Spindle Fire Read online

  Dedication

  For Minna Freya Grantham,

  the beauty asleep within me

  when this book began

  Map

  Epigraph

  What was said to the rose that made it open

  was said to me here in my chest.

  —Rumi

  Contents

  Dedication

  Map

  Epigraph

  The Rose Lullaby

  Part I: Amid the Roses Wild Chapter 1: Aurora

  Chapter 2: Isabelle

  Chapter 3: Aurora

  Chapter 4: Isabelle

  Chapter 5: Aurora

  Chapter 6: Belcoeur, the Night Faerie

  Part II: All Tangled in Thorns Chapter 7: Aurora

  Chapter 8: Isabelle

  Chapter 9: Binks, a Male Faerie of Modest Nobility, Who May or May Not Be Important to This Tale, Except That He Happened to Be in the Right Place at the Right Time

  Chapter 10: Gilbert, Former Groom at the Royal Stables of Deluce and Isabelle’s Best Friend of Eighteen Years

  Chapter 11: Aurora

  Chapter 12: Isabelle

  Chapter 13: Claudine, a Faerie of Considerable Stature (in More Ways Than One)

  Chapter 14: Isabelle

  Part III: The Shadow and the Child Chapter 15: Aurora

  Chapter 16: Isabelle

  Chapter 17: Malfleur, the Last Remaining Faerie Queen

  Chapter 18: Isabelle

  Chapter 19: Aurora

  Chapter 20: Belcoeur, the Night Faerie

  Chapter 21: Aurora

  Chapter 22: Isabelle

  Chapter 23: Violette, a Faerie Duchess of Remarkable Bearing According to Her Selves

  Part IV: Darkness Did Win Chapter 24: Isabelle

  Chapter 25: Aurora

  Chapter 26: Isabelle

  Chapter 27: Malfleur, the Last Faerie Queen

  Chapter 28: Isabelle

  Chapter 29: Aurora

  Chapter 30: Vulture, a Soldier in Malfleur’s Army

  Part V: Before Break of Morn Chapter 31: Isabelle

  Chapter 32: Aurora

  Chapter 33: Belcoeur, the Night Faerie

  Chapter 34: Isabelle

  Chapter 35: Aurora

  Acknowledgments

  Back Ads

  About the Author

  Books by Lexa Hillyer

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  The Rose Lullaby

  One night reviled,

  Before break of morn,

  Amid the roses wild,

  All tangled in thorns,

  The shadow and the child

  Together were born.

  The bright sun did spin,

  The moon swallowed day,

  When one her dear twin

  Forever did slay.

  PART

  I

  AMID THE ROSES WILD

  1

  Aurora

  Winter seemed to come early in 1313, the year Aurora was born. For days that July, a mass of damp white flakes clung to treetops and roofs like snow.

  Some thought perhaps it was the North Faerie’s doing. They were wrong.

  In her day—which was a very long time ago indeed—the North Faerie had been known for wreaking havoc on the skies whenever she lost one of her infamous chess games. But she had died many decades before our story begins, mysteriously murdered in her own home. That’s why the White Throne, carved entirely from the tusks of narwhals, is now called the Red Throne; it’s covered in her blood.

  Aurora knows the stories well—she’s read the entire 313-book collection of faerie histories in her grand library. Princesses have a great deal of time on their hands, after all. Especially princesses like Aurora, who have no sense of touch and no voice. These were tithed from her just months after her birth.

  But it wasn’t snow that came down that summer, for it didn’t melt. And it wasn’t any faerie’s doing either. As everyone who was alive then and remains alive today remembers vividly, the ashes that rained over heads and homes and whole towns across the kingdom of Deluce had one very distinct quality: the acrid scent of spindle fire.

  Wet wool.

  Wood smoke.

  Burning hair.

  2

  Isabelle

  Mud. Murk. Dankness and blackness and bog land and fog so thick it entered the folds of the mind. This was Isabelle’s world as a child.

  Gradually, though, she discovered darkness was not an absence of light but a living thing, an infinitely tangible substance to roll around in and dig into. She began to fall in love with that darkness, exploring its wells of sounds and stirs.

  The palace was full of dim corners where the king’s unwanted daughter could play. The whole estate sits right on a cliff above the mouth of the Strait of Sorrow, whose tide pulls clouds to shore and traps them there, churning and unquenchable. This makes the air briny; it has the vague taste of sardines, and the softness of moss. The floors are always slick with moisture, the walls bright dusted with salt. Over time, Isbe learned the feel of every dent in these walls. Every variety of squeak and cry from the floor formed a language—don’t enter, turn right, someone was just in here, or you are alone.

  You see, she was blinded at the age of two; the very day of her half sister Aurora’s christening.

  Some people consider it a problem—or even a curse—to be forever trapped in darkness. But Isabelle no longer minds the dark.

  Light too can be a curse.

  It can illuminate things no one should ever have to witness.

  3

  Aurora

  The double doors to the library fly open. Aurora quickly closes The Song of Rowan and tucks it beneath her chair cushion as Isbe tramples in, shaking snow off her boots. Her knotty chestnut hair is in its usual disarray, her plain blue-and-white dress torn in at least two places.

  Aurora, on the other hand, believes that a princess is meant to look the part at all times, even if she is merely hiding out alone in her library reading romances. Today, for instance, she is wearing a burgundy underdress with an overdress featuring a complex pattern of golden birds and deep-green vines. She even wears a small hennin atop her head, with a long veil trailing behind it.

  “Did Rowan take full advantage of his stony love yet?” Isbe asks with a smirk, her eyes fixed on an invisible spot in the distance. She doesn’t have to be able to see to guess: this isn’t the first time Aurora has been caught in private, agonized rapture over the tale of Rowan and his true love, Ombeline, who was turned to stone until a thousand crows came down and pecked her free.

  Aurora herself is still waiting to be released, in a way. Not from stone, of course, but from the long, silent hours of wondering, trapped in a world where she cannot speak and cannot feel. Will she find true love with Prince Philip of Aubin? Even now he and his brother are galloping toward the palace. . . .

  “Ah, good. Some air. That’s what this room needs.” Isbe has popped open the secret pane in a stained-glass window, allowing delicate flurries to flutter in. Beyond the glass, the famous Delucian cliffs plummet down to the Strait of Sorrow, where Aurora can imagine the snow dissolving like sugar into tea.

  Isbe throws herself onto the floor by Aurora’s feet, as she is wont to do. Aurora’s half sister is as extreme, with her very pale skin and very dark hair, as Aurora is soft, with her warm complexion and blond waves. They are like night and day, or winter and summer. And like both examples, one could simply not exist without the other.

  The princess bends down and takes her sister’s hand, tapping into her palm, using the secret language they’ve been evolving and deepening since early childhood. Soon it will be Philip, and not Rowan, who occupies my time—and your filthy imagination.
r />   Occasionally Isbe misses a word here or there, but it’s rare. Princesses—and their bastard half siblings—have plenty of time to perfect such things. The girls even have a symbol for the name Rowan—the tap for an R and then the pressure sequence that means handsome. This is how Aurora connotes all the heroes in her stories: the letter of his name, followed by an adjective: handsome, charming, loyal, strong.

  Isbe flashes her big, jagged, unself-conscious smile at Aurora. “True.” Then her face falls. “I’ll have to rely on my imagination, since I’m sure you’ll no longer have any time to fill me in on the details.”

  Aurora squeezes her hand. No. I’ll miss you every moment I’m with him, she taps.

  “Hopefully not every moment.” Isbe grins again. Then she lets out a big sigh.

  No reason for the dramatic sighs. Everything will be normal, Aurora taps.

  “Well then,” Isbe announces. “I was going to share some gossip. I’ve just overheard that Prince Philip and his younger brother, Edward, were spotted on the road two days ago at Tristesse Pass, along with their retinue. Which means they should be arriving sooner than we thought. Most likely by tonight. In time for your birthday!”

  Aurora gasps, a sound that’s almost inaudible. Her entire body buzzes with all the hectic energy of a chicken coop. Her planned marriage to Prince Philip is supposed to cement an important alliance between the kingdoms of Deluce and Aubin. Deluce has wealth, Aubin has military. The idea is that together they can stop the threat of the last living faerie queen, Malfleur.

  If the rumors are true, that is. Word has it Malfleur has been building up her army using secret techniques unknown to the rest of the world, in addition to practicing levels of magic not seen among the fae in centuries. Just thinking about it gives Aurora a chill.

  LaMorte is the only kingdom ruled by a faerie anymore. It used to be that all the positions of power were held by the fae, but that was long ago. Aurora’s grandfather was part of the wave of human monarchs pushing the fae out, even as the faeries’ magic waned. Now most of Deluce’s aristocracy is human, though a faerie duchess or baron remains here and there. And while the fae allow females to govern alone (they pretty much have to, since female faeries generally outlive male faeries by many decades), humans do not. A human princess must marry to become a queen.

  Aurora knows how important her upcoming wedding really is to the safety of her kingdom. But that doesn’t mean she can’t secretly hope that it will be more than tactical—that the prince will be her true love, and with that love, her whole life will change. That, like Ombeline from the story, she will finally be freed.

  The veil on Aurora’s hennin dances wildly in the open air. Because of her lack of touch, she doesn’t feel pain. So while the princess can tell that it’s very cold out, the chill doesn’t really bother her. It’s just . . . there, a dim awareness like a heartbeat.

  It’s always windy up on the palace wall walks, where she and Isbe have come to look out for the banners of the approaching princes and their retinue. Through the crenellated parapet, Aurora can see the vast expanse of the royal village and the lands to the south and west sides, the mouth of the strait to the northeast, all covered in the soft drape of evening. It’s especially blustery at this time of year and this time of day, when the sun has worn down to a crimson paper cut slicing sea from sky.

  The wind is helpful, anyway, to her sister. It carries information—sounds and smells that tell her who is coming and how high the tides are, what will be served for dinner, and which of the soldiers guarding the front gates have bedded which of the housemaids.

  Tonight, Isbe’s face is alive with curiosity, and for what is probably the millionth time, Aurora wishes her sister could see herself, even for an instant. That she could witness the way joy and sadness write themselves so boldly in her expressions. How uncontained her emotions seem.

  As different as they are—Isbe’s features hard and wild and pale next to Aurora’s rosiness, her sun-colored hair, and gentle curves—Aurora likes to believe that something invisible, something deep inside each of them, is connected, forged from the same fire.

  Isbe races ahead along the wall walk, which is lit by torches ensconced in the iron brackets atop the seven cupola-covered drum towers. Her form flickers between light and shadow as she passes by each of the parapet’s teeth. She is already climbing the stones of the southeast tower—the king’s tower, which is also the best vantage point—by the time Aurora reaches the wide southern wall.

  Aurora wants to call for Isbe to wait, but of course she can’t. She just hopes they won’t get caught sneaking around up here. Four years ago, the plague killed both of her parents, King Henri and Queen Amélie. Since then, the council’s role has grown from keeping careful watch to issuing suffocating rules. And it’s even worse lately.

  Because Aurora’s sixteenth birthday is tomorrow and the wedding to Philip will soon follow, the council has essentially kept her under lock and key within the lonely palace walls, even though Isbe is completely free to roam the ample grounds, romp through the royal forest, ride horses, snack on random pickings from the lower kitchen, and pretty much do anything she pleases. Everyone acts as if Aurora might collapse under a stray breeze—since she paid the tithe of touch as a child, she is constantly in danger of getting hurt and not realizing it. And it’s true she has burned herself too many times to be allowed in the kitchens or too close to the fire. She has embarrassing scars on her knees from various tumbles as a child that led to scratches that bled for hours before she noticed them.

  Following Isbe’s disappearing form, Aurora hurries to the king’s tower and tries to get a foothold in the still-wet stone. Before she gets very far, the familiar voices of the council members float over her head. The king’s tower holds one of their meeting rooms, and with its jutting, thinly paned oriel windows, it is one of the easiest rooms to spy on, if you happen to be on the roof.

  Aurora pauses, listening to what sounds like a heated exchange. It’s very rare for the council to be meeting this late, particularly when such important guests are expected at any moment.

  She tucks her dress and robes around her legs and crouches just beneath the oriel, peering in.

  “They were supporters of Malfleur, I’m sure of it,” one of the men is saying.

  Another scoffs. “Nothing but peasants and petty thieves. A horrible accident, and that is all.”

  “It’s not the time to analyze the attack! We are in a state of emergency!” cries another, slamming down hard on a table.

  A horrible accident? Attack? A state of emergency? What could possibly have happened? She inches slightly closer to the base of the window, straining to hear.

  “This is more than an attack; this is a political maneuver. It’s a diplomatic crisis.”

  “He’s right. It’s an act . . . an act of war. This has to be Malfleur’s doing. And without Aubin on our side, we are sunk.”

  “Aubin still needs us as much as we need them. Their royal coffers are dry—we know that. Their precious war overseas has seen to that.”

  “Before we come to any conclusions, we must reconcile ourselves to the murder of the two princes and decide upon swift and immediate action.”

  At this, Aurora loses her grip and falls several feet to the damp stone floor of the wall walk. The fall doesn’t hurt—of course—but the news rings loud and harsh in her ears. The murder of the two princes.

  It cannot be true.

  Philip is no longer coming to marry her.

  He and his brother, Edward, are dead.

  She must have misunderstood. She needs to go in there and confront them, find out the truth. But even as she thinks that, she realizes how silly it sounds. Aurora, confronting the council? It’s unheard of. In the past she’s made vain attempts to write her thoughts down with ink on vellum, copying the beautiful script found in the books she loves to read. But the council members have only responded with blank, befuddled stares. In fact, most of them are illiterate and find i
t simply unimaginable that a woman could have taught herself to both read and write.

  The murder of the two princes. The words keep repeating themselves, tumbling over one another in her mind even as she scrambles up the tower toward her sister. She wishes once again that she could call out to Isbe. But with no voice, she is left to climb, higher this time, desperate to find her, to convey what she’s heard.

  The dome is slick and cold. She reaches the top of the tower and clings to the curved roof, inching her way toward the outer-facing side. She thinks she sees Isbe, just around the—

  A gust of wind blows Aurora’s veil into her face. As she tries to shake it free, she senses her shoe has become heavy. It must have soaked up some of the unmelted snow, which means . . .

  Her foot slips.

  She gasps, her balance giving way, then flails, losing her grip with one hand. Panic flies through her lungs, leaving her mouth in a silent scream.

  The murder of the two princes, the wind sings back to her, and she knows. She is going to fall.

  A shout pierces the darkness.

  Isbe’s face, torch lit, hovers above her. She has firmly caught Aurora’s sleeve and yanked her back against the tower. “Aurora . . . I heard you. I’m here!”

  Aurora’s pulse races in her throat. She is shaking, marveling at her sister’s ability to hear even the slightest skid of shoe against ice.

  Slowly they move to safety, one chapped hand before the other, until they are just above the wall walk, where Isbe leaps down first and reaches up to assist Aurora, whose heart is still pounding so powerfully she fears she may faint.

  But as her dizziness clears, all she can think is what she must communicate to Isbe. The princes.

  Both of them. Murdered.

  “Oi! What are you doing up here?” Two night guards are approaching.