VI.

Dwelling

Astara awoke to birdsongs outside the window. She had rested fitfully, dreaming of dark things and flying things and eyes that looked at her from crevices and faraway orbits. She was hoping it had all been a dream.

The events from the day before flashed through her mind, and she felt arrested by dread and disbelief. Lord Abram atop his horse; his crossbow; the glint of the sun upon the arrow tip. Lazarus, abandoned. It had all really happened, then. And now she was here in this strange place.

She forced herself to rise from the hard mattress.

Light poured from window to window as she descended the steps, and the house surprised her now that she could see it. The walls were white and clean, and the stairs were made of pine that curled down to the wooden floor of the kitchen, where there hung in the air the scent of freshly baked bread. Astara gravitated toward it, her stomach still ravenous. There was a wooden plate on the counter where the bread sat next to a half-full barrel of water. And on the other side of the counter, to her surprise, was a bowl of strawberries.

She stared at the bowl for some time, wondering if she were still sleeping after all. Where could strawberries possibly be growing all the way up there? And when did any of them have time to make bread?

She moved toward the strawberries, breathing their scent. They were real enough, she thought, daring to sample a few. Their sweet redness upon her tongue was the first rush of pleasure she had felt since she had last seen Edwain. Smiling, she tore a small piece of bread away and tried it too, sighing in satisfaction at its familiar taste.

As she swept the crumbs away, she looked around the silent space. Everyone must have gone to the mines already. Or elsewhere, she thought, remembering what Teodor had said. We are men in the fight against tyranny.

Astara frowned. They mentioned they worked in the Marchess caves. The city of Marchess, of course, wouldn't be terribly far from here. It was to the southeast of Callis North, if she recalled correctly. What did she know about it? It was a port city known for its trading, and larger than Callis North and the royal city of Eria. She had visited the city a few times before, but her memories were gray and rainy. She remembered a house in the country with a million pathways throughout the grounds that she would walk on as a child, telling herself stories. And she remembered a cat. But what had her father mentioned about it before?

She put her hands on her forehead. When he had been well, he mentioned Marchess. Uprisings. Angry people there. Why had they been angry? The Edicts flashed in her mind. The first set of Edicts had decreed that all the cities in the kingdom had to follow the laws and regulations set forth by the Rule of Callis North. This included instructions on what they could and couldn't build, make, sell, and teach. This was to correct what King Varus believed had been years of declining morality and loyalty to the kingdom. Astara knew the first Edicts had been controversial, but she had just been a child then. It had been settled law for over a decade.

She drummed her nails upon the counter, frustrated. She knew what the Edicts were, butnot nearly enough about their impact. Or their implications, she thought darkly. Why didn't she know? Why hadn't she thought to question her tutors about it more? Her father? They hadn't discussed it nearly enough.

She decided to venture outside into the cool air, keeping her eyes about for another stream. She longed to wash off in a warm tub and put a clean dress on, but perhaps she could at least try to soak the dirt out of the one she wore.

She paused outside the house, appreciating it in the light of day. It appeared larger than it had at night, with painted ivory wood and green shutters at its large windows. She wondered how long it took them to build it, and if they built it together. Transporting the materials to this secluded area would be a sizeable accomplishment alone.

She walked around it, studying it. While it wasn't exactly built into the mountainside, it sat on the base of a steep, rocky jutting hill that became clouded by the forest at the top. And on the house's left side, she realized with a gasp, it appeared to be connected to a giant old tree.

Astara stared at it—its black, gnarled roots grazed almost lovingly across the side of the wooden wall. The tree was why they built the house there, she realized. It was as tall and expansive as a fortress. She ran her hand over it and let the bark scrape against her skin.

When she circled around the back of the house, she stumbled again in her tracks to see the horse-pen an acre or so away. There were seven horses—one for each housemate, she presumed. Where did they get the capital to maintain them? What about the labor? She approached them and held her hand out to the dappled black horse that had an eye stamped with a star. Its nose grazed her palm, and for a moment she felt warm again and thought of Lazarus.

On the other side of the house, she spotted a garden, partially enclosed by a low stone wall. She left the horses and strode toward it, marveling at its colors. To her naked eye it bore calabash and leeks and foxgloves and daisies and marigolds and—Astara smiled—a strawberry patch. Beyond that, there were flowering trees and purple and green sprouts of planted things that hadn't yet sprung in the black earth. Astara wondered again at the men who lived here and how they could possibly maintain such an endeavor. But the sight of it gave her a bright feeling. She sat on the wall and watched the dragonflies zip over the crops and felt her skin rise at the chill dewy air. Nearby stood the well, with two extra large wooden buckets. She decided to fill one and bring it in to replenish the supply inside.

As she slugged it in, she noticed that behind the stairwell there was a hallway she had missed before. Curious, she set the water bucket down, then ducked below the stair rafters and rounded its bend toward the back of the house. Then she stopped short, astonished.

In front of her was a stained-glass door of what appeared to be a woman-saint, her hands making the Sign of the Realm as she gazed skyward. She was floating above a grove of olive trees and city temples, her hair wound in the curls of the surrounding flowers. Sunshine peaked through the lighter parts of the glass, casting rainbows on the space in front of Astara.

She felt mesmerized. The door seemed at odds with the modest décor of the rest of the house. She wondered vaguely if she was imagining it, and reached out to touch the blue glass of the woman's robe, thinking of her mother.

Slowly, her hand found its way to the gold-colored doorknob, and she clicked it open.

Inside was a library.

The room was somewhat circular, with bright windows and green painted bookshelves that lined the walls nearly floor to ceiling. Across from the shelves there were two low chairs and a table near a second makeshift fireplace, and at the far end of the room there was another door leading outside. From its direction she assumed it led out onto the garden, though she hadn't noticed it from the outside. Sunlight flooded the room with yellow light and splashed over the jewel colors of the books.

Astara approached the shelves, feeling sure now that she was caught in a dream. This house had many treasures. She'd learned before that common folk often didn't house libraries, given the price of books. But this was a room filled to the brim with books, and by a group of men who had described themselves as the working poor. She stood in front of the shelves and drank in the leather spines and gold text and tattered ancient papers.

There were titles in the Northern Tongue, but also Karasai and even one or two scripts in the Ancient People's language. Some of the books appeared so old she was afraid to run her fingers across them. They came in many colors—muted browns and jeweled greens and goldenrod. There were books about medicine, about gardening, about politics and philosophy. There were small ones the size of pamphlets and great, bricklike multi-volumed tomes. There were even books of poetry and mythology. Some titles she recognized, but most were unfamiliar to her, which gave her a visceral thrill.

Although, she was also puzzled. These men were miners and, perhaps, some sort of insurgents. And yet they kept a garden, well-groomed horses, a relatively clean space, and most amazing of all, a library to rival Castle Valor's. Where did they accumulate it all, and when could they have even had the time to read?

Fright struck her. Maybe they weren't miners at all. Maybe they were marauders and everything in this house was something stolen. The isolation of the mountain home would make sense then. As would their frightful talk last night about what to do with her.

She took a breath and tried to ground herself. Yes, she had to think of a plan. But at present there were no other options for her beside to stay put. At the castle she would be dead.

A thick blue cover caught her eye, its script sparkling in gold dust. Carefully she unearthed it, and saw bits of fossilized wings fall from its brown paper pages. The letters on the cover curled in the ancient print, her brain trailing over the middle-Northern she had learned growing up. The roughly translated title was Flowering Tools. Magical objects, she thought. She heaved the book over to the table and quickly leafed through to the index, her brain flitting to the queen's room.

She could make out enough of the language to manage, but she searched for a page or two before she remembered that "mirror' was speculum, where there was an entry in the book. She flipped to its section and gasped at the large, flourishing illustration that spread across the paper. It was an ink etching of a mirror with a flowered frame that showed the face of the sun and moon on each corner, at the top smiling, at the bottom sleeping. In the glass itself the artist drew wisps of smoke with a visage laughing at the viewer, its eyes wide open. Just a picture, she thought, watching the face. But there was something menacing about its eyes, and its mouth was slightly crooked, warped up.

She could feel her pulse quickening. The mirror did look quite a bit like the one in Queen Lenore's room. It was similar in size and shape, and had cabinets that opened, just like hers. But many mirrors looked like this. What was different about the queen's?

With a shiver she recalled that her own reflection in its glass had almost looked as though it were glowing. And she had been strangely drawn to it, as though the room around her had all but disappeared. It was almost as though she were looking at a completely different person—someone supernatural.

Slowly she found her pace in the middle-Northern text. According to the book, the origins of the mirrors were quite grand in the Five Realms mythos, though she hadn't been familiar with them. The Ancient Ones (snow-haired, bedecked in thunderized metal) had forged weapons from the emanations of the Shalae—the Gods who were said to rule over the people of the earth. The weapons, of which magical glass was one, were hidden on Earth and kept well-shielded from mortals, but eventually, through the dust of millennia, the Gods forgot them, and the people discovered them and worshipped them as totems.

Over time, some enterprising mortals began to shift away from regarding the weapons as a source of worship and more as a source of innovation. They poked at them and tore at them and broke them. They dissected them and then they reconstructed them, trying to discover how they worked, and the origin of their power. Occasionally they would make their own inventions from the tools—like the mirrors, made from the glass they found. The mirrors, she read, were among the most mysterious of the objects.

The Object-Dissectors, as these researchers were called, continued their work with the cosmic weapons, although regardless of what magnitude of prayer or blessing or ancient energy they utilized, they could never figure out how to work them fully. Thus, they set aside a few of the objects to preserve, and forbade them from being further dissected or utilized in any invention. It was their hope that one day they could unlock the secret power of these objects and discover their purpose. Astara's brain flitted back to the queen's mirror.

What if it were one of those they hid away?

She kept reading. The glass was said to hold soothsayer properties, and you could see truths in its reflection. A mirror made with this glass, then, would be quite a valuable prize indeed. But given how powerful the glass was and how little was known about its properties, it could also be dangerous.

The text began to blur as the sun moved round the windows, and she could feel her eyes closing. As she rested against the green fabric of the sitting chair, she felt the warmth from the afternoon on the back of her neck. Something in her mind flitted to and fro, to and fro, like the reflection of a stream over river rocks. Light cast back and forth, dipping into darkness and back up again. A candlewick, a sundial. Then a reflection. She was floating in front of herself, watching her face in the mirror.

The distant sound of a man shouting brought her back to the present and she darted up, the book crashing to the ground.

"Blast!" she yelled, stooping down to gather the book, which had fallen open to the awful illustration of the mirror again, with symbols of the Ancient People's language drawn around it. She paused, thinking again of the queen's mirror, and how it seemed to arrest her that night. Her reflection had looked so unnatural, but so alluring too—and she couldn't forget how her eyes had glowed.

Surely, it had to be one of these strange objects.

She shut the book quickly, a terrible fear crawling in her stomach as she hefted it up and inserted it back in its place on the shelf.

A yell came again, and she whipped around toward the door that led to the garden. Someone really was shouting.

Astara ran to the door and peaked out. In the garden beyond the wall a man with a large purple hat dashed a rake wildly in the air at something she couldn't see. Was he one of the ones from the night before? She thought back to when she scanned the group of men, but couldn't quite place him. She'd assumed they had all gone away for the day, and suddenly she felt vulnerable.

She held onto the door handle for a long time, deliberating. She could retreat to her room for the rest of the day. But what sort of noble behavior was in that? They had showed her a kindness, in a way. Better to take a stab at amity than never try at all. She took a breath, and walked out into the sunlight.

The man was facing away from her, but she could see he was bearded and ruddy beneath the wide brim of his hat. He looked older than the others she remembered, and he wore filthy gardening gloves and a peculiar sort of burlap. Beside him was a barrow of vegetables. As she approached, she could see the crows he was shaking the rake at fly farther and farther away.

Astara paused and called a timid hello from the other side of the fence. The man dropped the rake and spun around, his eyes wide beneath the shadow of his hat.

"Hello, er, Your Highness." He bowed, and held his gloved hands before him as though he had been caught at something. Astara tried a smile.

"Please, call me Astara," she said, wondering at herself. Just the night before she had been terrified of them. She looked over the fence toward the retreating birds. "I didn't realize anyone else was here. I thought you'd all gone to the mines early this morning."

The man nodded. "Yes, Your—yes, understandable. Aldo and I stay behind to tend to the crops and horses. We were gathering wood for kindling this morning."

"I see," Astara said. She cast her glance toward the distant crows. "I take it they're a nuisance for the garden?"

The man cast a death glare behind him. "I knew as soon as my apples blossomed these devil-pets would descend. They're just as bad as the ravens." He looked back at her with a small grin. "My name is Geoffrey. And I fear you must have had a fitful night." He rummaged in his barrow and then presented a dark, round fruit to her. "May I offer you a winter bell?"

Astara took it slowly, uncertain. It was smooth and purple-dark and cinnamon in smell. She thought of the stars over the mountain the night before.

"It's an apple," he said quickly, looking at her face. "One of my finest. I named it myself. They say that the costards point the way to your true love, but these provide clarity of mind. At least, that's the story I like to tell."

She looked up at him, astonished. "It's unlike any apple I've seen before. It's…"

"Dark and mysterious?" Geoffrey rocked on his heels and smiled brightly beneath his broad mustache. "I have my experiments. This crop has turned out to be one of my best. If you are so willing, I'd love to know what you think."

Astara smiled and breathed in the fragrant air again, then took a small bite. All at once she felt a river of sweet and spice, earth inlaid with glorious dark honey. "Oh, my," she said, and held the apple in front of her like a jewel. "I've never had such a treasure before. The castle should be so lucky to have a gardener such as yourself."

Geoffrey bowed his head, his cheeks glowing. "That is quite unexpected praise."

"Believe me, it is quite sincere. Truly. And," she said, smiling, "if there is a type of apple you have here that will point the way to my love, as you say, I would be willing to sample that too."

Geoffrey gave a hearty laugh. "There's one going I call a ginger dragon, but it won't be ready until first snow. The winter bells will have to suffice 'til then."

Astara was already taking another bite, feeling more relaxed already. Perhaps the apple had a magical effect after all. "Earlier I was admiring this garden by the light of day," she said thoughtfully. "I'd actually been wondering how it was maintained with everyone away at the mines. But you said you and another spend your days here?"

"Ah yes, we have a working system in place. For the most part. Aldo and I do most of the home maintenance. We sell our goods at market in Marchess and do odd jobs and such. But even our brothers at the mines contribute to the care of the house. Each of us takes on a different role, so it's a way to live in the way we want to."

"I see," Astara said slowly. "And yet, when I came across the house last night, no one was here."

"That's right," Geoffrey said. "We returned from Marchess shortly after our brothers returned from the mines."

Astara nodded. "So, the setup you have here. It's something of a, a—"

"—A collective," he finished. "Yes. We are committed to living off the land and by our own resources. As much as we can, anyway. We also try to bolster the community in Marchess—which in turn helps us support ourselves. I contribute by gardening and selling the crops that we don't eat, and usin that to buy the sundries and odds and ends that we require. Aldo cares for the horses. And Shaman, well," he said with a wink, "Shaman mines with the rest of them, but he maintains the library. And some of us think he controls the weather too." At this he let rip a great belly laugh, which surprised Astara, but she found herself grinning.

"It certainly sounds well-organized," she said politely, wondering what sort of person was called Shaman.

"Ay. Well, it can certainly be a pain. Sometimes it's easy to miss the luxuries of living close to town. But we're all used to hard work, and we stand united in our common goals."

At this Astara bristled. "And…what goals would that be?" she asked, hoping her voice came across pleasant enough. Their march against tyranny speech was playing over and over in her mind.

Geoffrey smiled politely, but she could see his searching look at her demeanor. "Well, as you heard, we are no fans of the Edicts. We think they have…halted community in the cities of the kingdom. So, we are trying to formulate a plan to present to the Rule our side of things…the commoner's side of things, if you will. But also," he said quickly, "we try to work to bring back community-mindedness to Marchess."

Astara was silent for a time. She wanted to ask about their so-called plan for addressing the Rule at Callis North, but was wary about being too inquisitive too quickly. After all, she thought dreadfully, they were going to question her that evening.

"May I ask," she said carefully, "how you all work to promote this community-mindedness?"

"Ay," Geoffrey said slowly, and she knew he sensed that something had shifted. "We try to do good works, and find out directly from the people of Marchess what they need. It is a sort of worker bee system where we're always exchanging information and resources among each other… Astara." At this he bowed again. "What excess time and resources we have after feeding ourselves, our group helps out when we can. For an example, our lad Teodor assists with repairs to the hospital in town and also helps fix the huts and hovels, which the people desperately need. He even makes time to teach sometimes. A true philanthropist, that one."

Astara felt taken aback. "I, I see," she stammered. She noticed then that Geoffrey was glancing down at the bottom of her dress. Looking down, she winced at the dirt and the multiple tears it had collected from her trek through the woods.

"If I may," he said politely, "Aldo is quite handy with a needle and thread if you'd like your dress mended." He turned round and shouted toward the other side of the house. "Aldooooo!"

"Please, thank you," Astara said. "I can go meet him."

Astara found him by the horses, feeding them from a bucket of oats. He was the little man from the night before, the man who had questioned her about the queen. "Hello," she said, and curtsied to him timidly, unsure how he felt about her. But he returned her gesture with a gracious bow. In the sunlight she could see the gold in his beard that covered his handsome features.

"Your Highness," he said, rising.

"Good afternoon, Aldo. Geoffrey said…would you...would you possibly be so kind as to teach me to mend?" At the look on his face, she flashed her dress hem, and he clucked at it. "Also, while I'm here, I could help," she said quickly. "Help with any housework or anything that needs extra hands."

There was surprise in Aldo's eyes, but he smiled kindly. "Certainly. I have an extra needle and thread you can use to practice."

The rest of the afternoon Astara sat chatting with Aldo as he patiently told her how to start a needle, how to find the seam, and how to weave the thread in and out. "After some practice I can show you a ten stitch and how to sew a buttonhole. It's quite a useful skill. And if you get it, you can sew yourself another dress altogether." They sat together at the end of the table where they'd laid the hem of her long skirt and worked at it, until at last it came together with hardly a stitch visible.

Astara found that she enjoyed Aldo's company very much. Though this group, whoever they were, was against her father's actions, he didn't seem to treat her with the disdain that some of the others had the night before. She found he was easy to talk to, and as they worked he told her stories about how he had learned to care for horses as a boy. "A lifelong stableboy," he said, with a touch of mystifying darkness. "Keep practicing your mending. You've a natural talent for it."

"Aldo," Astara said, "Geoffrey mentioned that the, er, group here goes into town to buy and sell things. And help out," she added quickly.

Aldo nodded. "It can be troublesome to make the trek, but we try to go twice a moon. Is there something you're seeking in town?"

"Well, yes, actually." Astara sat up straighter. "Would there by chance be an outpost of some sort…where I could post a letter?"

Aldo watched her. "You want to send a letter to the castle," he said. "Don't you think it could be dangerous? If the queen was the one behind it…"

"Not the castle exactly, but to a, to a friend." She felt the ring of silver at her throat, its tiny shape cool against her skin. "I do have someone I can trust in Callis North. I can send it to his manor home rather than the castle. I believe...my friend can get some help."

"I see," Aldo said. "And would you tell this friend of your location?"

Astara saw that he was worried of exposure, but she shook her head vigorously. "No, I just want to give word, that's all. And perhaps plan a rendezvous somewhere—not here."

"Not a bad idea," Aldo said slowly. "There is a post in town, but it's hardly ever used outside of the town guards. The people are mistrustful, see. But surely I could manage to deliver it for you on our next trip." He smiled kindly. "That's something of a hopeful thought."

Astara grinned back. A post! She felt a surge of luck and nodded her head. "That's splendid. I'll work out the details. I take it…I may use some parchment and ink when ready? If you have any to spare."

He looked at her for a moment, and for a moment she felt that she had overstepped. But Aldo smiled. "Of course, Your Highness."

"Please! It's Astara."

Aldo told Astara about a nearby stream, where she spent a precious hour soaking her body and the hem of her dress. When she returned, they spent the remaining hours of daylight washing the vegetables that Geoffrey had harvested from the garden. He had also put dough he had purchased in town over the fire with a sprinkling of thyme and rosemary so that its earthy scent danced through the house. The windows let a cool stream of autumn air in, and when Astara was able to quell the pit of dread she had in her stomach about the rest of the group's return, she felt nearly content in the dimming twilight glow.

When finally there was the sound of voices coming through the front door, Astara looked up from her work of dressing the vegetables and watched anxiously as the group of men filed in, their faces and clothes dirty from the mines. Their chatter died away as they saw her at the table with Geoffrey and Aldo.

Immediately she felt her intruder presence in the abrupt silence. She was sure that normally they must arrive at home in the most casual way, pulling off their work gloves and joking and chatting about all manners of things not fit for a woman's ears. There were five of them, with the tall one she guessed was Shaman filing in last, right behind Derry, who eyed her sharply but said nothing. Her face felt flame red, and she lowered her eyes to her hands.

Geoffrey waved them in. "Welcome back, lads! Water's in the basin already if you don't want to head to the stream."

Astara blushed further and continued to focus on the task in front of her, but her mind was running wild. How she wished to be anywhere else!

As the men returned from the washing area, they set out crockery around the large wooden communal table, and a pair of them lit the candles and lanterns throughout the house. Astara had been helping Geoffrey with the final preparations for dinner, but now looked about her, nervous as they all took their seats. She wished she could retreat to her room, but followed Geoffrey like a poor dog as she took a place upon the bench at the table, trying to take up as little space as she could. She looked down at her lap, wondering if they would ignore her. But Teodor passed her a plate and nudged the basket of bread her way.

"Thank you," she said, her voice sounding meager and tinny to her ears. She tried not to shiver.

They ate in silence, the wooden spoons clacking against the plates that were full of bread and garden vegetables and orange and green lentils. There was the smell of herbs and earth in the air, and the homey, warm scent of candleglow. It was a simple meal, but well-cooked and well-seasoned, and Astara was grateful for it. But the lack of noise was noticeable. When caught them casting quick glances at her, there was a guardedness in their expressions.

"So, er, Shaman, is it?" she asked, smiling politely across the table at his tall form. He dabbed his mouth with a cloth and looked at her with expressionless eyes. "I hear you are the keeper of the library. I found it quite incredible," she said. "And the stained-glass door that leads to it. I was very taken with it. Where on Earth was it acquired?"

Shaman watched her, his eyes pitch dark, his skin ebony and bluish against his curling black hair. He studies others, she thought. He studies everything. Finally he nodded, and she thought she saw the flicker of a smile appear on his face. "Thank you, Your Highness," he said, his voice deep and slow. "It is a great joy of mine. The door comes as a gift from a glassmaker in Marchess. They bestowed it to us when we built the library."

"Please, call me Astara," she said, glancing at them all quickly. "But how on Earth did you amass so many books? And such fine ones as well."

Everyone was looking at her now.

"It's something that grew over time," Aldo said, jumping in quickly. "When we decided to start the collective, we compiled the books we had. Shaman was the one with the most, you could say, arcane knowledge. And Teodor was good for nothing but poetry and philosophy." He cast a feigned glower at Teodor, who winked at him. "And Derry and Geoffrey have quite a collection of gardening and farming between them, which has proven very useful. For the rest, we secured them when the Marchess library closed. We agreed to hold their books for them for when they reopen. If they ever do."

"I see," Astara said. "But why did the library close?"

They all looked at each other, and Astara knew immediately that it had something to do with the Edicts.

Teodor cleared his throat, then raised his eyes at her across the table. "There were not enough resources to allot to its maintenance," he said quietly. "After the first set of Edicts. The Guard would not make an exception for it."

Astara nodded, half-frozen in her seat as Geoffrey ran his hand behind his neck. "Anyway," he said, "the library was clearly a treasure trove. If someone from the town requests a book, we try to deliver it. Vir here is making a list of books we keep to be circulated about town, but we must do it clandestinely."

She identified Vir as the thin, swarthy one from the night before who had been filing his nails near the fireplace. Astara pushed her hair behind her ear and spoke timidly. "If the Guard see the materials, will you get in trouble?"

A spark flickered in Vir's eyes. "Only one way to find out."

She nodded and dabbed her mouth with her cloth. "A noble effort," she murmured, trying her best to minimize herself. When she looked up, she saw Teodor studying her, a hint of amusement on his face.

They agreed to talk about the Edicts after they cleaned up from dinner. Astara assisted with the tidying as the men scrubbed and put away the plates, swept the floors, and generally made an astonishingly clean sweep of the room. As a girl she used to sneak into the kitchen and help their cook Elia with the cleaning and washing, and it all came flooding back to her as she and Geoffrey and Coryn (who was young like her, and hummed as he worked) scraped the leftover vegetables into the cache of mulch. She wondered at these men, who spent their whole long days in the mines or at the earth, and who didn't complain about keeping their house tidy. She tried to picture the men of the courts cleaning their large manors to spic and span and nearly guffawed.

When the cleanup was complete, Astara took a seat by the fire with the men.

"While I know about the nature of the second set of Edicts," she began, tracing the star pattern on the burgundy blanket about her, "I am sorry to say that some of the details are unknown to me. My father was at work day and night on them with the Council, before…before I came here." She cast a glance around, but they appeared to listen without suspicion. "I believe the timeline to codify this set and announce them to the kingdom is within the next year. These Edicts don't focus as much on…budgets," she said carefully. "I believe their bulk is…"

"Redistribution," Teodor said. The firelight glistened off his fine, bony face, and his blue eye sparkled. "At least, that's what they're calling it."

"And what would you call it?" she asked, feeling heat upon her face.

Shaman sat up straighter, pale in the fire's glow. "It will be an unparalleled seizure of property and resources. And it will affect those who have the least worst of all."

Astara wiped at her face, letting the familiar sting well in her eyes. "My father is not a bad man."

"The Edicts that are in place now were put forth well before your father," Teodor said. "It was at the Council and the hand of his father before him. Your grandfather," he said, and Astara stiffened. "Even older, they existed as laws before him, though they were called Decrees back then. Do you know this?"

"I…." She knew of the Decrees. She knew of the strengthening of the royal Rule before her grandfather had taken the throne. But it was never taught to her as something…something immoral. Had her bloodline really caused suffering? "I know of them," she said dully.

Teodor nodded, watching her a moment in the firelight. "None of these laws before the first set of Edicts were so bold. We fear that the next one shall be even worse. These are the ones you need to tell us about."

Angry, she looked away, dabbing at her eyes. "It's intended to harness more control over the kingdom, so that Callis North can understand where the cracks lie in production. My father believes that there are many inefficiencies in the kingdom's labor, and that Callis North can help correct this."

"And how do you think they will correct it," Derry said angrily.

Astara was silent for some time. Then she said, "Callis North will require the cities and villages to document and turn over their resources to the King and Council so that they can better oversee. I suppose that means…the bulk of their profits as well."

The room was silent for a time, the only sound being the crackling from the fireplace. Astara's eyes flitted over their unhappy faces, and she felt shame.

"It's intended to be an upward transfer of wealth, then," Teodor finally said. "And an absolute means of control. Everything in affect will belong to the Rule of Callis North." Teodor looked at her. "We need to know what date they plan to implement this."

Astara felt arrested, horrified at what she was imagining. To be a person outside the castle, to feel that you had no true power over your own life….

"Princess," Shaman said in his deep and quiet voice. "If we don't act against these demands, the world will suffer even more. Poverty on an unimaginable scale. Inescapable servitude. It has been foreseen. We need to know when it will happen."

"Foreseen by who exactly?" She felt small, a pinpoint roiling on a crown of light. "I knew that the first Edict was met with riots and discontent. But in Callis North…we were always told that the people resisted it because it was a new way of living, working harder."

"Oh yes," Derry said, standing angrily now, "it's no surprise to hear that in the land of the rich the problem is with the poor, dumb commonfolk of the realm who are too lazy to work hard." He spit into the fire as Astara sat up straight, her heart pounding. "What's really happening is they believe they alone have the right to control, to take all that Marchess and the other cities produce." Derry smashed his fist into his palm, and Astara jumped. "It's not enough to banish our books and songs anymore. They want to create a fairytale where people like you are worshipped as an angel, and the rest of us can lick your boots. Your father is a disgusting gnat—"

"Easy, Derry," Teodor said, rising. But even through her fear Astara knew he was correct. The excuse that the people of the kingdom resisted working harder seemed cruel and simple to her. When the second Edicts pass, much of what they owned would have to be examined or turned over to the kingdom. Could they lose their homes? What obligations would parents have to make ends meet for their families? What would families even look like under these new laws?

She was angry. Thinking back, there were doubts she had, and questions. The literature she read (that I was exposed to, she thought bitterly) had been sanitized—had been valorized. Her face grew hot.

"It is hard to swallow," Aldo said after a moment. "It's upsetting. Believe me, Astara. All of us have struggled to accept it as well."

She took a deep breath, and tried to refocus. "The plan was to unveil the second Edicts by midsummer," she said slowly. "Although there have been some…setbacks. The first place they will implement it will be the city of Eria. Marchess will likely be one of the first cities as well, now that I think of it." She looked up at them, her chest welling with sorrow. "I regret that I don't have more details."

As she retreated to her room atop the stairs, she saw Derry coming down the hall. She froze as he came toward her, and with a swift grip of his fist he held her pinned against the wall by her shoulder.

"Let go of me!" she whispered fiercely.

"Do you know what the Rule did to my family?" he asked, and Astara could feel the shaking in his body. It was translating to his fingertips. She imagined his hand wrapped round her throat, but held her tongue.

His eyes were boring into hers. "Ask me," he said. "Ask me what they did!"

Astara shook her head, afraid to speak.

"They burned my father for disobeying," he said. "He was protecting schoolchildren from the Hammer. And I was one of them."

Tears were flowing down Astara's face now. She wouldn't break eye contact from him. Without word Derry let her go and punched the wall behind her so that she yelped. Then he retreated down the stairs, and she pressed herself against the wall, too stunned to cry further.

She could hear someone approaching and she quickly wiped her eyes. It was Teodor, who carried a candle and an extra blanket for her.

"It's cold tonight…" he said, his voice trailing off. He was looking at the fresh tears on her face. "Astara," he said. "Tell me what's wrong."

She shook her head. "I…I'm still upset. From our discussion."

He watched her closely. Her heart thumped. He doesn't believe me.

"I'm going to turn in for the night, Teodor. Thank you…for everything. I have a lot to think on." She took the blanket from him, and only when she was at the threshold did he call after her.

"Astara," he said. When she turned back to him, she was keeping her lip from trembling. He was standing upon the top step, his arms crossed as he looked over her face. "Thank you for the information you gave us tonight. If there is anything we can do—"

"No, quite all right," she said quickly, nodding at him. She felt vulnerable in the discerning gaze of his eye, even in the dim glow of the candle. It was as though he could see into her mind. "Your hospitality…I am forever indebted. Good night, Teodor."

He searched her face a moment more, than nodded back. "Good night, princess." And he retreated down the stairs.

Beyond the forest the world had turned to ice. She was somewhere in the southern waters, floating on a block of frozen land that showed cracks of black water beneath, thick as human veins. She was waiting to be rescued.

On the winds something was trying to reach her. The ravens? She looked up, but the sky was pink and starlit and clear of animals. No, it wasn't them. She listened to the feeling, its cavernous darkness, its rushing. An animal, but not one from the sky. Something almost delicate, poking, prodding around. Something trying to suss her out. It traveled by land, slithering upon the bump of the mountain.

She woke up in a cold sweat.

It had been a week since the disappearance. Lenore stood staring at the tapestries in the throne room, tracing their spidery woven threads of gold and blue. They were hundreds of years old, and had travelled from lands of great distance. Not too far from her own, in fact. She recognized the style of their stitching.

She was quite alone in the room today. The court had ended early, and she had sent the whole Council packing, citing Varus's sickness. The news had reached the court, so it was no use keeping up the façade that all was well any longer. Now the Council could speak about it openly. A furious discussion between them had ensued, and Lenore had demanded to meet with them on the necessity of Familial Rule before they made their own plans.

"Of course it's unprecedented," she had told Council Latros when they had arranged the meeting, drying her eyes. "But it's necessary. There is no other heir. Therefore there are no other options. And Astara…Astara…" Lenore let herself wipe a tear from her cheek. "I don't see a way around it."

"Couldn't someone—"

"Are you making excuses to overlook me, Council Latros?" Lenore stared hard at him. The Council dropped his eyes and wiped at his brow.

It was easier than she thought it would be to coerce Varus into briefing her on the orders of the second Edict when he'd first started feeling the sickness. After all, she knew he felt doubt in his heart regarding the prospect of Astara's Rule. "She's still just a child," he had said, and she remembered in that moment the little shadow of dread that flickered through him. Just for a second, she realized, he had pictured Astara upon the throne while he had also accidentally seen his own future, the flowers of the strange disease opening within.

He had also eventually divulged to her the whereabouts of the document-in-progress itself, but she would have to lift the key from the Council—no issue there. The only real challenge would be disposing of Astara.

For the fifth time that day, she asked the Mirror to show her the princess. And for the fifth time, Astara became her reflection. Alive, still. In the woods. But for some strange reason, her location was unknowable. Lenore sighed. She longed to put her hand through the glass and wrap it around her neck.

Lord Abram had never returned to Callis North. When poor perplexed Sir Edwain had come back to the castle alone, he had said that his cousin had a spate of nerves and had quite suddenly abandoned him on horseback.

Lord Abram was a fool. She had known each and every one of his secrets, his time at the parlor games, his enemies and his many, many indiscretions. She could easily have ordered the Guard to track him down. But she preferred instead to send him nightmares to haunt his senses: a serpent coiling round his throat as he slept, a look at his own corpse in the mirror. She had also been poking at a poppet of his image with a knitting needle. Fear had already taken hold of his heart.

In the meantime, Sir Edwain was beside himself, sick with worry for Astara. A pry into his spirits told her he was heartbroken at the loss. And Varus, well…he had had to remain in a state of sedation.

"Where in the world could you be hiding?" she said to the tall, narrow girl in the glass.

The reflection dissipated until it was her own again. She eyed herself, the rosy color of ire forming on her cheeks. But an idea was forming, and her eyes glimmered in the midday shadows. She thought back to when she discovered Astara in her chambers.

Nightmares were not only reserved for Lord Abram. And sometimes they had better ways of finding their targets than the greatest of hunters did. Thoughtful, she looked beneath the daybed, searching for the familiar.

That night Lenore visited the barn that housed the horses again. But it was the weathervane on top that held her interest. As she murmured, its golden rooster began to spin and spin and spin.