Page 44 of All the Chaos of Constellations
“Who else have you told about your reading?” He grabbed a pen and a blank sheet of parchment from beneath a stack of books. “Your most recent one, not the one that mother conducted.”
He stared at her, intent.
“Queen Elowyn and Prince Aspen.” She swallowed, her throat dry and gritty. “Prince Drake and Lord Firebane may have been in attendance as well when I announced my discovery.”
“Damn.”
Two foul words in one night. Her brother was in a strange mood indeed. He never swore in front of her. Ever.
Ariesian sighed. He sank lower into the leather chair, kicking up his legs. Propping his feet on the desk, he crossed his ankles. His fingers drummed lightly on the arm of the chair, tapping a restless rhythm she didn’t recognize. She’d never seen him so ill at ease. Ariesian was usually the embodiment of a well-bred lord. Classy. Composed. Unostentatious and reserved. But right now, he looked ready to crawl out of his skin. The tension rolled off him in thick, suffocating waves.
“He makes a tempting offer, but what he wants in return…” Ariesian unbuttoned the top two buttons of his collared shirt, yanking on them. “I’m not sure it’s something I can give up.”
“Why not?” She heaved a sigh of frustration, instantly regretting the action. Apprehension hardened the angular planes of his face. “Apologies, dear brother. I suppose I don’t understand why you can’t relinquish something in return for protection.”
“Because it’s valuable, Novalise.” He shook his head, his expression almost pained. “It’s something very precious to me.”
Oh.
Oh.
Prince Drake wanted the Celestinian wayfinder, Ariesian’s astrolabe. As children, they called it the Star Thief, though it was essentially a compass for the skies, but it only ever pointed to the Great Stag, Ariesian’s star sign.
Novalise shifted, uncomfortable. She should’ve known the shadow prince would want something that was handcrafted with ancient magic, incredibly rare, and had been in their family for generations.
“Ariesian, listen to me. I’ve looked up to you for the entirety of my life. You are noble. Intelligent. Loyal to a fault. But most of all, every decision you have ever made has always been for the good of our house and our family.” She met her brother’s weary gaze. “Do you believe the protection of Brackroth is something we might need in the future?”
His lips pressed together in a firm line. “It’s a possibility.”
A tingle of unease prodded along her spine. She didn’t particularly care for the idea of battles and wars. Or lands ripped apart by turmoil and strife. All the more reason for Ariesian to not sleep on this trade agreement. “If Prince Kalstrand’s offer will keep us safe, then you know what you must do.”
Ariesian ran a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up and out of sorts. “I’ll consider it.”
“Please do.” Novalise stood and headed toward the door. “Good night, Ariesian. Try to get some rest.”
He flicked his wrist, a pitiful attempt at a wave if she ever saw one, and then she left his study, closing the door behind her.
The halls of the house were quiet, save for the soft clicking of her heels against the dark stone floor. Windows of fused colored glass displayed her reflection, elegant and poised if not slightly disheveled. But there was not a trace of selfishness. She’d upheld her end of the bargain with Prince Drake, and now it would be up to him to keep his word. All he had to do was help make Asher fall in love with her.
Novalise slowed her steps as she neared her bedroom. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she checked to make sure she was entirely alone. Then she cupped her hands together, drawing on the magic coursing through her veins, summoning the power of the Estrela’s crown. Energy flowed over her, illuminating her skin with an iridescent glow. Her magic crackled, bursting from the center of her palms, taking on the shape of an inky cloud of night. Tiny streaks of starfire sprinkled throughout it, shimmering like diamonds against a swath of black silk. Blazing brightly in the middle of it all was the spark of frostfire flames.
CHAPTEREIGHTEEN
Asher silently ate his breakfast, all the while being entirely too aware of his sister’s movements. Cyra stirring her tea, the clinking sound of the spoon against porcelain echoing throughout the dining room. Cyra reaching for a second helping of bacon. Cyra scooping out the last of the blackberry jam for her toast when she didn’t think he was looking.
They’d spent countless hours in this room together every morning, the topic of conversation always varying, never having to struggle to fill the silence with inconsequential statements. Not too long ago, this room was teeming with tension. Meals were taken in stony silence and laced with fear of their father’s wrath. There was a faint blemish on the rug, where the tips of auburn leaves were blackened. That was from the night his father tried to set him on fire. Asher still bore the scarring from it on his back. His father was boasting about his fire magic, claiming that Asher’s frostfire was polluted, going on about how only his shrew of a mother could possess cold fire. His words had incinerated Asher.
They fought, and when his bastard of a father tossed a fire bolt at him, he’d warned Asher not to yell or he’d end him.
He’d dropped to the ground, rolling to put out the flames. He could still smell the stench of his own burning flesh, could feel the heat from the fire as it charred his skin. All while his father stood over him, watching. Chuckling.
Asher’s mother had rushed into the dining room then, screaming. His father warned her to stay away, that Asher was receiving the punishment he deserved for being unable to hold his tongue. She hadn’t listened. She ripped one of the drapes off the window and threw it on top of Asher, smothering the flames.
For two months, there was a hole in the wall from where his father had thrown her into it.
Asher had done everything in his power to shield Cyra from their father’s cruelty. Anything to keep her safe, to keep her blind to the violent cloud that shadowed their house.
He thought that once his father was dead, some semblance of happiness could be restored in their lives. They no longer had to live in fear. He could study and read without having to worry his father might come along and knock him upside the head with one of his own books. Or worse, use them as kindling for bonfires. But he’d been gravely mistaken. While he and Cyra tried to fill the hostile space left behind by their father with warm memories, their mother spiraled into a state of despair.
