Chapter 10
Ten
Alaric mutters curses for the duration of our trek up the mountain. As if I’m not equally appalled at the feel of his sweat seeping through my tunic and his wiry hair invading my mouth.
Unfortunately for both of us, his assistance is undeniably helpful. My lungs are slowly remembering how to fill, and the haze shimmering across my vision has finally dissipated.
“You can put me down now,” I say when we reach the outer wall of the Fortress and the gargantuan black gate lowers like a drawbridge. “I want to walk.”
I need to walk. The Vanzadorians will never respect me if I’m carried into their city like a simpering maiden. But Alaric strides across the gate before it has even stopped shuddering.
I pound my fists against his chest—and immediately regret it when my singed hand throbs painfully. “Put me down now,” I command.
“And let you stagger about like a madwoman? You’ll scare the children. Or trip and fall, and I’d hate for you to tumble over a cliff or scrape up that pretty face.”
“Don’t antagonize me.” I thump him even harder—with my good hand this time.
“Can’t I give my wife a compliment?”
“No,” I say, wriggling like a worm.
Stop. Rowenna’s command is so sharp and unexpected, I freeze. Maybe it isn’t a bad thing if they underestimate you, she explains.
But I cut her off with a shake of my head. Is this the first impression you would choose to make? We both know you wouldn’t be caught dead being carried into the Fortress.
Exactly. Her voice is soft, somber. My methods clearly weren’t the best.
We’re both quiet then, contemplating what she could have done differently. What I can possibly do to survive my time in Vanzador and make our oppressors pay.
While Rowenna and I have our quiet discourse, Alaric lugs me through another granite door.
Once inside, I expect to find the sprawl of cold, labyrinthine streets and crude stone houses Ro described in her letters, but we must have come through a different entrance, because we emerge not into a filthy, unkempt slum but a spacious plaza that rivals the receiving courtyard in Tashir in size and beauty.
The air in here is still and warm, unlike the punishing wind outside the walls, and the orange glow of the setting sun dances across a mosaic floor made of swirling black onyx and white quartz.
A gurgling fountain occupies the center of the square, and tidy rings of vendor carts ripple outward, offering breads and cheeses, as well as glittering stone necklaces and earrings.
Droves of people dressed in the scandalous Vanzadorian fashion—sheer lace dresses with plunging necklines and waistcoats corded in silver and gold—meander about with baskets in hand, giggling and gossiping, while groups of men and women wearing more practical tunics and trousers make their way toward gemstone mines indicated on wooden placards.
Around the fountain, children play a game of tag while loose dogs bound through the chaos, gobbling up crumbs.
It’s all so ordinary. So normal. If not for the ridiculous clothing, it could almost be the marketplace in Tashir.
Which is wrong.
Vanzador is nothing like Tashir.
As Alaric carries me across the square, the people slowly become aware of our presence.
No one says or does anything overtly hostile, but each pointed finger makes me flinch.
I’m surprised to feel Alaric flinching too, since the stares and whispers clearly aren’t aimed at him.
The people bow as he passes. Some eagerly wave and call his name.
But he ignores them all, tightens his grip, and walks faster.
“Ah, there they are!” King Soren’s voice booms from across the square, where he sits on a throne of chiseled quartz beneath a gaudy canopy. A valet holds a near-empty board of sliced meats at Soren’s elbow, giving the impression he’s been lounging there a very long while, awaiting our entrance.
A small contingent of men and women wearing stone-blue robes with tasseled caps surround their king, surveying the comings and goings of the square with a critical eye.
Beyond them, groups of courtiers in elegant coats and dresses chat amiably with miners clad in dirt-streaked tunics.
Despite the obvious disparity in rank, they all seem to be united by a common goal: winning King Soren’s favor.
They gaze at their king as if he’s as bright and life-giving as the sun itself, and jostle to get nearer to his warmth.
For his part, Soren smiles and laughs freely, and it’s so contrary to the cruel tyrant who returned Rowenna in a coffin and left Tashir in ashes, I find myself wondering if it’s the same man. Could he truly be such a skilled actor? Or are his people just that blind and na?ve?
Soren stands and waves to his son. “Come, present your new bride!” he shouts for all to hear.
“I’m glad to see you’re attending to your husbandly duties—just as I taught you.
” He gestures to me in Alaric’s arms and gives a theatrical wink that makes his audience titter.
“But you had her all to yourself during your romantic stroll up the mountain. Let the rest of us bask in the splendor and charms of Miss Indira Harrak.”
Soren smiles delightedly, and there are so many things wrong with this moment.
“I’ve also just heard the reports from the mines,” Soren continues, nodding to the workers. “Your suggestion to widen the Pyrea Trench, rather than drilling deeper, proved most fruitful, my son. Come rub it in my face and bask in your accomplishment.”
The miners stomp their feet and whoop loudly, and the courtiers join in with eager applause, but King Soren is more effusive than them all.
He beams proudly and beckons for Alaric the way you would a puppy—not a nearly full-grown man.
It’s excessive, and more than a little embarrassing, but I also find it secretly endearing.
I’d give anything for my parents to acknowledge my efforts with half as much enthusiasm.
I fully expect Alaric to bound over and accept his praise and head scratches, but one of the blue-robed spectators steps forward—an elderly man with long steel-gray hair.
Unlike the rest of the audience, he and his comrades aren’t smiling. Or clapping. They stand with their heads tilted together and exchange furtive whispers that make Alaric stiffen. His fingers curl into my skin with painful pressure as the old man lays a gentle hand on Soren’s shoulder.
“Alaric’s bride is clearly unwell from the climb, Your Majesty,” he says to Soren, though his gaze is fixed doggedly on Alaric. “Go care for her, my prince. She needs you more than we do.”
Tension crackles through Alaric’s limbs, and his weight shifts slightly forward, reminding me of a cornered fox in the moment it must decide whether to attack or retreat to the safety of its den. For my sake, I sincerely hope it’s the latter. I’d rather not be literally carried into battle.
Alaric’s eyes dart between his father and the old man, and even though Soren is still smiling and the majority of the crowd is cheering, Alaric steps back with a deferential nod.
“He’s right, Father. I must attend to my wife.
I’ll meet you in your study to go over the mining reports once she’s settled.
” Alaric turns and sets off across the square at an even brisker clip, ignoring his Father’s calls to reconsider and the disappointed hum of the crowd.
I don’t know what just passed between Alaric and the old man, and I don’t believe for a second it had anything to do with my needs or comfort, but I happily let him carry me out of the sparkling square that’s nothing like the Vanzador Rowenna described in her letters.
Eager to get away from the merry, laughing king, who’s somehow tricked his people into loving him.
Once we enter the castle proper, I’m certain I’ll find the dark, loathsome underbelly of this place. The true Vanzador, where everything will make more sense.
Alaric steps quickly past the vendor stalls, under an enormous archway, and down an open-air corridor lined with statues of bobcats and mountain lions. As soon as we’re out of view, he finally sets me down. “Keep up, or I’ll be forced to carry you again,” he warns.
I nod and follow him through a pebble garden and past smaller courtyards partitioned by fluttering sheer curtains.
Every time we enter a new space, I expect the luxury to fall away—for decrepit tunnels and sewage-filled streets to reveal themselves, and for people to start hurling rocks and insults at me—but every interconnecting plaza is as grand as the next, and the people we pass watch with respectful interest—if they watch at all.
Servants, artisans, and errand boys go about their business with placid smiles, while courtiers sit cross-legged on cushions with one palm pressed into the earth and the other draped across their eyes.
It’s the same position Alaric assumed when praying on the Tomb Flats, and even though they look perfectly peaceful, unease scuttles down my neck like a spider.
My anxiety only grows when we enter the castle itself, because it doesn’t feel like a dungeon either.
The ceilings are high and vaulted, like an old forest letting in dappled sunlight through the leafy canopy.
I find myself wondering if we could recreate something similar under the hill until Rowenna clucks her tongue.
Don’t fall prey to their deception. You’re better than this.
I glare at every vibrant tapestry and gleaming candelabra we pass, my guilt and disquiet steadily growing.
I don’t want to doubt Rowenna, but I can’t deny what I’m seeing.
There must be another explanation. Perhaps they blindfolded her and tossed her directly into a prison cell because they knew she was a threat, and they have no such fears about me?
I don’t realize I’ve stopped walking until Alaric turns and glances back. It could be the shadows, but I’d swear he’s suppressing a smirk. “What’s the matter? Isn’t our palace to your liking?”