Legendary

Dante tensed beside Tella.

This wasn’t good news, but it was better than no information at all.

“The ring on your finger is a key,” Theron said. “If it truly belonged to your mother, she must have placed something in our vaults that can only be retrieved with the ring. However, the color of it signifies it’s been cursed.”

“How do I break the curse?”

“The only way is to fulfill her debt,” Theron answered flatly. “Until that payment is made, the key on your finger will not work to open her vault.”

“Tella—” Dante’s tone hinted at a warning.

But whatever it was, Tella didn’t want to hear it. Her mother had not only been here but something of hers was in the vaults. Maybe it was the Deck of Destiny Tella needed to find. Or maybe it was something else that would tell Tella more about who her mother had been.

“What does she owe?” Tella asked. “What did she place in your vaults?”

“I cannot answer those questions,” said Theron. “But the ring can. It has a memory, activated by blood. If it truly was your mother’s, your blood should bring forth a vision of what she promised us. All you need to do is prick your finger with one of its tips and drop the blood in the bowl.”

“Tella—” Dante growled. “I don’t think you should—”

But Tella was already pressing the tip of her finger to her mother’s old ring. Red pooled, rose-petal bright, before falling into the copper basin and turning white.

Tella held her breath as the milky drop of blood transformed into a fog that reflected the image of a woman standing in front of a bowl exactly like the one before Tella. But it wasn’t just any woman. It was Tella’s mother, Paloma. She was older than she’d looked in the picture Tella had seen in Elantine’s Most Wanted—she appeared to be around the same age as when she’d disappeared from Trisda. But she looked so much harsher than Tella remembered. There were no hints of her enigmatic smile, no sparkle in her dark eyes. This was a callous version of her mother that Tella was unfamiliar with.

In the vision, Paloma wasn’t dressed in a sheet like Tella, or if she was, it was concealed by the dark blue cloak she wore. She appeared to be speaking with someone, but whoever she spoke with was merely a shadow.

“Paradise the Lost,” said the shadow. Its voice sounded like smoke come life. Thick and heavy and stifling. “I thought you swore to never make another bargain with us.”

“Vows are made to broken,” Paloma said. “Apparently spells are, too, because the one you placed on my cards to conceal them grew weak.”

“That’s why we suggested putting them in our temple vaults, with the other items we’re holding for you.”

“Suggested?” Paloma snorted. “I thought you said I couldn’t put them in my vault.”

“No, we said you would need to pay an extra price.”

Paloma stiffened.

“So you do remember,” said the voice. “And since we are generous, the offer still stands.”

“For the same price as before?”

“Yes. Be grateful we are not requiring more to protect such a terrible item.”

“What more could you ask from a mother than to give up her firstborn child?”

“We could ask for your second-born as well.”

“I’d never give them both to you,” Paloma said. “But you can have my second-born.”

“What use to us is your second child,” asked the shadow, “aside from being a pretty ornament?”

“I’ve seen the future. She’ll possess great power. If you don’t believe me, I have the cards to prove it. Though I think we’re all better off if I never use them again.” Paloma lifted her chin stubbornly. “The curse imprisoning the Fates is losing power. It weakens every time the cards are used.”

“That’s not our concern.”

“It should be. More Fates will escape. Let me use your vaults to hide these cards while I search for a way to destroy them. Unless you want this place of worship to become the Temple of the Fallen Star—because I guarantee that if the Fates return, they will only allow people to worship them.”

The shadowy figured appeared to darken, turning from smoky gray to almost black.

“Very well,” it said at last. “Give us your second-born daughter and we will let you use our vaults to hold your accursed cards.”

“Done.” Paloma used a knife to slice her palm. “My daughter—”

“No!” Tella knocked the copper bowl from the pedestal, destroying the image before it could show her any more awful things. “My mother had no right to do that!” Tella shook her head, ripping her fingers through her curls as she backed away. “Even if that image is real, I’m not hers to give away.”

“And yet,” Theron said, “she already has. It’s been pledged in blood. Once you—”

Tella started running before Theron could finish. He said once you, which made it sound as if Tella had to do something before they could take her, and she didn’t plan on allowing that to happen, ever. Tella would never belong to anyone.

Theron didn’t follow. Maybe that meant it had been a test and that what she’d seen wasn’t real, or maybe he didn’t have to follow, because people only chased after things they didn’t already possess.

From the sound of it Dante did not pursue her either, though Tella didn’t spare so much as a look behind her as she raced down the Temple of the Stars’s steps. Her worthless sheet nearly ripped in her haste, but she didn’t stop running.

Scarlett had been right. Her mother had been worse than her father. At least he’d waited until Scarlett was of age before selling her off like a goat. Tella’s chest had never felt so hollow. She’d sacrificed everything for her mother, risked her freedom and her life, believing her mother still loved her and needed her. But the truth was she’d never cared. Not only had she left Tella, she’d given her away like a used dress.

Tella could have kept running, but her slippers were starting to tear, and the roads had turned unfamiliar.

Uneven grass, made dark by the night, rubbed against her shoes. Rather than incense and oils, the air smelled of thick beers and tart berry ciders. With a quick sweep of her eyes Tella saw temporary stages, and theatrical curtains hanging from trees.

She’d stumbled into a park. But Tella had no idea to what part of the city it belonged.

Not the Spice Quarter. Everything was far too pretty. From the street vendors’ deep-fried confections dusted with crushed violets and sugar to the bejeweled dresses worn by the women and the shining weapon-belts ornamenting the men. Only the swords on the belts did not look real, and neither did the women’s jewels.

It seemed she’d run right into the middle of a small festival made of park-plays, or some sort of fair to celebrate the empress’s upcoming birthday—perhaps for all of the Valendans not participating in Caraval. Curious gazes were moving in her direction. But Tella doubted anyone would mistake her for one of the performers. Unless these particular plays involved a female sacrifice, Tella was dressed entirely wrong. The women here were all covered up by bell-sleeved gowns with flowing skirts, while Tella had naked legs and exposed arms. Suddenly she was freezing. Now that she’d stopped, fatigue hit her like a wave of ice, leaving her shaken and out of breath, without a properly working heart to warm her up.