Chapter 61
I’VE BARELY TAKEN it in when there’s a cry at the window. “It’s Effan. Dead!” The news spreads outside, while within the cottage, I blink at his corpse.
No obvious marks. Some of the anatomy books I’ve read describe the body in different phases of decomposition. All I can tell from here is that he’s been dead a while. But this cupboard was empty when I came here with Drystan—his body has been moved.
The Apothic hangs back. He’s probably used to dealing with medicines but not patients.
Questions and suspicions cross the room in darting glances.
“How did he get here?” Lord Mastelle strides in. “And how long has he been here?” Lips flat, he crouches and peers at the once-handsome features.
“Someone must’ve brought him here.” Asti nods. “Look at all this damage. They kept him here. Tortured him most likely.”
I press into Drystan, silently urging him. I don’t dare speak the truth if he won’t—there must be some reason he’s keeping it quiet. Probably something to do with emotion and weakness.
“We can clear this up quickly.” He steps forward, expression set in grim lines.
The body twitches. Its head snaps up. There’s a wet sound as it rolls over, thuds on to its front. Eventually it pushes itself to its feet, hollow eyes on Drystan.
I don’t know if it’s shock that holds me still or if I’ve seen the dead rise enough times that I no longer react.
This is simply what Drystan does. Who he is.
King of Death. God of it. A simple fact of life.
“brOTHER.” The cottage trembles. Its foundations groan. “TELL US HOW YOU CAME TO BE HERE, HOW YOU CAME TO DIE.”
Effan’s mouth opens. A croak come from inside, incomprehensible, then he opens wider. Inside is a rust-brown ruin.
Old blood. I clasp my hands together to avoid recoiling.
I am nearly queen. I am not afraid of this poor, murdered creature.
Because no way did he come here and die after Drystan and I were here. And no way did he cut out his own tongue.
Every pair of eyes flicks toward Drystan. Some slide away again. Others stay on him.
He does have a reputation for severing tongues.
“It can’t speak. How convenient.” Lord Mastelle huffs in irritation. “Can it write?”
Drystan’s mouth flattens. “The dead can rarely manage such fine movements. Not at this stage.”
“Well it’s worth a try.” Lord Mastelle pats his pockets, but it’s Min who darts forward and offers the sketchbook I’ve seen her plan her creations in. She places her pencil in Effan’s hand.
Lord Mastelle merely grunts in acknowledgment. “Who killed you? Write it—”
But the dead heir doesn’t write anything.
He lifts his arm and points.
Right at Drystan.
That sets the news blazing outside, and more suspicious glances darting inside.
“It… he mustn’t understand.” I step forward. Drystan can’t have done this.
No one answers.
Even Asti and Min frown and share a long, questioning look.
“No, look, it’s just giving His Majesty something.” Phaedra stalks closer to Effan, peering at the little glint of gold tucked between his fingers.
Eyes narrowing, Drystan approaches his brother. Even though Effan’s skin is sunken and blotchy, I see the similarities more starkly than when I met him in life. The proud line of their noses. The cut of their jaws. The same straight, black hair.
Drystan holds out his hand, and Effan drops something into it, sighing out a heavy breath and slumping to the floor.
A gold coin sits at the center of Drystan’s palm.
Such a small thing.
Yet the king’s face goes slack. Just for an instant. Enough for me to spot and not an instant longer. Then he masters himself, pressing his lips together.
After a long moment, he closes his hand around the coin and looks up as if returning from far away.
“What is it?” Phaedra cranes
He drops it into his pocket and adjusts his cuff. “Just a coin.” His gaze skims away, shadowed by the furrowing of his brow. “Something to remember my brother by.”
We search the body and the cottage, but there’s nothing else that seems like a clue, and, as Phaedra’s keen to point out, “No sign of the seal.” She wears a bright smile. “Fascinating as this little jaunt has been, the king’s brother is not the missing item that was named.”
I grit my teeth, but I can’t say she’s wrong. I’ve failed the challenge.
Glowering, Asti steps forward. “Little jaunt? She found out what happened to a member of our court who’s been missing for months.”
Phaedra spreads her hands and shakes her head. “Alas, she was meant to find the Consort’s Seal. She merely brought us here. Clearly she isn’t—”
“Her vision brought her here,” Kishel smoothly interjects, flashing Phaedra the same smile as earlier—chilly, devastating.
“As true Fateworkers know, the threads weave in mysterious patterns, connecting even the things we cannot yet see. Clearly Effan’s disappearance and murder have something to do with the missing seal.
Finding his body must be the first clue to its whereabouts. I say she has passed the test.”
“But—”
“The laws of the land are clear, Lady Phaedra. This matter only requires a majority vote by the Withan. Not a unanimous one.”
Her jaw turns solid as she goes quiet.
The Withan members break into a couple of separate conversations, weighing up Phaedra’s words and Kishel’s.
Drystan stands before the fire, still, silent.
As I reach him, I graze the back of his fingers.
He sucks in a breath, snatching his hand away like he didn’t hear me approach.
I pull back, not wanting to touch where it isn’t welcome. “Are you all right?”
He frowns at the dust on the hearth. “Some things should stay buried.” His fingers find mine though, and he gives them a comforting squeeze.
Before I can ask what he means, Kishel clears his throat. “Then we’re in agreement.”
Every member of the Withan turns to me.
“Her Majesty completed the Right of Challenge successfully, albeit unconventionally.” He bows his head, teeth flashing as he smiles. “The wedding may continue.”