Page 67 of Cursebreaker

I am glad I can’t see Titus’s face, but not for the reasons I would want him to believe. I’m afraid that if I were to see the grief that twists his expression, I wouldn’t be able to keep myself from reaching for him—from wanting to comfort him.

He hasn’t spoken of Leo since the compulsion was broken. Did he watch her die, unable to do anything to save her? All those times he warned me she was possessed—it was all a part of Morana’s compulsion, the game she was playing with me. But if Titus was aware of everything that was happening, how many times did he wish I would believe him?

Lie or not, game or not, I should have believed him. Perhaps if I had trusted him, if I had just listened to him…

“We’ll use this to our advantage,” Owen continues. “Hellion’s royal family, the Bouchers, are hosting a ball this evening. Delegates from all over the Known World will be present. Titus and Aster, you’ll accompany Gabriel, who will be disguised as Simon Bellamy, a dignitary from the Eerie’s council of merchants. Simon inherited a great deal of wealth, often paying Bloodknights to accompany him on his travels, and with the Eerie’s increased military presence, we’ll blend right in. He’s also known for traveling with his pet falcon.” He gives a smug grin, holding his arms out as if they were wings and bowing slightly at the waist. “That will be me. Any questions?”

Gabriel’s brow furrows. “You’re sure whatever we’re looking for will be inside the palace?”

Owen’s smile falters. “Yes,” he says, his voice hollow. Haunted, as if there were more to his knowledge of this palace—and what waits for us inside—than he wants anyone to know. “The Bouchers have collected rare, magical artifacts for centuries. If the Helm is here, it will be in their vault, most likely disguised as an ordinary trinket.”

“So they have the Helm,” Gabriel says, “they just don’t know they have it?”

Owen nods. “But Morana knows about the vault, too,” he says, eyes dark. “And we’re not the only ones looking for the Helm.”

Carved from moonstone, the palace seems to glow from within, its towers pointing toward the starlit sky like upturned hands presenting some divine offering to the heavens above. Titus and I flank Gabriel as we approach the outer gate, wrought from gold, framed by guard towers equipped with men in gilded suits of armor.

Some arrive by carriage, others stroll leisurely up the banks of the river and join the line of guests waiting to be let inside the outer court. We assimilate into the throng of dignitaries, blending in with a group of delegates from Nera.

Gabriel looks nothing like himself. Straight red hair in lieu of wavy dark locks, pale complexion rather than his warm olive skin, his hazel eyes now the dark green color of dried seaweed. He’s scrawny, as if someone had chiseled Gabriel’s broad, muscular stature into something fragile. It’s obvious that Simon Bellamy has never worked a day in his life, and he’s certainly never brandished a sword—much less two. I doubt he’s ever wielded much more than a silver spoon.

Blood pounds in my ears, drowning out the sound of Titus’s muffled voice as he announces “Sir Simon Bellamy” to a man in orange livery. The man peers up at Sir Bellamy from behind a scroll, brows drawn with suspicion, but I note the tremble of his hands. His eyes dart to the pair of Bloodknights scanning the crowd from ten feet away. He gulps.

It’s difficult to see through the slits in my visor, but I try to focus on the falcon perched on Gabriel’s bony arm—calm and serene, but with predatory eyes that gleam in the desert sun. Owen might be a bird, but if anything goes wrong, I trust that he’ll be able to whisk us away from here in the blink of an eye. Until—

“You can’t bring the bird.” The guard’s voice is firm, but his eyes are pleading. He glances at the Bloodknights.

Gabriel follows his gaze, his jaw set. We’re seconds away from drawing unwanted attention, but Owen screeches, taking flight, and soars away, toward the river.

Gabriel’s smile is tight. “Will that be all?”

The man shrinks back a step, but he nods. A moment later, a trumpet blares, and we’re ushered through the gates, into the palace.

If I thought the oasis along the riverbank was lush, it’s nothing compared with the palace. Metal lanterns the color of precious jewels cast elaborate patterns, like firelit constellations, on the gardens, red and green, blue and purple. Water flows from fountains, cascades over sandstone falls, under terra-cotta bridges—my pulse calms, if only a little, at its presence.

We fall into step with nobles, dressed in finery from throughout the Known World, making their way to the ballroom. Lewis would love this, I think, trying my best to memorize the styles so that I can describe them to him later. I’m grateful for the distraction, but it doesn’t last. As we enter the receiving line, my eyes wander to the portraits that line the walls, and my heart sinks as we pass the life-size image of Princess Leo standing in front of a brown horse with white patches, its massive, feathered wings spread wide—a Pegasus, I think, remembering the Myth from Elsie’s books.

Leo smiles, her contagious laughter evident in the crinkle of her eyes. Alive. Free.

I glance at Titus, but he’s staring straight ahead—at the band of Bloodknights near the entrance to the ballroom. I must shuffle backward a step, because Titus’s hand comes up to touch the small of my back—just for a second, brief enough I wonder if I imagined it—urging me forward.

“Just keep walking,” he says, his voice low.

But when we reach the doors, my stomach twists as one of the Bloodknights dips his head to Titus and me in greeting. There’s a part of me that wonders how many of these Bloodknights have been compelled—and how many of them joined Morana’s regime of their own free will. Either way, we can’t afford a confrontation. I force myself to nod in return, hoping that’s enough to satiate him, but Titus walks past him as if he doesn’t exist.

This doesn’t seem to sit well with the Bloodknight.

He steps forward, as if to prompt Titus further, but the soldier halts abruptly—looks down.

A puddle of liquid seeps out from the leg of his armor.

Titus never misses a step. He enters the ballroom, leaving the Bloodknight standing dumbstruck as his comrades—drunk on power and expensive liquor, by the smell of it—ridicule him.

Gabriel glances back at Titus, cocks a brow. Titus lifts his shoulders slightly and I might not be able to see his face, but a vengeful, mischievous grin twinkles in his eyes.

Too soon, we reach the front of the receiving line, and Gabriel and Titus drop to one knee. I hesitate, struck by Leo’s resemblance to her mother and father, the king and queen of Hellion, both seated on thrones hewn from opal and crowned in bands of rose quartz. The queen shoots a puzzled look at me as I drop to my knee beside Titus, my chest tight.

“Sir Bellamy,” Queen Sade croons, and my head snaps up, just slightly, because it’s her voice—Leo’s voice. Only, it isn’t.