FOUR
WE’D LEFT OUR disguises outside to accumulate mud and grime: Patrick and Oscar—who’d be playing the parts of our escorts—and Melanie and I hadn’t bathed since our last trip to Skyvale, either. My skin felt slimy as I wiggled into my dress; my hair wasn’t in much better shape, but I’d plaited it into a tight and complicated coronet that would hold up for days of travel.
Authenticity was the key to any deception.
Sometimes authenticity was disgusting.
After a quick rap on the door, Melanie walked in, wearing her dirty clothes. “Ready, Lady Julianna, Duchess of Liadia?” she asked, using an accent that thinned out her vowels. We’d learned it from refugees and had been practicing for weeks. She gave an exaggerated curtsy and giggled.
“Don’t look too happy.” I slipped the envelope with our papers into the side pocket of my bag, and hid my sheathed dagger inside my dress, at the small of my back. My other dagger, as far as I knew, was with Black Knife, assuming he’d taken it from that glowman’s hand. “If Patrick sees you smiling, he’ll send you to run laps around the castle until you’re not.”
“If it’s a crime to be excited about our future of hot baths, plenty of food, and walks through winter gardens, then I’m definitely a criminal.” She tugged at the sleeve of my dress, straightening it. “There. Don’t you have a shawl somewhere?”
“Right.” I picked up the tattered wool shawl and threw it over my shoulders. “Unfortunately, the war will interrupt our new life of luxury. When we march to Aecor, it will be all dirt, hunger, and walks through bloody battlefields. That’s assuming we’re not immediately discovered as impostors at the castle and sentenced to death.” I winked so she’d know I wasn’t scolding.
“Well, now I’m not smiling.” She hitched her bag onto her shoulder and together we headed down to the bailey where Patrick and Oscar met us with grim nods.
Day broke at our backs, sending liquid light cascading into the valley ahead of us. Glass windows on the palace and mansions winked in the reflected sunlight.
“We’ll walk all the way around,” Patrick said. “So we appear to come from the west.”
When at last we emerged from the woods on the western edge of Skyvale, the sun was directly overhead, and the famous mirrors were just beginning to reflect its glow.
“Refugees are saying they can see the mirrors’ shine from across the valley,” Melanie said. “That it leads them to safety. Some even say they can see it from across the western mountains, as far as the wraithland.”
“That seems unlikely. The valley is huge, and Skyvale is hidden behind the Midvale Ridge.” The long mountain cut lengthwise through the northern half of the valley, splitting the path of the Indigo River in two. Skyvale huddled between the eastern side of the valley and the lower end of the Midvale Ridge, which looked as though someone had scooped off a chunk of the southern face.
“That’s true, I guess.”
“It’s just a refugee story. They’re almost never accurate.” I kept my gaze ahead as we approached White Flag, the poorest, westernmost district of Skyvale. “No more out-of-character talking. We’re refugees from Liadia. We’ve been through a great trauma and terrible journey.”
Melanie’s cheeks darkened, but she nodded. A few minutes later, we entered the refugee camp just outside the city wall.
It looked like every other camp, with people huddling inside dingy tents or under lean-tos. The stench of unwashed bodies permeated the air, along with rotting refuse. Chickens clucked and a pig hurtled across the road. A few children played, though their clapping and hopping games all bore a weary note. Under the tendrils of filthy hair, their cheeks were sunken in from hunger.
In the spirit of authenticity, Patrick and Oscar moved closer to Melanie and me, protecting us as we slipped through the noisy refugee camp.
Above us loomed a pair of guard towers, the dragon standards and Pierce family crests flying above the bright mirrors. Nervousness shuddered through me.
“This way, my lady.” Patrick guided me to the gate and the soldier on duty. Sweat streaked his stubbled face as he slouched and spoke in a Liadian accent, “May I present Lady Julianna Whitman, Duchess of Liadia, and her companion, Lady Melanie Cole. My friend and I have traveled across the wraithland to bring them to the safety of Skyvale.” Patrick dropped to one knee, head bowed low. His shoulders curled inward as Oscar knelt, too.
The guards eyed me, my dress, and the almost-empty bag I carried. “Do you have papers?” one asked from behind a heavy mustache.
My bag slipped from my shaking hand and landed with a shallow whump. “Y-yes.” Trembling all over, I started to retrieve the leather envelope with our forged papers, but Melanie touched my shoulder.
“I’ll get them.” She spoke gently and, although she appeared as exhausted as I, she knelt and drew the envelope from a side pocket.
The guards glanced over the papers, held them up to the light to check the watermark, and slipped them back into the envelope. “You ladies are welcome to enter Skyvale. We’ll send for a carriage. I’m afraid the two of you . . .” His mustache twitched at Patrick and Oscar.
Patrick and Oscar glanced at each other, my supposed loyal escorts. “We’d like to wait until the carriage comes,” Patrick said. “Just to make sure. We’ve seen our ladies this far.”
Mustache Guard considered a moment, then nodded. “Very well.”
The second guard ran for chairs for Melanie and me, then sent a message up to the top of the guard tower to signal for a carriage.
Seated and pretending I was trying not to slouch, I watched a trio of boys racing through the camp. Two in front carried battered sacks that leaked pebbles, while the third wore a black mask and threatened to bring his friends to justice.
Mustache Guard followed my gaze. “They’re playing Black Knife.”
“What is that?” I asked, though I knew the answer.
“Black Knife is a vigilante,” he said, pointing to a tattered poster that offered a hefty bounty for the menace. “We try to discourage Skyvale children from this game, but we aren’t allowed to do much with the refugees.”
Besides keep them out of the city, of course.
“And this Black Knife does what?” I made obvious glances between the bounty poster and the children.
“He catches thieves, glowmen, and flashers. He’s been at it for about two years, since the Hensley scandal.”
“It sounds like he’s doing good work. Shouldn’t you send a thank-you note?”
Mustache Guard shook his head. “Some think so, but no one is allowed to subvert justice. If he wants to stop flashers, he needs to join the police.”
“So you hunt for him?”
The guard nodded. “When we can, or whenever there’s a rash of mimics. Skyvale is so big that we usually have to focus our attention elsewhere. But don’t worry: Black Knife is almost never spotted in the districts where you’ll be staying.”
“Thank you.” Maybe I could catch him—once I infiltrated the palace, found the resistance fighters in Aecor, rescued the Aecorian men in the wraithlands, and took back my kingdom. Or maybe somewhere in between all of that. The reward was sizable, and the coming war would have to be funded somehow.
I turned my attention toward Skyvale, watching for the carriage.
We didn’t wait long. Once the carriage arrived, indigo with the Pierce crest emblazoned on the side, Melanie and I made a show of thanking Patrick and Oscar for their kindness and assistance.
“This way, my ladies.” The soldiers helped us into the carriage and stowed our bags on the opposite bench. “You’re being taken to an immediate audience with King Terrell and Crown Prince Tobiah. Tell them your story. The driver will give your papers to the secretary. They’ll know what to do with you.”
Tobiah.
“Thank you.” Melanie slumped into the cushions as the carriage door shut and latched. In the dimness, she gave me a secret smile. “We’re really doing this.” Her voice was low and didn’t carry.
I tried to smile back, but my thoughts whirred.
I was going to see Tobiah. Of course it was inevitable. The mission called for me to live in the palace, the same one where the crown prince lived. But seeing him this soon? Immediately?
He’d be eighteen by now, learning from his father. It made sense he’d be there. After ten years, would he recognize me? Surely not.
“Ew.” Melanie wrinkled her nose as one of White Flag’s more pungent odors pressed through the carriage, even with the heavy wool curtains closed. The clatter of wheels and horse hooves beat a headache behind my eyes, and nothing, not even the throbbing in my head, covered the din of shouts and people banging on pots or walls or one another.
What was I getting into? This had seemed like a good idea months ago when Patrick announced it. Now—now I was going to have to face the man who’d destroyed my kingdom, and the boy who was the reason.
Gradually, the sounds and smells shifted to boys calling out the latest wraith news and Black Knife sightings, and meats roasting and bread baking. My stomach growled; we’d eaten a small breakfast, but hadn’t paused for lunch or even a snack on the way here.