The Conquering, page 38:

  It took us nearly a year to accomplish it.

  With the help of his five closest friends, we were able to slay one. My uncle. He’d tried numerous times to beat the change out of me and now he died wide-eyed and staring at me. I bared my defective human teeth at him and watched every second of life drain from his golden eyes.

  Varuht forged the sword that night. It took him until dawn.

  The thing that resulted was pale white and more brittle than glass. One false step, one rough nudge and the whole thing would shatter—we’d learned that from the first attempt with the left femur. This one was our last chance.

  Even during my palace days, I’ve never been to the city’s market square. I’ve seen it only at its quietest from our carriage window while traveling to and from High Court.

  Today, the market bustles with life.

  Nobles ride horses of a size and caliber that match their wealth. Lower nobility ride stock-grade geldings and the women wear simple, albeit colorful dresses. The upper nobility break out the same caliber of fine dresses and jewelry that they did for the ball and ride tall, sleek, well-bred mounts.

  I ride Sebastian and, with his beautiful black coat and warhorse frame, I draw more than a few glances. This must be why Clara kept him all these years. Though I’m completely covered from chin to foot and even hold a parasol to further conceal me from the sky, most passersby clearly recognize me—or the gold at my temple. While scurrying peasants cast me little more than surprised glances, the nobles stare openly.

  I beat my handheld fan to blow rapidly warming late-spring air into my face and do my best to ignore those stares. I wish I scurried down below with the peasants, unnoticed and beneath everyone’s gaze rather than the subject of it. Up here I feel like an imposter, like any minute I’ll fail to hold my impassive expression and they’ll catch me for a fraud.

  I steel myself. I’m here for a purpose and that purpose is the Prince and the Prince alone. Skies, please no wyverns today.

  “Over there is a smoking lounge I hear the Prince frequents.” The Foundress Privett rides beside Liliana on a tall red-roan warhorse and nods at a dark-windowed establishment with a polished door and glistening brass knob.

  A nobleman rides up to the lounge and steps right off his horse’s back onto the elevated platform at its entrance. He disappears inside the darkly lit interior, his boots never needing to touch the dusty cobblestones below.

  Lilianna nods, following the Foundress’s every point with rapt attention. She rides one of the foundress’s large, gentle geldings and it’s a welcome blessing. The only other horses we own are reliable but unfashionable carriage-stock.

  Nearly all the businesses have similar elevated platforms at their storefronts for riders to dismount onto. Small steps off to the side mark access for the peasant class to use when running errands or relaying letters. So many shops decorate the square: tailors, grocers, weaponsmiths, bookstores… All with fascinating trinkets and dresses and weapons on display in the windows.

  “Don’t gawk,” Clara hisses from atop another of the Foundress’s pretty mounts as we follow along behind. “Composure—the first of our mantra, don’t forget.”

  “Yes, stepmother.” I rub the loops that secured my sleeves to my middle fingers to ensure they don’t ride up. Supposedly, wyverns can spot a glint of gold from over five-fold the distance of a human eye.

  “Ah, and that apothecary over there sells some of the finest teas I’ve ever had.” The Foundress sighs wistfully and casts a glance at me over her shoulder. “It’s his wife’s work, really. He sells the teas for her on the side, and they’re simply to die for.”

  I raise my brows. I’ve never heard of a noblewoman creating things to sell, nor of a husband enabling her to do so.

  The Foundress leads us into the thick of the market square. Dozens and dozens of mobile cart-shops dot the square. Many have canvas sides rolled up or wooden shutters open to display their wares. More still are simply open wagons piled with goods. They range in size from small enough for a single man to move… to so large they need at least two horses to pull.

  Everywhere there’s noise and commotion. Servants dart on foot between nobles’ horses, haggling and making purchases for their masters. Shop owners wave colorful fruits and fabrics as they call out to passersby. Noblewomen chatter and wave jewel-encrusted fans.

  It’s not at all like the forest, where the quiet comes alive in small ways I have to catch before they disappear. This feels like getting caught in a rainstorm; no matter where I turn, there are always more sights and sounds to drown me. And all the while, the nobility watch and judge my every move, while the threat of the open daylight sky winds my muscles tighter and tighter.

  “Come, Clara, I must show you this hatmaker. His work is simply to die for,” the Foundress says, reining her roan mare to the side and waving Clara to join her. “You girls go have fun.”

  Clara urges her horse forward with a sharp kick of her heel that causes her bay mare to snort and head-toss as they move beside the Foundress. Clara casts a narrow-eyed glance at me. “What of the girls? I hardly think it appropriate for them to be left without escort.”

  “Nonsense!” The Foundress waves a hand and plucks a plumed purple hat from the stall. “What trouble can they get into? Besides, ladies are far easier for young men to approach when they haven’t old diddies hanging on them. Come, we shall shop.”

  Clara’s scowl remains, but she doesn’t further object.

  My pulse skitters in excitement as I draw Sebastian alongside Lilianna’s gelding and turn us both into the thick of the market.

  “That woman is something else,” Lilianna mutters under her breath.

  “I like her,” I say. Actually, I think I adore the Foundress at this point.

  Lilianna pauses by a stall selling jewelry and touches a necklace of pearls hanging on an elevated rack. I almost join her, but the shopkeeper unleashes a barrage of compliments that draw a genuine smile from Lilianna.

  I lay my leg against Sebastian’s side and turn him away. No need to interrupt that. All Lilianna needs is for shiny, golden me to steal the show from her yet again. Lilianna can use all the flattery she can get, especially without Clara present to shut it down.

  The opposite stall is a vegetable vendor marked with the Venon crest—hardly a subject of interest for me, but I pretend to scan the wares, anyway.

  A figure lifts a sack of potatoes from behind the stall and promptly drops them. “Aubrey?”

  Farnell stands behind the stand, beaming his missing tooth at me.

  “Farnell,” I gasp and sidestep Sebastian so that his body blocks sight of Farnell from Clara and the Foundress further up the row. “I’m so happy to see you! What are you doing here? Since when do you travel to market?”

  “Piss and stones, I’d hoped you’d be here—that’s why I’m here! You wouldn’t believe the shit job I had to trade to get this, too,” he says, smirking with that inviolable energy I love so much about him. “Even the servants are gossiping about you. Guess you made a show at the ball? Word got around quick that you’d moved into town. Figured here’d be the only chance I’d get at seeing you.”

  “Oh, Farnell, I have so much to tell you,” I begin, thinking of High Court and the scene I’d sworn to remember to describe to him vividly. All that blood. The old Lord Venon’s death.

  “For us too. There was an attack, by—” He glances around, then snatches up a small basket of berries and steps onto a stool to offer them to me. “Here, at least act like you’re shopping our wares.”

  I nod and lean to peer at the bright red and blue berries.

  “The rebels attacked the Venons’ estate the night of the ball. They broke into a factory, burned the whole thing to the ground. It was chaos. Maurus’s been raging about it ever since.”

  “What?” I gasp.

  Farnell hisses in a breath, glances around again, and gives me a chastising look.

  I wipe the emotions from my face and bring one berry to my nose to smell. “Farnell, we too were attacked by rebels, just last night.” A chill rolls up the back of my neck at the memory of the rebel leader with his ever-mocking eyes. The way his fingers brushed my skin as he’d touched my necklace.

  Farnell’s brows knit. “What happened? Are you alright?”

  “Yes, well, my hand,”—I flash my bandage-wrapped palm, though Farnell knows enough about my ability to it’s healed underneath—“but that was really more of an accident. They didn’t steal anything, they just…” I trailed off, trying to make sense of the things Abel had said. About my father. About the necklace.

  “Pisser,” Farnell hisses with surprising venom. “I can’t believe they attacked you—hurt you. I thought—” He stops himself.

  I raise my brows, a horrible feeling creeping into my gut. “You thought what, Farnell?”

  He shakes his head. “We shouldn’t talk about it here.”

  “Farnell, you’re not involved with—”

  He hushes me, gaze darting around again. “Of course not! But I’ve heard things. There’s a lot of talk about… amongst the servants. A few have already…”—he glances over his shoulder—“disappeared. Half of folks are saying they were killed for talk like this, but half… half are saying they’ve gone to the woods, Aubrey. To join them.”

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  The pit of my stomach plummets. “You can’t be thinking of it too. Remember what happened to your father? You can’t, Farnell.”

  He gives me a hard look. I’ve struck him in an old wound that’ll never heal. “Change is coming, Aubrey. I don’t want to be on the wrong side.”

  “Wrong side? Farnell, there is no change coming. I’ve seen the Wyvernblade. There is no battle to come. There is only pointless, horrible slaughter.”

  Farnell bites his lip and he glances towards the palace’s mountain spire spearing high above the surrounding buildings. “One person can’t be an entire kingdom.”

  “Stop it. I can’t lose you, too. I can’t bear it. Promise me you won’t.”

  He opens his mouth, shuts it again, and looks down at his feet. “You can’t change these people, Aubrey,” Farnell says with a slow rise of his hollowed gaze to mine. “You haven’t seen them like I have.”

  “Please, just let me try,” I whisper, desperation gripping like a fist around my throat.

  He picks a piece of straw from a bundle of root vegetables. “Alright,” he says with a heavy sigh. “Alright, Aubrey.”

  I rearrange a few of the berries in the basket and pass it back to him. The air feels wrong between us but I don’t know what to say to fix it. I want to tell him everything, from Lord Venon’s slaying to every exciting moment of the ball—yet all of it feels petty and small compared to the realness of his life at stake. As the Prince’s wife, I can change his whole world. I can protect him.

  “Listen,” Farnell says and his voice takes on an even more somber edge. “Remember that book you took from the library? I think Maurus is looking for it. I’m not in the manor much, but I heard he’s torn the library apart looking for some important book.”

  Skies, I wish I’d brought it with me. “I’ll bring it the next chance I get. Will you be here again the rest of the week?”

  “I’ll try, I—” Farnell’s face transforms into one of urgent warning and his gaze flicks to something behind me.

  I straighten and twist in my sidesaddle, expecting Clara’s glare.

  Instead, Prince Emory sits on a white mare just a few paces behind me, dressed in his usual royal red tailcoat emblazoned with gold thread along every edge and seam. He’s flanked by the High Guard, Heir Vale, Janine Hoad, and—to my disappointment—Nicoletta Graff.

  My movement must have caught Emory’s eye because he turns towards us and a wide, white smile lights his face. He kicks his horse forward. “Lady Aubrey!”

  The High Guard downright scowls. Of course he would be here. Even the King has only the one set of Wyvernmail and Emory won’t inherit it until his father’s death, just like each of the Founder Families. Thus, Emory gets a constant guard. Skies, but had he seen me talking to Farnell? He might only be half-Venon, but the Venons are all monsters. He can’t be any different, even if he wasn’t especially cruel to me last night.

  I nudge Sebastian away from Farnell and, as they draw near, I duck my head in a half bow from my saddle that tugs at my scars. “Your Highness, what a pleasure to see you.”

  Nicoletta narrows her eyes and moves her horse a little closer to the Prince’s. Like me, she wears long sleeves down to her wrists and carries a parasol, although her skirts have a sheer panel arranged to display the subtle glint of gold on her calf. Daring of her—perhaps I ought to take such risks too.

  “Doing a little shopping?” Prince Emory asks me, turning his horse away from Nicoletta’s with a jerk of the reins and moves alongside mine, oblivious to the flicker of rage that darkens the woman’s face.

  “Oh, just browsing,” I say quickly, not wanting to risk drawing unnecessary attention to Farnell. “I have little to want while staying with the Privetts.”

  “You’re staying in the city now?” The Prince’s brows raise and, Skies, did his smile brighten? He thrusts out a hand across the space between us. “Join us on our ride, won’t you?”

  “I’d be delighted,” I say, my heart stuttering as I slide my hand into his smooth, warm palm.

  The High Guard inches closer, and his gaze drops to our hands. Then it flicks to my other still gripping the reins—the hand that’s supposed to be injured. I’m suddenly grateful Clara insisted we discretely bandage it, on the off chance the High Guard remembered or told anyone of my injury. I adjust my grip on the reins like I’m favoring it. The last thing I need is for him to know I heal quickly, too. Who wouldn’t bleed a gold girl who can heal to almost no trace within an hour?

  On the opposite side of the market cart row, Lilian turns away from the jewelry vendor and her eyes widen at the sight of us.

  “Your Highness,” I say, turning on one of the charming smiles I’ve practiced with Clara so many times, “have you ever met my stepsister, Lady Lilianna Blackburn?”

  Lilianna transforms into bright eagerness, especially as her gaze falls on Heir Vale. Skies, Lily’s had a horrible crush on him since she came out four years ago.

  “Charmed,” Prince Emory says, flashing her a polite smile. Then he kisses my hand and those lovely blue eyes take on a playful glint. “Call me Emory, please.”

  Heat crawls up my neck. “Emory,” I whisper obediently.

  “Ah, that’s right, I forgot you have a stepsister,” Heir Vale says, promptly squashing all spark from the moment. “Arther Vale, and charmed as well. Won’t you join us?”

  Janine’s smile falters as she glances between Arthur and Lilianna.

  “Why yes, I’d love to.” Lilianna clumsily urges her horse to join our party and just like that, we start off through the market, the Prince and I still holding hands, albeit a bit awkwardly stretched between two horses, as we lead the group.

  As we go, I glance over my shoulder for Farnell. I can only just barely make out his mop of red hair beyond some crates where he has, thankfully, taken refuge out of sight. Yet a pang of regret rocks through me, as if I’ve somehow betrayed our friendship. Rationally, that’s silly. Farnell understands these things. And I told him I would try. So, here I am, trying.

  The Prince squeezes my hand again. “We were supposed to meet Maurus for a drink at the pub on the corner, but given the events yesterday, he won’t be making it. Nicoletta made the brilliant suggestion to take a ride instead—and what a choice decision that’s turned out to be. Now that I’ve run into you.”

  We pass Clara and the Foundress. Both freeze with hats in their hands as they watch our whole entourage pass by.

  “Joyous indeed,” I nearly stutter under both the Prince’s flattery, the intensity of Clara’s stare, and his reference to what’s likely the same attack Farnell spoke of. “Though I’m afraid I don’t understand what you meant about yesterday’s events? We’ve spent much of today moving.”

  And being attacked ourselves the night before. The High Guard trails along behind us. His scowling gaze darts around the crowd, his hands clasped in his lap and the reins lying untouched over the saddle horn. He rescued us, but did he tell the prince about it?

  “Poor Aubrey, last to know everything, aren’t you?” Nicoletta says with sickly sweetness as she and her dapple grey sidle up on the Prince’s other side. She slides one hand up his shoulder.

  Prince Emory’s smile broadens as he glances between us. He doesn’t release my hand, though.

  “It’s quite sad actually,” Vale says, urging his bay a little closer to Sebastian’s flank. Lilianna struggles to keep up, her kicks and tugs on the reins confusing her horse. “Maurus’s village had an attack. One factory burned down. Everyone inside was lost.”

  A chill washes over me. “Who would do such a thing?” The words slip from my lips, even knowing the answer. Farnell hadn’t said everyone died.

  “Maurus is saying rebels. Father doesn’t want to hear it.” Prince Emory’s lips twist into a hard line.

  “One day, you’ll be king,” Nicoletta says, stroking the Prince’s forearm. I should have said that, damn it.

  “Rebels! Ha!” Vale says. “Murderous scum is what we should call them. Killing their own people they claim to be trying to protect! Disgraceful vermin.”

  “I don’t understand why Father doesn’t just eradicate them. Burn the forests down! That’s what I’d do. Maurus is out nearly a hundred skilled workers. It’ll take him weeks to train new ones. He’s fuming—as he ought. He’ll be short again this quarter. But Father doesn’t want to hear any of it.”

  My throat tightens. All this talk of productivity losses. What about the hundred workers who lost their lives? What about their families, their children? I don’t understand how Farnell can consider joining monsters who slaughter their own people. And for what? To hurt productivity?

  Yet the image of Abel’s eyes, crinkling in amusement at me that day in the woods, pulls at something different in my chest. He didn’t seem capable of such monstrosities when he laughed and let me ride away with my horse. Nor when he spoke of my father last night. Of how my father proposed with a leather engagement cord so as to never cage my mother.

  “That’s awful,” is all I can muster out of my strangled throat.

  We make our way around the square. Vale keeps bringing up other topics, but somehow the conversation keeps spiraling around back to the rebel attack. The Prince’s words and the twist of his scowl become more heated each time. Yet there’s no mention of the attack on my family’s carriage last night. Nor does the High Guard say a word and I can’t fathom why. I consider bringing it up, as it seems like something that would enrapture the Prince’s attention, yet I can’t quite muster up the nerve. It feels, oddly, like something secret took place last night. Something I shouldn’t divulge.

  “I just don’t understand why Father can’t see reason—Skies, why are all these people in the way? Move!” The Prince throws up a hand as we draw to a stop at a crowd gathered around some kind of commotion at the far corner of the market.

  A disheveled elderly man with long white hair shakes off a guard’s grip and clambers atop a wooden crate.

  A chorus of cheers and jeers breaks out.

  “The time of change is coming,” the old man shouts. His beard, long and wispy and stained with drink, blows over his shoulder in the breeze. “Our Great Mother has grown tired of her leeches and fleas. Repent for your sins now, while you still can! The time of the wyvern’s Golden Queen is coming! The wyvern’s reign returns again!”

  I jerk my head up and move the parasol to see the sky. It’s empty except for a few pale clouds. I quickly shield myself with the parasol again and a memory stirs at the back of my mind, one I can’t quite place.

  “Great Skies,” the Prince groans. “Pathetic. Rahiid, be useful and do something about this. It bothers my ears.”

  “I thought the men of the Old Ways all died out by now,” Vale says, brushing off the arm of his jacket as if the old man’s filth has reached him all the way back here.

  The High Guard’s horse cuts in front of me. “That’s enough, old man.” He waves his arm and more guards shove violently through the crowd.

  “There! There!” the disheveled man calls, pointing at me with a gnarled finger, and I tighten my grip on Prince Emory’s hand. “A Gold! One of theirs! You all shall see! The Wyvern’s Time has come again. They will return!” He swats at a fly buzzing around his head.

  Guards grab the old man roughly by the arms. One lands an elbow in the man’s gut and he crumples.

  Nicoletta turns her face away, her expression almost sad. Then she draws a breath and whatever I saw disappears into the hard press of her lips. I can do well to learn by her example.

  Even with bloody spittle dripping out of his mouth and his body hanging between the guards, the old man does not relent. “You hear! You hear! They will rise again! The Wyvern’s reign returns again!”

  The crowd closes in his wake until I can no longer make out his words.

  Prince Emory squeezes my hand. “Nothing to worry about, my dear. There were once many of them, claiming to be of some old religion before our Conquering. I thought they’d been thoroughly wiped out by now. Let us hope he’s the last.”

  Prince Emory directs us around the dispersing crowd and we resume our ride around the market’s cobblestoned perimeter. Vale and Lilianna speak quietly to one another, Lilianna gazing up at him like Nicoletta gazes at the Prince. All the while, Prince Emory expounds on his father’s shortcomings and laments how he’d vanquish the rebels if he were in charge. The High Guard, Nicoletta, and Janine follow along, silent, behind us.

  All too soon, the Prince reins his horse to a stop where we’d begun. The Foundress Privett and Clara both do little to hide their approving, raised brows.

  Prince Emory turns to me and flashes that brilliant smile again, the one that lights up his blue eyes against the curling waves of his blonde hair. He squeezes the hand he’s held for our entire ride. “Lady Aubrey, I’ve very much enjoyed your company. I promise I’ll call on you as soon as my schedule allows.”

  I give him my widest and most pleased smile and angle my gaze up through my lashes at him, just like I’ve practiced—more aware of Clara’s watchfulness than I’ve been all day. “I assure you, Your Highness, the pleasure is all mine.”

  His brows draw together in a warmly chastising frown. “Emory, please, I very much insist.”

  “You’re too kind, Emory.”

  He bends to kiss my hand, his lips moist and lingering. Then he releases me, flashes a wink, and kicks his horse forward.

  I watch him go, aware of everyone else’s gaze upon me. Not just Clara’s and the Foundress’s, but Liliana’s, a glare from Nicoletta, and every other noble and peasant in the market who’ve paused to watch in a momentary lull of silence.

  I draw in a breath, my heart full of hope—yet something twists there, too. I play over the events again, trying to gauge if I’d been perfect enough.

  It’s the old man’s words that dominate in an echoing repeat.

  The time of the wyvern’s Golden Queen is coming! The wyvern’s reign returns again!

  With sudden and startling clarity, I remember where I’ve heard that phrase before.

  For when the wyvern’s reign returns again.

  The little book I took from the Venon library.

  The one I, apparently, need to return immediately.