Chapter Thirty-Five
Dietan
The gold is a little much, if you ask me.
Castle Engel is situated high on a hill in the middle of the walled city.
I keep Aren close as we walk up the steep, sloped streets paved with more gold.
As the emissary guides us through narrow alleyways, I can feel Aren’s fingers trembling in the crook of my arm.
I place my hand over hers again, stroking her knuckles with my thumb.
I want to assure her that whatever occurs, I’m going to make certain nothing happens to her.
I, too, feel deeply uneasy walking the streets of Engel.
A golden city hidden in the Waste, resplendent and clean, a shining example of the ingenuity of mankind—but I see hardly any evidence that people actually live here.
Most shops are closed, homes shuttered, and schools quiet.
Flags with the king’s crest, a sun on the horizon opposite a three-peaked mountain, flap in the oppressive desert breeze.
We pass by parks and squares, where a handful of people walk quickly.
No one lingers near the pools or misting gardens to stave off the desert heat.
In a city as grand and beautiful as this, I expect to see its people thriving. This is more of a ghost town than Alba.
Aren’s hand tightens on my arm, and I know she’s noticed the oddity as well.
A cold knot forms in my stomach. I force myself to breathe evenly, to keep my shoulders relaxed, though the tension mounts beneath my skin.
My calm demeanor and perfectly practiced smile never crack, especially when the emissary glances back at us every now and again.
“Beautiful, absolutely gorgeous,” I say, my voice smooth, even as that knot in my stomach twists.
“Thank you. We’re very happy here. King Osian takes excellent care of his citizens.”
All five of them…
I refrain from saying anything further, instead turning my attention to Aren. “It’s marvelous, isn’t it, my love?”
“Yes,” she agrees, a little breathless. She isn’t quite as convincing as I am. “Is this the kind of city we’ll be living in once we’re married?”
“You haven’t shown your blushing bride the pride and joy of Loegria yet?” the emissary asks, a teasing glint in his eye.
“Saving the best for last. No offense,” I say with a casual laugh, though my shoulders feel stiff under the weight of his scrutiny.
“Indeed, Your Highness. I have no doubt that Aren of Evandale would feel right at home in Loegria. But a woman from Alarice must be feeling far too flush in our climate.”
Aren is caught fanning herself, and I can tell it isn’t an act. The heat has us both on edge. “I’m sorry. I’m not used to the heat. I deeply apologize for my obvious discomfort,” she says.
“Not at all. All who come to Engel are welcome. We shall see to your every need.”
His hollow hospitality makes the tension knot in my shoulders. I try to keep my expression neutral as we follow our guide up and up the sloped streets all the way to the palace entrance. I can’t help but feel exposed without my knife.
Stone-faced servants are already waiting for us at the front doors, dressed in uniforms embroidered with gold thread. It’s the most people we’ve seen all day.
The castle is grand, with its many towers and parapets ascending toward the bright-blue sky. The glare from the sun is blinding. I avert my eyes, afraid I might lose my vision if I stare too long.
Inside the castle, the relentless heat finally abates.
I feel a wave of relief as we step into the grand entrance hall.
The painted ceiling above us depicts a starry night sky that contrasts with the golden walls and pink marble floor.
It’s supposed to feel majestic, I’m sure, but all I can think is how tacky it looks.
Too much gold. Too much pink marble. Just…too much.
Oil paintings of the historical kings of Estyrion line the walls, their stern gazes seeming to follow us as we pass.
Sheer curtains frame doorways leading to rooms that branch out of view.
A grand double staircase stretches toward the second floor.
Sunlight pours through open windows, illuminating every inch of the castle with an unnatural brightness.
Servants in pristine white-and-gold embroidered uniforms stand at attention by every door, their eyes fixed straight ahead, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice.
“Welcome,” the emissary says. “The king is occupied at the moment, so please allow our staff to guide you to your quarters.”
He smiles warmly, but I don’t trust it.
Servants step to our sides and relieve us of our rucksacks. Aren resists for a moment, hanging onto her precious skillet and herbs, before relinquishing her pack when I put a hand on her elbow. We’re outnumbered. We must trust in Osian’s eerie hospitality if we’re to ask anything of him.
The servants abruptly lead us to one of the nearby wings and down a flight of stairs.
The castle is so vast that I have trouble getting my bearings.
It’s larger than my family’s in Loegria, that’s for certain.
Every room we’re whisked through feels like another turn in a labyrinth.
One could easily get lost in its endless hallways of pink marble and gold.
Aren leans in close, her breath hot against my ear, and whispers, “I don’t like this place.
” To anyone watching, it looks like she’s murmuring sweet nothings to her fiancé.
My hand reflexively wraps around her waist, playing into the act.
She doesn’t flinch away, thank the gods, and for a fleeting moment, the feel of her by my side eases the tension gripping my chest.
I dip my head low, whispering against her hair. “I know. Me too.”
In response, Aren puts her arm around my waist also.
We are the very picture of a couple in love.
I secure her to my side, trying to draw strength from her presence and enjoying the steady feel of her body against mine as we follow the servants leading us to our quarters.
My stomach twists in quiet unease, but I keep my steps steady and my breathing even.
“This way, if you please,” the servant walking ahead of us says, leading us through endless receiving halls, reception rooms, and what I can only assume is the king’s throne room. A massive golden chair hulks in the middle of the grand space, gaudy and overwhelming.
We walk together, clutching each other, as the servants guide us to a staircase spiraling downward into the deeper levels of the castle.
My unease sharpens with every step. The air feels heavier, thicker, the lower we go.
I tighten my arm around Aren’s waist as if I can shield her from whatever waits below.
I think about turning back. About sprinting up the stairs. But such foolish notions will surely get us killed.
When we enter a dark hallway, my suspicions are confirmed. Dread grips my heart with an iron claw, squeezing tighter with every passing second. I should never have allowed Aren to join me. I should have insisted Marcus take her home. The hallway is lined with rooms behind iron bars.
The first servant stops at one of the doors and opens it, the rusty hinges whining loudly in protest. Neither Aren nor I move. The skin on the back of my neck prickles, and every instinct screams that the plan to grab Aren and run was the correct one.
“When will we see the king?” Aren asks, her voice hollow in the dungeon’s oppressive silence.
The servant doesn’t answer. His eyes are flat, vacant.
I can’t tell if he didn’t hear her or if he’s simply ignoring her.
Osian’s men do not hide the glints of metal at their waists.
I know we are in no position to resist. I take Aren’s hand, squeezing it gently, and lead her into the cell.
The servant closes and locks the door behind us, the thud echoing through the dark halls like a death knell. At least we’re in the same cell.
Aren stands rigidly, staring at the locked door.
“Goddess damn it. So we’re prisoners now?” she asks, her voice sharp with frustration.
“Sure looks that way,” I mutter, my jaw tightening.
Aren throws her hands on top of her head and unleashes a truly creative string of curses. If I wasn’t so on edge, I’d be impressed.
“Aren,” I say, trying to sound calm even though I feel anything but. “If they wanted to kill us, they would have done it by now.”
That doesn’t seem to comfort her.
I glance around the cell, forcing myself to take stock of our surroundings. A single mattress on the floor for the happy couple. A single bucket as a chamber pot for the happy couple…and that’s it. The perfect honeymoon.
“If I remember our way through that maze, I think we’re somewhere below the throne room,” I add, motioning to the vents above our heads.
Light slices through the cell in sharp lines, barely illuminating the space.
It’s the only source of light other than the dim torches lining the hallway.
The vents are high—too high to reach. Even if I let Aren stand on my shoulders, the openings behind the grills are too narrow to fit a fist through.
We’re trapped.
“We just have to wait,” I say, trying to temper the rising panic clawing at my chest. The Rings stir, their hum faint but insistent.
They itch to be used, feeding off my frustration and anger.
I dig my nails into my palms, and the sharp sting grounds me.
If I use the Whisting to break us out, I could hurt Aren, and that’s the last thing I want.
“You waiting for the king?” A voice comes from the cell diagonally across from ours. An older man leans against the bars, one arm dangling out casually, his wrist limp. I can just make out his white hair, but the rest of him is obscured in shadow.
“Yes,” I answer truthfully, my voice tight.
“Good luck with that.” The old man laughs a wheezy, rasping chuckle that grates against my nerves.
“How long have you been here?” Aren asks.