. Then she pulled away from Elodie and retched again.
The alley ended abruptly, the space between buildings boarded up with thick slabs of maple and pine. Sabine had sunk to the ground, slumped like one of Brianne’s dolls. Elodie’s skin crawled imagining the sort of filth soaking into the other girl’s skirt.
She used her foot to delicately nudge Sabine’s knee. “What happened to you?” One minute, the other girl had been a competent ally. The next, she was deadweight.
“Those eyes…” the apothecary was babbling, her words unintelligible. Elodie hadn’t the slightest idea whose eyes. “I—”
“It’s fine,” Elodie interjected quickly. If Sabine had been lovestruck by some fool, she didn’t care to know. “Save your energy. We’re safe here.”
“I suppose that depends on your definition of safe,” came a voice behind her, “but I’d say this isn’t the sort of place you’d want to frequent at night.” The speaker possessed a brash self-assurance that Elodie might have appreciated, were it not challenging her directly.
Instead, she bristled. She’d managed to navigate them away from the crowd, from the Loyalists at every corner, only to be cornered in an alleyway by some guard wanting to play intimidation tactics with her. Well, it wasn’t going to work.
She turned away from Sabine, ready to bite back, but the words died on her tongue as she took in the face before her, so familiar, even with the added years. Even though it was deeper now, she should have known, without looking, the voice of the boy who had once been her best friend.
Tal was a man now, standing there in a deep red uniform that fit snugly across his chest, the color striking against his skin. His mop of curly hair still fell across his eye playfully, but the rest of him was different. Harder. Sharper.
“Elodie.”
She shivered as her eyes met his. She could see him remembering, too—dueling together in the courtyard, his arm always wavering at the last minute, letting her win. She could smell the pastry his mother baked, spread thick with cardamom and cinnamon filling that they would share when they sat up in the tree that overlooked the queen’s chambers. She could hear the words he spoke when he told her he was joining the First Army under Rob’s father, marching off to war. She remembered the betrayal she’d felt when he disappeared without saying goodbye.
“Tal.” She felt something release within her—a fear, hard and round like one of Cleo’s thimbles, dislodging from her chest. She wanted to run to him. She wanted to hit him.
“I have to sound the alarm.”
It caught her unawares, like a slap or a splash of cold water. She’d been expecting a reunion. But that boy who had been her best friend, the only person who had ever seen her, had been replaced by a red-clad Loyalist. This wasn’t Tal. This was a supporter of the state. Not a person, but a profession.
