Chapter 5
The king has invited his surviving challengers to a feast.
We’re forced to leave our weapons at the door with his guards.
Killing isn’t allowed inside, because, according to the Watchman, “The king thinks there are too many gods-damned wraiths already haunting the castle.” He looks around at us.
“The dead don’t stay quiet here. Kill someone within these walls, and the king will have you hanged on the closest cliffs. ”
The castle itself has magic. All the Great Houses do.
I can feel it in the air like a whisper upon my skin as I walk over the threshold.
Someone shoves me to the side with their shoulder, and I would have cracked my head against the obsidian floor if it wasn’t for Kira keeping me upright.
I look up to see Cadoc wink at me before he strides down the corridor.
Killing might not be allowed, but there are other ways to hurt a person. I’ll be sleeping with furniture against the door of my room, if I sleep at all.
When I make it through the grand foyer, my lips part. The outside of this castle is pure fortress—three rings of thick stone walls, high enough to keep all the hungry subjects out.
But the inside is gilded to utter excess.
Silver, everywhere. The king’s collection isn’t hidden behind a vault, it’s proudly displayed, hung upon every wall.
There are monstrous silver wings that once might have belonged to a great beast. Silver feathers that look dipped in starlight. Enchanted chalices, sitting upon stands, next to ancient books with blank pages.
I look around in awe and horror, at all the king has kept for himself, until I reach the base of a grand double staircase.
The Watchman is standing on the bottom step, hawk nowhere to be seen. “Pair up,” he orders. “Find a room and make yourselves presentable for dinner.”
Then he strides away, likely to go give the king a full report on everything that’s happened.
Kira grabs my arm. “Come on,” she says, wincing, like her head still hurts. “Let’s get a good room.”
I don’t think there is a bad room in this castle, but I follow her lead up the stairs, marveling at each step.
These are nothing like the ones leading up to the ruins.
Every stair is whole, and made of thick marble that’s shined so perfectly, I can almost see my reflection in them.
At the top, we turn left, taking the opposite hallway as Cadoc and his group.
“He isn’t so intimidating without his militia,” Kira says. His personal guards were turned away at the castle’s entrance. “Or his fancy gold sword.”
I grunt in agreement, but I don’t take my eyes off him until he turns the corner.
The Culling has begun. Everyone will be looking for a way to rise above the others. Treachery will be celebrated. Plans will be forming.
Kira makes a choking sound. I whirl toward her, hand going for a sword that isn’t there—
Only to find her standing in awe in front of an opened door. She isn’t even being dramatic, I decide, when I slowly step next to her.
And nearly fall to my knees.
A bed. A real mattress, with thick blankets and pillows on top. Luxuries that would be ridiculous in Nightfell.
A rush of guilt poisons my excitement. Stellan might not have given me a true bed, or pillows, but he gave me a home when mine burned to the ground. He gave me everything when it would have been so much easier to just let me curl up and die.
Look where that got him.
Kira kicks off her muddy boots and hurries in. “There’s a private tub!” she yells. “I’m using it.”
I hear a door slam and then the sound of water running just beyond it.
Steps echo. The hall fills with voices as the rest of the challengers find their rooms. I finally walk inside, shut the door, then slide all the way down it, not wanting to sully the bed with my dirty clothing. From the floor, I run my fingers down the pale lilac wallpaper made of—is that silk?
Shit. It is.
The wall is wearing the most luxurious fabric I’ve ever felt in my life.
And the rest of the room is just as opulent.
I look around, taking in the gold trim of the ceiling, the four-poster bed, the massive hearth, the thick, richly woven curtains, and door-sized silver frame, surrounding a simple painting of a knight.
What a waste of good metal.
I’m not in that broken and blood-soaked forest anymore. But my body doesn’t seem to know the difference between a castle and a battle. It isn’t fooled by this finery.
My heart is still racing, anticipating the next danger.
My pulse beats against the stone wall. I breathe in slowly, the way my mother taught me a long time ago, whenever I would get so overwhelmed, the world seemed to narrow into a keyhole.
Her warm hand steady against my back, she would count for me.
Eight seconds to draw a breath. Eight seconds to hold. Eight seconds to breathe out.
Breathe … just … breathe.
I do, and eventually, my heartbeat slows. My mind settles. My eyes close, as I drift into a half-sleep, waiting for my turn to clean up.
Kira doesn’t surface for twenty minutes, leaving little time for my own bath. But when she emerges beaming, I can’t bring myself to be annoyed. The soft, floral scent of soap fills the room. My breath catches.
I haven’t smelled flowers in years. Nightfell had only the occasional blossom.
Once, a wildflower sprouted just outside the ancient graves, about a mile from our home.
I visited it every morning, watching it bloom—then watching it die, far too quickly.
You are a phoenix, I told it as the petals withered away, repeating Stellan’s own words to me.
You grew in poisoned ground. You’ll grow again. You will rise.
It never did.
Kira twirls in a plush towel, another luxury.
The patch of missing hair has been covered with a strip of wrappings she must have found inside the bathroom.
“I’ve never seen a tub in a house before.
We bathe in ponds, mostly, since the sea’s too briny.
Or the common tubs.” She makes a face. “They make you share sometimes.”
I shudder at that image, suddenly grateful for the bath that Stellan installed in a closet for me.
“Go,” she snaps. “You’ll make us late.”
I sigh as I walk inside the bathroom. Then pause.
This isn’t just a closet. It’s nearly the same size as the room. There’s … polished stone on the walls, and the floor. The faucets are plated in gold. The mirrors are lined in bronze.
Kira drained the tub, at least, and turned the taps on to replace the water. I let it run, and my eyes widen at the curl of steam. The water is warm.
I lock the bathroom door and try the handle twice. Only then do I begin to strip off my clothing, until it’s a muddied pile on the marble.
A clean, large mirror shows the skin I’ve hidden for most of my life.
Thin silver rootlike markings spread down my throat, shoulders, arms, chest, and sides.
Silver is a forbidden color for mortals. It’s the color of the gods. My markings make me strange. Dangerous.
Sky-touched, according to my parents.
If the king knew of my marks, I would be imprisoned by his guards. Or added to his collections. Or carved open and studied. I’m not sure which of those fates is worse. Stellan taught me to wield a blade, in fear that one day I would be found out.
And now here I am, right in his castle …
I swallow. I’ve hidden my skin for so long that my nakedness almost feels wrong. My own body feels illicit.
I shoot another glance at the door, making sure the lock is turned, then lean over the counter, studying myself more closely, checking for newer markings and injuries. This mirror is so damned clean. I see myself more clearly than I have in years.
I wince as I get a good look at my face.
I look exactly like someone who has lived out of a cart for the past day and a half.
The cut is a crust of blood. Dirt is smeared across my cheeks, obscuring the dusting of freckles.
My eyes are red, but the dark blue still shines brightly.
Strands stick up wildly through the braids in my hair.
I’ll have to wash it more than once to get the grime out.
Still … I’ve gotten to the castle relatively unscathed.
For now.
The tub is full. I dip in each leg, tensing at the scalding heat—then sighing as I sink down. My hands are tired from tightly gripping my sword, the muscle along my forearm screaming as I grip the edges of the bath. My thighs are aching after hours on the back of a horse.
Now, my sore muscles seem to melt. For the first time in a while, my body goes almost boneless. I wish I had more time to enjoy it, but I don’t. The feast is waiting.
I begin to scrub myself with one of the bars of soap. One time isn’t enough. I scrub again, and then again. I undo my hair, then wash it several times before attempting to comb the strands with my fingers.
A knock sounds against the door, and I jerk in panic, then remember it’s locked.
“It’s almost time to leave,” Kira calls from the other side.
With a whisper of regret, I step out of the tub and into a soft towel. Another knock on the door has me tightening it around myself.
“There are clothes in the wardrobe. Open up.”
I tense.
Kira knocks again.
I don’t move a single inch.
But I can’t just hide in here. I need clothes. I can’t be suspicious. I wrap another towel around my shoulders, shrouding myself. I open the door just a sliver.
Kira isn’t even looking as she tosses the clothing toward me. I close the door again and stare at two options.
A simple dress with a low neckline. I wish. I throw it to the side without a second glance.
Pants and a long-sleeved shirt. Perfect.
My throat will still be visible, so I tear the sleeves off my old shirt, then put it on beneath the new one, to keep its high collar.
I turn and look at myself in the mirror.
The color is nearly exact. It’s not an ideal solution, but when I have more time, I’ll do a better job of fixing the new shirt with the supplies in my bag.