Chapter 33 - Meryn
MERYN
It’s bliss not being covered in sweat and grime for the first time in ages.
The bathing chambers are as luxurious as the rest of the castle, as are the clothes we’re provided.
The garments are still strikingly different from our usual attire—Astreonan clothing of such fine quality that I can’t move for fear of ripping the delicate fabric or tugging on one of the sewn pearls.
The women in our party have all been given lightweight gowns with intricate lacing up the backs, long sleeves, and high necklines. It must be court fashion, though it seems impractical in this weather.
I guess if you have the luxury of living in an enormous castle designed to funnel breezes and can afford servants to fan you, you don’t have to worry about beating the heat.
Studying my reflection in my room’s gilded mirror, I finish doing the best I can with my hair. The bright red of the dress is a more vibrant color than I’m used to wearing. The fabric makes me look as if I’ve been flayed.
Daintily flayed.
Leaving my room, I take in the rest of our party.
Stark in Astreonan clothing stops me short.
He’s in loose-fitting pants and a tunic made of a similar lightweight fabric, all in shades of blue.
The pants are a darker navy, but the shirt is a bright light blue, like a clear sky on a sunny day.
The contrast between the bright color and the deep darkness of his eyes makes me swallow, hard.
His tunic has long sleeves and a high collar, and they cover up the majority of his tattoos so that just the ones on his hands and the top of his neck are showing.
My mind fills in the blanks without my permission. I want to map the course of those tattoos as they dip down to his chest, spread across his abs, and lower…
I turn abruptly and head into Venna’s room to see if she needs any help.
Venna is hurriedly dressing to make up for lost time. She was busy scouting the castle while the rest of us prepared.
Siphons at the war front may know how to identify our spies and see through their skills, but it’s evident that things are much more lax this far from Nocturna. Her Kryptos abilities made her quick and undetectable as she mapped potential escape routes.
According to her report, no one saw her.
“And it just seems like a castle,” Venna says.
“Yeah. I’ve thought that before,” I scoff, remembering what we found lurking beneath our own castle’s bones. If there were secrets hidden by Siphon magic, would Venna be able to tell? Would any of us?
Alarmingly, it seems like we’ve all gotten used to the hint of sweetness in the air from their magic. I don’t even notice it anymore.
“But there are guards posted at all the exits—ostensibly for security. Though it feels more like containment. Here, Meryn.”
Venna taps my thigh, and I lift my leg and pull my skirts up to my hip. She bends and straps a sheath to my leg, then slots a dagger into it.
I do the same for Venna, slipping the leather into place against her skin.
It’s easy to hide blades beneath flowing skirts, which is good because we’re absolutely not going into this completely unarmed. Trust in our hosts is justifiably nonexistent.
I could always use shadebending if things go topsy-turvy… but I trust myself with knives almost more than with my magic.
We emerge back into the main room as a knock sounds at the doors, loud and insistent. I sigh. Somehow even their knocking sounds rude.
“Ready?” I check in with the rest of the group.
“As we’ll ever be,” Noemi replies.
“I know I’m as likely as any of you to be the one who slips up here, but we should try our best not to throw a wrench in negotiations before we know what’s on the table,” I say grudgingly. “No matter how much we want to throw caution to the wind and let our wolves run wild.”
I brush my mind against Anassa’s at that, and she sends me a rush of support. “Good luck. But should you need me to run wild, my fangs are eager to destroy our enemies.”
My mouth twists. I look around—it’s clear everyone else is talking with their direwolves as well. I wish they could all accompany us tonight.
Saela gives me a tight hug. She’s going to take dinner in our suite; political negotiations are no place for a child, especially ones that could devolve into violence.
Fredrich—I still can’t quite think of him as Father—has offered to stay with her. I tried not to let it hurt that Saela seemed excited about this.
Moving from my sister, I open the door and reveal a perfectly composed Felippe. If he’s annoyed that we kept him waiting, he doesn’t show it. He’s standing so straight I wonder briefly if there’s a metal rod surgically implanted along his spine.
“Good evening. You have been summoned for your dinner audience with King Lucien.”
Summoned. A ripple of irritation runs through our group.
Felippe, meanwhile, looks us over, clocking our transformation from travel-weary to dinner-ready. It’s clear from his sneering expression that he finds us lacking.
We follow his brisk gait through the castle’s glorious halls. Venna glares at Felippe’s back like she’s imagining ripping the rod out and shoving it into his eye socket.
He leads us through a series of increasingly ornate corridors—painted silk hangings fluttering in the warm breeze, tilework glistening in dozens of clear pools, statues of long-feathered birds in flight in the stone alcoves—until we reach the royal dining hall.
Felippe bows only his head as two servants push the tall wooden doors open in perfect synchronization.
The space they reveal is stunning.
The ceilings are high and arched, covered in intricate mosaics.
It looks as if we’re walking under a star-soaked night sky, the constellations a swirl of shining gold leaf and glinting precious stones.
Along the far wall, enormous windows offer panoramic views of the city below and the desolate yet beautiful desert beyond.
Several members of the Siphon court are already seated at the long, dark, polished wooden table laden with glittering dinnerware and wineglasses, including Elias, who gives me an insincere smile as we enter the room.
They’re all glittering with jewelry and embroidered finery. Beautiful, like all Siphons.
And at the head of the table…
King Lucien Brightbane.
I know it’s him instantly, even if he’s nothing like I expected. His skin is smooth and pale. Flawless. I’m aware he’s ancient, but I was unprepared for how young he appears, physically.
He doesn’t look any older than Stark. Late twenties maybe.
His hair is white-blond and shoulder-length, tucked behind ears laden with golden earrings.
The light locks frame a face of such perfect symmetry it seems almost unreal.
Impossible, as if a master sculptor shaped him from ivory, smoothing his features with both hands in careful caresses—sharp and high cheekbones, full lips, a strong chin.
He’s beautiful to an almost painful extreme.
Lucien lounges with casual elegance in an elaborately carved chair, the back curving around his shoulders. A gold crown is perched atop his head. It’s formed of twisting metal spikes that look both beautiful and lethal. They frame his face like rays of sunlight.
I stifle a breath. It’s the crown I saw in my foresight vision, when I was trying to decide if we should accept Ruby’s offer.
Though seated, Lucien’s height is evident. One long arm is draped over the table before him, his heavily ringed fingers playing at the stem of his crystal glass. His broad shoulders are clothed in midnight-black fabric adorned with subtle gold embroidery.
Black. Bold choice for a land of seemingly eternal sun.
He’s clearly paid careful attention to his appearance.
The black fabric complements his pale complexion.
His golden jewelry draws out the strands of blond in his nearly white hair.
The rings on his fingers are heavy but vary in design so as not to overwhelm the shape of his long fingers.
But none of the trappings holds a candle to his eyes.
Their familiar glint sends a cold current through me. They’re a piercing deep blue, and despite the difference in shade, looking at them shoves me straight back into Killian’s arms.
At least Lucien’s eyes don’t play at innocence, I note. From first glance, it’s easy to see that he’s cynical and cunning.
I hope he doesn’t stretch things out longer than necessary. I’m not in the mood to play games.
King Lucien’s gaze is on me as he tilts his head back and speaks from his seat. “Welcome. It’s been quite a few years since I’ve met a Sturmfrost Queen.”
The casual reference to Queen Chiara, paired with that note of amusement in his voice, sends another shiver down my spine. He knew her. Personally, most likely.
What’s ancient history to me is mere memory to him.
I reassure myself by focusing on the subtle press of the dagger against my thigh.
Before I can respond, Stark steps in front of me, angling his body as though he’s preparing to block a weapon’s blow.
“Stand up and greet her properly, then.” His tone is cutting.
Lucien’s attention shifts lazily to Stark, a sharp grin spreading across his face. “Ahh, yes, and as usual, the queen has brought a protector.”
There’s a brief pause during which he spins the tip of his finger around the rim of his glass. Then he stands.
The way he unfolds his tall frame and moves through his bow is deliberate. It’s practiced. Careful. But it’s also slow and shallow.
Once again, I can’t tell if I’m being disrespected.
As he rises to his full height, something glints on his crown. I narrow my eyes.
Cradled in the center is an opal similar to the one in my mother’s necklace and my own crown, and in the Mother Priestess’s ring.
Another Goddess Tear?
My heart starts to pound in my ears. What does it mean that another Tear is here in Astreona?
Lucien’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Or even the entirety of his lips. His features aren’t very yielding. “Why don’t you come sit at my side so that we can speak properly?”