To Kill a Kingdom(11)

“Don’t worry,” I tell Halina. “It’s not the worst thing someone has accused me of.”

She looks a little flustered. “Well,” she whispers delicately, “people do talk.”

“Not just about you,” Nadir clarifies with a loud exhale. “More about your work. It’s most definitely appreciated, considering recent events. I would think our king would be proud to have you defending our land and those of our allies.”

My brow creases at the idea of my father being anywhere close to proud at having a siren hunter for a son. “Recent events?” I ask.

Halina gasps, though she doesn’t seem at all shocked. “Have you not heard the stories about Adékaros?”

There’s something dreadful in the air. Just yesterday my father spoke of Adékaros and how, if I wasn’t careful, Midas would end up the same.

I swallow and try to feign indifference. “It’s hard to keep track of all the stories I hear.”

“It’s Prince Cristian,” Halina says conspiratorially. “He’s dead. The queen, too.”

“Murdered,” clarifies Nadir. “Sirens set upon their ship and there was nothing the crew could do. It was the song, you understand. The kingdom is in turmoil.”

The room dulls. From the gold, to the music, to the faces of Nadir Pasha and Halina. It all becomes out of focus and stifled. For a moment I hesitate to breathe, let alone speak. I never had much dealing with the queen, but whenever the Saad was close to Adékaros, we docked without hesitation and Prince Cristian welcomed us with open arms. He made sure the crew was fed, and joined us in the tavern so that he could listen to our stories. When we left, he would gift us something. A lot of countries did it – small tokens that we never had much use for – but it was different for Cristian. He relied solely on scarce crops and loans from other kingdoms just to survive. Every gift he gave was a sacrifice.

“I heard it was the Princes’ Bane.” Halina shakes her head in pity.

I clench my fists. “Says who?”

“The crew said her hair was as red as hellfire,” Nadir explains. “Could it have been any other?”

I want to argue the possibility, but I’d be fooling myself. The Princes’ Bane is the greatest monster I’ve ever known, and the only one who’s escaped death once I’ve set my sights on her. I’ve hunted the seas tirelessly, searching for the flaming hair I’ve heard of in so many stories.

I’ve never even seen her.

I had begun to think that she was just a myth. Nothing more than a legend to scare royals from leaving their lands. But every time I entertain the thought, another prince turns up dead. It’s yet another reason why I can’t return to Midas and be the king my father wants me to be. I can never stop. Not until I’ve killed her.

“Of course, how could they know?” asks Halina. “It isn’t the right month for it.”

I realize that she’s speaking the truth. The Princes’ Bane only attacks in the same month each year. And if she murdered Cristian, then she was over a fortnight early. Does that mean she’s changed her habits? That no prince is safe on any day?

My lips twitch. “Evil doesn’t follow a calendar,” I say, even though this particular evil has always seemed to do just that.

Beside me, someone clears their throat. I turn and see my sister. I’m not sure how long she’s been standing there, but the amicable smile on her face leads me to assume that she’s heard most of the conversation.

“Brother.” She takes my arm. “Dance with me, won’t you?”

I nod, welcoming the break from the sort of polite conversation the Pasha and his wife seem to enjoy. Which makes me want to be anything other than polite.

“No suitors vying for your attention?” I ask Amara.

“None worth my time,” she says. “And none our charming father would approve of.”

“Those are the best kind.”

“You try explaining that when the boy’s head is on a chopping block.”

I snort. “Then it would be my pleasure,” I tell her. “If only to save some poor boy’s life.”

I turn to Nadir and Halina and give a swift bow, then let my sister lead me onto the floor.





7


Elian


DESPITE ITS NAME, THE Golden Goose is one of the only things in Midas that is not painted to match the pyramid. The walls are crusted brown and the drinks follow in the same hue. The clientele is nothing short of brutish, and most nights, glass crunches underfoot, with blood patching the beer-soaked tables.

It’s one of my favorite places.

The owner is Sakura and she has always just been Sakura. No last name that anyone knows of. She’s pretty and plump, with white-blond hair cut above her ears and thin, angled eyes that are the same brown as the walls. She wears red lipstick dark enough to cover her secrets, and her skin is paler than anything I’ve ever seen. Most people have guessed that she’s from Págos, which sees constant snow and little sun. A land so cold that only natives are able to survive it. It’s rumored, even, that the Págese rarely migrate to other kingdoms because they find the heat to be suffocating. Yet I can’t remember a time when Sakura didn’t own the Golden Goose. She seemed to always be there, or at least, she has been there since I started visiting. And though she’s beautiful, she’s also cruel enough that not even the thieves and felons try to get past her.