Chapter Five
The walk to the throne room feels like walking to the gallows. We can’t speak to each other, but I know Larus and Adria must be thinking the same thing.
We thought we’d have another day to prepare.
Before we left, we discussed a few strategies to keep Ronan from knowing our plans.
He’s going to expect our anger and even some level of murderous desire.
But how much anger would be too much? How many thoughts of the ways I’d like to see him die would be too many?
And how far away can he sense our feelings? Can he sense them even now? He’s somewhere in the palace, somewhere in this labyrinth of corridors and stairwells. Had he sensed us when we arrived? What had I thought about since we got here? What had I felt?
Gods, what am I doing? I’m going to drive myself insane with worry, and I haven’t even seen the man yet. My head feels strangely light, the way it feels when I haven’t eaten in hours. I’ve got to find a way to calm down before I spend my first time meeting the king passed out on the floor.
“Breathe,” says Larus softly so that only I can hear him. “Remember your training.”
My training? I’ve trained in swinging swords, darkening shadows, parrying with a dagger, shooting a bow.
I’ve also trained in formal dancing, the correct silverware to use at dinner, how to play the flute passably well, and how to pray to the gods…
How is any of that going to help me when the man I’m going to kill can sense my every feeling?
“Oh no, I wasn’t thinking of murdering you, your majesty.
I was thinking about which fork to use with the salad. ”
Fucked. I’m fucked.
We turn a corner and are faced with a pair of wooden doors taller and wider than the ferry’s portcullis, their surfaces etched with gilded swirls.
I pause, imagining the impossible weight of them and wondering how in the world they manage to get them open, when two guards stretch out their hands, and the doors shudder, swinging forth into the room.
Nature magic, maybe, because of the wood, or earth, if they’re somehow using the hinges for leverage.
Or air, even, though I felt no gust of wind.
The sight inside is even more spectacular.
Ronan’s throne room is larger than even our greatest temple.
It’s a cavernous space with golden candlelit chandeliers hanging high in the rafters, giant columns of pinkish stone, and rows of wooden benches lining the aisles, all pointing to an enormous chair at the very back.
The throne itself is wooden as well, and it appears unremarkable other than its size. From what I remember, it’s the original throne built for the original Selaran ruler Queen Elissa from when the lands were first settled, long before the divide that had torn Nithyria into its own kingdom.
I’m surprised to see that Ronan hasn’t made himself a new one out of gold yet.
As we’re led down the aisle to the throne, it becomes clear that Ronan isn’t in it. I glance at Adria, but she simply shakes her head and looks forward.
“God-King Ronan prefers to receive guests in his antechamber,” Cyrus explains, his voice dripping with displeasure. “He likes to see his people eye to eye.”
His people. We are not his people. We will never be—
No. I stop myself. This is exactly the kind of thing I can’t think of.
Gods, it’s hard to not think of something. As soon as you know you’re not supposed to be thinking of it, it’s the only thing you can think of at all.
Cyrus leads us to the left of the throne and into a room at the back. It’s as different from the throne room as it could possibly be. It’s small and quite nicely furnished, with fine rugs in a rich red and tables and chairs carved from a dark red wood.
The wood of the phoenix tree, I realize. Our wood. The wood they burn for their gold.
Is this some kind of power play? To parade us in here and remind us of what they took from us? To remind us that they’ll always have the power to take it?
I bite the inside of my mouth to stop that line of thinking too.
A door opens at the back, and in he walks.
No trumpets. No fanfare. Only a pair of guards in chainmail and a retinue behind him.
This is the God-King of Selara. The man who killed my father. The man who took our lands from us. Who humiliated my sister. Who starved our people. The man we’ve traveled hundreds of miles to kil—meet. To meet, and to attend his festival, and nothing else. That’s all we’re here for.
I hope he felt that.
He’s just…a man.
I don’t know what I expected. I guess in my mind, I’d built him up to be a monster.
I’ve been hearing about him since I was a child.
For the last few years of the war, I’d heard about his every move in the coded letters my family sent Larus.
I imagined someone larger than life, someone enormous and hideous and revolting, someone with the soul of a beast and the face of one of Vahlo’s demons.
But he’s just an ordinary man. Well, not ordinary exactly. He’s certainly taller than everyone in the room. That’s all I really have time to determine before I see everyone around me bowing, and I bend to do the same.
When I look back up, he’s looking directly into my eyes.
The intensity of his gaze sends a jolt of panic through me. What does he sense? What does he know?
Keep it together, Sylvie. Find something else to focus on.
A bead of sweat slides down my neck. It will look suspicious if I look away from him when he’s staring at me so intently, so I look back and study his face.
It’s…well, it’s perfect. There’s really no other way to put it. It’s almost too perfect. Uncannily perfect, artificial almost. Every proportion is perfect—the spacing of his brown eyes, the length and angle of his nose, the fullness of his lips. The set of his smooth jaw, the size of his ears.
Even the hair on his crownless head is perfect. It’s a dark, rich brown with a few sun-kissed streaks of gold, and it has a gentle wave that falls in just the right way onto his forehead to accentuate his perfectly groomed brows.
I can’t see much of his figure under his black robes, but I’m willing to bet it’s perfect as well.
I can see why someone might find him handsome. Someone, not me. I like faces with a bit more character, with a bit of history in them. A nose broken defending someone’s honor. A scar from the time oil jumped out of the pan.
This man looks like he hasn’t suffered a day in his life.
A smile flashes across his lips; there and gone in an instant.
Can he feel my disdain?
“Presenting, by the Grace of the Gods, Ronan III; Most High, Most Mighty, and Most Exalted God-King of Selara; Lord of Nithyria and Protector of the Realm. Please stand in line and wait to greet your king.”
Of course Cyrus threw that bit in there about Nithyria. It takes every ounce of control that I have not to roll my eyes.
Our small party is made up of the only members of our house worthy of introduction to royalty: our alchemist Hermes, our Guardian Larus, me, and finally Adria.
Typhon ignores his father’s command and goes to a corner of the small room to greet a short-haired woman in a silk shirt and trousers who entered with Ronan.
I guess he’s met the king many times before.
I want to ask Larus who Typhon is talking to, but everyone is silent as they wait for the king to approach.
He starts with Hermes. Hermes bows low to the king and is careful not to meet his eye.
Was I not supposed to look at him? I’m pretty sure Larus mentioned that.
Shit.
“Welcome back, Warden Magnus.” I wonder if Ronan truly remembers Hermes, who hasn’t spent much time in the capital since the war began, or if he’s just pretending to do so to seem charming.
Unfortunately, it seems to work on Hermes, who chuckles as he thanks the king for his generosity. This is part of the reason we kept him out of the plan: he’s something of a sycophant, and the alchemists on the whole have always been loyal to the crown over their assigned houses.
Next up is Larus. Larus gives a respectful bow, if not as fawning of a bow as Hermes, and meets the king’s eye with a face of perfect passivity.
Okay, eye contact must be allowed.
“Guardian Larus Adama,” says Ronan. Ronan has a couple of inches on Larus, but he tilts his head forward a bit to diminish the difference. “I heard tales of the elegance of your swordsmanship from my father. I hope you’ll do us the honor of entering into the tournament.”
Larus laughs at the suggestion, but unlike Hermes, his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I leave the fighting to the young these days, but I’m sure our girls will do us proud.”
“I’m counting on it,” says Ronan.
Then he turns to me.
His eyes lock with mine before he even steps closer to face me. His stare is unnerving in its intensity. My instinct is to look away. To sink back into the shadows, to let his light shine on someone else.
But I remember what Larus told me. I can’t think of his words, not when I’m close enough to the king to reach out and touch him. Not when I’m certain he can feel everything I'm feeling. But I remember how they made me feel. Defiant. Angry.
Powerful.
I straighten my back, pulling myself up as tall as I can. I’m wearing my armor, not the dress we’d hoped would make a good impression, but maybe it’s for the best. Let him see our strength before I try to beguile him.
Then I bow, but I don’t break eye contact.
He hesitates for a long moment before speaking to me, his face unreadable. “Sylvara of House Verran,” he says, his voice soft. Intimate. As if I’m the only person in the room.
“Sylvie,” I say, maybe a little too loudly.
I can see his game. He’s sensed my desire to avoid the spotlight, and he’s trying to win me over by making me comfortable.
Maybe I should let him believe he has. Maybe I should smile and act like I’m swooning.
I do admit that I feel the same sort of warmth and comfort in his presence as I felt in Zara’s. It must be a gift of the light-born, then. And it’s an unfair one at that. How easy life must be when everyone likes you simply because they feel good when they’re near you.
And I will also admit that his beauty, far too perfect though it may be, is an unfair advantage as well.
It’s distracting up close. I wonder how long he’s spent making his hair fall that way; how many elixirs does he use to make his skin so smooth and soft-looking?
Does he have an entire team of servants dedicated to trimming his eyebrows?
I wouldn’t be surprised.
Maybe it’s a trick of the light in the room, but it looks like his skin is actually glowing a little. It’s subtle, but with it, I can see the outlines of his arms through his royal robes, the sheer black fabric catching on ample muscle—of course. Of course his body is perfect. How else could it be?
He’s standing quite close, closer than I’d expected him to come. I hadn’t expected him to come off his throne, to be honest, let alone to meet with him eye to eye on our first day in the palace. He’s right here in front of me, only a few feet away, close enough to kil—
Fuck.
Think of something, anything, else.
My mind jumps frantically from the word I want to think, the word I’m desperately trying not to think, and lands somewhere else entirely.
Close enough to…close enough to…close enough to…kiss.
His eyes flash with recognition, and heat rises up the back of my neck. This is mortifying. I’m about to pray to any god that will listen to keep my cheeks from turning red.
He smiles with his eyes wide open, no doubt picking up on whatever the fuck is going on with my feelings. “Sylvie. Welcome to the capital. I’ve heard it’s your first visit. I hope you find it to be everything you imagined and more.”
Then he winks at me before turning to Adria.
He fucking winks. Gods, save me.
I’m reeling, my thoughts flying in a panic.
I feel sick. I have to get out of here. I can’t believe I let my mind think even for a second about kissing him, even to save my own life.
I don’t want to be anywhere near him. This is a huge mistake.
There’s no way I can do this. There’s no way I can conceal my feelings.
I’m going to doom us all. This is an absolute disaster.
And then, just as I’m watching Adria bow out of the corner of my eye, something occurs to me: I’ve got him exactly where I want him.
He was charmed by my presence. Wasn’t he? What else could the wink have been for? In any case, he certainly didn’t seem angry or concerned about us or what we’re doing here.
Larus has trained me to observe. To use my senses, to keep out of sight, to speak little and carefully consider my words, to believe in the power of secrets to strengthen my shadows.
Secrets and lies. The key to my power.
My heart is the secret.
My mind is the lie.
They can’t change your heart, Adria said.
I don’t have to change my heart to do what we came here to do. All I need to do is keep my mind on track. I can lie to him. It can work.
And maybe I can make him feel something too.