SINDRED

News travels fast among palace staff, possibly even faster than it does among spies. I am in the kitchen with Bianca when I start to hear the whispers. A handmaid is in trouble. In the library. She's being questioned by the prince and the High Priest himself. Someone heard the shouting and got a glimpse before they ran away. It doesn't take long before they begin to say her name, first as a guess, then with more certainty. By then, I'm already running.

By the time I get there, Enna is dead. She lies on the floor in a twisted heap, glamour stripped away to reveal green skin and pointed ears. The skin around her neck is seared with iron, but that's not what killed her. She was killed with magic. The High Priest of the Ironborn stands over her body.

I don't dare go all the way into the room, staying right outside the door. There's nothing I can do, anyway. I'm useless.

I see the High Priest kick Enna's body aside and walk farther into the room, towards a table where two people sit, chairs angled out to face him. I identify one as Prince Aiden, a well dressed young boy with a pale face and mess of black hair. The other is Vessimira Nikaldia, the lady Enna served, and the High Priest's only daughter. I can't make out her expression from this distance, just the brown waves of her hair, the silvery blue of her dress and the tenseness of her posture.

"You are banned from the University," the High Priest states with a sort of formality. "And restricted from any use of magic from this day forward."

"But, Father!" Vessimira whines. "You can't do this! It's not fair!"

The High Priest stands up taller, looking down at his daughter as she shrinks before him. His dark robes flap in a non-existent wind and the dozens of iron links sewn into them clink. "Would it be fair if I let you continue to wreak havoc just because you are my daughter? Was it fair that I let you leave the University and discard our tenets, despite you knowing enough magic to unleash chaos into this kingdom?" A staff appears in his hand, dark wood curling upwards and topped with a deep red stone the size of a man's fist.

"You can't stop me from using magic. I'm not just another thing for you to control!" Vessimira screams.

"You are a spoiled, disobedient child," the High Priest snarls. "And a fool to think you know what I can or cannot do."

The stone at the end of staff begins to glow crimson, and Vessimira squirms. "What are you doing?" the girl asks. "Stop! That hurts!" Something wispy and white starts to appear around the girl's head, a sort of luminous mist. Whatever the substance is, it's drawn towards the High Priest's staff as though pulled by an irresistible current. At first Vessimira cries out as though in incredible pain, twisting and turning her head in useless struggle. But after just a few moments, she stops moving and stares up at the red stone, her eyes beginning to radiate white light as a steady stream of the mist is sucked out of her and into the staff.

Part of me expects the prince to say something, to try to stop the High Priest, but the boy does nothing. He just watches, as I do from the opposite side of the room.

After a while, the odd light in Vessimira's eyes begins to fade, and the stream of mist dwindles to nothing. The High Priest continues to look down at his daughter, slumped in her chair, either dazed or unconscious. A dark gray cloud begins to pour out of the red stone and collect around the head of his staff. Even from where I stand I can smell it, like rotten eggs thrown into a fire. It stings the back of my throat when I breathe.

The gray smoke loops and swirls through the air towards Vessimira, crackling with bright red embers. When it reaches her, the substance rushes into her through her nose and mouth. Her body lurches.

In a second it's over. I take a single step backwards, realizing I need to get out of here, and just as I do the prince looks up and sees me.

We stare at each other for a moment, both of us caught as witnesses to something both confusing and horrifying. As I stand there rigid, someone's hand comes down to rest on my shoulder. "It's alright," a soft voice says when I jump. I look up to see the queen's sad, reassuring smile. "It's just me. I've come to get my son."

Without thinking, my body relaxes, and I nod. "I'll go tell Ezebel."

.

Ezebel prefers reports to be straightforward. She insists we keep personal bias and emotional attachment at a minimum. Though my hands are trembling, I remember my training.

"Enna is dead," I say.

Ezebel's expression stays carefully blank, but her knuckles turn white around the small clay pot she's holding.

"Who?" she asks.

I swallow. "Evidence suggests the High Priest killed her. He was present at the scene, as were Vessimira and the prince."

The clay pot breaks. I do my best not to flinch, watching as what looks like salt spills through the cracked pieces and falls to the ground. She doesn't even look down.

"Continue," she says, as though nothing happened.

I tell her everything I saw in the library, not sparing any details.

"You said it smelled?" she asks.

"Yes, it smelled burned and..." I try to think of the right word.

There is a soft knock on the door. Ezebel jerks her head around, as though she'd forgotten where she was. She looks down at the shattered pot in her hands and grimaces. "Enter!" she says, carefully depositing the broken mess onto the counter.

The queen opens the door just a crack and pokes her face into the room. "Am I interrupting? I can come back another time."

"Your Highness!" Ezebel says, with an abrupt shift of tone. "Of course not. Come in."

Queen Katalyn gives me that disarming smile again when she enters the room. She's wearing an elaborate lilac gown, billowing layers of embroidered satin and tulle completely at odds with the current fashion in court. I have learned enough about her to know that she designed it herself. I expect the garment to fill the space in the small apothecary, awkward and out of place, but somehow she seems at home, dress and all. She moves with an effortless grace, sweeping her skirts out of the way and perching on one of Ezebel's tall stools. Then she slumps, elbows against the counter and head in her hands.

"Ezebel, what am I to do?" the queen asks. "How can I protect this wildfire of a boy without holding him back, or stifling who he is? I feel the moment I take my eyes off him, he's in danger."

I'm struck with how young the queen looks right now, black hair falling across her bowed face. It's odd to see here, surrounded by dried leaves and dirt, begging Ezebel for advice like a girl might to her grandmother. Part of me always expects rulers to be somehow above us normal folk. Especially Lady Katalyn, who usually holds herself with the steadiness and composure others can only aspire to. Despite her common birth, she sits on the throne like it was made for her, and wherever she goes, she brings a sense of brightness and warmth. Even envious courtiers can't help but love her. We all love her, just as plants love the sun. She paints the palace walls, sews her own clothes, sings with the serving girls. And every time I've been in her presence, she's met my eyes, smiled at me. Seen me.

Ezebel takes one of the queen's hands in hers. She holds it wordlessly for a moment, until Katalyn looks up to meet her gaze. "It is never easy to be a mother, Your Highness," Ezebel says. "But you are the best mother the prince could hope to have. Trust your instincts, and I'm sure he will grow up to be a wise and able king."

"He wants to learn magic," the queen says, furrowing her brow. "Graygon will not let him, of course. But what if trying to stop him pushes him into even greater peril? What if…" She sighs. "Who are we to decide his destiny?"

"You can't. His destiny is in his own hands, Your Highness." I wait for Ezebel to say something about the terrible events that took place in the library, to condemn the actions of the High Priest, to warm the queen against trusting the Ironborn. But she doesn't. Instead she says, "Perhaps the boy will become a powerful wizard, a great ruler to rival them all."

I blink. That's it? It's never been so difficult to hold my tongue. No! Do not let your son become a wizard. The Ironborn are murderers! I want to scream.

But I stay silent, because it is not my place to say such things, and definitely not to the queen. I'm just a ghost.

And besides, that would be treason.

It isn't until the queen has left that I speak. "Do you think the prince will become one of them?" I ask.

Ezebel glances at me, then goes back to staring at her hands. She's clearly deep in thought. "Katalyn's right; the boy needs to be protected. We never found out who he was meeting in the woods. But it matters very little, doesn't it? He would probably be safer meeting the Queen of Faerie herself than he was today, right here in the palace." Now she regards me again. "Sindred, I want you to watch over him. Find out his goals, tell me how he spends his days. If you must, befriend him. He is about your age."

"What? Me? I…" This is the most important thing she's ever asked of me, and for a moment I wish I could say no. My heart races in my chest. Don't let your fear control you.

Ezebel sighs. "You're right. It is a lot of responsibility. I'll-"

"No, I'll do it," I say. "I'm ready."