Page 8 of Harbinger

“Use that mercy wisely, Arden Icaros,” she whispers before continuing toward the steps to claim her next victim.

I follow her to the others, and the blond from Order Calix turns to me with shining eyes. He points to a black shadow circling overhead. “It’s an omen!”

The oscen flies higher, rising to a black swath of night not even the Stars dare to breach. I’d thought nothing of the row of caged birds as I approached the astrolatory. They’ll just send for another bird. My chest tightens with the urge to run and set them all free.

“Wish me luck,” he says as the vesper shepherds him toward the door.

The words stick in my throat, so I nod before he disappears into the astrolatory.

We’re all here because the king wants a spectacle. I didn’t expect to be the one to give it to him. I stare into the night with the others as the wind kicks up. It rips through my thin gown and bites into my bare skin.

But I’m no longer cold.

TWO

My younger sister storms into the breakfast room, still in her dressing gown, and yanks the velvet drapery open. Morning light spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows across from me, watery and sullen—not unlike Isidore’s current mood.

“They put us in the oldest wing,” she announces, glaring at the opulence around us like she expects the walls to crumble imminently. “A girl from Velesont told me.”

“So?” I shrug.

Last night, my siblings were asleep when I dragged my half-frozen ass in from my Petition. They were still in bed when I visited a Leontian healer at dawn to mend my wounded hand. But I knew the peace wouldn’t last. Not when they started smelling coffee and bacon and the dozen other scents currently torturing my stomach.

Isidore spins toward me, hair swirling like ink over her shoulders. She’s wearing one of the new dresses our brother bought us, but the neckline is a good two inches lower than mine. “We’re in the worst rooms in the palace, Arden. It’s an insult.” She aims her glare at me. It falls on the necklace I’m wearing, and she grimaces. My sister shakes her head, staring at the shabby locket like it’s worse than the walls. “I can’t believe you put that on.”

Ignoring her, I pile as much as I can onto a gold-rimmed plate, hoping the delicate porcelain doesn’t break from the weight. There’s enough food to feed half the conscripts in Order Marius. Then, I pour coffee into an equally delicate teacup that’s decorated with a gold-leaf crown—the constellation of the royal line of Augustus. Lifting the cup, I inhale the rich aroma, steam tickling my nostrils.

Coffee is the one crop we rarely get to keep back home. It’s too valuable. Most of our fields need to remain devoted to food, not luxuries, and the last few years, my family’s magic needed to grow the beans has been fickle. What we manage to harvest is sent here or collected by Order Velesont to sell in shops in Antares’s largest cities—along with nearly everything else we grow.

“The other orders think they’re better than us,” Isidore says, her voice catching.

She’s not going to let it go.

I drop into an upholstered chair at the table. It creaks in protest. Even the furniture is offended by our presence. “Let them.”

I nearly tell her about last night, nearly ask her if these are people we want to impress. Something stops me. Something in her ever-changing hazel eyes. Something hungry—that has nothing to do with the food in front of us.

“It’s … it’s …” Her lower lip trembles.

She doesn’t have to explain. I might ignore the feeling, but it’s still there. The feeling that everyone else is on a pedestal, staring down at us. Sighing, I push my cup toward her. “Try this.”

Isidore is a few years younger than me, so I know she’s never tasted coffee. That’s how long it’s been since we could justify keeping any. Her eyes light up as she takes it, but her nose wrinkles with the first sip. “That’s disgusting.” She shakes her head but takes another drink. “People like this?”

For twenty-two, she’s still such a child.

But at least now she’s a distracted child. I reach for it. “Give it back.”

She rolls her eyes and keeps drinking. “There’s plenty here. Get another cup.”

I admire her determination to take full advantage of the opportunity—even if it means suffering.

“Are you ready for tonight?” She taps the porcelain between sips.

I shrug and cram a bit of a buttery crescent-shaped pastry into my mouth, scattering flakes all over the pristine linen tablecloth. There’s nothing like this back in Damalis. Our food is simple but plentiful. Roast meats, fresh vegetables, bread when one of us bothers to make the dough. Food to survive. This food tastes like sin. I’m going to need larger clothing when we return home, because I plan to hunt down every pastry in the royal capital before we leave the city. “I haven’t really thought about it.”

That’s a lie. I stared at the ceiling last night, listening to Isidore snore in the bed next to mine while replaying what happened over and over again. Every noble-born enters an astrolatory for the rite that prepares them to receive their birthright. Even Broderic did it four years ago, although not in front of a bishop. No one really talks about their rituals. Now I understand why.

Still, I can’t be the only one who refused the sacrifice.