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A tidal wave. People rushing forward, guards strugglingto hold the cordon, the row of us on the palace steps—even the usually stoic king—staring with our jaws dropped.
“Shedidit,” Camilla blurts, crushing the fan in her hand. I can’t tell if she’s more angry or awed. Covering her mouth, a fresh horror startles her. “Oh no. Ohno.Does that mean thatallthe beasts are…”
“They are,” I whisper. “When I was attacked, I thought I saw its threads—the memories seemed human—I—” What thehell? How is this possible? And how did Raya cure him?
Raya looks as shocked as the rest of us.
Surrounded by tumult, pinned by attention, she wobbles, her eyes rolling back. It’s enough warning for Cyrus to leap down the steps. He catches her in his arms as she faints.
“Move aside!” Carrying her limp body, Cyrus strides into the palace. The cage is wheeled from the demonstration area as well, the man twitching on its floor.
As shock and excitement fly, King Emilius doesn’t call for order. He only adds his own marveling to the shouts: “We have witnessed the making of history today, my friends! Let us pray for her quick recovery, so she may undo the dark magic plaguing this land. We are blessed to have Raya as our next queen.”
The audience cheers.
Raya has an impossible number of fairies, she brought the beasts here, and she didsomethingto transform that beast back into a man.
It has to be another trick.
There’s a prophetic air about her, but not in a good way. If there’s one takeaway from these past months, it’s that what the gods and their prophecies want aren’t always thingsweshould want. They want Cyrus’s death, and if my glimpse of Raya’s future is certain, they want a wedding drenched in blood.
After the demonstration, I go around the palace asking after the transformed man. I’m pointed toward multiple wrong places, and nowhere do I see his cage.
Finally, by one of the guardhouses, I find the captain who wheeled him out. He’s midway through telling some boisterous tale to two younger officers, preening about how important the Dragonsguard is.
When I ask him about the cage, he says, with a jaunty wag of his finger, “We have our top people inspecting him. No need for your concern, Sighted Mistress.”
“What hard work you do,” I say, not believing him at all.
I offer to do a quick reading for him, since he’s here, and he gladly offers his sweaty palms for me to examine. I snoop into his recent past and his threads snake through my Sight:
Shadows weaving in and out of the dungeons.
A growling, furred creature. A shaking cage. “Wh-why—”
One of the king’s advisers frowns. “Hide him, quickly.”
The man was turning back into a beast. Which means…whatever magic Raya has done has worn off already. These men must have been ordered to not jeopardize the engagement.
“The Fates smile upon you,” I tell the captain. If I lieoutright, better to make them happy. “You might get a promotion soon, if you play your cards right.”
“Hah!” He pumps a fist at the officers, who both wear celebratory looks fit for a funeral.
Leaving the men, I head up the staircase to the royal quarters, cursing myself. I’ve let this go too far; I should have confronted Raya sooner. Knowing the future doesn’t mean I know when to act. It just means I regret it twice as much when I let something slip past me.
Earlier, Camilla told me that Cyrus carried Raya to her rooms and she hasn’t come out all day. The king’s personal healer attended to her briefly, and Raya requested that she recover before she meets with anyone.
Fortunately for me, courtesy has never been my strong point.
Raya’s rooms are at the end of the hall. Portraits line the route there. To my left is a painting of Camilla and Cyrus as freckled children, followed by King Emilius in his prime. On my right is the largest frame of the hall—the late Queen Merchella sitting regally beside her hound. Camilla and Cyrus take after her more than they do their father. They have her cheekbones, her red-brown hair, even her elusive gaze, captured in vibrant paint.
People loved her. Auveny was in the tail end of her mourning period at the time I became Seer; every week, someone was building a shrine to some vegetable shaped like Her Dead Majesty’s head. Many of my first patrons would ask after her spirit, as if my Sight allowed it. It doesn’t. I learned quickly then how silly people get when they’re clouded by hope.
The portraits grow sparser down the hall. Two of Cyrus’s personal guards stand outside Raya’s quarters. I smile in greeting. They’re all too familiar with my snooping, which is good; they know it’s less hassle to simply let me pass through, which they do.
In the antechamber, I knock on the bedroom door. I wait, then knock again.
I don’t hear any movement.
