He stood and put himself in my path. I stumbled to a halt, nearly falling against him. “It’s a huge risk.”
“I know,” I grumbled.
“Le Poing Fermé is still looking for you, don’t you think?”
“I do think.” The nightmare that had awoken me was the same one I’d suffered while in captivity at Ruelle Thibodaux’s home in Pisha. I’d dreamed of Jonathan Faercourt—or Jackie as he’d preferred to be called—forcing me through a ritualized marriage ceremony before devouring me like a beast. The Jackie I knew wouldn’t give up on his schemes, and with his ability to manipulate Magic, it was a wonder he hadn’t found me already.
I’d been helpless—so damned helpless.
Thibodaux had pinned me under his heel like a bothersome pest. As long as those vile Magicians retained that kind of control over me, and as long as I remained without resources, powerless, and stranded far from home, I was little more than a burden, a ball and chain latched around Gideon’s ankle. He and Marlis had abandoned everything for me—home, country, a purpose-filled life—and, so far, I’d proven their sacrifice meaningless.
“I don’t even know what’s happened in Inselgrau since we left. Is the country in chaos, or has someone stepped up to rule in my place?”
Gideon rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve, um, been looking into that.”
“Oh? And you weren’t going to mention anything to me?”
He cleared his throat and headed for the kitchen. “There’s nothing worth mentioning, yet. It’s all rumors, and it’s all conflicting.”
“I don’t care. Tell me what you’ve heard.”
He retrieved the water pitcher and poured himself a cup. “I’ve heard one of the king’s former soldiers has taken the throne—one from his personal guard.”
I snorted. “Terrill, the bastard.”
“I’ve also heard there are regular skirmishes, and nothing has been decided. There’s fighting among various groups. The merchants, some of the other nobility, your father’s former military leaders—”
I tossed up my hands. “Military? Ha!” I clapped my hand over my mouth, realizing Marlis was still sleeping in the other room. I lowered my voice. “Inselgrau’s army was mostly symbolic. We had no money to fund a sizeable force. Father was reluctant to raise taxes, and we’d lived in peace for hundreds of years.”
“Perhaps we should count that as a blessing.” Gideon guzzled his water, set down his cup, and wiped his mouth across his shirt sleeve. He smirked at me. “If we have to fight for your throne, maybe it will only be a small war.”
I pinched his shoulder, and he jerked away, chuckling, but nothing about fighting for my throne tickled my funny bone. I’d taken my position as the Heir of Thunder for granted for so long that I never considered I might have to fight for it someday. Even if I recovered my powers, thunder and lightning wouldn’t be enough. I needed allies, resources, and confidence. At that moment, I lacked all three. “War or no war, throne or no throne, I have to focus on what’s most important first.”
Gideon nodded. “Your powers.”
“Yes. And sticking around here until I find them is dangerous. I’ll visit the church tomorrow and see if they’ve heard anything from their messengers. If they’ve had no news, we’ll need to decide where to go next.”
Staying too long in one place invited danger, unless I decided to come out of hiding and face my enemies head-on—No, not yet.
I wasn’t ready for that. I needed more time, more training.
I needed the Fantazikes.
Chapter 2
When I woke up the next morning, Gideon and Marlis had gone. A tidal wave of laundry cascaded from our small dining table to the floor, demanding my attention. Mending, washing, ironing, folding—the work was an endless cycle. A dark, slithery creature composed of despair and loathing curled around my heart and squeezed.
If I never gained control over my powers, if I never re-established my throne, this was what awaited me: a torrent of domestic chores and resentment. But all around the world, thousands of people—millions perhaps—depended on such back-breaking labor to feed, house, and clothe themselves and their families. Why should I be any different?
I’m spoiled. I miss my old life and its easiness. Is it wrong that I want it back so badly?
Prigha was a lovely city full of art, history, culture, food, music, and its own natural magic. I could make a home there. It’ll never be Inselgrau. No one could want a better friend than Marlis. But what about Malita? Is she safe? Is she well? And Gideon, if I could trust him, had the potential to bring me a great deal of happiness. He could also break my heart.
I could also bring him a great deal of danger. Every moment he and Marlis spent with me put them at risk. My enemies might not hesitate in using them to get to me. Gideon was no slouch when it came to a fight, but if I was truly the Lady of Thunder, it was my duty to protect him, or at least be a help, rather than a hindrance.
I eyed the laundry mountain again and huffed. When I raked my hair back from my face, fine strands caught in the rough skin around my cuticles and knuckles. Already my back ached at the thought of a day crouched over a washboard, scouring someone else’s laundry. “No.” I jabbed a finger at the dirty clothes pile. “I wasn’t born to the Stormbourne lineage merely to stand by and watch my history die namelessly in a stinking Prigha tenement. I won’t offend my father’s memory that way. He raised me to do better than this, and there’s nothing wrong with wanting more.”
When the laundry did not disagree, I turned my back on my waiting list of chores and strode into my bedroom. After dressing in a sturdy, but secondhand pair of walking boots, a plain muslin shirt, and a loose pair of trousers, I grabbed my Thunder Cloak and tromped into the streets of Prigha. A bright sun blazed in the clear blue sky, but in the narrow alley winding between towering stacks of shabby tenements, the shadows held sway, as usual.
I hurried out to the busy street that carried traffic in and out of our section of the city and set my sights on a tall spire in the distance—the steeple of the Katedrála z Vzrostl Syn, the Cathedral of the Risen Son. There, the shadows retreated, and sunlight burned truer and hotter. Despite the promise of a sweltering day, I snugged my Thunder Cloak tighter around my neck and shoulders, savoring in the safety it signified.
After walking several blocks, dodging pedestrians, street carts, pickpockets, and servants fulfilling their masters’ orders, I mounted the granite stairs leading to the cathedral’s service entrance and rang the doorbell. The kareeyatids didn’t make me wait long. The door creaked open, and cool air from inside washed over me. A woman in a scarlet tunic, white coif and wimple, and a red veil dropped in a brief curtsy. “Dobré ranó,” she said.
Having lived in Prigha long enough to learn the common greetings and pleasantries—good morning, good afternoon, please and thank you—I returned her curtsy and her “good morning” in her own tongue. “Sestra Maria, prosim?” I asked, hoping she understood I wanted to see Sister Maria, their scribe.
The kareeyatid babbled something and motioned for me to follow. My footsteps echoed off stone flooring and arched ceilings, and my hostess glanced over her shoulder, narrowing her eyes at me. I shifted my gait, softening my steps, and we passed through the cathedral as quietly as proverbial church mice.
We twisted and turned down winding hallways until she drew up before a closed door and rapped her knuckles against the oak timbers. Moments later another woman in red robes opened the door. Her face brightened when she recognized me, and she ushered me inside. The two women murmured to each other before my hostess bobbed her head in my direction. “Dêkuji,” I said, expressing my thanks as she started away.
“Ahoj, Evie,” Sister Maria said before switching to Dreutchish, the only common language we shared. “Wie schön um dich zu sehen.” How lovely to see you.
“I’m sorry I didn’t send notice of my visit, Sister.” I followed her deeper into the room where dozens of wall sconces threw light across plain wooden furniture and bookshelves stuffed with bound volumes and scrolls. “It was rather a last-minute decision. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.” Maria stopped at a desk covered in reams of paper, quills, and a pot of ink. “The translating is always there, no matter how quickly or slowly I work.”
She gestured at the seat across from her as she settled into a chair behind her desk. I shifted, preparing to sit, but noted a tabby cat curled in the seat and swallowed a rude exclamation of surprise. The cat’s striped fur mimicked the swirls and striations of the chair’s woodgrain. Her tail flicked and one eye opened, peering at me in a bored way. I scooped her up and settled in the seat before she could protest. She let out a quiet mewl but relaxed when I rubbed a finger under her chin.
“Oh, Kočka.” Maria clicked her tongue. “I do not know how she gets in here. I always leave the door closed, but she still finds a way.”
