Page 7 of Heart’s Rescue

Arryn

Punishment

“Stars!” I snap as the illusion crumbles between my fingers.

I press the heels of my palms against my eyes and try not to cry. The windows have gone dark, the stars have come out in all their glory, and I’m still here. Doing what I’m worst at.

It’s Mother’s favorite punishment, and it is, as she says, not so much a punishment as a lesson. Illusion magic is very fashionable among the court ladies. Every solstice celebration, the queen herself creates the flower illusions that bedeck the summit of Mount Victory. She creates the illusory creatures of air, land, and sea that are released at sunset to commemorate the victory of the Kingdom of the Summer and the blessed Worlds Above, and to celebrate the eternal imprisonment of the wicked Kingdom of the Fall in the frozen, lifeless Lands Below.

I take a deep breath and let my hands fall to my side. I am to be queen one day. And I am horrible with illusions. My natural magic is, as Mother would say, unrefined. Coarse. It’s only through years of painful practice that I’ve gotten the slightest handle on the ability to create stupid flowers, and I haven’t even attempted illusory creatures. For this last solstice, the queen recreated the kidnapping of her daughter using fantastical bird illusions. The crowd cried at the magnificence and emotional power of the performance.

And I’d cried because I’ve never been able to create an illusion that was even close to as impressive as a single feather from one of those stupid birds.

“But here we are,” I whisper to myself through gritted teeth.

In the library, where Mother told me to create a flower arrangement for every flat surface in the room. There are sixty. Sixty flat surfaces, counting the tops of all the bookshelves. And so far I’d made thirteen flower arrangements; daisies that look like sunflowers, zinnias that look like sunflowers, roses that look like sunflowers, asters that look like sunflowers, and, well, sunflowers.

A door opens behind me; I jump. If it’s Mother— If she’s here to tell me sixty aren’t enough, that I need to add, I don’t know, butterflies or something—

“Relax,” Petya says. “It’s just me.”

I do relax, but I try not to show it.

“What do you want?” I snap.

Petya has a glass of wine in his left hand, and he appears to be examining the floral illusion by the door. “These are lovely, uh, orchids?” he says.

I scowl. “Don’t patronize me.”

Petya takes a sip of wine and shrugs. “You’re right. They suck.”

My shoulders sink. Every time I think my brother couldn’t possibly hurt me anymore, and every time I’m wrong.

“Hey, look, I’m sorry,” Petya says, moving closer. “It’s just— Mom’s punishment, right?”

I nod miserably.

“Let me guess,” he says. “She’s going to destroy them in front of you?”

I nod again. “Petal by petal.”

Petya drains his wine glass and sets it on an empty table. Maybe I could float a flower in it and call that an arrangement. Name it Brotherly Love.

“Stars, I hate visiting here,” Petya mutters under his breath.

“Well, thank you very much,” I reply, letting my voice carry a level of sarcasm that would get me slapped by Mother. “It’s an absolute treat having you.”

“Not,” Petya says, turning to look directly at me, “because of you.”

He falls silent. I stare down at my own hands.

“You know, she used to punish me too,” Petya finally says.

I turn to him in surprise. Petya was practically an adult when I was born, and he’s been living in the Silver City with his husband Tobias for almost as long as I can remember. For most of my life, my older brother existed as an idea only. Very often as an idea that Mother uses to beat me over the head.

“Mother never says anything about punishing you,” I admit.

Petya laughs. It comes out sharp and jagged.