Madly (2 page)

Chapter Five

Samantha

THE KING SPEAKS. “SAMANTHA KEMI, as the apprentice of registered alchemist Ostanes Kemi, you are Summoned to Palace Great immediately.”

I blink, because anything requiring more rational thought is impossible right now. The king of Nova—a person I've only ever seen on television casts, in newspapers, and once very far away up on the balcony of the castle—is Summoning me to the palace.

Can he even Summon me to the palace? This has to be some kind of trick, because there's no way that the royal family want anything to do with some lowly apprentice alchemist . . . unless I did something wrong? But then it would be the police at my door, not the royal family. We have a government, politicians and laws like everywhere else. The royals are figureheads, not dictators.

They can't use their magic to stop someone in the street and Summon them to the palace.

This isn't real. It's a joke. “Anita, are you seeing this?” I ask.

“Sam, I have to go.”

I tear my eyes from the king's face for a moment. Anita is staring wide-eyed at her phone. She looks scared. And if she can see the king's eyes narrowing every second I leave him hanging, she isn't showing any sign of it. It must be a private message just for me.

“My dad's been Summoned and Mum wants me to come home straightaway,” she says, holding out her phone for me to see the text.

“You go,” I say, and then I bite my bottom lip and swallow hard.

“What's happening?” she whispers. I guess we're both about to find out. She gives me a quick hug and then disappears into the crowd, heading in the direction of her home.

When I turn back to the screen, the king is gone—and for a brief moment I wonder if it's all been a dream. Now there's another man: one with a forked beard protruding from his chin.

“Samantha Kemi, I am Renel Landry, advisor to the royal family. Can you confirm that you have heard the Summons and are ready to travel to Palace Great immediately?”

I wonder what choice I have. What on earth can the royal family want with me? “Y-yes,” I stammer.

I can't believe that no one has stopped to stare at this strange spectacle, but everyone flows past the bus shelter as if the entire structure doesn't exist. The power of the royals. The advisor shifts to one side, his hand beckoning me through the screen. “You have transported before, haven't you?” he asks.

Transported? The notion finally breaks my nerve and I almost laugh in the man's face. But I compose myself and shake my head. “No, sir.” Then, my eyes finally focus and I see the opulent room behind him, one half of an immense gold chandelier behind his head, rich tapestries on the wall, and suddenly I'm overwhelmed by such an immense wave of curiosity that it converts into bravery. “But I've watched others do it and I'm confident I can do it too.”

He gives me a withering look and I know he doesn't buy it for a second. “Such confidence is misplaced. The trip to Palace Great is long . . .”

Truth is, I'm not comfortable with the idea of transporting. I know a few of the basic rules: Hold tight. Keep your mouth closed. Never break eye contact. Any screen—or mirror—can be used to transport, although most Talented households have a designated screen known as a Summons. For long distances—or for travel overseas—most people use the kingstown Transport Terminal.

But doing it myself, from a bus stop in the middle of the street, is another thing entirely.

I can hear the king barking out an order. “Bring her. We're wasting time.”

A grimace crosses Renel's face and he returns his gaze to me, eyes filled with determination. They don't lose their sheen of contempt, though. I hate the way snobby Talenteds look down on people like me. “All right, Miss Kemi. You say you can do it and it is a matter of urgency that you reach the palace as soon as possible.” He holds his arms out, and the barriers between us break down. His fingertips push through the glass of the screen, which ripples like a pond disturbed by a stone.

“I'm coming,” I say, with more determination than I feel. I reach out and grab his outstretched hands, stare into his eyes, and allow myself to be pulled into the glass.

The ground slips away from my feet, the crowds of people falling away from me even though I feel as if I'm not moving at all. His Talent is so strong; he guides me easily along the streams of magic to the palace. I'm pulled higher and higher, and in my peripheral vision I can see we're following the line of the rooftops as they slope abruptly upward. It's the strangest feeling—not like flying, since there's no wind, no rush of air passing by, just Renel's eyes locked on mine and the tug of his arms straining my shoulders.

It happens all too quickly. As we near the castle at the top of town, suddenly I'm being dragged directly upward, into the darkening sky. My heart rushes into
my throat and although I know I don't have far to go, I feel an overwhelming urge to look down on the city. It's madness, it could mean my death, but the temptation is too much. I look down.

Renel grimaces, sweat breaking out on his forehead. “Don't break eye contact!” he shouts, but a moment too late.

I'm freefalling. Whatever magic had suspended me is gone. The first thing that strikes me is the cold. Blood of dragons, it's freezing! But then my stomach drops from my body and I scream as the wind roars in my ears.

Arms burst through the air, four strong hands gripping my shoulders. The wind and cold are shut out as abruptly as a slammed door, and with one final grunt of effort I am pulled through a screen and onto a polished marble floor.

I land with a thump I know will raise a blue-and-­yellow bruise on my hip by morning.

Salve of Agata's hazel—to clear a bruise in less than twenty-four hours.

Renel waits for me as I scramble to my feet. A prickly wave of shame rises, the heat of it creeping up my neck to reach my cheeks. As if embarrassing myself in front of the king and his advisor could be any worse, the room is filled with people. I relax a little when I spot Mr. Patel in the crowd. His is the only face displaying a modicum of concern. I shuffle away from the large screen on the wall that I came in through, trying to blend into the crowd.

The king paces, and the sight of him is unnerving. He cuts a domineering silhouette in full military dress, every button bright and polished, obviously ready for a TV appearance. This is not an occasion for the likes of me, in my ripped jeans and the band T-shirt I was wearing out to the concert. I hug my arms around myself, wishing that I could crawl under the lovely oriental carpet and hide. Or at least put on a smarter shirt.

“Can we begin?” the king says, looking up from his pacing at Renel.

“We're still waiting for one more.”

“Well, we can't wait any longer. Get started.” He waves a gloved hand impatiently.

Renel draws a deep breath. “Princess Evelyn has been poisoned.”

Shockwaves ripple through the room and my hand flies to my mouth. This is the last thing that I expected. The royal family is untouchable. The palace is one of the most secure buildings in Nova. Who could break down the magical barriers put up by one of the world's most powerful Talented families?

“Is she all right?” someone asks.

“We don't know. But we do know this . . .” Renel hesitates. He walks over to the center of the room, where there is a tall column of crimson velvet cloth. He pulls the cloth away, revealing an immense curved horn, as long as my arm and black as lacquered ebony.
Intricate hunting scenes are carved into the bone, and thin gold bands circle both ends. It floats in the center of the room, encased in a beam of golden light. It is breathtakingly beautiful. And it can only mean one thing. “Auden's Horn has awoken. The Princess's life is in mortal danger, and the horn has called you here to join in a Wilde Hunt for the cure.”

A frisson of electricity runs through me. Can this really be happening? But I don't want to question it. Wilde Hunts create alchemy rock stars. My spine straightens, my arms fall by my sides, and I hold my head a little higher.

“Over my dead body.” There's a growl from behind me that I recognize. My granddad enters the room, accompanied by two guards. The flat cap he always wears has been knocked askew; he looks like he's barely been able to button up his coat before they brought him in. They must have brought him here from the shop—my granddad would never transport. He shrugs off the guards, strides over to me in front of all the people, grabs me by the arm and yanks me away.

“Ostanes, stop,” says the king. There's a collective intake of breath and the room falls silent. My granddad shakes with reluctance, but he stops and turns back to face the king.

“The Kemis don't participate in royal goose chases,” he says through gritted teeth. “We don't need to be here,
as we won't be participating.” There is rage and defiance and even a touch of fear in my granddad's voice, and it sends chills down my spine.

“Let him leave,” says a man's voice. The hairs on my arms rise as Zol steps forward. He's probably the richest man in Nova, CEO of ZA Corp., and close to the royals already. I suppress the urge to cower in his presence. “Your Highness, with respect, why didn't you come straight to us? We have the best mixers in the business. We can cure anything. Create any potion. I have a hundred graduate interns that could beat anyone in this room. But a Wilde Hunt? Is that really necessary?”

“I'm sure you would rather send one of your interns than risk it yourself,” my grandfather says.

“Be quiet, old man!” Zol snaps.

“Are you suggesting we ignore the call of Auden's Horn and endanger my daughter's life?” the king asks.

“No, of course not, Your Highness.” Zol bows.

The king slumps into his throne. “Believe me, if we could avoid this, we would. But the Wilde Hunts have protected my family for centuries. If the hunt has been called, then we have no choice but to obey.”

Chapter Six

Samantha

“CAN WE SEE HER?” The words are out of my mouth before I remember the company I'm in. But the whole crowd tilts forward slightly toward the king and Renel, as if they were waiting to ask the same question.

Renel's mouth is set in a firm line, but he walks over to a darkened window on the opposite side of the room and touches it with his staff, and it becomes clear glass. “For the moment, the princess is residing in these chambers, looked after by palace doctors.”

We edge forward, desperate to see what on earth can have happened to one of the richest and most powerful people in the world. Granddad mutters to himself, although I can tell he's still intrigued. But there's nothing to see. In fact, if Renel hadn't told us that something was wrong, I wouldn't have suspected a thing.

Princess Evelyn is sitting quietly, her hands in her lap. The room is sparsely furnished, just a simple desk, the
chair she's sitting on, and a mirror hanging on the far wall.

She's just as pretty as in the casts. Prettier, actually. She's wearing the super-cool dress that Anita loves, all light-blue sparkle and sequins but still somehow lighter than air. It floats around her body, almost as if it's suspended in water. I wonder if any of it is glamoured, but if it is, it's the most natural one I've seen.

Sitting there, surrounded by the gray stone walls, she looks so vulnerable, like an exotic bird trapped in a cage. Occasionally she looks up, but not at us. The window must be one-way, as she doesn't seem to notice the people peering at her through the glass.

“I'm confused, I thought you said she had been poisoned?” asks someone.

Renel nods. “She has.”

“Then let ZoroAster Corp. be the first to agree to join the hunt,” says Zol, from the back of the room. He doesn't step forward to look at the princess.

There's a crackle of electricity and a shrill voice fills the air. In the center of the room, a frail form emerges, swathed in a long purple gown. The Queen Mother. “Why should we trust you when it was likely your son who administered the potion!” she says accusingly.

Shockwave number two—and I don't think some of the older folk in the room are going to be able to handle any more bombshells. Zol's son . . . Zain? He's here too, cringing behind his dad, his face pale. He's in a tuxedo, but
he looks disheveled—his bow tie hanging loose around his neck, the top buttons of his shirt undone. He must've been on his way to the princess's party when he . . . I can't even bring myself to think it. I don't know Zain well, but what I do know about him makes me skeptical that he'd poison the princess. Top of his class in basically everything, most popular boy in school, captain of the Talented rugby team, apprentice to his father, and heir apparent to ZoroAster Corp.—not to mention incredibly hot. Not someone who needs to resort to potions to solve his problems.

I want to disappear into a hole in the ground, but I relax as I doubt Zain will recognize me.

Anita might refute that statement. Zain has this weird habit of showing up wherever we are—at the coffee shop where Anita and I order our sugar-laden frappuccinos, at Molly's school piano recital, and, most recently, he came back to our high school just to judge our annual potions competition. I chalk it up to coincidence, but Anita is convinced it's somehow because of me. I deny it every time, but once, at the coffee shop, I caught his eye and we ended up staring at each other for longer was normal. He broke off first, his friends noticing, pointing at me and laughing. Except he had looked at me first. I was sure of it.

It didn't matter, anyway. The potions fair was the only thing that annoyed me. That competition was my one chance to show off my skills somewhere other than in my granddad's lab. Of course, what I learned in potions
class at school could never compare to the training I was getting as my granddad's apprentice, so I knew it wasn't a fair game. But I'd never seen the girls in my class throw so much effort into a potions fair before. Now that he was judging, suddenly it was mixing this, and potions that.

I'd thrown my all into my project, but I'd done that every year. This time I'd decided to experiment with mixing rosemary oil and Sphinx breath to try and come up with a formula to help sharpen focus. The problem was, it worked even better than I intended. I tried a tiny sample, and before I knew it I was up all night, my mind racing a million miles an hour, drinking up information from textbooks like it was water. I kept waiting for the inevitable crash, but it never came.

It was kind of genius. I knew if I took more of my potion, I'd be able to study for hours on end, without needing a break. I'd probably pass all my exams with flying colors. This was high-level stuff, well beyond my current grade. But I also knew it was insanely dangerous. It had been all over the news last year when two kids desperate to pass their exams OD'd on a synth version of the potion that was meant to counteract hyperactivity disorder.

But before the big day I noticed some of the potion had gone missing. Only about half of it remained in the container. As soon as I realized that, I pushed the mix into the sink, the glass smashing into a million pieces, the liquid swirling down the drain.

So instead, my competition entry was a simple tonic to cure a sore throat. Nothing fancy. I set up my presentation board and waited for someone else to take the glory. Yet Zain had walked straight over to me, without looking at anyone else's work, his bright blue eyes shining, an old-fashioned rosette in his hand. He stood so close I could count the strands of black hair that tumbled onto his forehead. But then he saw what I was submitting, and I could see the confusion on his face . . . followed by the disappointment. “I expected better, Sam,” he said, and I was so surprised he knew my name I almost forgot to be annoyed at how condescending he sounded. He awarded the prize to the girl next to me. She'd created some formula that fizzed and exploded like a miniature volcano. Toddlers could have mixed that potion.

I went over every detail of that encounter with Anita. Arjun overheard us gossiping, rolled his eyes, and said, “I bet he was looking for a mix to steal back to the ZA lab.”

Arjun was probably right, but something about the way Zain had looked at me made me feel ashamed for failing to live up to the Kemi reputation. Like he'd been expecting greatness and found me lacking.

Seeing Zain now, I'm taken straight back to that day. He still has his bluer-than-blue eyes and dark hair, almost jet-black, as his signature, his stand against the crowd. Normally the cool kids are defined by their golden blond hair—their attempt to emulate the princess in
all things. But Zain is so cool he doesn't need to match. My hair is also so-dark-brown-it-might-almost-be-black, but no one thinks it's cool. It's an inherited Kemi trait: a clear marker of our eastern heritage that my mother's blonde Novaen genes haven't been able to impact at all. Sometimes I'd love to change it, but the cost of such a glamour is extortionate.

In addition to his apprenticeship to ZoroAster Corp., Zain studies Synths & Potions at University of Kingstown. It's not like I stalk him or anything. I only know that because that was the exact course that I would've wanted to take . . . if I wasn't going straight into full-time apprentices­hip to my granddad after high school.

Despite the supposed ingrained hatred of synths that's swirling through my blood, I sometimes think it would be amazing to work in a swanky lab, with every ingredient at my fingertips, and never worry about money again. The Kemi gift is an incredible thing to have—or maybe was, a hundred years ago, when working with natural ingredients was the only option.

Granddad calls synths a travesty, an abomination. I'm not so sure. All I know is that there's no way any Kemi is going to work with synths, not while he is alive. I squash those dreams deep down into a locked box in my brain, disturbed that one look at Zain can make me want to change the course of my career and devastate my family.

The rage pouring out of the Queen Mother is palpable—
so thick I can feel it wrap itself around me, uncomfortable as a blanket on a hot summer night. I can't imagine what it must be like for Zol and Zain, at whom the heat is directed as sharp and focused as a laser.

“We've already ruled out Zain as a suspect,” says the king. “He volunteered for a truth serum test.”

“I still don't trust him in our palace,” the Queen Mother says.

“Go back to your chambers, Mother. This is not your business.”

I can hardly believe the king is talking to his mother that way. The Queen Mother rarely makes public appearances—­and now I wonder if it's her choice or a decision made for her. The Queen Mother scrunches her face into an even deeper frown, but she doesn't protest except with a single “Pah!”

I turn back to look at the princess. She's been still for so long; she's like a waxwork statue and just as flawless.
What is wrong with you, Princess?

A bony finger brushes my arm and I jump like I've been shocked with electricity. The Queen Mother is touching me. I fumble over my etiquette—I really never thought I would meet a member of the royal family, ever!—and end up in a half-curtsy, half-bow that I'm sure pays no one any respect. The Queen Mother doesn't seem to mind, though, or she's too polite to fuss. She says, “Ostanes, is this your granddaughter?”

My granddad bows his head. “Yes, my lady.”

“She is beautiful. So tall! That doesn't come from your side of the family, then.” Her mouth is buried so deep in wrinkles it takes a moment to see that she is smiling. She leans in to my granddad. “I'm glad you're here,” she says. “The Kemis never fail us.”

I stand stock-still, worried my granddad is going to explode. But instead he says simply, “Your Majesty,” and bows stiffly. The Queen Mother tilts her head toward me to say good-bye, and walks through the wall out of the room.

My arm tingles from where she touched me.

Movement from the princess draws my attention back again. I can't seem to look away for too long—her presence is magnetic, compelling. Then, almost so subtly I miss it, her eyes flicker toward the mirror. She stares at herself for a moment before dropping her eyes again. She brings her hands up to her lips, then slides them gently to her throat, all the while staring demurely at her lap. Then she flicks her eyes up again.

She smiles.

She's flirting with the mirror, and in that instant, I know the truth.

“She's in love with herself,” I say in a voice barely louder than a whisper, and then I clasp my hands over my mouth.