“I’m certain Elodie did not entertain such a command,” Sabine said, thinking fondly of the queen’s passion.
“That she did not.” Tal laughed softly, a tenderness in his eye when the queen’s name was spoken. “I was a nervous child, accident-prone, and frightened of the fire my blacksmith father used to forge.” He pursed his lips. “I was not, according to my father, brave enough or clever enough to warrant the cost of keeping me fed. When your own family believes you’re worth less than dust, you expect others to discard you just the same. But Elodie stomped right up to her mother and fought viciously to defend our friendship, even though at that point all I had ever done was sneak her sugar cubes from the stables. She used to suck on them while she thought, scrunching her eyebrows together.”
He mimicked the expression, which made Sabine laugh outright.
“Elodie brings out the best in everyone,” she said fondly.
“Indeed. Everyone loves her.” His tone was bitter, as though he thought the queen ought to be his, alone, to admire.
Tal scoured the wall of weapons, selecting a small dagger. The handle was carved with intricate gold etching and set with a green stone. He crossed the room and pointed the dagger at her chest.
Sabine’s breath caught in her throat. “What are you doing?” She knew how carefully Tal had sharpened those blades. He needed only to take a single step forward in order to plunge the dagger into her heart.
Tal spun the weapon in his hand so he could offer the handle to her. “You seemed so enamored by the weapons that I only wondered if you wished to hold one.”
Pulse still racing, she closed her fingers around the hilt.
Tal made a soft clucking noise. “Not like that,” he said, adjusting her grip. His touch was a spark of white-hot light. She jerked away as though she had been burned, sending the dagger clattering to the floor. Tal’s eyes held hers. The hair on the back of Sabine’s neck prickled at the intensity of his gaze.
It was nothing like the energy she felt when she touched Elodie. Nothing like the warm, toe-tingling comfort that the queen provided her. No, this was a searing pain. A branding. Sabine half expected to see the outline of his fingers on her own. But she was unmarked, the moment preserved only in the space between them.
Sabine looked away first. “I have to go.”
Tal bent down to collect the weapon. “Next time, I’ll teach you how to use it.”
“Next time?” Sabine was surprised by the open invitation. She had expected Tal to find her tiresome. But judging by the curious expression on the boy’s face, she was just as fascinating to Tal as he was to her.
“A soldier can never be too prepared, Sabine,” Tal said, shrugging. “And by the look of those posters, your battle has only just begun.”
It wasn’t until she left the training room that Sabine was able to pinpoint the source of her unease. After their hands had touched—when Tal had fixed his unflinching gaze upon her—Sabine could have sworn that his green eyes had flashed gold.
Tal
By the time Tal arrived at the border, the stench of burning flesh had cleared from his nostrils. His grimace upon enlisting in Velle’s Second Battalion came not from the commitment, but from the pain. His wounds had stopped their weeping, were clinging weakly to the weave of his shirt, but signing his name wrenched that tender flesh free, and his skin began to sob once more.
The gray-haired soldier who had taken Tal’s signature frowned down at the boy before him. “Are you hurt, son?”
Tal was ashamed. To show pain was to admit weakness. He would never become a competent soldier if he was so quick to admit defeat.
“I’m fine.” Tal shook his head. The motion set his back to screaming. He hissed.
“You’re not,” the man said, not unkindly, gesturing to the blood seeping through Tal’s shirt. “You’ll want to come with me.”
The medical tent was barren, little more than a bedroll, a stool, and an assortment of tinctures and bandages. The soldier tended to Tal’s wounds with the swift methodical means of a man who had seen it all. This comforted Tal, who had suffered much worse.
When the soldier used a cloth to apply a bright, acidic tincture to the wounds, Tal did not even flinch. For some reason, the man’s expression grew unbearably sad.
“Who did this to you, son?”
Tal swallowed the emotion that crept up his throat. Cruel, that this man would call him son when it was Tal’s own father who had written this rage across his skin, had pressed irons fresh from the fire into Tal’s flesh. The brands were his father’s way of reminding Tal that he did not belong to himself. He belonged first and foremost to the family.
“A stranger,” Tal replied. The soldier was kind enough to allow Tal his lie.
“You are angry.” It wasn’t a question and therefore Tal saw no need to answer. “You are joining the ranks to ensure that none could ever harm you again.”
It was divine, to be seen. To simply nod and be known.
“What if I told you there was another way?”
“To vengeance?”
“To power.” The soldier’s tone was reverent. “I see something in you, young man. An anger that will guide you. A likeness that will endear you to Him.”
Tal would have done anything to secure a patriarch’s praise and attention. And so he asked: “To whom?”
This was how he was introduced to the Second Son.
PART TWO
The Second Son’s father had been a vicious leader. Under his reign, the Lower Banks were a muted, oppressive place. So when the New Maiden sank to her knees in the silt and wept, Sebastien flinched. He waited for his father’s venomous voice to chastise the New Maiden for her weakness.
But his father was gone, and so no such cruelty came. Instead, the water returned. The earth began to sing. Sebastien observed the New Maiden with acute interest. Tears spilled down her face, yet no one struck her. She cried out with pain, yet no one silenced her. Rather than being punished for her emotions, she was rewarded for them.
He could not make sense of it. The last time he shed a tear, his father’s hands had wrapped around his throat. If you cannot control yourself, you’ll have to join her, he had said, gesturing to the lifeless body of Sebastien’s mother.
