Chapter 29 As It Should
As It Should
There is no blast of Dark, no swing of the blade, no punishment. Instead, Sascia is simply escorted away. Her last glance over her shoulder paints a somber picture. The army shamed into silence. The princet lowering their head. The Queen surveying them all with a clenched jaw.
In Sascia’s cell, the Queen’s guards strip her of her weapons and armor with swift, methodical movements.
The door locks after them, leaving her alone with Mooch and a sense of danger pressed like a blade against her neck.
She imagines a hundred scenarios: the Queen punishing Nugau for their insurrection; the terrible, deadly Trial she will concoct for Sascia, since this one came to an abrupt end; the Darkmanticore, chained and starved and frantic with bloodthirst.
“The Ul’amoon are not the reason you brought us together,” she whispers to Mooch. “But what is? How are we supposed to help each other?”
The itka reveals none of its plans. It perches on a pillow on the sofa and, after a moment, Sascia goes to sit by its side.
Together they wait. No tray of food or medicine arrives.
No gentle Orran or snarky Thalla or somber Nugau.
When the door finally creaks open, hours later, a box is tossed in, sliding over the floor to land at the feet of the coffee table.
Inside lies a fabric made of starlight. A cerulean cloth, softer and more liquid than the finest organza, draped over a piece of black leather stitched with a hundred thousand tiny gemstones.
The leather is form-fitting, the organza is sheer, and the neckline is deeply revealing. Sascia has been sent a ballgown.
The starlight dress wisps around her legs as Sascia is shepherded into the throne room a few hours later.
She has pulled herself together as best she can, washed the dirt from her face, combed her hair back with her fingers.
Mooch sits on the edge of her plunging neckline, like a living, breathing brooch.
Heads crane around at her entrance.
The vast arena of the throne room has transformed.
Curling vines and slabs of onyx have been fashioned into tables and stools spread on the floor.
From the ceiling hang vines carrying bulbs of flame and crystalline ornaments.
Garlands pillar the room, woven with flowers that iridize with every shift of the light.
Near the throne, a band plays lively music on long, oddly shaped stringed instruments.
There is no dance floor that Sascia can discern, but dancers crowd every open spot, easily weaving between the tables.
Sascia feels like a character in a storybook. She has just stepped into a goddamned faerie revel.
The twirling dancers and flushed-cheeked drinkers twist their heads to watch the guards march her through the feast to the dais.
The Queen wears a resplendent gown of black velvet and a placid smile.
Her long fingers tap the rhythm of the song against the armrest of her throne.
When she notices Sascia, she gestures to someone at a nearby table.
Nugau unfolds from her chair and slips through the dancers.
Her cheeks now blaze with a soft blue Darkprint.
Her hair is pulled back in an intricate braided updo, her lips painted a stark black, the pointed tips of her ears sporting silver flower-patterned cuffs.
She wears a see-through shirt with flowing puff sleeves beneath a high-collared leather vest top that cinches her waist like a corset and long, tight trousers.
She is a nymph emerging from the ancient woods, a faerie offering a wicked bargain, a goddess made of blooming dark.
She comes to stand next to Sascia, shoulder to shoulder, and when the Queen addresses the room, the princess plants a calm expression on her face.
Another mask, but not the cold, dissociating facade she used to wear.
This one is distinctively, unapologetically proud, even as the aesin snicker at the Queen’s statement.
This new, assured Nugau offers Sascia her hand. “The Queen would like us to dance.”
Of all the things Sascia thought might happen when she jumped into the Maw, dancing with a princess during a faerie revel certainly wasn’t one of them.
Nugau’s question echoes in her mind, part accusatory, part pleading for release: What gives you the right to want?
Sascia didn’t have an answer then and she doesn’t have one now.
But she feels it again, the longing, and lets her hand fold into Nugau’s.
The princess guides her through the throng of aesin.
She closes the gap between their bodies, prompting Mooch to scurry to Sascia’s ear, and positions Sascia’s palm on her waist. She leans down, placing her cheek against Sascia’s.
Warmth unfurls in Sascia’s core, like flower petals greeting the sun.
“We dance slow and close. Our cheeks should never stop touching. Our eyes should never meet.” Nugau’s whisper is a tickle on Sascia’s skin. “I will guide you.”
The music blooms into a soft, sinuous rhythm.
Sascia doesn’t know what to do at first, but Nugau is a gracious partner.
She leads with infinite gentleness, easing Sascia into the steps of the dance.
On every swell of the strings, she pulls Sascia closer, until they are flush against each other, their hips so close that Sascia can feel the slightest shift of the princess’s muscles.
Sascia’s nose burrows into Nugau’s neck, into the petal-soft smell of her.
“I’m sorry,” Sascia whispers. “If I hadn’t hesitated, if I had killed the Ul’amoon as we had planned, I would have proven my Claim before the Queen came in. But Mooch got in my way. It didn’t want me to kill the beast—”
“I know, little gnat. I saw. The aesin saw that too. They felt your call, they saw Mooch open the doorway, and after you were dragged away I presented our evidence. They believe us now—it might just take them a while to admit it, especially the Queen and her council.”
Across the dance floor, the Queen’s councilors are deep in conversation at a remote table. Ktren is among them, their eyes fastened on Sascia and Nugau. “Who are they?”
“Some of the most powerful aesin in Itkalin. Weapons makers, Ul’amoon wardens, those who breed our war mounts.
They funded this war campaign.” Nugau’s voice lilts around a blooming smile.
“But you did well today, little gnat. So well, in fact, that the Queen can no longer openly target us. She can only resort to this: the humiliation of dancing the tarant under the gaze of thousands.”
“It is not humiliating,” Sascia breathes. It is a pleasure, as potent as magic itself, the music and the sway and the touch. (Oh, the touch.)
“No? Perhaps only for me, then.” In a low, husky voice, the princess whispers, “The tarant is a mating dance. You invite your chosen partner to the floor. You dance as close as you can, without looking at each other, without touching…lips.”
Is Nugau flustered? Sascia can’t turn to see for herself, but she feels the lines of Nugau’s tension beneath her fingers where they rest on Sascia’s body. The princess’s soft disquiet tugs at Sascia’s own senses with a maddening flame.
“Don’t you worry, your ladyship,” Sascia teases. “Your lips are safe. Unless…”
The pleasure Sascia feels when Nugau swallows is mind-numbing. “Unless?”
“Unless you beg me,” Sascia challenges. “Unless you say mata ne, jite ve.”
The words mean kiss me, I’m begging, often spoken by Orran to Thalla.
A choked chortle escapes Nugau’s nose. “Where on earth did you pick that up?”
“Oh,” Sascia croons, “wouldn’t you like to know?”
Absurdly, impossibly, delightfully, Nugau bursts into a laugh. It is loud and wild, at odds with the princess’s usually put-together demeanor. It vibrates through their joined chests, hums beneath the fingers Sascia has splayed on the princess’s back.
Over Nugau’s shoulder and across the room, the Queen’s head twists toward the two of them. Her perfectly cultured smile vanishes. The atmosphere in the room changes; the cerulean flames flicker and the vines overheard curl in on themselves.
Nugau whispers, “She heard?”
Sascia nods against the princess’s cheek. “Why does she hate you?”
“Is hatred what she feels? She is angry, disappointed, grieving—but not hateful. She grew up on the battlefield, hardened by the horrors of the constant war against the Ul’amoon.
Yet she has always loved her family, as best she can.
To her, duty is love. Loyalty is love. Our relationship deteriorated because I broke that loyalty. ”
The princess breathes in deep, her chest pressing into Sascia’s.
“When I was a young adolescent,” she goes on, “the first of your bombs crashed. Back then, we thought it was just another comet. It tore open the cage of one of the oldest Ul’amoon, what you call the Darkbasilisk, which then unleashed its wrath on the surrounding land.
My mother, already the Queen by then, set off to recapture it.
My parent Kilorn and I accompanied her, tracking the beast. One day, we were underground, scouting the caves, when a flock of bats attacked us.
They would have shredded me to pieces if Mooch hadn’t been there.
The itka split time and space for me and I fell through—to your world.