Page 6 of Malice

Before venturing off into the Grace District, I steal around the back of the house and fetch Callow, knowing she will be grateful for the fresh air. Mistress Lavender doesn’t approve of my taking my bird with me when I travel the district, but I don’t care. Callow’s talons are a familiar, comforting pressure against my shoulder, and she helps keep people at bay.

As we weave through the district, the homes of the upper nobility and the other Grace houses soar overhead, all columns and ironwork and huge windows that dazzle in the bright, sea-salted sunlight. The streets are lined with poplars and hydrangeas and azalea bushes that give off a rich, sticky-sweet scent. With such lush surroundings, it’s hard to believe the level of poverty that exists beyond the thick stone walls to the east in the Common District, a labyrinth of drab buildings that houses those who can’t afford the ornate residencesof the Grace District. Merchants, servants, and even disgraced nobility are all relegated to the Common District, unable to cross into the glittering world of the wealthy unless on official errands. In fact, the only shops permitted in the Grace District are those belonging to upscale clothiers like Madame LaRoche, merchants of fine goods, and apothecaries like Hilde.

I don’t bother to try to hail a carriage. They wouldn’t take me with Callow on my shoulder, and this close to the princess’s birthday celebration, they’re all overburdened anyway, teeming with passengers worrying over errand lists twice as long as mine. Besides, I find the drivers unfathomably annoying. Either they refuse to stop for me, or they spend the entire drive quaking in fear that I’ll use my Vila blood against them. The last trip I took almost landed me in a ditch after I popped my head through the front window to amend my destination and nearly frightened the driver to death.

Liveried servants scuttle around the horses’ clopping hooves, earning colorful oaths from the coachmen. In all the tumult, everyone is too busy even to notice me, only wincing when they draw too near and Callow snaps at them. I encourage her to bite their noses off.

The crowd carries me closer to the royal residence than I’d like. The palace, a behemoth of turrets and spires and battlements, looms over the Grace District. It’s carved out of the very rose-stained stone of the Etherian mountain range, which rises at its back. I’ve heard the entrance to the Etherium mines is below the palace itself. Crates of the powdered mineral trundle away toward the Common District and the harbor to be sold overseas, or to be bottled and stocked at the apothecaries here in the Grace District.

Near the palace’s elaborate gates of solid white gold stands the towering bronze statue of Leythana, Briar’s first queen. The sun gleams against her broad shoulders. The Briar crown—a wreath of brambles and roses and thorns—sparkles on her head. Droplets of gold track down her forehead like melting wax, a symbol of the Etherian blood that blessed her rule.

Leythana’s is a story I know well. During the time before Briar, when the mortals would send their futile campaigns across the Carthegean Sea, a Vila snuck into the court of the High King of the Fae and stole his staff.

High King Oryn was furious. The staff was the instrument of his power, and all of the Fae courts trembled to think what a Vila would do with that prize. But not even the fiercest Fae warriors dared to go into Malterre and retrieve the staff for their king. The Vila’s land—saturated as it was with dark magic—would poison any Etherian who set foot in their domain. And so Oryn set a challenge.

The mortal who managed to retrieve his staff would win the right to rule the empty borderland. It was an arrangement that suited the High King well, as the victorious mortal would serve as warden to the Fae border, thus putting an end to the constant onslaught of foreign armies trying to breach the mountains.

It seemed a simple challenge to the knights and princes and even kings who were valiant enough to make the quest. But those men focused on threats and brute force to recover the staff, killing the Vila and laying siege to Malterre. Every one met his death in battle.

Until Leythana.

Using her own mind as a blade, Leythana negotiated her way into Malterre under the flag of diplomacy. This was a woman who was rumored to mount the heads of her enemies on the masts of her ships, but not a single drop of blood—mortal or Vila—was spilled in her endeavor. She convinced the Vila to return the staff to the High King. Established her own truce with the dark creatures, promising that Malterre would remain unmolested while she ruled Briar. Once Leythana returned to Etheria with the Fae staff, Oryn was so grateful that he fashioned a wreath of bramble and thorn, gilded it, then blessed it with his very blood. It was a blessing that symbolized the Fae alliance, promised Fae protection, and ensured that only the new queen’s heirs could rule Briar from that day on. The crown itself would kill any usurper.

As a child, when I was subjected to every manner of experiment to determine how a half-Vila infant had appeared in Briar, I dreamed of what it took for Leythana to earn that crown. Our first queen was a warrior. Legend says she sailed into the realm she was destined to rule on ships constructed of dragon carcasses, their great wings fashioned into sails and their enormous jaws roaring at the bows.

I’d read and reread Leythana’s story until it was written on my heart. Repeated it to myself when the healing Graces came, their brutal, cold hands holding me down while they drew vial after vial of my blood. Pictured myself wearing that Fae-blessed crown as they dunked my head under vats of Etherium-seasoned water until it filled my lungs. Pretended that as they poured countless sticky-sour tinctures and serums down my throat I needed only to endure. One day it would be worth it. One day I would be like that first queen—untouchable.

Someone hurtles past me so fast he drops his bundles, jarring me out of the cesspool of my memory. Callow screams and he fires off complaints and curses at me, then I see myself mirrored in his gaze and he begins spluttering terrified apologies instead.

And once again I’m reminded that my imaginings were nothing but childhood fancy.

I’ll never be a heroine like Leythana. In Briar, I’ll only ever be a villain.

—

Hilde is the one woman in Briar who doesn’t treat me like I’m a pile of horse droppings on the street. Perhaps that’s because she sees her fair share of oddities in her line of work. Or because she’s like me, in a way. Both of us pinned by circumstance in a place we don’t belong. I visit her personally for my own enhancements instead of enlisting a servant to fetch them like the other Graces do.

She waves from behind her counter as I enter, the little bell on the door jangling merrily. A few of her other customers glance up. I let my hood fall around my shoulders and scowl at them. The shop is empty in seconds.

“Always one to make an entrance.” Hilde shakes her head. Sweat glistens on her tawny brow, and she wipes it away with a long, lean-muscled forearm. In a realm where nearly everyone sports Grace-gifted features, Hilde is refreshingly plain. Her black hair, sprinkled with gray, is swept into a messy bun beneath her cap, and fine scars—the marks of her trade—etch themselves across the backs of her hands and along her fingers.

“Sorry.” I settle Callow on the counter and unfasten my cloak. The scent of enhancements is so thick I can taste the earthy sage and the tang of citrus, laced with the undercurrent of coppery blood. “I didn’t mean—”

“They’ll be back.” Hilde shoos away my apology. She fishes a few dead beetles from a jar for Callow, who gobbles them up as if she hadn’t already eaten her weight in venison trimmings this morning. “I’ll not be lacking for the coin, I can tell you that much. Not with everyone losing their minds over that ball. Now what can I get for you today, Alyce?”

I hand over the list. Hilde doesn’t flinch as her fingers brush mine.

“This isn’t your usual sort.”

“It’s not for me.” I don’t even try to keep the salt out of my tone. “Rose sent me.”

Hilde snorts. “I see. High and mighty Grace too busy to come here herself?”

“But never too busy for Madame LaRoche.”

“What a surprise.” Setting the parchment on her counter, Hilde begins filling the order. I let my attention drift. Dried plants hang in bundles from the eaves—sachets of periwinkle and yellowed bouquets of calla lilies and leathered strips of birch bark. Vials of every shape, size, and color crowd the shelves. Stuffed wildlife with glass eyes snarl down at me from high corners. Hilde’s pets, she calls them.

“I don’t see why you let them order you about.” The apothecary’s voice is muffled as she roots around in the back stores. “They aren’t any different than you are.”