Daughter of Winter and Twilight E-Book

Helen Corcoran

• Herausgeber: The O'Brien Press
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 628

Beschreibung

Magic was dormant – never dead To some, Emri – the adopted heir and daughter of two queens – is a living reminder that her birth father tried to usurp the Edaran throne. But as she grapples with a diplomatic visit from her estranged cousin, Melisande, the two girls are attacked by a magical force and spirited away. They must put their differences aside when Emri comes face to face with a goddess she's always considered a myth: Lady Winter. Trapped deep within a mountain temple alongside other young royals, they face a race against time to complete Lady Winter's trials … or die. Sequel to 2020's exciting YA debut - Queen of Coin and Whispers

Leseprobe

Praise for Queen of Coin and Whispers

‘Elegant and clever … a treasure chest of a fantasy debut, as rich in well-drawn characters as it is in treachery, secrets and desire …I couldn’t stop reading.’

Samantha Shannon, New York Times & Sunday Times bestselling author of The Bone Season series and The Priory of the Orange Tree

‘Beautifully written … such fabulous details’ Elaina Ryan, CEO of Children’s Books Ireland on Ireland AM, Virgin Media

‘This is a book for everyone … but I think it will find a particular place in the hearts of young LGBTQ readers’ Irish Times

‘In this novel marked with twists and betrayals, it is not safe to trust anyone until the final page’ Foreword Reviews, starred review

‘A tautly paced, yet lushly written, book that heralds Helen Corcoran as a great new voice in Irish writing’ Paper Lanterns

‘Though the story is awash with intrigue, plots, and counterplots, its strength is the fascinating relationship between two admirable young women’ Irish Examiner

‘Richly immersive … written with confidence and flair … Corcoran is one to watch’ Irish Independent

‘Beautifully written, marvellous storytelling, intriguing and all in all, exceptional in every way. It took my breath away’ Fallen Star Stories

‘A fantastic fast-paced novel that manages to be both full of mystery and a joyful coming of age love story … a wonderful new voice’ Inis Magazine

‘A touching, satisfying story, and one I’ve returned to more than once’ Liz Bourke, Tor.com’s Best Books of 2020

‘An epic love story … crackles with passion and intensity’ Sunday Independent

‘Rich, clever and compelling’ Irish Examiner

For Gabbie, without whom this book would still be languishing on Chapter Four.

Contents

Title PageDedicationMapSpringOneTwoThreeFourFiveSummerSixAutumnSevenEightNineTenElevenTwelveWinterThirteenFourteenFifteenSixteenSeventeenEighteenNineteenTwentyTwenty-OneTwenty-TwoTwenty-ThreeTwenty-FourTwenty-FiveTwenty-SixTwenty-SevenTwenty-EightTwenty-NineThirtyThirty-OneThirty-TwoThirty-ThreeThirty-FourThirty-FiveThirty-SixThirty-SevenThirty-EightSpringThirty-NineFortyForty-OneAcknowledgementsRead an extract from Helen Corcoran’s stunning debut novel About the AuthorCopyright

Once, there is a tree.

A tree of life.

It isn’t the tree of its kind, for there are many in history, referenced in scribbles on the margins of sagas, a background detail, a bit player in epics and wars and romances. But it’s the tree of life in this particular land, on this particular continent, in this particular part of the world, and so it is the most important one.

The tree of life is, simultaneously, budding, blooming, fading, and bare – a tree in all stages of life at once. Its roots, deep, deep down in the dark of the world, are touched by the magic that is the source of all things.

People believed, once, that the tree bore fruit, and that magic passed to those who consumed it. But if they did, they didn’t overcome the limits of their mortality to become legend.

Instead, a woman boasts that she will cut the tree down and take the power for herself.

This detail, in and of itself, is not so remarkable. Almost every country, every culture, has such a person. Someone who may become beloved or reviled, a hero or a tragedy (both, sometimes, when the winters are especially miserable, and people need to hear about someone else making poor choices to feel better about their own).

The woman, forced to make good on her boast, undertakes the quest. She traverses many miles, fulfils the obligatory slaying of monsters – as expected of an adventurer – and eventually faces the tree of all life with a trustworthy axe in her hand.

And the tree devours her.

…a sparse Treasury, frayed international diplomacy, and an inefficient government headed by a politician as corrupt as the royal Court were only some of the problems faced by Queen Aurelia IV upon taking the throne. However, even at nineteen, she showed early signs of the indomitable will of House Sionbourne during her first year of rule, and later contemporary accounts now agree that her temporary downfall, through the usurpation of her throne by Prince Rassa of Farezi, was the result of political treason rather than proof of the weak character already evidenced in her predecessor.

Queen Aurelia IV, alongside her wife, Queen Xania I, became known as the first of Edar’s Great Queens. Their marriage and joint rule are considered the foundation that ushered in a Golden Age for their adopted daughter and heir, Princess Emri, once of Farezi and daughter of Prince Rassa himself…

— excerpt from Stewards of the North: A History of the House of Sionbourne and the Creation of Modern Edar (Third Edition)

History will note the achievements of Queen Aurelia IV, who grimly returned to power following the – shall we say unusual? – circumstances of the usurper’s sudden death. In the four years since, the Sionbourne Queen, who will perhaps one day be known as great, has already shown a startling level of determination in dragging Edar out of its backwater state. (Incredible, what one can achieve when one no longer fears dying at the hands of one’s own Head of Government and royal cousin.)

History will note Her Majesty’s political and cultural achievements, but today we are more concerned with the great romance that she chose over her royal duty. Others may consider this beneath a monarch’s dignity, but it’s now widely known that Miss Xania Bayonn – once Queen Aurelia’s spymaster and soon to be wife – courted treason to find her in Farezi, refusing to believe that she had willingly abdicated in favour of Prince Rassa, a rescue fraught with considerable peril and an uncertain outcome.

History will note Queen Aurelia’s achievements. But today we celebrate a woman marrying into House Sionbourne with a determined will all her own.

— excerpt from a society page published during the fifth year of Queen Aurelia IV’s reign, upon her marriage to Queen Xania I

One

Sometimes I was convinced that Edar would have benefited from fewer men being in power. Probably because I was descended from a particularly useless one: Lord Erik.

He was the only sibling of King Anderrs II, first monarch of House Sionbourne. Anderrs, after taking Edar by force from a weak ruler, had privately fretted over Erik’s ambition now that he was so close – and yet so far – from the throne.

The solution was swift and resolute: he would be married abroad. The new Edaran King did not have to look far: Farezi, their closest neighbour and closest enemy, had a future Queen in need of a husband. Erik would have a throne, and peace would be secured between the two countries for another few decades.

Lord Erik: my great-great-grandfather. The blood link between the countries of my birth and future.

It was ridiculous to stare at a portrait of a man from generations ago, trying to find a shred of resemblance. I knew this, and yet I couldn’t stop, following each brushstroke, trying to find any familiarity in his thin face and dissatisfied expression.

My reasons, secret and never voiced to anyone, were especially pitiful. It would be kinder to find something in a bitter man whose story had faded into history, since so many noted my resemblance to my usurper birth father.

Sometimes, when I looked in the mirror, it was all I could see, too.

The bells tolled the hour, a familiar sound that shaped my morning, my day, my life…

…and I was officially late.

I swore under my breath, the curses harsh between my teeth, and glared at the faint cracks across Lord Erik’s face. ‘This is all your fault,’ I informed him, then turned, picked up my skirts, and bolted down the length of the portrait gallery.

At the entrance, I switched to a brisk walk: a princess never ran in public. And I was almost eighteen, no longer able to get away with rushing anywhere.

Spring had arrived with surprisingly good weather that hinted towards a glorious summer. Sunlight poured in through the windows, smooth and butter-soft. The trees were already thick with buds close to opening. I loved spring best: a fresh start for everyone, a chance to put aside the poor humour that had built up over the colder months and try again.

Meetings with Isra, my parents’ spymaster, were unpleasant at the best of times. Everyone assumed they were tense, clandestine affairs, but the position mostly meant a lot of paperwork, while the intelligence agents tried to stay alive and safe. During my first official meeting with Isra, I’d made a joke from nerves; she’d chosen to be offended, and our dynamic had never recovered.

At the royal wing, I nodded at the guards by the entrance and asked after their children.

Princess Isra of Eshvon, Duchess Casterath, kept three offices in different parts of the palace. I only knew of two; her private one, hidden deep in the secret passages within the walls, was still a mystery to me. I wasn’t offended: I was an heir still being trained, and unlike the spymasters before her, Isra had decided to be open about her position. There were risks. Today, I’d been summoned to her semi-public office in the royal wing. It was better than being summoned to my parents’ study, where she usually berated me in their presence.

Years ago, after deciding to stay in Edar, Isra had been removed from the Eshvon succession, stripped of the privilege that her titles granted her. Unofficially, it was an etiquette nightmare – foreign royals didn’t stick around unless they married in – and Mother had swiftly made her Duchess of Casterath, a vacant southern estate that had reverted back to the Crown.

Even so, I knew from cautious eavesdropping that Isra still missed Eshvon. The doors of her office were stamped with Edar’s rose briar wrapped around a sword, the Casterath coat-of-arms, and the stylised Eshvon pomegranate. Isra might be employed in Edar’s service, but she never let anyone forget where she came from.

I knocked and entered, smiling at her forever unruffled secretary, who bowed and tilted her head for me to go through, then quietly closed the inner doors behind me.

The walls were the golden shade of a perfect autumn day, the floorboards buffed and polished. Isra’s desk and the seating area by the fireplace were muffled by thick rugs spun in yellow, orange, and brown, with splashes of red. One wall was taken up by maps of the continent: Edar and our neighbours, and the countries further north and east. Notes and scribbles were pinned to the maps, written in a code I was still learning to decipher quickly. The wall to her left was taken up by a large window, cracked open to let in a breeze. Every other scrap of wall was filled with floor to ceiling bookcases.

It was a cheery room. I often suspected Isra had decorated it as such to fool people into lowering their guard.

She was at her desk, head bent as her pen moved steadily across paper. Ink: formal correspondence then. For initial decryption, she worked in pencil to burn afterwards.

Out of everyone in my parents’ private circle, Isra was the only one I interacted with solely as princess and never as myself. Isra took her role as Whispers, the royal spymaster, seriously. And the older I got, the more she seemed to consider me a headache. It was a source of contention between her and my parents, who remained firm that as royal heirs went, I could be much worse.

‘Good afternoon, Your Grace,’ I said.

She glanced up and raised an elegant eyebrow. ‘Your Highness – you’re late.’ Despite her dry tone, she inclined her head.

From what the Court said, Isra’s beauty had only sharpened over time. Her thick, dark hair was only beginning to show hints of grey and silver. Her brown skin was still free of the stress of her position. One of her few tells was a sort of weariness around the eyes.

She gestured towards the seating area by the fireplace, where the game board was already set up. As Isra rose from her desk, I dropped into my usual chair.

‘An unavoidable detainment, I’m afraid,’ I said, soaking my voice with casual brightness. I knew better than to elaborate. Isra had limited sympathy for worries she considered out of my control.

She took her seat, eyeing me with a calmness that I’d learned to dread.

The board was set up for an Eshvoni game that when loosely translated into Edaran was called Root and Fang. The board layout was similar to chess. Each player had five main pieces, carved into mythological creatures, under their control as an army. The game combined logic and strategy (root) and war (fang). The goal was to strengthen one’s own army, while destroying the other, helped or hindered by cards that affected attacks and defences to be unleashed and discarded at will.

While the game was better (and rowdier) with several players, Isra and I had played together weekly for years, and I was nowhere near beating her swiftly. I’d only progressed to winning in the last year, but my victories were laboured and slow.

She sipped her drink, gaze flickering across the board, then scooped up the dice. A cold smile before she turned the hourglass with her other hand, and the game began.

As we dealt cards and considered our strategies, Isra drilled me on various poisons. All my food was tested before I ate or drank it, as was my parents’. During her first year as Queen, even before her coronation, Mother had narrowly avoided a blatant poisoning attempt. She had a healthy fear of poison, against herself and those she loved, and it was a key area of my education that Isra and I always took seriously.

For years, we had gone over poison after poison, their smell and taste. Whether they could be detected or not, what the antidotes were, if any. With some of the common ones, she’d decided I would ingest them in small amounts, building a tolerance over years. With others, it was too dangerous, so I simply had to arm myself with the knowledge and hope.

I’d had a reprieve on poison examinations for the last few months, but during our last meeting, I’d missed a non-fatal one that she’d lined my glass with, and suffered not only a night of my body trying to relieve itself of my insides, but Isra deciding I’d become dependent on my poison-taster. To no one’s surprise, she’d promptly revoked my reprieve from surprise tests like this one.

When the drilling was done, Isra eyed the discard pile and remarked, ‘I heard the most fascinating thing today, Your Highness.’

Inwardly, I frowned at my poor hand of cards. ‘I’m intrigued, Your Grace.’

‘Mmm. Apparently the Court – and your parents – vastly underestimated your affections for the Admiral’s nephew.’ As Isra played a card that prevented me from using force and discarding anything for two turns, I scowled.

‘You were the one who said there was a new leak in my ladies,’ I said, deciding to build a hand that would bulk up my defences. ‘So I let some drips out.’

Disbelief flickered across Isra’s face. ‘And who, precisely, would believe for a moment that you’ve been nurturing a secret passion for Micah of Casa East?’

I smiled grimly. ‘Florette Sigrath.’

Florette had been elevated to my ladies as a reconciliation gesture between my parents and her family, who’d remained neutral when Rassa, my birth father, had usurped the throne. We weren’t particularly close, though I enjoyed her singing and noted her true feelings and opinions whenever she slipped up and revealed them. But until Isra had said at our last meeting that she’d suspected at least one new turncoat, and I’d dutifully spread different strands of false information amongst my ladies, she’d shown no sign of being a spy, efficient or otherwise.

I suppose that was the point.

‘How did the rumour get back to you?’ I asked.

‘She had tea with Lady Mizyr’s eldest daughter. At the third invitation, she could no longer hold her tongue about what you’d said in her presence. Unfortunately for Lady Sigrath, most of the Mizyr staff is also within my employ – including the maid serving their tea.’

Most people would probably consider the amount of people Isra had followed or spied upon to be excessive. Those same people probably wouldn’t have survived as Whispers for almost twenty years.

The Sigrath and Mizyr families had no marriage history nor extended ties. Neither were they political allies, and they certainly weren’t publicly civil. To call the Mizyr unpopular was an understatement. They’d thrown their support wholeheartedly behind Rassa when he’d taken the throne. After his death, they’d not only refused to recant their poor judgment, but thrown their weight into criticising my parents’ reign.

‘I didn’t think Florette was so… silly.’ I spoke slowly, still trying to discern the pattern. Florette and I weren’t exactly friends. I was polite to all my ladies, but the majority had accepted the position for political reasons and future royal favour. Even so, it still hurt a little that she’d visited a family who loathed my parents.

‘The eldest Mizyr is unattached,’ I continued, ‘as is her brother. But neither is favourable for marriage, especially since the Sigrath family has only recently regained their standing.’ I worked my jaw, a piece of the puzzle snapping into place. ‘Florette is acting alone.’

‘Very good.’ Isra poured fresh cordial and nudged a glass towards me. ‘I agree. After taking a decade to recover their prior, modest standing, the Sigrath would be fools to throw it away. Consider: Florette is unhappy that you’re keeping her at a respectful distance, and the Mizyr need fresh blood since they are anathema at Court.’

Another puzzle piece clicked into place. The picture partially revealed made me sigh. ‘She’s their new spy.’

‘Precisely.’ Isra’s expression turned hard. ‘My understanding is that the Mizyr, before their disgrace, wasn’t a particularly bad family to marry into. Not until they threw their lot in with him.’ She seldom acknowledged Rassa’s existence, but when it was unavoidable, she refused to call him by name. From what I’d heard, they had loathed each other, and his death hadn’t changed her feelings. ‘I imagine they’ve fed Florette sweet poison about their star being on the rise again.’

‘Through me?’

Isra drummed her fingers against the table. ‘They’ve been pushing for your marriage. If you marry from outside Edar, they’ll want to get in early to gain favour.’

‘Hence why Florette warned them about Micah.’

‘If you marry within the Court, particularly from a family who stood by the Crown, they’ll regain little.’

My eventual marriage was a matter of endless speculation. My parents both ruled in their own right, so I wouldn’t inherit until both were dead or otherwise unable to reign: a future I wasn’t eager to face. Gaining a crown wasn’t worth losing them. Not now, not ever. I was probably the only royal heir who felt like this – for most, being next in line was an endless waiting game.

Now it was my turn for disbelief. ‘And they believed Florette so easily?’

‘Perhaps,’ Isra said. ‘In other countries, being one of the royal ladies is a mark of esteem. But your mother’s first set were mostly spies, and yours aren’t much better. This country,’ she muttered. ‘Almost twenty years, and it still baffles me.’

‘So I winnow Florette out?’

‘No.’ Isra smiled, slow and sharp. ‘Let her trip up again.’

‘You want me to feed her more false information?’

‘We haven’t flushed out informants in your ladies for over a year. I expect your methods to have improved.’

When I was younger, I’d memorised all the noble families, from the barons in the lower ranks up to the dukes and duchesses, the highest and closest to the Crown. I’d learned their histories and their mistakes. I’d deciphered the alliances not only tied together by blood and marriage, but through noble handshakes; loans; a whispered word in the right ear.

Mother hated Root and Fang, preferring the less fashionable but, to her, more reliable game of chess. Yet to me, Court seemed like an elaborate chess board. Every courtier could potentially advance my power or end up needing to be swept aside. Mother had wanted me to have an easier time than she’d had as princess, but she also believed in preparing for the worst. And the worst was that some people would only ever see me as a usurper’s daughter, who should never have been made heir. So it was my responsibility to know those courtiers better than they knew me.

‘If it were me,’ I said, rolling the dice between my fingers, ‘I would have stopped Florette from speaking while we were being served.’ Being careful of what I said around others had been drummed into me since childhood. ‘And I certainly would have reconsidered her suitability as a spy.’

Isra looked disgusted. ‘Her career won’t be illustrious. She’s a means to an end, or the Mizyr are especially desperate. Likely both.’

The hurt at Florette’s silliness, already fading, was fully extinguished by a wave of pettiness. She might be trying to work against me, but at least she wouldn’t be good at it.

My mood only turned worse when, with a flourish, Isra played her hand and destroyed my griffin and winged horse, neatly scuppering any chance I had of winning.

For as long as I could remember, a spark of pettiness had lingered inside me. I wasn’t entirely certain what, or who, had shaped it, but not even my parents’ love could smother it. Instead, I used it to prove people wrong – to be better, smarter, sharper – no matter what they secretly thought of me.

I couldn’t be motivated by spite forever. I knew that.

But as I studied Isra’s winning hand, I knew spite worked for now.

Two

Later that afternoon, I was informed that my parents’ meetings would stretch late into the evening, and they wouldn’t be dining with me. We no longer ate with the Court, except for banquets and other state occasions, and my grandparents and aunt were all away. I didn’t really want to eat alone, so I asked Rialla and Micah if they would join me.

Micah arrived first, brandishing a bouquet almost threateningly at me. ‘It appears I’ve been horribly remiss at showing my great esteem and affection for you during our courtship,’ he said, a smile tugging at his mouth. ‘Please, take these blooms and pretend I’m good enough at poetry to flatter you against them.’

Trying not to laugh, I relieved him of his floral burden.

‘Please,’ a voice said from behind him, ‘spare us from your poetry.’

He stepped aside to reveal Rialla, who raised an eyebrow and held up her empty hands. ‘Are we celebrating something?’ she asked. ‘Or are you finally telling me about the courtship I’ve been hitherto oblivious to?’

I handed her the flowers, succumbing to the laughter bubbling in my throat. ‘Please, accept these as an insufficient token of apology.’ In a more normal voice, I added, ‘There’s no courtship, as you well know.’

Rialla shut the door and, turning back, caught my gaze. ‘Oh, I do, Your Highness. Very much so.’ For a moment, I stood rooted to the spot, my stomach twisting as I flushed. I hadn’t so much as walked into the trap as tripped head-first.

I’d had something close to a courtship with a friend… but not with Micah.

Sensing the atmospheric tipping point, he coughed, then asked what was for dinner. ‘I’m positively famished!’ he declared, too brightly, slipping into the role he’d taken on since Midwinter: trying to dissipate the tension that arose when Rialla and I navigated… whatever we now were to each other.

‘The food is here,’ I said, trying to metaphorically pull myself together by laughing. ‘Come, before it gets cold.’

My rooms were close to my parents’ suite. I’d made them as light and airy as the space allowed, with bright tapestries on the walls, pale furniture, and elegant green and white drapes. We settled around the table, passing dishes and pouring wine, and the awkward moment faded. We’d all known each other for so long that the familiar habits of our friendship always reasserted themselves, no matter the strange new territory between us. And tension could never last long around Micah.

Every day I secretly thanked Diana of Casa High, the Royal Admiral and Micah’s aunt, for all but dumping him into my presence. Micah, seven years old, with his family’s blue eyes and a shock of black curls, had taken my measure and gravely asked if I could climb trees.

I could not, but he’d patiently taught me, and I’d never once fallen out of one.

‘So,’ he said, after swiping the last of the green beans and crunching a mouthful in satisfaction, ‘are you going to explain why I felt obliged to bring you flowers?’

I dragged the last of a sauce-soaked vegetable skin across my plate and resisted a sigh. ‘Politics. I can’t tell you. If it works, you’ll find out.’

When my meetings with Isra had started, she’d stressed that anything we discussed could only be trusted to a handful of people: us, my parents, and Matthias, their advisor and oldest friend. Everyone else, no matter how close they were, should be considered potentially suspect. It was compounded by the fact that I was a princess, but my parents ruled; it was not done for me to play political games without keeping them informed. Everything would gradually change once I gained my majority, and officially took on further responsibilities. But this was the agreement for now.

However: Micah was the nephew of the Royal Admiral, one of the most feared women in the country, and Rialla’s aunt was the Master of Coin’s successor. They both had brains, frequently used them, and recognised a false lure when it was dangled before them.

Micah opened his mouth, whether to argue or otherwise press the issue, but Rialla gently squeezed his arm. She knew all too well the myriad threads of power woven between my parents, their advisors, and me.

Taking the opening, I added glibly, ‘I appreciate the flowers, but must regretfully decline your affections.’

He snorted, choosing humour over irritation.

If there was anyone who’d be an ideal Consort, it was Micah. But we’d never thought of each other that way, even though I knew he was a good choice for a stable marriage. A few others had attempted cautious flirtations, including Lady Cira, who had liked me more than she’d liked being at Court, and Lord Hisham, a budding poet, whose cheerful company I’d enjoyed until his uncertain family arrangement had turned into an all-too-certain betrothal contract. But it was Rialla, tall and sharp-tongued, yet somehow romantic, who’d truly turned my head, a slow process that still seemed to have happened all at once.

And what a disaster it had turned out to be.

No, that was unfair: it had ended as well as it could, under the circumstances. I’d plastered on the regal mask I’d so often scorned Mother for hiding behind, and acted like nothing had changed, while inside my heart had struggled to mend the cracks splintered within.

‘Emri?’

I blinked, suddenly aware I was staring into space, my fork held in mid-air. An uneasy glance flickered between Rialla and Micah; I coughed and dredged up a smile. As always, I hid the upset away, shoved it down so it would only resurface when I was alone, and it was safe.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I was… thinking.’

‘A dangerous pastime,’ Micah teased, but with little effort.

I rallied before the sweet course, while Micah gossiped about who his aunt had decided could – and more importantly couldn’t – return to the family estate for the summer gathering. Rialla grumbled about her parents sitting her down, once again, to fret about her lack of ambition. I managed to avoid snorting; Micah did not. Rialla was many things, but not lacking in ambition. She and her parents simply disagreed on the acceptable paths upon which to direct said ambition.

But I couldn’t stop myself from turning the problem of Florette Sigrath and the Mizyr around in my mind, nor ignore my resurgent uneasiness around Rialla. My contributions to the conversation once again petered away, and I only snapped out of my thoughts when Micah tipped the last of the wine into my glass.

‘Apologies,’ I said, as he suggested, ‘If you’d prefer to be alone, we can leave?’

We fell into an awkward silence.

When Rialla pressed her hand against his arm again, he caught her in a hard stare. They engaged in a silent battle of wills, as I focused on chewing a rose cream to nothing.

Three was an awkward number of friends when two fell for each other. Rialla was fond of Micah, but I was closer to him. He was unenthusiastic about any sort of romance, whether because he couldn’t be bothered with the fuss, or was already aware of his place in his family’s marital strategies.

When Rialla and I had succumbed to our year-long tension, we weren’t sure whether to tell him. But the next day after our first kiss, he’d simply known something had changed. He’d tried to accept it good-naturedly, though fear that he would be cast aside clung to his easy smiles. He’d had no reason to worry: I had so few close friends that I wasn’t willing to discard one for romance, and Rialla had agreed.

But now that Rialla’s feelings for me had changed, so had her friendship with Micah. She didn’t exactly pull… rank was the wrong word, but the closest to what it felt like. When she did, I liked it about as much as Micah – not very much. The implication of possessiveness sat sour in my stomach. Micah didn’t know me any less than Rialla now did; she just knew different parts of me.

Yet they must have been more concerned about me than I realised, because Micah acceded the battle of wills with only a little poor grace. Still, he finished his dessert and wine before he left, smiling and bowing with a flourish, reiterating his great esteem and affection for me at the door.

My laughter faded, along with my smile, as I returned to Rialla. ‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ I said. ‘It’s not fair on him, and it’s not like you had the right to pull… pull – former romantic rank.’

It didn’t matter how well I was taught, how delicately the chains of ruling and duty were impressed upon me. Deep down, I’d convinced myself that it would be different for me, obsessed as I was with Rialla’s kiss, the scent of her hair, the angle of her jaw, the brush of her cool fingers against my neck. I’d have a love match like my parents, who had endured assassins, abdication, treason, and desperation to be together. What Rialla felt for me was surely as strong as what Mama felt for Mother, what had given her the strength to marry a Queen and rule a country.

It was not. And though I could hardly admit it to myself, I couldn’t blame Rialla.

It was different when you married into royalty. Especially since Mama ruled in her own right, a much different responsibility to prior Consorts. Whoever had the misfortune – some days that’s all it felt like – to marry me would shoulder an immense shared burden, depending on the political situation I’d eventually inherit. A lot of pressure even for another royal, never mind a courtier.

‘Was it Florette Sigrath?’ Rialla asked, smoothing away a flicker of irritation. ‘She’s been talking about Micah incessantly. He was becoming worried the Sigrath had lost the run of themselves and were considering him for a betrothal.’

I scoffed. ‘As if the Admiral would consider them for a moment.’ The Casa family not only had a long and glorious naval history, but were also impeccably loyal to the Crown. The Sigrath may have regained a little royal favour, but they were nowhere close to marrying into a lineage like Micah’s.

‘Well, was it?’ Rialla repeated.

 I’d forgotten how piercing her gaze was when she devoted her undivided attention on someone. I’d also forgotten that, even though I was forbidden from sharing anything from Isra’s meetings, it didn’t stop Rialla and Micah from drawing their own conclusions.

I shrugged, an elegant action that wouldn’t fool her for a moment. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

Rialla narrowed her eyes, that flicker of resentment rippling over her face again. ‘You’ll have to trust us eventually.’ Don’t I, at least, warrant your trust by now? lingered, unspoken, between us.

‘It’s not a matter of trust,’ I snapped. ‘My parents rule, not me.’ I was usually good – certainly better than I was today – at controlling my temper around her. But Rialla poked at a wound, whereas Micah tried to soothe it. Together, they were usually a good balance for me, but Rialla and I had upset it all.

She fixed me with that sharp gaze again. The lamplight highlighted the russet tints in her brown hair. ‘They rule for now,’ she said. ‘And you’ll be eighteen in a few months. You can’t keep putting off gathering your own allies. Isra won’t be around forever to serve you.’

My face turned into my coldest regal mask. ‘Your concern is noted, Lady Rialla, but was not requested.’

Maybe that was our problem, really. I’d fooled myself into believing that a relationship between us could last, even though I was a royal heir. And perhaps Rialla had fooled herself into believing that by loving me, it would bring her closer to the centre of things, that she could handle the delicate balancing act of ruling. And even though she’d realised the reality of our future together and had rejected it, maybe part of her still wanted to be close to power.

I’ll have to watch Rialla, I realised bleakly, as closely as the rest of my ladies.

Like Mother, Isra was often right, but unlike her, she was rarely kind with my feelings. And just as I needed Mother’s firm kindness, I also needed Isra’s brutal practicality. Court would devour me, otherwise – even those who cared for me.

Three

During my early years in Edar, the word Goldenmarch lingered in my wake: a whisper, a curse, a warning.

I soon pretended not to hear it, for no one met my eyes if I reacted. Goldenmarch: the estate of the Farezi heir, given to them in trust when they came of age. Known for its orchards and good hunting, the sun never seemed to set there.

When I was twelve, eavesdropping outside a gathering with Rialla, I finally learned why Goldenmarch followed me like a stain in my shadow.

When Rassa usurped the throne, this was where he’d had Mother hidden, drugged and afraid. Every speck of colour had been erased on the estate in favour of endless white. The light in her room was never extinguished. The servants and guards didn’t speak. Her food was limited and bland, enough to keep her alive and little else.

It didn’t take long for Mother’s mind to unspool.

It took much longer to weave it back together.

The Court skittered around the words torture of the mind, but that didn’t change what it was.

After we overheard it all, Rialla couldn’t look me in the eye, and I feared I’d lost her. At the time, befriending children of the high nobility was a slow, painful process – a stark distinction to the courtesy and etiquette their families publicly showed me. Politeness and friendship are not the same.

As the daughter of a Farezi prince, I should have been raised in Goldenmarch, but it was shuttered and abandoned, as disgraced as my family. Instead, I was raised in Saphirun, the estate of my grandmother, the Dowager Queen Arisane. I remembered little, as if my mind had abandoned the hazy memories as soon as I arrived in Edar, but I did remember that Princess Melisande, my older cousin, who had taken my place as the Farezi heir, had soon joined me at Saphirun.

The estate derived its name from the large river that cut through it, eventually joining with others to wash out into the southern sea. The manor was a monster of grey and white brick, centuries of architectural styles meshed into repairs and improvements. But inside, you could believe you were drifting upon the sea, each room and corridor decorated or highlighted in different shades of blue.

At the time I hadn’t thought about there being so much blue. Farezi’s banners were green and gold. So much blue, part of Edar’s royal colours, made little sense in a Farezi royal estate. But I found out later, after I arrived in Edar, that the estate had been gifted to Lord Erik upon his marriage, which he’d decorated in blue to remind every visitor of his lineage, and been maintained as such for over a century mostly from a perverse sense of amusement.

Three days after my meeting with Isra, my eyes snapped open to blackness. It was too close to the darkness in my nightmares, shadows pooling around me in a locked, shuttered room; a dream that had haunted me since childhood. In my scramble to light a candle, I almost toppled out of bed.

My chest heaved, as I sucked in air and forced it out with a strength that hurt. I stuffed my knuckles into my mouth, bit down. In out, in out, in and out, in and out. In and out. Slowly – more painful than the teeth marks on my hand – my breathing calmed.

Sinking back onto the pillows, I followed the candlelight and shadows dancing across the ceiling. The dark could always be conquered. Always be driven back. Night could never fully outwit the dawn.

I closed my eyes. Pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes until spots of colours burst. I hadn’t had nightmares like this in years. If I managed to get back to sleep, I’d probably be all right when the servants arrived to start my day. But my eyes were wide open, my heart still unsteady, and both had chased away drowsiness.

I ground out a curse and flung off my blankets.

The halls were quiet, save for the patrolling guards. It felt embarrassing to be wandering around so late – or so early, depending on how you considered it.

While the halls were bright enough that a candle was unnecessary, the portrait gallery was dim. With windows only near the doors, my light was pitiful against the shadows.

My heart pounded again as bits of the dream flashed in my mind: that cursed room where I was curled up tight on the bed, and I couldn’t cry because she always knewwhen I did –

No. I shook my head hard enough for my curls to bounce against my neck. I was almost eighteen years old. My childhood nightmares could no longer have this power over me. I wouldn’t allow it.

Even without the feeble candle, I could still have easily found my way to the portrait; I’d been here so often, my feet knew the precise number of steps.

Lord Erik gazed down at me. The flickering light heightened his dissatisfaction.

‘This is all your fault,’ I informed him bitterly, as always. ‘You and your damn brother.’

Blaming a dead man’s portrait wouldn’t actually change anything. But saying it aloud make me feel calmer. A little weight off my shoulders was better than none.

And it was true. If Anderrs hadn’t feared his brother’s ambition and married him off to Farezi, the distant blood link wouldn’t have meant that Rassa was Mother’s heir until she had a child. He might still have overreached, but it would have been more blatant – a hostile takeover that no one could ignore.

Without these two stupid men, I might also not have been born, but I also wouldn’t have been a disgraced princess, forever caught between my history and the family who loved me.

‘Emri?’

I jumped, snapping my head to the left. ‘Mother!’

She stood a few paces away, holding her own candle. Queen Aurelia IV and I didn’t look alike. She was pale, her face thin, her eyes the stormy grey common to House Sionbourne. Her long brown hair was twisted into the braid she wore to bed.

But sometimes, when I practised a presentation for a tutor in the mirror, I caught my mouth moving like hers, or a familiar steely glint in my eye. We didn’t look alike, but we were similar in the ways that made a family.

She came closer, a thick blue robe trailing behind her. ‘Couldn’t sleep?’ Her face brightened with a smile, but when she noticed the portrait I stood before, her eyebrows shot up. ‘Ah, Lord Erik.’ She gestured behind her. ‘As it happens, I came to scowl at Anderrs.’

As the lesser brother, with few achievements beyond his marriage – Anderrs had decreed his children be granted royal titles, but refused to grant the same to his brother – Lord Erik’s painting was insignificantly placed. The official portrait of King Anderrs II with his Consort was further down, near the centre of the gallery. Where Erik was dissatisfied and weak, Anderrs and his wife were grim, almost ferociously proud, the generation that had turned Sionbourne into a royal house. The old emblem, a stylised snowflake, was still used in the heir’s coat of arms.

We gazed at the first Sionbourne King in silence. Mother’s eyebrows were drawn together in a frown, a hard set to her mouth.

‘You couldn’t sleep either?’ I finally asked.

The old worry pricked in my chest. The worst of Mother’s recovery after Goldenmarch had happened before I’d arrived in Edar. I’d only learned about it years later. With the help of her family and the physicians, and her own tattered will, she’d faced the nightmares, the flashbacks, the nights of poor sleep. The days she could barely stand food, or daylight, or darkness – whatever obstacle her mind dragged up from its lingering terror.

I often suspected Arisane had resented me because she couldn’t do anything to him. She wasn’t particularly religious, but desecrating even Rassa’s traitor bones would have been unforgivable. So her eye had turned to me and seen him, and our course was set.

If she could have resurrected Rassa, as our darkest myths hinted was once possible when the gods walked the land, she’d have given him a slow death. My parents would have probably fought her for the chance to do it themselves.

Sometimes, I wondered if I could do it. If I hated him enough, with all the agony he’d caused so many people, to kill him. If doing so would haunt me for the rest of my life.

Mother blinked, as if I’d disturbed her from deep thoughts – now I knew how my friends felt around me – and I waited for her familiar smile before she brushed my concern away. Instead, she remained pensive.

‘Come,’ she said, gesturing towards a bench. ‘Sit with me.’

My parents, much as I loved them, often gave themselves away. When Mama was annoyed with me, she tapped her pen against the blotter in a certain pattern. They usually shared a particular glance when I was in the process of being gently managed. And before delivering bad news, Mother always said, ‘Sit with me.’

I tidied my robe, set my candle down, and braced myself.

Mother didn’t speak immediately, allowing the silence to deepen. She’d been a careful child, Matthias had once told me, a consequence of navigating a hostile Court. But some of her habits had begun as coping methods after Goldenmarch: one being steady breathing. It stopped the panic before it gripped her, kept her from spiralling during moments of great stress. I hadn’t seen Mother in the midst of an attack in years, but that didn’t mean they didn’t happen behind closed doors.

But being cautious didn’t mean she was afraid.

‘You’re eighteen in autumn,’ she finally said. ‘Midwinter will be different this year.’

I nodded. Midwinter’s longest night was one of Edar’s most important celebrations. It was the closest thing we still had to religion. My parents held a ball each year, and danced as Lady Winter and her companions, Twilight and Night. They traditionally switched between Lady Winter and Twilight, with a favoured courtier taking the role of Night.

This year, marking my formal introduction, I would attend as Night. While the old myths mostly claimed a romantic connection between all three, the stories also held roots of deep loyalty and devotion. And my parents and I could definitely honour the old gods in that respect, for family was loyalty and devotion in ways that had nothing to do with birth and blood.

‘Has something changed?’ I asked.

Mother pressed her lips together, then said, ‘Farezi intends to recall their diplomat. As a gesture of goodwill, their Queen has suggested that Princess Melisande accompany the replacement for an extended visit over winter.’

I stiffened; I couldn’t help it. ‘I see.’

When Queen Aurelia IV reclaimed her throne, my birth mother returned to Farezi pregnant; another of Rassa’s pawns. He’d needed an heir to secure his reign; she was lovestruck and had ignored the worst parts of him. Nevertheless, my grandparents were pressured to abdicate following Rassa’s actions. Aunt Sabine was suddenly Queen, a position which she’d only been half-heartedly trained for. She could easily have resented me for everything I symbolised.

Both she and Mother had become monarchs in the shadows of arrogant men. It was probably why Mother had insisted on building cordial relations between them, despite Rassa’s treachery, recognising the position my aunt was in. And unlike Rassa, Queen Sabine had accepted peace while Farezi struggled to rebuild its dignity.

Mother studied me with a raised eyebrow. ‘Do you?’ When I glanced away, she continued, ‘You’ll be expected to spend time with Melisande. You’re not just cousins, but heirs of neighbouring countries. But we can set limits: no small gatherings, for example.’

I swallowed, and gripped the edges of the bench hard enough to hurt. ‘I know this is important, that the shadow of… his visit will linger while Melisande is here. I won’t make things harder than necessary.’ Against Mother’s silence, I attempted a smile. ‘The least I can do is be civil to my cousin.’

Mother didn’t immediately reply, and it took more restraint than I expected not to squirm under her thoughtful gaze. ‘We’ll discuss it further with you tomorrow,’ she said at last. ‘You should try and get back to sleep.’

As we headed back towards the door, we passed Mother’s coronation portrait. My parents had one each where they posed alone, and one together. Further down, we had an official family portrait, painted a year into my life here.

I’d be sitting for another once I came of age, decked in regalia. Privately, it felt like a waste of time and money, but my parents wanted an official record of me as daughter and heir – in paper, responsibility, and paintings – to solidify my legitimacy.

My gaze lingered on the old throne in her coronation portrait, turned it over in my mind.

Before we separated, Mother grasped my shoulders in the reassuringly firm grip she always deployed when I was unsettled, but needed steadiness rather than comfort. ‘All will be well,’ she said, kissing me on the forehead. It was what she and Mama always said when things were difficult at Court, or political discussions had collapsed into shambles, or they faced unexpected rains or underperforming harvests. When everything threatened to overwhelm, they reminded each other that hard times must be endured, but would always end.

I returned her smile and watched her walk back towards the royal wing, shadowed by two guards, and counted my heartbeats until the doors closed behind her. Then I turned and headed in the opposite direction. If the guards were exasperated at my refusal to sleep, they were too well trained to show it.

In the throne room, my candle was an even poorer defence against the shadows as I started the long walk towards the dais. A large standard hung from the ceiling; the royal sigil emblazoned in silver upon dark blue: a crown above a rose briar twisting around a sword.

When King Anderrs II took the Edaran crown, one of his first actions was to burn the rotting wooden throne of the deposed ruler. Such was his hatred of it that he’d delayed his coronation – a dangerous decision considering his unstable position – and ordered a new one built.

The civil war he’d unleashed was one of the few times Edar had tried to rip itself apart while not under colonial rule. Every weapon taken from the battlefield dead was melted and reforged into a beautiful, deadly throne in the shape of a rose: Edar’s symbol.

In Mother’s coronation portrait, the seat and back of the throne were shaped like large petals, worn smooth over decades. Vines of thorns and leaves, sharp and begging for blood, had looped around the armrests, skulked behind her feet, and loomed over her head. It was a brutal warning to everyone in her family, passed down with the crown: power was intoxicating and a delight, but one could never let their guard down around thorns.

Mother had hated that throne as much as her great-grandfather had hated the one he’d replaced. When she married Mama, years after her coronation, she’d ordered the throne melted down. Two new ones were commissioned, marble and gilt-edged, which my parents stood before in their shared portrait. The thrones were linked by a winter rose, forged from the old steel, painted in the royal colours of blue and silver.

And the thorns winding around the edges were just as sharp, if a more subtle threat.

I stopped at the steps leading to the dais, gazing up at the thrones. While Mother had changed the laws so Mama could rule in her own right, they were not absolute. I was not obliged to make my future spouse a ruling monarch instead of a Consort. My parents were the first to rule from dual thrones. It was seen as an enlightened gesture, the most modern thing Edar had done in centuries. (By the standard of monarchs, at least; Rijaan, the republic to the south-east, considered all its neighbours unenlightened and about thirty years behind, culturally.)

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to rule from dual thrones. My path to power was difficult enough, compared to other heirs, without sharing it. But my parents supported each other through immense responsibilities and workloads. They’d done so much together: opened schools, balanced the Parliament, kept the nobles who’d betrayed or undermined them cowed, stabilised the Treasury and banks. We had the best roads in almost fifty years.

But my parents had also made extraordinary choices for each other. My odds of finding someone similar were abysmal.

Every day, my parents showed me what it was to be a good Queen.

I only wished I knew whether I’d be able to follow their example.

Four

I slept for a while longer, but not well.

After the maid opened my drapes, but before she coaxed the fire back to life, I begged for coffee. The liquid scorched down my throat, the familiar smell a balm, but my mind was still fixed on an irrefutable fact: Melisande would be here by winter.

It didn’t matter that it was months away: my brain dithered as if she were arriving next week.

I closed my eyes. Tightened my hands around the cup, the porcelain smooth and warm against my fingers. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. Each breath was like a wave in my mind, a gentle push and pull, soothing my frightened thoughts, the tension in my stomach and muscles. Slowly, slowly, I returned to myself.

I opened my eyes, then got out of bed.

Being freshly washed and dressed was armour in itself. It was essential to present a neat, calm façade to the world, no matter what was happening in my head. As I stepped into the hall, I shoved away all thoughts of Melisande and began running through my mental list for the day.

The tactic lasted until I approached the breakfast room, where my parents’ voices drifted through the open door, brittle and tense.

I stopped.

A common myth around their marriage was that they never argued. Absolutely untrue. They were strategic about it, with several rules about losing their tempers that I was also expected to follow:

1) Never allow resentment to fester. (‘Better to tackle a thread of annoyance before it’s woven into a tapestry of complaints.’)

2) Never argue before or during a meal. (‘Everything is always worse when you’re hungry.’)

3) Never sleep on an unfinished argument. (‘One person will have calmed down after sleep. The other will absolutely not have calmed down.’)

And yet it was breakfast, and while it didn’t seem like they were properly fighting, they were definitely rising to the occasion.

‘We were supposed to tell her together!’ Mama – Queen Xania – seethed. Her temper had a wicked flare, and Rialla could just about match her for holding a grudge, but it was always worse when she was trying to contain her anger: it scalded rather than burned.

‘I hardly expected to find her in the portrait gallery in the middle of the night! It … it felt kinder to tell her then, rather than us springing it on her this morning.’ Mother sounded tired, unsurprisingly, but her words were hesitant, tinged with something close to defeat. I recognised it: the hopelessness of being part of the legacy of foolish and arrogant men, and having to repeatedly face the consequences of it.

‘I don–’t like this,’ Mama said.

‘Emri and Melisande haven’t seen each other in years; it makes sense for them to meet again as heirs. Sabine has shown us nothing but good faith, especially since she’s sending her daughter to us.’

Silence fell, stretching out long enough that I could have walked in and reasonably pretended I hadn’t overheard anything. Then, just as I was about to move, Mama said, ‘Sabine may be acting in good faith, but I don’t trust whoever will accompany Melisande.’

‘You think Arisane will interfere?’

My blood pounded in my ears, a faint beat that grew to a steady throb.

‘Naturally. She’ll likely send him.’

Mother made a sound awfully close to a hiss.

‘He’s kept in touch, after all,’ Mama said, ‘since we returned from Farezi.’

Sweat broke out under my arms. The conversation had turned private, to things my parents didn’t speak of around me. Everything I knew about Rassa overthrowing Mother, and Mama fleeing to Farezi with Matthias to find her, was mostly picked up through careful gossip. There were some things that deserved to stay between my parents, even if it involved Arisane. Especially if it did.

Just as I was about to sneak back down the corridor so I could loudly re-approach, Mama called, ‘Emri, stop lurking at the door, or learn to hide your footsteps better.’

I flinched, then slunk in.

My parents faced each other across a battlefield of plates strewn with crumbs and smears of butter, cream, and jam. Mother gripped her coffee cup in a white-knuckled hand, as Mama stirred her tea with deliberate slowness.

I curtseyed before the table – as a family, we kept a simpler protocol in private, but this felt like a situation where I was the princess and not just their daughter. ‘I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,’ I said, resisting the urge to be sheepish. They were, after all, the ones who’d argued near an open door.

Mother rubbed her right eyebrow, which meant a headache threatened. ‘We shouldn’t have been speaking about it in here, anyway.’

Mama sighed. ‘The news is already spreading around Court, I imagine. I’d be more afraid if it wasn’t.’

She was the parent who looked most like me. But when someone drew closer, they’d spot the differences: her black curls were tighter than mine, her skin a deeper shade of brown. I could only dream of one day mimicking her sharp gaze. While Mother pinned people with a cold, probing look, Mama’s displeasure was viciously precise, like a honed blade.

‘If you’re going to eavesdrop—’ Mama began.

‘Remember the sounds you don’t make, not just the ones you hide,’ I finished wearily, dropping into my chair. ‘Don’t tell Isra. She’ll have me trailing people again for a month.’

Before Isra, Mama had been the Whispers, Mother’s first spymaster. They’d met when Mama had unintentionally put herself forward for the job, an explanation which presented more questions than it answered, judging from their smiles when it was mentioned.

At my age, Mother was almost Queen and Mama was working in the Treasury. They’d grown up during the old King’s reign when Edar was gripped by lethargy and political instability. Logically, my upbringing was calmer because I’d grown up in a more stable country. Even so, it still felt like I’d never come close to their achievements.

‘Did you manage to get back to sleep?’ Mother asked, calmly pouring my tea, as if their argument were a figment of my imagination.

‘For a while, yes.’ Badly, I added in my mind.

Mama sighed again. ‘Please, it’s too early for polite waffle. Now that you know Melisande is coming here – well, I’m not in favour of it, but we can hardly refuse, unless you want to still be dealing with the upset when you’re Queen.’

‘I’d prefer not,’ I said dryly.

A ghost of a smile curled her lips. ‘As Lia said last night, I agree there should be conditions. Isra will have Melisande watched while she’s here, along with everyone in the retinue.’

Including the mysterious him, whoever he was, if he came on Arisane’s command. I knew better than to ask: if my parents didn’t mention someone by name, even between themselves, there was a good reason for it.

‘If you don’t want to be alone with her’ – alone, in royal terms, meant any kind of engagement devoid of courtiers – ‘that will, of course, be arranged.’ Despite Mama’s steady voice, a muscle flexed in her jaw. My parents were careful to only show the polite respect expected in their dealings with Farezi. In private, however, they didn’t hide their lingering dislike concerning the past.

Her unhappiness gave me the courage to ask something I otherwise wouldn’t have dared: ‘Why do you think Arisane will try to interfere?’

As my parents exchanged a look, the lingering uneasiness from my nightmare crawled over me.

‘Arisane didn’t take her loss of power well,’ Mama said, reluctantly. ‘I met her when I was in Farezi. Back then, well – I didn’t see the potential for her bitterness.’

‘I imagine you had more pressing concerns,’ I said softly, as Mother reached across the table to grip her hand with a sad smile. Her eyes were tight, her expression hard, and I had to look away.

‘She made an… impression