III.

Glass

Lenore had been patiently waiting for the catastrophe, watching from the parapet above her private room for the better part of the afternoon. But even her eagle eyes couldn't see beyond the meadow, where the mountains veered sharply away from the horizon. The hunting party were in there somewhere. By now they would be searching for Astara. Just how far into the woods had they gone? She smiled and dipped a finger into the tincture in her hand that was made from beeswax and the blood she'd collected on her nails from Astara's wrist. Today its taste was snowy. A premonition? Lenore rubbed a finger with the mix thoughtfully along her lips. The essence of the princess was a winter one. A holly bough, perhaps, with frost and blood red berries.

And an open chest. And a wordless tongue.

Lenore turned toward the mirror, and for the seventh time that day she opened its cabinet doors, its glass filled with storm clouds. She looked past them into her own reflection, the gold from her circlet catching in the light. She wondered if she could see so far through herself in its depths that she could stare into the spindles of her own brain.

All things considered, she was grateful for the mirror, and to the old crone of her past who had unearthed it for her in the cover of night. She had travelled all the way to Callis North to give it to her, disguised as a peddler. Lenore smiled. It was very easy to pretend that one thing was another.

The mirror had never revealed the future to her before, not exactly. It showed her what could be, and what was. Occasionally it showed her what must be, and at these visions she had often found herself enraged. Initially she had meant to use the mirror to aid her in search of a cure for Varus. Instead, it had guided her back on the path she had strayed from.

One of the visions she saw in its glass was that Astara would rule the kingdom after Varus's death. It had always been nominally expected, and yet Varus had never trained her for the throne, nor did Astara know the truths about the insidious Edicts that Varus had enacted, and would enact through the next wave. The realm had been poisoned since the reign of old King Rolar, but it was only under Varus's rule that things had exploded and threatened to split. And now that he was edging closer to the veil each day, Astara's impending inheritance seemed within sight.

Lenore knew that Astara believed that she disliked her. But it was an impersonal feeling. She had only succumbed to the realization that when Astara took the throne, her reign would seal the doom that Varus had unleashed upon the kingdom. Surely she would allow the Edicts to pass. She was a child, and she didn't have the acumen to stand up to the Council, who the kingdom detested outside the walls of Callis North. They were jackals, and they would snuff her out themselves if she ever dared disobey them. Not that she would. The Edicts were her father's pride, and she would dutifully honor them, thinking they were good. And she would never see the blood that would flow because of them.

She watched her shoulders trembling with anger in the glass. How had she come to love such a man?

She appeared more and more unfamiliar to herself each day.

As for Astara…it seemed preposterous that she would take throne. But the mirror had shown her that she would, time and time again. If left alive.

As she watched her reflection, she saw that her breathing begin to calm, and her reflection stood taller. Now there was a surge of pride and energy coursing through her veins. It almost seemed as though a circlet were forming on her red-gold curls, arching into the darkened glass with amulets and golden points of light. The Council could not make her their puppet. If she were to become the ruling queen instead, she would cut each and every one of their throats before they forced her to succumb to the rule of their cruel world view.

The mirror fritted and blitzed.

As the remaining torches were lit to bring in the full dark night, Lenore dined with Varus in his room, the attendants temporarily dismissed. She was burning to be at the Homecoming Feast downstairs when the brigade returned, but she tempered herself. It would be better this way—now they would have to disturb her in her private engagement with the king. She imagined their panicked and bewildered faces, their shifting eyes. Who among them would make the announcement that the treasured daughter was missing? The chaplain would be sweating onto the floor stones. She glanced at Varus, flushed with anticipation.

He was stirring his broth, his shoulders slightly drooped beneath his silk bed robe. How frail he looked now. Lenore thought of the last time they'd been close, the touch of his fingers against her neck. There seemed to be an eternal cloud between here and then. Had he really possessed her heart?

"Thoughts, my king?" she said gently

Varus looked up at her and searched her eyes, as though trying to remember her. She stared for a moment at his widened black pupils, as cavernous as the glass of her mirror, and for a moment her glee fell away and she felt the extraordinary tug of loss. Quickly she rearranged herself.

"Not in the mood to talk, then?"

Varus shook his head, and lowered his eyes back to his broth. "I am hoping the Hunt was successful," he said slowly. "I long to hear of it from Astara."

"We shall be expecting the return soon. I'm sure they'll have much to tell us." Carefully she took a sip from her goblet and turned her gaze toward the northern windows, watching the light from the celebratory bonfires.

Varus was stirring his spoon around and around. "Tired, my dear," he said at last. "When exactly do we expect them?"

Lenore tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "They were due at nightfall," she said, making a show of staring out the window again. "Perhaps I can go down and check to see if they're here?"

"Certainly," he said, not raising his eyes to her. "Give my love to Astara. And if they return soon, please send her up to say good night."

Lenore rose and put her hand on Varus's shoulder, but he stiffened, and his skin was cold to her touch beneath the fabric. She took her hand away.