The Half King

5

The next morning, Cerise made it her mission to seek out Daerick Calatris. Her face hadn’t stopped flushing with embarrassment since her disastrous first meeting with the king, and after another long night of restless sleep, she no longer cared whether His Majesty had dismissed his court, or if his meetings had been cancelled, or if he had withdrawn from his responsibilities and absolved Cerise of hers.

She was tired of feeling like a failure.

The title of emissary belonged to her now—for better or for worse—and she would perform her duties with honor. Sightless as she was, she had other skills. She was better read than anyone else at the temple, having spent night after night with her nose buried in books, trying to find a way to bring about her gift. With any luck, Daerick would teach her what her duties entailed.

And she didn’t have to leave her room to find him. He appeared at her suite before she had even finished her breakfast. He knocked twice and announced himself from the corridor.

When she opened the door to let him inside, it took her a moment to recognize him, dressed as he was in the gauzy linen of a laborer instead of silk finery. “Lord Calatris,” she greeted in a tone that was more of a question.

“Good morning, my lady.” Daerick indicated his plain clothes and extended a matching bundle of folded garments to her. “I know what you’re thinking: How is Daerick so devilishly handsome, even in the garb of a peasant? ”

“Yes, you read my thoughts,” she said, playing along with his game. She took the folded clothes and smelled them. She found them clean, which was a relief, as it seemed she was meant to put them on. “Please don’t keep me in suspense, my lord.”

“I have a surprise for you.” He pointed at the clothes he had given her. “But first, you have to change into that cap and dress.”

She arched an eyebrow. Impersonating a stranger didn’t seem like a good sort of surprise.

“The king has invited us to accompany him into the city,” Daerick told her. “I accepted on behalf of both of us, because there’s someplace I want to take you. And in that particular part of the city, it’s best if we don’t draw too much attention to ourselves.”

“So you want us to dress as commoners,” Cerise said. “But won’t we draw attention to ourselves anyway by traveling with the king?”

“Yes and no. He won’t be with us for long.”

“Where is it you want to take me?”

“So many questions!” he complained.

“And so few answers…”

“All right,” he said, “I’d rather tell you when we get there. Strictly speaking, our destination isn’t considered fitting for a lady of the temple. I don’t want to put you in a position of having to lie to anyone like Father Padron, who might intercept you and ask where we’re going today.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.” And though Daerick didn’t know it, he’d already put her in a position of having to lie by telling her she was going somewhere that was not appropriate for a lady of her station. “I was hoping you would show me the former emissary’s office and help me learn her duties. Did you find her journal?”

“Not yet, but I will. I promise.” Daerick leaned down and peered intently at her. “The emissary’s office isn’t going anywhere. But for the errand I have in mind, we have only today. Do this one favor for me, and then I’ll teach you anything you want.”

“Do you promise it’s safe?”

“I give you my word.”

“All right, then. We have a deal.”

She ushered Daerick out of her suite so she could change from her temple gown into the plainsmen clothes he had brought her. The outfit was a simple one that included a beige linen dress with long, loose sleeves to protect her arms from the sun and a long hemline to cover her legs to the ankles. She tucked her hair into a matching beige cap, slipped her feet into the plain leather sandals she had worn during summers at the temple, and then met Daerick in the corridor.

To her relief, she didn’t have to lie to Father Padron because she passed neither him nor anyone else she knew on the way out of the palace. Daerick guided her outside, beyond the spot where she had seen the desert panther the day before, and then the two of them continued along the grass-carpeted path leading to the front gate. A small group of people had formed in the shade of the fruit trees lining the path. As Cerise approached the group, she identified several royal guards, and with them, the king and his courtesan, Lady Delora Champlain.

The king sat on a stone bench beneath a citrus tree, one arm curled around Lady Champlain’s waist and the other tipping a leather flask to his mouth. He seemed to be wearing the same clothes that he had abandoned the previous night in the garden: badly wrinkled canvas pants and a black silk shirt rolled at the sleeves.

For a brief moment, Cerise wondered if his body had reappeared in the garden at sunrise, but then she remembered that he materialized where his spirit was drawn, which was to Lady Champlain’s bedchamber. Perhaps Delora had collected the king’s clothes and brought them to her rooms. Regardless, His Majesty hadn’t bothered to dress properly for the day. And judging by the looseness of his limbs and the sloppy grin he delivered when their eyes met, he was drunk.

At breakfast time.

Half a king, indeed .

“My lady of the temple,” he slurred while feigning a seated bow. Liquid dribbled from his flagon down the front of his shirt. “You’re looking quite…” He squinted at her clothing. “ Peasantly this morning.”

“‘Peasantly’?” Daerick repeated with a snigger. He brushed a bit of lint from the sleeve of his own tunic. “Did the Royal Academy of Linguists add that delightful nugget to the lexicon when I wasn’t looking?”

“Oh, shut up,” the king spat. “I can invent whatever words I want.”

Cerise dipped her head in a show of respect that she didn’t feel. “And you’re looking rather… relaxed , Your Majesty.”

Kian chortled from low in his belly, but it was a disingenuous sound, no more pleasing to her ears than the cold laughter he had used as a weapon against her the day before. As she approached him, she smelled the tang of hard cider, and she turned her eyes to Daerick in a silent question. Was the king always like this? Intoxicated and childish? As rude and spoiled as an entitled schoolboy?

“His Majesty has honored us with an invitation to the city,” Daerick said with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “He even cancelled all of his royal engagements to do so. Isn’t that generous of him?”

“Long live the king,” Kian muttered. He fished a pillbox from his trouser pocket and tossed a handful of stomach soothers into his mouth, then threw back his head, draining the last few drops from his flask. He frowned at the empty container. “I want something stronger than cider, and I know just the place to find it.” The king stood and stumbled before offering his arm to Delora. “My lady. Shall we earn our wicked reputations?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Delora said. She smoothed a hand over her silk-draped curves, drawing attention to the swells of her breasts. “They say the lower a lady’s neckline, the worse she can behave.”

Kian chuckled. “Then you’ll get away with murder, my dear.”

While Cerise resisted the urge to roll her eyes to the heavens, she caught something in Lady Champlain’s smile—a hint of wariness that made her look twice. No one else in the group had seemed to notice; certainly not the king. If he had paid attention to more than Delora’s breasts, he might have noted that her grin didn’t extend beyond her mouth. He might have detected the stiffness in her shoulders and the way she held too tightly to his arm.

The king’s courtesan seemed afraid. But of what? Or of whom?

Perhaps she’d read too much into Delora’s mannerisms. She fell into step behind the pair, watching their body language as the group strolled beyond the armored gatehouse doors and toward the city entrance, which was equally guarded by dozens of uniformed soldiers.

Cerise waved Daerick over and asked him in a low voice, “Are you ready to tell me where we’re going?”

“Not yet,” he whispered. “There are too many ears around us. But we’ll be alone soon. There’s a gambling hall no more than three paces inside the city gate. The king won’t be able to pass it up.”

She cast him a doubtful glance.

“Believe me,” Daerick said. “Kian and I have been friends for a long time. If there’s one thing I know, it’s his vices.”

“Friends?” she asked. “He doesn’t treat you like one.”

“He’s not himself today.”

“Was he himself yesterday?” she challenged. “Because I met him in the garden, and he introduced himself with a blade.” At Daerick’s wide-eyed response, she told him about the tiny frog and how the king had taunted her after killing it. “He hates me. He couldn’t have made it any plainer.”

She expected Daerick to deny her claim or at least to make an excuse for the king’s behavior, but he didn’t. She almost wished that he had.

“My lady of the temple,” the king called over one shoulder while stumbling ahead on the grassy path. “You’re a second-born Solon. Who bears your family curse?”

“My sister, Nina,” she told him. “She’s married and has an estate in Calatris.”

“Are you close in age?” Delora asked.

“Oh, no, she’s much older than me,” Cerise said. “I think she was meant to be an only child, and I was a surprise.”

“Is your sister beautiful?” the king asked.

Cerise touched the pendant beneath her dress and caught herself smiling. “No, Your Highness. She is not.”

The king stopped short and swung his dark gaze to her, setting his ebony waves in motion. Delora peered around his shoulder, equally intrigued.

“A sunrise is beautiful,” Cerise explained. “A flower is beautiful. A sky full of stars is beautiful. My sister is something else entirely. She casts a shadow over beauty. I forget my own name when I see her face. All I want to do is keep looking at her. I would stare at her all day if she would let me.”

For some reason, the king didn’t seem to like her answer. He stood there furrowing his brow until Delora grinned and said, “We have a firstborn Solon at the palace. His name is Cole. Half of the old court was in love with him.”

The king snorted a dry laugh and continued walking a crooked path. “Maybe my father was one of them. That would explain why he never killed the slippery bastard.” He glanced at Cerise. “My mother and Cole Solon were lovers.”

Cerise felt her eyes go wide.

“It was no secret,” Kian said, facing away from her again. “Well, no secret to anyone but you …the blessed oracle.”

Cerise probably should’ve stayed quiet, but instead, she blurted, “Blessed as I am, even I have my limitations, Your Majesty.”

“True,” he agreed. “So tell me, my lady of the temple—if you hold a hand in front of your face, will you be able to See it? Or is that another one of your limitations?”

She glared at the back of his head. She had a hand gesture in mind, but she chose to behave like a lady instead of showing it to him.

They continued in silence until they reached the armored gate that separated the palace grounds from the city marketplace.

“Here we are.” The king spread his arms wide. “My glorious city, filled with subjects who adore me as much as you do, Lord Calatris.”

Daerick laughed. “Then it’s a good thing your men are armed.”

“And that my subjects aren’t,” the king added.

Cerise glanced at the guard in front of her and the broadsword holstered to his hip. The law forbade common folk from owning any weapon deadlier than a dagger, but even the smallest of blades could make a man bleed. Surely the king wouldn’t visit the city if it was unsafe for him.

Or would he? Was he that reckless?

That would explain his courtesan’s fear. Though looking at Delora now—concealing a yawn behind her delicate hand—she seemed more bored than afraid.

The heavy gate began to lift. Each slow inch admitted a new chorus of sounds: first the steady hammering of mallets, and then raised voices followed by hooves clopping against stone. When the gate reached Cerise’s knees, she detected the scents of grilled meat, rotting garbage, and unwashed bodies. Despite the unpleasantness of it all, a grin found its way to her lips. The odor was a familiar one that had reached her Solon temple grounds when the wind had blown from the west. Her visits to the city market had been a rare treat. She was eager to see what this one had to offer.

A tingle of excitement stirred inside her. Before the gate had fully risen, she crouched slightly to peer beneath it. The city was an exotic delight, like something out of a storybook. A wide, stone-paved street stretched out before her, lined with clay stucco buildings of varying height and width. Each structure was connected to the next by a second-story wooden walkway that allowed foot traffic from above as well as below. Plain folk bustled to and fro, outfitted in thin linen and simple sandals, or else in bare feet and exposed chests. Men and women alike wore their hair tucked into a cap or cropped close with just enough growth to protect their scalps from the sun. She noticed only two women with braids coiling in spirals around their heads. Both of them wore an extra layer of linen in a colorful sash over their dresses. Clearly, that was the mark of wealth here, proof that one could remain indoors and cool for the bulk of the day.

From the porch rafters of a meat shop hung several beheaded chickens with bat-like hides instead of feathers. Other creatures had similar traits to thrive in the Mortara heat, like the furless dogs sniffing for scraps along the gutters, and above them, the naked squirrels dancing along a roof’s ledge. The animals looked odd compared to those Cerise had known, but they were cute in their own way.

A bead of sweat trickled down the back of her neck. She wiped away the perspiration and stood to find Daerick and Kian watching her, one with amusement and the other with disdain. She glanced away from the king. She didn’t know what she had done to earn his low opinion of her. It was true that she had no Sight, but she wasn’t the one drunk before midday.

As Daerick predicted, the king soon led Delora into the nearest gambling hall. Half of his soldiers followed him inside while the other half stood sentry by the doorway.

“Is he safe here?” she asked Daerick. “You made it sound like he’s not well loved by the people.”

“He has his critics, like all kings do,” Daerick said. “But they’re outnumbered by his supporters, at least for now. He’ll be all right.”

“Now can you tell me where we’re going?”

Nodding, Daerick led her forward until they reached the first intersection, where they scaled a set of stairs and resumed their walk on the second-story pathway. There was less bustle above the street—and more privacy. “There’s an old man staying in the city,” Daerick murmured as they strode briskly across the wooden planks. “He’s a traveler. He only passes through here once or twice a year. That’s why we couldn’t wait.”

“What’s so special about this man?”

“Are you sure you want to know? You might not like the answer.”

“Tell me.”

“He’s a soothsayer.”

She cut her eyes at him. “There’s no such thing as soothsayers. Oracles have the Sight, and priests have magic. Anyone else is fooling you with tricks or illusions. You of all people should know that.”

“All right,” Daerick said. “Then let’s call him an acutely perceptive individual with a talent for discerning truth from fiction.”

“Perceptive how?” she asked. “What truth do you expect him to tell you?”

Before Daerick could answer her, a Seer rounded the corner ahead of them, followed by a pair of oracles in training, all three of them gliding toward Cerise with an elegance she had never quite mastered. One of the novices carried a tray laden with coins and trinkets—offerings that had been made in exchange for healing or divination. The other had a small animal on her shoulder, a scaly primate with a long tail that curled at the tip. As the Seer glided closer to Cerise and Daerick, the woman slowed her steps, eventually stopping to regard Cerise in confusion.

The Seer moved her sharpened gaze over Cerise’s face until the woman frowned and tilted her head to the side. “Your future path…”

“Yes, my lady?” Cerise asked.

“Why can I not See it?” the woman demanded. She flicked a hand at Daerick. “His fate is clear enough. Tragic but clear.” She peered harder. “But yours? Nothing.”

Cerise traded a glance with Daerick, who had paled a shade. She took his hand and squeezed it. “The goddess works in mysterious ways. Our paths can change according to her will. Don’t you agree?”

Nobody answered.

The scaled monkey gave a light squeak and climbed down the length of his owner’s arm. He blinked owlishly at Cerise, and then, with no warning whatsoever, he leaped into her arms. Though startled, she caught him. He gripped the front of her dress and wasted no time in rubbing his cheek against hers. The dry tickle of his skin made her smile.

“He must be friendly,” she said while stroking his warm back.

The novice stared open-mouthed at her. “I didn’t See this,” the girl said, whirling to face her superior. “My mind’s eye showed me our walk to the temple. Imp hissed at everyone we passed.”

“You see?” Cerise said. She gently gathered Imp and handed him back to his owner, who had to tempt him with a fig to make him stay in her arms. “Paths can change.”

“You have a way with animals,” Daerick told her a while later, when they had descended the stairs to the street level and then turned left at an intersection where the buildings were thin and grouped closer together.

Cerise caught herself rubbing the fang-shaped scars on her forearm. “Mammals seem to like me. Reptiles, not so much.”

“What’s your secret?” he asked.

“I adore animals,” she said simply. “I always have.” For all its glory, the temple could be a lonely place for a child. “If I wanted affection, I knew better than to go to a Seer. I visited the rabbit hutch or the kennels. The kits and pups were always happy to see me. They gave me love. I needed that, and I think they could sense it.”

“Animal instincts don’t lie,” Daerick said. “It’s one of the advantages they have over mankind.”

“ One of the advantages?” she asked as she peeked farther down the street. The upper level was mostly residential. Everything of interest took place below. She saw a vendor selling palm-sized winged creatures that she desperately wanted to hold. “What are the others?”

“Freedom from the micromanaging of polite society.” He hesitated before adding, “And from the Order.”

Cerise stopped in her tracks, taken aback by his words. “The Sacred Order is a gift from the goddess. She gives us priests for enrichment and protection, and oracles to heal us and guide our paths. The Order doesn’t take. It gives.”

“Says the girl taken at birth from her family.”

“It was my honor to serve in the temple.”

“But you didn’t volunteer for that service.” Daerick glanced left and right, then lowered his voice. “It was forced on you—on all second-borns. No one should have the right to take away your freedom.”

“But Shiera decreed it as part of the atonement for the Great Betrayal.”

“Did she?” Daerick asked. “How do we know? We didn’t hear her decrees. We have only the words of priests to tell us what Shiera wants.”

“And scrolls,” she said. She had read every word and every line.

“And scrolls,” he conceded. “But that leads me to a deeper question: Why are the priests in control of an Order dedicated to worshipping a goddess? Shiera is a woman, so why aren’t the Seers in higher positions of power?”

“For equity,” Cerise said easily. She had gone looking for the same answer when she was a child. “Shiera is darkness and light, wrath and mercy. She creates balance in all things, so for her to give more power to her own sex would create instability.”

“But I don’t see balance,” Daerick argued. “It’s the priests who decide what constitutes a sin. It’s the priests who determine the punishment for that sin, and it’s the priests who carry out the sentence. Seers have no real say within the Order. Even your Reverend Mother would have to bend the knee to Father Padron if he required it.”

Cerise tried to come up with a counterargument, but she couldn’t. Memorizing the scrolls hadn’t prepared her to debate a firstborn Calatris. Discussing theology with Daerick was akin to arguing with a library that had come to life.

Daerick pointed above the rooftops to the nearby temple. Alongside the temple spire stood a statue of Shiera, her marble arms and shoulders thick with muscle, a spear in her mighty hand. “Look at her,” Daerick said. “What makes you think that a goddess as fierce and as powerful as Shiera—a woman strong enough to craft this world and perhaps others, to give life and to take it away—would allow her sex to be dominated by men?”

Cerise could only repeat what the Order had told her since birth. “It is not our place to question the will of Shiera.”

“Says who?”

“The…priests.”

“Well, how convenient for the priests,” Daerick said. “To do whatever they please in the name of the goddess and then forbid anyone from questioning them. That kind of unrestricted control would almost make them gods themselves, wouldn’t you say?”

A flicker of anger rose in her chest. “That’s sacrilege.”

“Says who?”

“The scrolls.”

“They were written by mortals.”

“Mortals inspired by the goddess.”

“Says who?” Daerick repeated. “What proof did the Order give you?”

“I don’t need proof,” she told him. “I have faith.”

Daerick smiled sadly at her. “And that’s why the Order will win.”

“Win?” she asked. “Win against what? You make it sound like we’re at war.”

“Let me show you something,” he said, and they began walking again.

They strode across two more streets, passed the city temple, and continued to an open-air vegetable market where the homes and shops were smaller and beginning to crumble at the edges. The farther they ventured from the palace, the fewer merchants peddled exotic wares. Soon the vendors disappeared altogether. There were no braids or colorful sashes in this part of town. Most of the children were barely wearing clothes.

They stopped at the fringes of a packed-dirt courtyard, where two priests were administering to a group of plain folk. Magical advancements were reserved for royalty and the Order, but priests helped the plain folk in other ways, using their gifts to mend plows, enrich the soil, and cast enchantments of honesty to settle disputes.

Daerick took her by the hand and guided her to a shaded alleyway situated behind the priests. He stopped and indicated for her to listen.

At first, she heard nothing beyond the ordinary. One man wanted his mule made fertile. Another man begged to have his broken loom restored. Both requests were granted. Then a trio of men approached the priests and bowed their heads.

“May Shiera’s light shine upon you,” one priest said.

“And may her wrathful eye look away,” came the joint reply. The group spokesman stood tall and stated his request. “Please, fathers, we beg you. Use your magic to bring back the rains. Our honey fruit orchard is dying. You gave us rain for many years, and now—”

“You know I cannot,” the priest interrupted. “The king has forbidden it.”

Angry murmurs broke out among the crowd.

“But why?” demanded the man. “All of the magic in the realm is at his disposal.”

“It is not our place to question His Majesty,” the priest said. “Only to carry out his will.”

This response drew an even more turbulent reaction from the plain folk, who shouted It’s not right! and Down with the Half King! Just when Cerise began to worry that the crowd might lash out at the priests, she tasted the coppery tang of magic and felt a sense of calm wash over her. The first priest shouted, “Return to your homes,” and then he staggered weakly against his partner, exhausted from using his energy to calm the crowd.

Within moments, all of the plain folk dispersed.

The enchantment drained away as soon as the priests left. Cerise looked to Daerick for an explanation. “Why would the king inflict a drought upon his own people?” she asked. “There are already so many blighted crops here.”

Daerick responded with a question of his own. “Have you ever tried one of Mortara’s native fruits, like sand melon?”

She shook her head.

“Sand melon tastes exactly like it sounds. Everyone raises honey fruit instead, which doesn’t grow here naturally. The royal family imported the saplings hundreds of years ago when they started using priests to multiply the rainfall.”

“So?” she asked.

“So now farmers are dependent on weather patterns that shouldn’t exist. No one wants to raise native crops anymore. They want to grow imports that need steady rain to thrive.”

Cerise turned up both palms.

“Who do the priests serve?” Daerick asked.

“House Mortara.”

“And when the Mortara line ceases to exist?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“No one knows,” Daerick said. “Not even me, and that’s saying a lot. We don’t even know why the priests are bound in servitude to the Mortara dynasty in the first place. But I can tell you one thing: the priests aren’t going to stay in this dusty hellhole if they’re free to go wherever they want. If Kian vanishes without an heir, it’s possible that no one will be able to command the priests. And if that’s the case, it’s only a matter of time until they leave Mortara.”

Now Cerise began to understand about the rain.

Daerick touched her wrist. “A good king protects his people. And if he knows his time is coming to an end, he makes sure they can survive without him. The priests know that, but they didn’t explain it to the farmers. Doesn’t that make you wonder who they really serve? They rely on faith, but it’s not faith to ignore common sense. It’s foolishness.”

Cerise considered Daerick’s words. She didn’t want to believe that the priests had intentionally misled anyone, though it did seem odd that they hadn’t explained their reasoning to the crowd. But more than that, she couldn’t reconcile Kian, the stumbling drunkard, with the selfless ruler Daerick had described. “Does a good king skip his council meetings to drink ale and gamble on fighting birds?”

“He might, if he was a firstborn with only six moons to live.”

She drew a breath to argue, but Daerick beat her to it.

“You’re not a firstborn,” he said. “You don’t know what it’s like to count down the days until you disappear, either inside the void of your own mind or into the shadows.”

Cerise glanced at her toes. He was right. She didn’t know that pain.

“Try to picture it,” he said. “Imagine how you would prepare for your curse, how you would harden yourself to face your inevitable suffering. Now imagine that after years of detaching yourself from everyone and everything that brings you joy, you finally grow a thick enough callus over your heart that you no longer fear the end. You’re prepared for it. You’ve made peace with your fate…until one day, news arrives that a mighty oracle is coming to save you.”

Her guilt multiplied.

“Your first reaction wouldn’t be excitement,” Daerick said. “It would be fear. Because the callus on your heart took years to build, and you’re terrified of reopening that wound. But you can’t help it. Despite your better judgment, you allow yourself to hope.”

“And then the mighty oracle turns out to be ordinary,” Cerise said. She remembered the way Kian had looked at her in the garden, as if she had failed him. He wasn’t punishing her for her lack of Sight. He was punishing the both of them because he had allowed himself to hope, and in return, he had doubled his pain. “He’s given up on life.”

“Don’t take it personally,” Daerick told her. “I imagine it’s hard to have faith when nobles are already killing each other to eliminate competition for the throne.”

“That’s happening?”

“Two dead in Calatris already. There will be more. That’s just the way the wind blows.” Daerick lifted a shoulder. “So you can probably understand why hope is a cruel mistress for the king. Almost as brutal as the shadows.”

Two dead in Calatris . That must have been the incident General Petros had referred to the day before, when he had confronted Father Padron on the palace lawn. But before Cerise could give it any more thought, her attention was drawn by something else Daerick had said.

“Brutal as the shadows?” she repeated. “Father Padron told me the king has no memory of his nighttime hours.”

“That’s what Kian told me, too,” Daerick said. “But I wonder…what healthy twenty-year-old carries a tin of stomach soothers in his pocket?” He arched a brow. “All firstborn nobles feel anxiety. They all have ways to dull it, but few have to medicate themselves.”

“What do you think happens to the king at night?”

“I have no idea. But I recognize torment when I see it.”

Cerise didn’t want to hear any of this. She didn’t want to believe that Kian was suffering when the shadows claimed him after sunset, because that would mean an eternity of torment for him when he vanished completely. According to lore, Mortara firstborns didn’t truly die. They remained in darkness forever.

“Why did you bring me here?” she asked. “What was the point of telling me all of this? What is it you expect me to do, apart from feel horrible?”

“Remember the perceptive old man I mentioned?” Daerick said. “The man who’s definitely not a soothsayer because you don’t believe that soothsayers exist?”

“Yes. And I asked you what truth he perceives.”

“He perceives the dark and forbidden. Specifically blood curses—and how to break them. Now can you see why I would like to meet him?”

Cerise grimaced. She had heard stories of dark priests, fallen members of the Order who had deserted their temples and now slunk throughout the lands, hiding in caves and casting enchantments for coin. Was this the sort of man Daerick wanted her to meet? If so, he didn’t understand what he was asking of her. To encounter a rogue priest—and then fail to report him—would make her complicit in his crime of sorcery. Even if she kept the truth to herself, someone in the Order might eventually suspect her, and then Father Padron could compel a confession out of her as easily as blinking.

But when she opened her mouth, the eager look on Daerick’s face stole her words. He had hope. He had put his faith in her, even though she didn’t deserve it. She couldn’t stand by and wait for his Claiming Day to ruin him. Nor could she watch the king disappear into the shadows without lifting a finger to try to help him. If there was the slightest chance that Daerick’s “perceptive” acquaintance could lead them to breaking the noble curses, she had to take it.