Page 11 of Harbinger

Kieren catches my eye and shakes his head. He usually knows what I’m thinking.

“Why?” I ask, ignoring his warning again. “You love her.”

“You know why,” Broderic grumbles, his gaze not bothering to meet mine as he tosses another log into the fire. “We need money.”

“Why not ask the king?”

My brother blanches as if even suggesting this makes him nauseous. He settles back into his chair and glares at me. “I am a patron. Order Icaros is a pillar of Antares. We do not beg, especially not from the king.”

“So, you’re just going to whore yourself to some insipid heiress who only wants your title? Dad wouldn’t have wanted—”

“Dad can’t want anything,” he says flatly. “He’s dead.”

Unlike my younger siblings, this reminder doesn’t shut me up.

“There has to be another solution.” If only he’d talked to me before he broke things off with Miranda, we could have found a way. But it’s not too late. “We can barter with Yonas to—”

“Enough.” He cuts me off again. “This isn’t up for discussion. I’m head of household. This is on me. I don’t expect you to understand the importance of duty yet. Once you’ve been initiated …”

But I can’t hear him past the ringing in my ears. He’s determined to shoulder the entire burden of our family’s needs. No matter the cost. Even if it’s eating him alive.

“And what happens if you become ill, too?” I say softly. “You aren’t sleeping. You aren’t taking care of yourself. Neither did Dad.”

“I’m not him,” he says through gritted teeth. “This conversation is over, Arden.”

“But—”

“Enough!” he snaps, and my sympathy vanishes. I hate it when Broderic gets into his I-Know-Best attitude. “You receive your birthright tonight. You should get ready.” He shifts back to face the fire, the coffee still untouched, and flings a verbal knife at me. “Too bad you won’t be able to properly wield for years. Not that it would help much anyway.”

I stare for a moment, my chest heaving as a dozen retorts, ranging from cutting to devastating, jump to my lips. It’s not my fault inherited magic wakes when it wakes. That it could take months before it even stirs and then still requires years of training to actually wield. Or that with each generation, the magic seems to grow weaker, as though the well were running dry. Sometimes it doesn’t manifest at all. Throwing it in my face isn’t fair. I open my mouth to tell him he’s being a dick, but what’s the point? He’s unreachable in this mood.

In the end, I stomp out of the room without another word.

I don’t bother stopping in the sleeping chamber I’m sharing with Isidore. The last thing I need is for her to start on me, too. She hasn’t even tried to talk him out of it. Neither has Kieren. Maybe if they would, Broderic would see what I’ve been trying to tell him all along. Maybe we could find another way together.

I grab my new coat from a hook by the door and head out, determined to find my way through the maze that is the royal palace. I need air. I need to breathe. I’m going to suffocate under the weight of words like duty and birthright.

I wind through corridors, pretending to look at the tapestries and oil paintings while checking for exits. There are so many turns and twists that it’s like the castle doesn’t want me to escape.

Rounding a corner, I spot a group of last night’s initiates. I duck back behind the wall before they see me. Talking with them is the last thing I need right now.

“That’s what happened,” one says in a hushed voice.

“No member of Velesont would ever do that.” Her companion shakes his head in disgust.

My pulse ratchets faster with each word. They aren’t talking about me. They can’t be. How would they know what happened during my Petition? I peek around the corner, careful to stay hidden in the shadow of the alcove.

“I knew the second I saw her.” It’s the blonde from last night, her nose impressively high in the air. “I can’t believe she’s actually from a patron line. How embarrassing.”

That pretty much seals it. I don’t want to hear the rest. Not after my own brother was so condescending. That’s enough for one day.

Pressing my body close to the wall, I sneak around the corner and discover the front hall. I dash toward the door, not slowing until I’m outside.

Cold air crashes into me, flurries dancing on the wind. I consider heading back to where it’s warm. Instead, I swivel on the top step and stare at the city stirring to life below. The palace complex sits at the top of Wintour like a crown. A dense fog blocks all but the tops of the buildings: roofs and spires, glass domes and chimneys pumping plumes of smoke.

I gulp down a deep breath, but my frustration lingers. I don’t care about the stories people are sharing. But I do care that Broderic is acting like the events of this weekend will save us all. Well, at least his actions.

Money troubles are one sort of prison. Arranged marriages are another. It doesn’t matter which you choose, you’re still a prisoner.