#REVIEW - Greythorne by Crystal Smith #YA #Fantasy

Series: The Bloodleaf Trilogy# 2
Format: Hardcover, 368 pages
Release Date: September 1, 2020
Publisher: HMH Books For Young Readers
Source: Publisher
Genre: Young Adult / Dark Fantasy

Brimming with deliciously mysterious magic, political intrigue, and a passionate heroine who will do anything to save the ones she loves—this highly anticipated sequel to Bloodleaf, praised as “enchanting, visceral, and twisty” by Laura Sebastian, won’t disappoint.

Princess Aurelia’s life is upended when the kingdom she thought she saved falls to ruin, a loved one is tragically killed in a shipwreck, and her home country turns against her. With no place left to call her own, Aurelia returns to Greythorne Manor—her best friend’s family mansion—only to find that Greythorne has sinister secrets of its own. With enemies closing in on all sides, Aurelia is caught in a mad fight to protect the only people she has left—her family. In her darkest moments, when all seems grim, will Aurelia find a spark of hope from a love she thought long lost? 

Greythorne, by author Crystal Smith, is the second installment in the author's Bloodleaf Trilogy. The story picks up about 6 weeks after the end of Bloodleaf which saw the fall of Achleva, the disappearance of Zan, and the arrival of a usurper named Dominic Castillion. As the story moves forward, the coronation day for Aurelia's 8-year-old brother Conrad Costin Altenar is on the horizon. Conrad is the ascendant of King Renault but after what happened to his sister and mother, people are wary of his ascension. What’s worse is that he was tricked into betraying Aurelia who has done nothing but try to help Conrad.

Aurelia, who really owes no alliance to any country, is back in Renault, keeping a low profile, avoiding being burned as a witch, living in a house of ill repute, playing cards to earn enough money to infiltrate the party barge of one of her many enemies, Dominic Castillion, while also mourning the loss of Zan. Castillion is a tyrant from the north who has been swooping in and taking over various nations, and he has eyes on Achleva. She is trying to gather enough supplies necessary for her to find Dominic’s ship and make him pay. Dominic wanted Zan dead badly to the point where he killed innocents to get to him.

The world is still in turmoil over the fall of Achlev which Aurelia played a large role. There is allegedly a vigilante called the Horseman who is inciting people to violence. Aurelia hasn’t used her blood magic for months; thus, she no longer sees ghosts or spirits or hauntings. Aurelia makes her way to Greythorne estate that is surrounded by Achlevian refugees who are without a country and in a place that does not like them. Even though she wanted no part in Conrad’s coronation, she is tricked into participating by Magistrate Isobel Arceneaux. Isobel hates witches. Arceneaux, who is more dangerous than her predecessor. She has many secrets and untold power, making her the perfect villain.

As the new leader of the Tribunal, she is intelligent and manipulating. She deliberately provokes Aurelia into a public demonstration of her magical blood powers, forcing her to flee, yet again, with her loyal guard Kellan who is tied to her by blood and her old nurse/teacher/friend, Onal. What’s most surprising is that Zen is alive, and his life is tied to Aurelia’s after she used blood magic. Aurelia has become a harden character. Two of the three lives tied to her by blood are now dead. Only Kellen, who is supposed to protect Conrad but feels Aurelia needs her more, remains alive.

Aurelia and Zen are two parts of a major puzzle. Aurelia is descended from Aris, while Zen is descended from Achlev. The key to keeping the Malefica from leaking into this world is keeping Zan alive. Aurelia and crew travel Ebonwilde to find a witch named Rosetta who may be able to assist in breaking her blood bond with Kellen who she wants to live. Aurelia spends a whole lot of dying wishing she would die before the next blood moon so that the world can go on without her. The introduction of feral magic was also a neat touch. It is the perfect opposite of Aurelia’s blood magic with its own rules adding more history to the novel, and, again, more plot twists. 

I really liked Onal and Rosetta. Onal’s backstory makes so much sense once you read it. Rosetta is the Warden of the Woods who is holding on until she can pass the torch to a new Warden which will lead The Ninth Age called Crone Age. An extremely dangerous and rocky time that could lead to brutal wars and bloodshed.  There is so much to unravel about the final stages of this book. But I won’t because it’s filled with spoilers. I will say that both Aurelia and Isobel are keys to what happens next.

1

My opponent was a merchant of middle age by the name of Brom Baltus who had stopped at the Quiet Canary Tavern hoping to acquire some female company and play a couple of rounds of Betwixt and Between before hauling his goods—a cartload of apples, cheeses, and fine wines—the final stretch of his route. It was to his great misfortune that he sat down at the card table with me; when I was done with him, he’d be lucky to leave with enough coin left to hitch a ride home to his unhappy wife, let alone purchase an hour or two of a Canary girl’s precious time. I’d have hated to rob them of good business, but from the smell of him, none of them were likely to mind.
Brom leaned forward to lay down his second-to-last play. His smug grin revealed a mouthful of tobacco-stained teeth. “Sad Tom,” he said, pushing the card toward me. “Time to up your wager, miss, or call the game.”
I frowned at the card and its depiction of a despondent, droopy-eyed lad clutching a withered four-petaled daisy. It was a surprisingly savvy move for a man who had accidentally singed his mustache trying to light his pipe not five minutes earlier. I’d already put down all the collateral I’d planned on staking—twelve gold crowns earned over two months of careful card-game conquests—and had little left with which to improve the pot. If I failed to provide Sad Tom with something to cheer him up, I’d lose all of it, and the cart of goods besides.
I hesitated only a moment before reaching into my pocket and retrieving the last thing of value left to my name: a fine white-gold ring set with an exquisite clear-cut stone. I hadn’t worn it for months, but somehow I could not bring myself to lay it away in a jewelry box. Even now, as I placed it in the center of the table and the stone caught the candlelight and bounced it back in a thousand rainbow shards, I felt a keen sense of trepidation at the possibility of its loss. But I had plans to keep, costly plans, and Brom’s goods would go a long way toward covering the costs.
“Finest Achlevan jewel crafting,” I said. “Pure luneocite stone, skillfully cut and artfully set.”
“And what makes you think it’s worth—?”
“It used to belong to the late queen Irena de Achlev,” I said. “It’s engraved with her initials and the de Achlev seal.” I steepled my fingers and leaned forward with a cocky tilt to my head, eyes still shrouded beneath my dark hood. “Imagine what the ladies at court in Syric would pay for such a souvenir.”
Brom’s eyes were gleaming—he knew exactly what kind of price it would fetch. Relics of the fallen de Achlev dynasty had become hot commodities among Syric’s social elite. And to have belonged to the last queen . . . the ring was worth double the pile of coins on the table. I said calmly, “Surely Sad Tom is not so sad anymore?”
“Indeed not,” the man said with a smirk. “Wager accepted. Make your next play, little miss.”
Little miss. If a man had placed that selfsame wager, it would have been met with suspicion. This fool would have at least asked himself, What kind of hand would warrant such an extravagant offer? But because I was a woman, and a young one at that, Brom Baltus saw the move as a signal that he’d already gotten the better of me. That he’d forced me into a corner and I’d naively cast out my last line in desperation just to stay in the game.
What had Delphinia said? You don’t play the cards; you play the player.
We were still two moves from the finale, but I had already won.
I waited for Brom to settle into his self-assuredness, using my next turn to play the Fanciful Blacksmith, resplendent in his great brown beard and frilly petticoats, hammering happily away at his forge. My opponent did just as I thought he would and mistook the balance card for a schism card and played Lady Loveless over the top of it. He sat back in his seat with a sneer, certain that he’d just secured his success.
“Lady Loveless has just sent your Blacksmith into the furnace,” he said. “Time to pay up.”
“Ah,” I said, “but the Blacksmith stands on his own. He has no need for Lady Loveless’s approval.” I allowed myself a tiny hint of a smile. “Which means I have one more card to play.”
I made a slow, deliberate show of turning over my last card, taking far more satisfaction than necessary in Brom’s changing expression—disinterest followed closely by chagrin, shock, and dismay—as he realized what I’d done.
Staring up at him was the Two-Faced Queen.
The card depicted two versions of the same woman, one with night-dark hair against a snowy background, the other with ice-white hair against a deep black wood. They echoed each other in the exact same position, as if the line dividing them and bisecting the card was a mirror. And indeed, the card itself acted like a mirror, reflecting the players’ own plays back onto them. My cards had all been balance cards, while his had been schism after schism. He had, in effect, annihilated himself.
I plucked the ring from atop the pile of coin and twirled it around my fingertips, allowing myself a single moment of melancholy before returning it to my pocket. “Now, then,” I said, brusque and businesslike, “where shall I collect my winnings?”
While Brom went to complain about me to the tavern’s proprietor, Hicks, I went upstairs to my tiny room to stash some of my winnings away. It was little more than a closet, my room—especially when compared to the lavish accommodations occupied by the Canary girls just down the hall—but it had a big window overlooking the front entrance of the tavern and the wide, grassy expanse of the Renaltan provinces beyond. I experienced bouts of panic sometimes if things got too dark or quiet; this room and the bustle of this building suited me just fine.
The Canary girls did not understand my stubbornness at keeping the room despite being able to afford a bigger one after my winnings began to accumulate, but then they were always fretting after me. The girls were easy to like, and despite my early reticence, we became fast friends. They coached me in card-playing strategies, and during my card games, they’d sometimes drop hints about my opponents’ hands. In return, I’d slip them a few coins whenever their hints proved to be especially valuable. They’d all been born with different names, but when, one by one, they came to work at the Quiet Canary, they each went through the process of choosing a new one for themselves. Lorelai, Rafaella, Delphinia, and Jessamine were what they went by now, names that had a lovely glint to them; saying them together felt like letting brightly colored jewels drip through your fingers.
Built at a crossroads between four of Renalt’s remotest provinces, the Quiet Canary was always busy with dealings both above the table and below, as much a haven for the honest merchant as it was for the cutthroat highwayman. It was set just far enough from Syric to make it inconvenient for the capital to police, but central enough to make it an easy waypoint for merchants and travelers crossing from one side of Renalt to another. It was a place where you could be whoever you wanted to be, and no one would second-guess you or even care. They knew exactly who I was, but they never made me feel any different for it.
Delphinia was coming down the stairs with a client as I was going up. “Evening, Delphinia, Father Cesare,” I said to them as we passed.
“You’re in fine spirits. Had a good night, did we?” Delphinia asked.
“I did,” I said. “You were right about using the Two-Faced Queen. Brom Baltus didn’t even see it coming.”
Delphinia’s smile faded just a little. “Be wary of that man, Aurelia. He’s a mean one—not someone to be trifled with.”
I assured her, “He’s aggrieved, of course, but Hicks will have him on his way in no time.”
Hicks, bless him, had developed a disinterested languor in his years as proprietor at the Quiet Canary. If no one was dead or dying, Hicks preferred to be left to his hobby of whittling toys and trinkets, like the puzzle box I’d bought from him to give to Conrad. He certainly wasn’t going to lift a lazy little finger to interfere with the results of a fair round of Betwixt and Between.
Delphinia did not look convinced, but I turned to Father Cesare. “Any news for me today?”
The soft-spoken priest began feeling around in his robe. “Yes, my dear,” he said. “As a matter of fact, a parcel arrived at the sanctorium this morning, addressed to you from one Simon Silvis. It’s why I came tonight.” At Delphinia’s smirk, he added, “Well, one of the reasons.”
“Simon?” I asked incredulously. In the aftermath of Achlev’s fall, Simon had decided to retreat into the solitude of the abandoned Assembly Hall, telling us that he preferred to dedicate the remainder of his years to quiet study, free from the daily sorrows and strain of a kingdom at war with itself. That he chose to retire to the one place in the world that could not be found by those who did not already know its location was significant; he wanted to be left alone. I could hardly blame him, but I never thought I’d hear from him again. “Why would he send something for me to you?”
Father Cesare handed me a small parcel and said, “It happens more often than you’d think. We at the Stella Regina sanctorium are well-known for our . . . discretion . . . in certain matters. We keep a more open mind than most of our fellows, especially those of the judicial arm of the faith.” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully; he was referring to the Tribunal.
I untied the twine from the package and pulled off the paper. Inside was a book of indeterminate age, bound in leather dyed a deep emerald and inlaid with a pale rose-gold design that looked like spindly branches. I cracked it open and began to slowly thumb through the delicate pages. They were filled with archaic drawings of circular patterns and strange figures, annotated in a tongue I didn’t recognize.
“I don’t understand,” I said finally. “Why would Simon send me this? I can’t read it.”
“I’m the sanctorium archivist.” Cesare leaned over, lifting his spectacles from the chain around his neck to squint at the book. “I’m not as well-read as an Assemblyman, to be sure, but I don’t think it is immodest to say that I do have a knack for ancient vernacular. Ah, yes! This is written in the pre-Assembly dialect preferred by the female-led clans of the Ebonwilde. About 450 PA would be my guess.”
“You’re saying that that little book is two thousand years old?” Delphinia gaped.
“Maybe not the book itself, but the language in which it’s written, yes. Give or take a few hundred years, yes.”
“But what does it say?” I turned another page to find three humanlike outlines overlaid on one another, each inked in a different color.
“I could make out only a few of the words,” Cesare said. “Let’s see . . . Life. Or flesh, maybe? Sleep.Soul . . .” He shrugged. “The translations aren’t exact, and I’m rusty. But I do have a few texts back at the sanctorium that might help you with translation. If you want to come by before the coronation tomorrow.”
I stiffened but forced a smile. “Perhaps I will, if I decide to attend.” I slipped him one of my new-won coins. “Thank you for bringing this to me,” I said. “I know it’s a long way to travel just to drop off a book.” I glanced at Delphinia. “I’m glad to see you making good use of your trip.”
“Oh, it is always a pleasure ministering to the faithful here at the Canary,” Father Cesare said, his stout arm around Delphinia’s waist. “Shall I buy you another drink, my dear, with this new wealth?”
Her red-currant lips curved into a smile. “If you must.”
Back in my room, I tucked Simon’s unusual gift into my satchel next to the bloodcloth that still carried a round, rust-colored drop of his blood before spreading my winnings out across the desk to count them. I almost had enough saved now. As soon as the coronation was over and Conrad was officially installed as king with Fredrick as his regent, I would be able to buy a room on the Humility, the ironically named pleasure boat owned by Dominic Castillion. The floating fortress of Achleva’s self-proclaimed new king was renowned for its beauty and brutality. It was of an unusual design, powered not by wind or rowing but by coal and steam from great furnaces housed in the ship’s belly, freeing up room for ballrooms and banquet halls and baths on the decks above while malnourished and mistreated prisoners toiled in oven-like heat below.
The first coins I’d won at the Canary had all gone to procuring a copy of the ship’s plans from an Achlevan refugee who came through, got wildly drunk, and claimed he was formerly employed as a shipbuilder by the Castillion family and had helped the ambitious noble-man build his fleet. Even if it was an embellishment of the truth—or a complete fabrication—I paid him ten silver coronets to reproduce diagrams of the ship on the back of the elegant Canary-stamped stationery Lorelai had ordered in sheaves to pen elaborate and illicit letters to her favorite lovers.
The man had re-created the Humility’s schematics from his memory while completely stewed, but the sketches were startlingly intricate and full of minute details suggesting a deep familiarity with the ship’s layout. I decided to operate on the assumption that his claims were true and spent the last eight weeks studying the drawings to memorize every crucial detail, every weakness. As the vessel was protected by a fleet of well-armed fighting ships, the only way to get to it was to buy my way aboard and attend the balls and feast at the banquets. Though the idea of that disgusted me, I’d do whatever it took to end his ill-conceived attempt for Achleva’s crown.
The man was a monster, and I would not rest until he and his ship met their final resting place at the bottom of the cold Achlevan Sea.
There was a soft knock at the door. “It’s open,” I said, sweeping my ship notes and coins into the top desk drawer alongside some of my favorite past prizes: a silver hand mirror, bottles of perfume from the continent, and jewelry too pretty to sell and too outlandish to wear. As an afterthought, I took the luneocite ring from my pocket, setting it on top of the pile before closing the drawer. If I didn’t have it with me, I wouldn’t be tempted to wager it again.
I shut the drawer and moved to sit on the bed just before Jessamine poked her head inside.
“I have something for you,” she said, sweeping her wealth of auburn locks over one shoulder, her brown eyes bright. She had to stoop to enter, nearly hitting her forehead on the low-hanging eaves of the steeply pitched ceiling. “I don’t know how you stand this,” she said. “I really don’t.”
“I’m almost a full head shorter than you are,” I pointed out.
“An infant would still find this room stifling,” she said, settling next to me. “And that window, and the noise . . . How do you sleep?”
“I don’t sleep much,” I admitted. “And when I do, I rest better with people nearby, coming and going . . .”
“Oh, yes,” Jessamine said, “You do so love people.”
“I like knowing they’re there,” I said. “I don’t need to be best friends with them.”
“Stars save me,” Jessamine said, dimpling, “you are a strange creature.”
“So you’ve brought me something.” I brightened. “Is it more Halderian chocolate? Please tell me it’s more Halderian chocolate.”
“Not chocolate,” Jessamine said. “Better.” She pulled a bottle from behind her back—it had already been uncorked.
“Wine?” I suppressed a smile. “I can’t drink with you tonight, Jessa. I’ve got somewhere to go.”
“Not just any wine,” she said. “Sombersweet wine.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Where, exactly, did you get that?”
“Brom Baltus has a dozen bottles in his cargo. It costs a fortune, but it is worth every penny.”
“I guess that means I’m now the proud owner of a dozen bottles of sombersweet wine, as I just won his entire cart of goods at Betwixt and Between.”
Her mouth dropped open.
“You can take what you want,” I said. “I’m mostly interested in the apples and dry goods.” “I’m not worried about whether or not you’ll share your sombersweet wine, Aurelia. I’m worried about Brom Baltus. That’s a man who doesn’t like to lose. And he especially won’t be happy about losing everything.”
“Delphinia said much the same thing.” I shrugged. “His hurt pride is hardly my problem.” My gaze shifted from the drawer with my savings back to the bottle in her hand. “How much did you say sombersweet wine would sell for?”
“Double, maybe triple, one of the Canary’s own bottles.”
I did the calculations in my head. That would give me more than what I needed; I could move my plans up by a month at least. I suddenly felt light with relief.
“Perhaps we should celebrate my acquisition,” I said, taking the bottle. “Is this going to give me hallucinations?”
“Oh, come now, hallucinations? It’s just supposed to make things glitter a little.” She watched me take a swallow. “Anything?”
“Afraid not,” I said. “No glittering. Are you sure that Baltus didn’t lie? Sombersweet is rather hard to come by; not many would know if it wasn’t legitimate.”
“I guess I’d better drink this whole thing and see what happens,” she said wryly. “Best to know for sure.”
“I’ll ask you for your appraisal tomorrow morning,” I said, rising to reach for my wool cloak, which was hanging from a peg by the door. Then I stopped, staring at the mirror over my desk. “Did you see that?” I asked Jessamine.
“See what?”
“My reflection. For a second there, it looked . . . different. Not quite like me, exactly.”
She said excitedly, “Maybe the wine causes hallucinations after all. What did you look like? A mermaid? A goblin?”
“No,” I said. “I looked like me, but my hair was darker. Almost black.” I gave a self-conscious laugh.
“I’ve always thought you’d look ravishing as a brunette,” Jessamine said. “And I’ve got the dyes we’d need. Just say the word . . .” She winked.
“The same dyes that turned Rafaella’s hair green last month?” I smiled. “Thank you, but no.”
“It was only for a few days!” Jessa protested. “And her bookings went up wildly. She’s even thinking about trying it again.”
“Rafaella could have no hair at all and still get bookings,” I said, settling my cloak over my shoulders and lifting my satchel over my arm.
“True,” Jessa agreed. “Where are you off to?”
“None of your business,” I replied.
She grinned widely. “Tell Kellan Greythorne I said hello.”

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#Review - Bloodleaf by Crystal Smith #YALIT #Fantasy

Series: The Bloodleaf Trilogy# 1
Format: Hardcover, 384 pages
Release Date: March 12, 2019
Publisher: HMH Books for Young Readers
Source: Edelweiss/Publisher
Genre: Young Adult Fantasy / Epic

A roar of a dark and luscious epic fantasy that’s layered with heady romance, bloodthirsty magic, and ghostly intrigue—an absolutely wicked delight.
 

Princess Aurelia is a prisoner to her crown and the heir that nobody wants. Surrounded by spirits and banned from using her blood-magic, Aurelia flees her country after a devastating assassination attempt. To escape her fate, Aurelia disguises herself as a commoner in a new land and discovers a happiness her crown has never allowed. As she forges new bonds and perfects her magic, she begins to fall for a man who is forbidden to rule beside her. But the ghosts that haunt Aurelia refuse to abandon her, and she finds herself succumbing to their call as they expose a nefarious plot that only she can defeat. Will she be forced to choose between the weight of the crown and the freedom of her new life?

 

Bloodleaf is the first installment in author Crystal Smith's trilogy by the same name. In the vein of The Hazel Wood, Anna Dressed in Blood, and The Cruel Prince, Bloodleaf is deliciously creepy and laced with a rock 'n roll edge that will haunt you late into the night. So, after reviewing several sources, Bloodleaf is apparently a retelling of a story called The Goose Girl, a set of German fairy tales from the Grimm Brother tales.

17-year old Aurelia is a princess in the land of Renalt. Being arrested, tried, and publicly executed is a real fear of hers. Continued calls for Aurelia to be investigated by the Tribunal linger hang over her head every day. People are truly afraid of Aurelia because she is the first female born to the crown in hundreds of years, and the first not to be given away. Aurelia has magic in her blood. Magic that if caught, will end in tragedy. 

Everyone in Renault, even the royal family, lives in fear of the Tribunal, a shady organization that apparently has jurisdiction over witches and seems to possess absolute power. The public is on the side of the Tribunal (witches = bad), so the fact that Aurelia is rumored to be a witch isn’t exactly great. What's worse is that Aurelia really is a blood mage - she can see spirits of the dead and do magic with her blood. 

After an assassination attempt almost kills her, and the Tribunal attempts a coup against the Royal Family, Aurelia is forced to flee her home. But, that's only the beginning. She's soon betrayed by so called friends and has to make her way to Achleva under an assumed name where an impostor has taken her place. There she meets new friends and confronts the new threat facing the kingdom: a wicked mage is destroying the magical wall that protects Achleva, one murder at a time.

With Zan by her side, Aurelia must find a way to save her brother, stop whatever plans her betrayer has in mind, and learn the true powers of her blood magic before it is too late to stop a cataclysm. I am actually up in the air of my overall assessment about Aurelia. In the beginning, she has no restraint in getting into trouble. She doesn't care about her safety as she watches a hanging take place. In the later part of this book, she does show some remarkable character growth, and that is why I will most likely continue with this series. 

 

1
The gallows had been erected in the shadow of the clock tower, partly so that the spectators could witness the executions without the nuisance of sun in their eyes, and partly so that the Tribunal could keep its killings on precise schedule. Order in all things, that was the Tribunal’s motto.
I held my cloak tight around my chin, keeping my head down as the crowd converged in the square beneath the clock tower. It was a chilly morning; breath was billowing from my mouth in wispy clouds that rose and disappeared into the fog. I scanned right and left from under my hood, wary.
“Good day for a hanging,” a man next to me drawled in a conversational tone.
I glanced quickly away, unable to meet his eyes for fear he might notice mine. It wasn’t often that a person was determined to be a witch by such a trivial trait as the color of her eyes, but it wasn’t unprecedented.
A murmur rippled across the crowd as two women were prodded up the stairs onto the platform. Accused witches, both of them. The first woman’s shackled hands shook so hard, I could hear the clink of her chains from my distant spot in the throng. The second, a younger woman with a sad face and stooped shoulders, was perfectly still. They were both dressed in rags, dirt caking their sallow cheeks and clinging to their matted hair. They’d probably been isolated and starved for days, long enough to turn them desperate and feral. It was a calculated tactic; if the accused witches seemed subhuman and unhinged onstage, it not only quelled the reservations of the scrupulous few who might doubt the Tribunal’s practices, but it also made for a more entertaining show.
The man who’d spoken to me sidled in closer. “Fantastic fun, these hangings. Wouldn’t you agree?”
I tried to ignore him, but he leaned in, repeating quietly, “Wouldn’t you agree, Princess?”
Startled, I found myself staring into a pair of purposeful, umber-colored eyes flanked by an unsmiling mouth and a cocked eyebrow.
“Kellan,” I said in a heated whisper. “What are you doing here?”
He set his jaw, shadows collecting in the hollows beneath his copper-brown cheekbones. “As I am supposed to be guarding you, perhaps you can tell me what you are doing here and answer my question and yours at the same time.”
“I wanted to get out.”
“Out? Out to this? All right, let’s go.” He made a grab for my elbow, but I snapped it back.
“If you drag me away now, it will cause a scene. Is that what you want? To draw attention to me?”
Kellan’s mouth twisted. He had been appointed as a lieutenant to the royal family’s regiment at fifteen and assigned as my personal guard at seventeen. Now twenty, he was long since oath-bound to protect me. And he knew the only thing more hazardous to my health than standing in the middle of a crowd of agitated witch haters would be alerting them to my presence. Though it pained him to have to do so, he relented. “Why do you even want to be here, Aurelia? How can this possibly be good for you?”
I didn’t have a reasonable answer for him, so I didn’t reply. Instead, I nervously fiddled with the charm bracelet at my gloved wrist; it was the last gift I’d ever received from my late father, and wearing it always had a soothing effect on me. And I needed serenity as the black-clad executioner arrived, followed by a Tribunal cleric who announced that the great Magistrate Toris de Lena was taking the stage to officiate.
Toris was a commanding presence in his starched collar and stiff black Tribunal coat. He paced in front of us, holding a copy of the Founder’s Book of Commands to his chest, the very picture of somber regret.
“Brothers and sisters,” he began. “It is with great sadness we gather today. We have before us Madams Mabel Lawrence Doyle and Hilda Everett Gable. Both have been accused of practicing arcane arts, and both have been tried and found guilty by fair tribunal.” Around his neck hung a vial of red liquid. He raised it so all could see. “I am Magistrate Toris de Lena, bearer of the blood of the Founder, and I have been selected to preside over these proceedings.”
“I don’t understand,” Kellan was saying quietly by my ear. “Is this some challenge you’ve put to yourself? Come stand in the midst of your enemies? Face your fears?”
My eyebrows knitted together. Being arrested and tried and publicly executed was a very acute fear of mine, but it was only one black horse in my vast stable of nightmares.
“My people are not my enemies,” I insisted even as a fist-pumping chant burgeoned around me: Let them swing! Let them swing!
Right then I saw a dim shadow pass in front of the younger lady—?Mabel—?and pause next to her. The shadow flickered at her feet, gathering form from the morning mist until it became starkly clear. The air grew even colder in the square as the spirit pulled heat and energy into his cloudy form. It was a young boy, no more than seven. He clung to the skirt of the shackled woman.
No one touched him. No one even looked his way. I was likely the only one who could see him. But Mabel knew he was there, and her face shone with something I could not name: perhaps pain, perhaps joy, perhaps relief.
“I know that woman,” Kellan whispered. “Her husband used to come through Greythorne, selling books, at least two or three times a season. He died last year, one of those who caught that awful fever that went around the first part of winter. Him and a son, too, I think.”
I knew Mabel too, but I couldn’t risk telling Kellan that.
The tower clock showed it only a minute away from the hour, and Toris’s florid speech was winding down. “It is your time to speak,” he said to the women as the executioner situated a rope over their heads and around their throats. “Madam Mabel Lawrence Doyle, you have been tried and found guilty by fair Tribunal for the distribution of illicit texts and for attempting to raise the dead through use of magic and witchcraft, in defiance of our Book of Commands. By the blood of the Founder, you have been condemned to die. Say your last words.”
I stiffened, waiting for her to point a finger at me, to call me by name. To bargain for her life with mine.
Instead she said, “I am at peace; I have no regret.” And she lifted her face to the sky.
A familiar scent drifted around me: roses, though it was too early in the season for them. I knew what it meant, but when I looked right and left, I saw no sign of her. The Harbinger.
Toris turned to the second lady, whose whole body was shaking violently. “Hilda Everett Gable, you have been tried and found guilty by fair Tribunal for attempting to use witchcraft to harm your son’s wife, in defiance of our Book of Commands. By the blood of the Founder, you have been condemned to die. Say your last words.”
“I’m innocent!” Her voice rang out. “I did nothing! She lied, I tell you! She lied!” Hilda pointed her bound, shuddering hands at a woman near the front of the audience. “You liar! You liar! You’ll pay for what you’ve done! You’ll—?”
The clock struck the hour, and the bell reverberated across the multitude. Toris bowed his head and pronounced over the sound, “Nihil nunc salvet te.” Nothing can save you now. Then he gave a nod to the executioner, and the floor dropped out from beneath the women. I let out a cry, and Kellan pulled me into his shoulder to muffle it.
The bell tolled nine times and fell silent. Their feet were still twitching.
Kellan’s voice was gentler now. “I don’t know what you thought you’d see here.” He tried to turn me away to protect me from it, but I twisted from his grasp. Even though being near a transition from life to death always made my stomach turn, I had to bear witness. I had to see.
Mabel’s body had gone completely still now, but the air around her shimmered. It was a strange thing to watch a soul extricate itself from its body, slipping out from the grotesque shell the way a fine lady might step from a muddied, cast-off cloak. When she emerged, she found her son waiting and she went to him. In the instant they touched, they were gone, moving from borderland into whatever lay beyond, out of my sight.
It took longer for Hilda to die. She gagged and spluttered, her eyes bulging from their sockets. When it did happen, it was an ugly thing. Her soul tore itself from its body with what would have been a snarl, if there had been any sound. Hilda’s specter lunged at the woman she’d pointed at in the crowd, but the woman did not seem to notice. Her attention was on the sloppy sack of bones swaying at the end of the gallows rope.
“Would you like to claim your mother-in-law’s body?” Toris asked the woman.
“No,” she said emphatically. “Burn it.” And Hilda’s ghost silently screamed, dragging her intangible nails across her daughter-in-law’s face. The woman paled and put her hand to her cheek. I wondered if Hilda’s rage had given her spirit enough energy to exert
I didn’t envy the daughter-in-law. Hilda would probably remain in the borderland indefinitely, following her betrayer, silently screaming, clouding the air around with her hate. I’d seen it happen before.
“Let’s go, Aurelia,” Kellan said. He used my name instead of my title; he was becoming distressed.
The crowd was starting to get raucous, pushing forward as the bodies were dragged down from the stage. Someone next to me gave me a hard shove, and I stumbled forward toward the cobblestones, putting my hands out to catch my fall but coming down hard onto my wrist instead. I wasn’t down for long, though; Kellan was already lifting me to my feet, his arms circling me like a protective cage as he forced our way out of the mob.
My hand went to my empty wrist. “My bracelet!” I cried, straining to look over my shoulder at the place where I’d fallen, though the ground could no longer be seen through the mesh of bodies. “It must have broken when I fell—?”
“Forget about it,” Kellan said firmly but kindly—?he knew how important it was to me. “It’s gone. We have to go.”
I slipped from his grasp and turned back into the crowd with my eyes on the ground, pushing when I was pushed and shoving when I was shoved, hoping for any glimpse of my bracelet. But Kellan was right; it was well and truly gone. He reached me again and this time held fast, but I didn’t want to fight him anymore; the whistles had begun to blow. Within minutes the Tribunal’s clerics would be marching on the gathering, rounding up any who seemed to lack the requisite enthusiasm for the cause. There were two new vacancies in the Tribunal’s cells, and they were never left empty for long.
It wasn’t more than an hour later when I found myself standing in the beam of my mother’s antechamber skylight, staring at the half-finished confection of ivory gossamer and minute, sparkling crystals—?thousands of them—?that would soon become my wedding dress. It would be the most extravagant costume I’d ever worn in all my seventeen years; the Tribunal’s influence in Renalt extended even to fashion. Clothing was meant to reflect the ideals of modesty, simplicity, and austerity. The only allowable exceptions were marriages and funerals. Celebration was reserved for the events that curtailed one’s opportunities to sin.
The dress was my mother’s wedding gift to me, every tiny stitch done by her own hand.
I touched the lace of the one finished sleeve and marveled at its fineness before reminding myself how unhappy I would be the day I had to wear it. Every day brought the occasion closer and closer. Set for Beltane, the first day of Quintus, my wedding was now little more than six weeks away and looming large on the horizon.
Sighing, I straightened and went through the door into the next room, ready for battle.
My mother was pacing on the other side of her table, skirts rustling with each restless stride. Our family’s eldest and closest adviser, Onal, sat straight-backed in one of the parlor’s less comfortable chairs, sipping her tea with pinched brown lips and a carefully cultivated disdain. At the sound of the door, my mother’s blue eyes whipped toward me, all of her anxiety loosed at once, like the snap of a bowstring.
“Aurelia!” She used my name like an epithet. Onal took another slow sip of her tea.
I thrust my hands into my pockets. The gesture was supposed to make me look sheepish and repentant, of which I was neither. But this whole thing would be over faster if Mother thought I was remorseful.
“You went to town alone this morning? Have you lost your mind?” She lifted a stack of papers and shook them at me. “These are the letters I’ve received this week—?this week!—?that call for you to be investigated by the Tribunal. Over there”—?she pointed to a separate pile of paper, two inches high—?“are the possible threats against you that my informants have gathered since the beginning of this month. And here”—?she pulled open a drawer—?“are the more poetic and fanatical predictions of your demise we’ve been sent since the beginning of this year. Let me read one to you, shall I? Let’s see . . . all right. This one contains a very detailed methodology of how to determine if you’re a witch. It involves a sharp knife and a thorough examination of the underside of your skin.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her about the severed kitten’s head I’d found in my closet last week, laid out alongside a poorly scrawled country prayer to ward against witches; or the red x’s that were scratched on the underside of my favorite saddle, an old hex meant to make a horse go mad and turn on its rider. I didn’t need to be reminded of how much I was hated. I knew it better than she did. “They want to peel my skin off?” I asked lightly. “Is that all?”
“And burn it,” Onal supplied from behind her teacup.
“One week until you leave,” Mother snapped. “Can’t you manage to stay out of trouble until then? I’m sure when you’re queen in Achleva you’ll be able to come and go as you please. You can go into the city and do . . . whatever it was you went to do today.”
“I went to a hanging.”
“Stars save me. A hanging? It’s like you want the Tribunal to come after you. We’re very lucky we have Toris there on the inside.”
“Very lucky,” I echoed. She might think Toris, the widowed husband of her favorite cousin, was the crown’s trusted ally keeping the Tribunal in check from within, but I’d never be convinced that he didn’t enjoy the part he played up there on the gallows stand.
“Aurelia,” she said, taking stock of me, head to toe. I knew what she saw: a tangle of pale hair and eyes that should have been blue but weren’t, not quite, erring more on the side of silver. Outside of those attributes, I was not particularly unpleasant-looking, but my peculiar traits and tendencies made me stand out, made me strange. And Renaltans were suspicious enough about me simply because I existed.
I was the first Renaltan princess born to the crown in nearly two centuries—?at least, the first who hadn’t been given away in secret at the hour of her birth. It was my duty to fulfill the treaty that had ended the centuries-long war between our country and Achleva by marrying Achleva’s next heir. For 176 years our people believed that the lack of girls born to the royal family was a sign that we were never to truly align ourselves with the filthy, hedonistic Achlevans. Proof of our moral superiority. My birth shook their faith in the monarchy, the king and queen who had the gall to first have a daughter and then keep her.
Sometimes I agreed with them.
A knock at the door broke the tense quiet. Mother said, “Bring him in, Sir Greythorne.”
Kellan came through first, looking around and then giving a wave behind him.
A man stepped out from behind Kellan. He was dressed in crushed velvet the color of a twilit sky, with a golden sash crossing his chest and fastened by a brooch in the shape of a three-pointed knot. In his ear winked a rakish ruby stud; on his finger shone a silver signet depicting a spread-winged raven. He had a shock of gleaming black hair, untouched by the silver that should have accompanied his age. Startlingly colorful, he was like a lone stained-glass window in a world made up of plain leaded panes.
He was an Achlevan.

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