House of Rising Sands

* * * Contents Synopsis Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Acknowledgments Also by Olivia Wildenstein About the Author Synopsis For five hundred years, my people and I have been locked on a tiny island in the middle of the ocean because of my mother's cruel magic. Although I dreamed of escaping our prison, I never imagined a day would come when I could. But that day came, and with it, a destiny that bound me to a winged beast of a man. A Crow. My Crow. House of Rising Sands is an origin story, but is recommended to be read after House of Beating Wings. One My heart hastens as the first snowflakes melt on my upturned face. Snow. I’ve never seen snow, never experienced its frosty kiss. I’ve only ever known sunshine and heat. To think our queendom’s five hundred years of isolation is over. To think the woman who betrayed the Crows and doomed her own people, who chucked me at my grandmother’s feet after I blew out my first candle . . . to think she could be dead. A chill, not born from the weather, wraps around my skin and clasps me as tightly as our pet serpents squeeze us when we venture into the sea for a swim. I drag my hand through the chaotic surf, watching my three seafaring companions. What an odd group we make—Bronwen, the blind and bald earth-Fae with the scarred face and the power to foretell the future; Agrippina, the young, blue-eyed, fiery-maned daughter of the loathsome Fae general; Abrax, my dearest friend, a boy I’ve loved in many ways over my five-centuries of life; and me, the pink-eyed, auburn-haired granddaughter of the Shabbin queen. A wave knocks the barge from side to side and sprinkles our dark cloaks with chilled salt water. Although adrenaline excites my pulse, my upper lip is dewy with a slick of fear at the task that lays ahead of me. The one that Bronwen and Agrippina risked their lives for me to accomplish—Bronwen, because she foresaw it, and Agrippina, because she loathes the Regio monarchs and their totalitarian regime. Something bumps my fingers. I curl my fingers into my palm, about to yank my hand away when a small tusk darts through the surface, followed by an orange head with big black eyes. I smile down at the juvenile serpent and stroke its long nose. Agrippina shrieks and all but scrambles onto Abrax’s lap, who calms her with quiet reassurances and a large palm between the shoulders. He reaches over her and pets the serpent who rattles with pleasure. Although the general’s daughter doesn’t stick any of her limbs out of the boat to touch the little beast, she regards it with curiosity instead of abhorrence. The animal trails us for a while, jumping and splashing, basking in our attention, before turning back toward Shabbe, or wherever it is he’s decided to go. I’ve always envied our serpents’ freedom, their ability to travel anywhere and everywhere, wards or no wards. I dry my fingers on my wool skirt, the consciousness of my freedom overtaking my enduring nervousness. Free. Never has a word tasted so sweet. As Luce looms closer, as the smears of green I observed from our shores become cutouts of trees, as the rainbow dots morph into homes and the toy boats that traverse the canal grow into vessels far larger than ours, my blood gushes beneath my skin. How different my life would’ve been had my world been bigger. I would’ve traveled to all four corners of the world, explored mountains and oceans, learned every tongue and custom, sampled foreign delicacies and foreign men. Another wave of goosebumps splash my skin when the royal Fae isle appears, aglow with lantern light that flickers behind the frosty swirls of snowflakes. My grandmother may have told me all about Isolacuori, but her stories pale in comparison to what lays before me. The easternmost island of Luce, upon which the Regios have erected their sprawling castle, glitters like a golden bauble through the snowdrifts. Unlike on the mainland where the houses are colorful, the only hints of color come from winter-blooming flowers. Over my heart’s ruckus, I faintly hear Agrippina explain Yuletide traditions to Abrax. Today is the second day of the Fae revel that lasts seven days and marks the turn of the new year. “I’m sorry,” I tell Bronwen, with whom I share a bench. “For?” “For what my mother did.” I’m not to blame yet cannot help feeling guilty. “Separating you from the man you love for five centuries . . . I cannot fathom your heartache.” I also cannot fathom the pain she endured at her father’s cruel touch. What sort of monster burns his child’s face? “Are you of the same mindset as my grandmother? Do you believe that my mother’s dead or do you think something else weakened the wards between our lands?” “The Cauldron hasn’t shown me what became of Meriam. Only that Agrippina and I had to travel to Luce to fetch you, and that you, Zendaya of Shabbe, had to free the Crow King.” “And you’re certain the obsidian stake will simply glide out of his body?” “Yes.” Her cloak is pulled up high, casting shadows over the uneven planes of her face. “Your Shabbin blood will separate the stone from the block of iron he’s become.” After a beat, I ask, “Why me? Why am I the one who needs to free Lorcan? Why not another Shabbin?” Not that I mind being the chosen one, but when Bronwen docked on our shores to collect me, something passed between her and my grandmother, something I wasn’t made privy to even though I’m convinced it concerns me. “Because you’re the one who’ll give birth to the curse-breaker.” “The curse-breaker?” I must gasp this because both Abrax and Agrippina stop discussing traditional Yuletide songs