chapter one
Light began to slowly creep in through Maqvali’s eastern-facing window. She breathed deeply, heavily, as waking dreamers do when they were dragged from sleep. Velaris was steeped in blue rolling over to pinks and yellows, softened by the spring clouds.
Maqvali cracked open an obsidian-black eye. She lay in her bed for heartbeats and moments longer than she should have, simply watching the scene from her window. Her bed was warm, the floor was cold, and her starry city was still quiet. No night birds sang, no morning larks had woken. The loudest of sounds filtering into Maqvali’s tiny attic apartment was the steady rush of the river Sidra, flowing beneath her to the sea.
Maqvali rolled over, trying to stretch away the ever-present ache in her shoulder blades. Sitting up, rolling her shoulders, she squinted into the oncoming day. There were some days where she loathed rising as early as routine demanded— but that was routine, and she had work to do.
For the first time in months, she didn’t bother with her slippers that morning. Winter was finally starting to thaw, spring eager on its heels to arrive. The floor was still cold, and the water in her pitcher and basin was icy as she splashed her face. Maqvali dunked her face in the basin for a few seconds, letting the cold water wake her. Routine then dictated she scrub her teeth with mint and salt, then sit at the edge of her bed in front of the small mirror, still wrapped in her blanket. Maqvali’s magic was little, and it was not the kind of magic that could keep a home warm.
She held her comb between her lips as she stared at herself in the mirror and used her long nails to pick out sections of hair for braiding. The light showed threads of deep gold and bloody red running through her strands, but in any other light, it was jet-black and thick. She twisted lengths of it, braided others, the same way her sister did when Maqvali was young. Sturdy, simple wooden hairpins kept the elaborate bun in place at the nape of her neck.
A shiver ran through her spine again. She couldn’t seem to stop shaking, though she had been warm for some time now. She felt jittery, a sort of fine shaking in the marrow of her shoulders, her ribs.
No morning tea today then, even though she knew her downstairs neighbour would offer her some on her way out. He always seemed to catch her as she crossed his front door. She didn’t think the extra energy it would give her was a good idea.
She stood suddenly then, biting back a curse as she saw the sky. The faintest breath of starry blue was the last of its kind on the horizon, being chased away by riotous yellows and cheery sky blue.
Late as she was, she took extra care to knot tightly the laces of her tunic, to give an extra tug to her belt, pleating and pinning her short cloak at her shoulders. No need for a scarf today.
The final touches were the silvery steel she wore: steel hoops she threaded through her ears, three to each lobe. She slid on her Palace rings, one to each thumb. She twisted them to show the crests embossed on each ring, proud markers of her credibility and reputation within the Palaces’ market squares. She took a moment to preen over them as she did every morning; so long as she had these rings, she was welcome and honoured among the merchants of Velaris, scavenger or not. She had earned her place here.
She wore no jewels, but the wire-wrapped stone on a long cord necklace might have been an unpolished ruby or a bright garnet from afar. Maqvali carefully tucked it under her tunic, next to her skin, the cord going under her collar. All traces of the necklace vanished.
There was a reason Maqvali kept it next to her skin. It was a precious thing, a stolen thing. She should have been rid of it years ago; buried it among the high cliffs of Velaris or pitched it into the Sidra. But it was her destruction and her salvation. Her inheritance and her weapon.
She hadn’t run the Blood Rite, hadn’t scaled the sacred Mount Ramiel like her brothers. Maybe she’d earned it, maybe not.
It was still hers, utterly hers. Her Siphon, her secret.
It was usually a comforting weight against her breastbone, tapping against her body with the rhythm of her step. It usually calmed her nerves, having it so near her.
The thing that was shaking, trembling in fear was still there, taking refuge in her ribcage, under her collarbones, beneath her scars.
Maqvali drew in a breath through her nose and stuck an extra knife in her boot.
Slinging on her bag, packed the night before, she leaned over her bed and shut the window. Rays of morning sun chased her footsteps out the door.
Despite her late start, she made good time. As one of the city’s smaller merchants, she made her living with herbs, dried and fresh, through all seasons. With spring coming, she was looking forward to sinking her fingers knuckle-deep into the loam, spending nights in the wooded lands surrounding Velaris.
Her trade was with fresh things, and as she made her rounds that morning to her usual patrons, she told them there was a promise of new herbs and greens coming. Springtime in Velaris was kind, had been so for as far back as Maqvali could remember.
One patron, a female called Sureya who ran an apothecary with her family, belly slowly rounding with child, sighed wistfully. “Thank the Mother. I’ve had a damned craving for fiddleheads and violets, and those don’t grow in the greenhouses.”
“I don’t reckon violets are set to bloom now, but soon— maybe a week or so?” Maqvali mused. “Fiddleheads, though… If I find any today, I’ll bring some around before it gets too late.”
Sureya sighed, leaning against her doorframe. “Fiddleheads...fried with garlic and red peppers. You know, my neighbour says if I’m craving spicy food, it’ll be a girl?”
Maqvali hummed politely; she knew the saying. “So I’ve heard.”
“Oh!” The apothecary said. “Didn’t I owe you from last week’s mint delivery?”
Maqvali paused. “It’s not that much of a difference—”
“No, no,” Sureya insisted. “Stay put. One of our customers finally settled his tab yesterday.”
As soon as she disappeared into her storefront, Sureya reappeared. Maqvali tapped the toe of one boot on the cobblestones, feeling a bit awkward. The money owing didn’t really matter; Sureya and her family were good customers, and they often passed her a sweet bun with nuts folded in.
So today, Maqvali accepted the bundle of coins and a bun, thanking Sureya and renewing her promise of fiddleheads, if any were retrieved.
The rest of the morning passed in a similar, familiar fashion. She made deliveries up and down the city quarters to cafés and healers and bakers, gasping at the rare saffron threads one of her patrons showed off proudly. She made her way through the Palace of Hoof and Leaf, taking orders from vendors to find spring greens and flowers and trimmings of new plants. She scribbled them all down, and when the page was full, she departed for the city limits.
Among the tradesfolk who traded with other territories and kingdoms, Maqvali was one of the rarer merchants whose stock came exclusively from within Velaris’s borders. Mornings were for deliveries, and the rest of the day was for scavenging.
Despite the full sun overhead, the woods in the foothills were still cool and dark. Maqvali, though, had spent her entire life hunting for small bounties, bringing home a harvest.
To her pleasure, she did find fiddleheads for Sureya. She scalped moss from a stone and wrapped them up, adding them to the bag strapped to her bag.
The rest of the day passed quietly, full of hard work and dirty hands. By the time Maqvali had rinsed her face and hands in a babbling brook, the sun was low and what shadows collected on the forest floor were long. She began to lope back to the city limits.
Maqvali was one foot inside the city, bootheel just beginning to strike the cobblestones, when a rumble and a blast knocked her to her knees. She fell hard, skimming her palms. She tasted blood.
All throughout Velaris, the city shook, down to the riverbed.
An eerie, terrible quiet fell.
Not from within the city— shouts and cries echoed, the streets now full of people driven from their homes to see what was going on.
But the world from without had gone quiet.
Her ears were still ringing. She couldn’t tell if Velaris was still shaking, or if it was just her. Someone raced past her into the city. Someone grasped her arm and helped her up.
Still, she struggled to catch her breath. Maqvali looked at the hand on her arm. She could find no voice to speak, no breath to give to all her sudden questions. What had just happened?
The guard shook his horned head, letting her arm go. He didn’t know either.
The two of them stood there, with others stumbling up and clinging to each other. Maqvali cast her eyes over the city, now frantic. The streets were ever more crowded, people looking to the evening sky and seeing no answers. To the west, she could see two winged figures soaring towards the red cliffs of the House of Wind.
The sight of the two Illyrians had Maqvali gritting her teeth.
“The Palaces—” she had to swallow past the knot in her throat. “The Palace governors. They’ll know what’s happening.” Maqvali’s voice hadn't wobbled like that in a long time, but as her feet carried her downhill towards the Palace of Hoof and Leaf, she found she didn’t care.
The ring on her right thumb got her past the guards and into the Governor’s council chambers. The room was already crowded with other merchants and vendors. She immediately pushed herself against the doorframe as a female stormed past, a tempest of red and gold exiting the hall.
The High Lord’s Third-In-Command. The Morrigan.
Though it was only a glimpse of the female, the knots in Maqvali’s gut tightened and twisted. It truly was that bad then. Maqvali watched her go, watched the crowd part around her and reform in her wake.
But they didn’t reform quickly enough. Maqvali was tall but narrow enough that she could slip through the crowd in the wake of the Morrigan, now gone.
The Governor, on the other hand, was still staring after the female. His face was a stark contrast to her expression. Where the Morrigan had seemed agonized and angry and wild-eyed, the Governor was a male of a blank and stony countenance.
The council room and the hallway beyond were now hushed, silent. Waiting. Vendors and merchants, high fae and lesser; all were staring.
“...Governor?” came a voice. Maqvali didn’t see who it had come from, but it broke her trance. Now she stood in front of the male, caution written clearly on her face.
“Governor Heilyn?” she tried. “Sir? What’s going on? What’s happening?”