Chapter 27
Elva
Iremember that the week following the whipping passed in an indistinguishable haze of pain, each day blending into the next.
Ingra had done her best, but my back still resembled a slab of raw meat, latticed with lashes.
The heat of the omnipresent Ostacrian sun only worsened matters, with the makeshift bandages sticking to my skin with blood and sweat.
I was polishing a vase in the corner of a glittering parlour.
It was filled to bursting with golden roses, and I was reminded of what my father used to call my sister and me.
Astrid was his star, and I was his petal.
They were just pet names, little terms of endearment, but fitting nonetheless.
For Astrid was always bold and bright and dazzling.
Whereas I was delicate and fragile, easily wilted.
I recall reaching out to touch one of the silken blooms, then drawing my hand back quickly at the sound of someone clearing their throat behind me.
I turned to find a pair of raven-black eyes fixed on mine.
The boy was impossibly handsome – tall and lithe, with marble-fair skin and sharply chiselled, dark features. Only this wasn’t just any boy.
This was the Crown Prince of Ostacre.
Panic reared, and I stumbled backwards, nearly knocking over the vase.
Concern creased his perfect face. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.’
I began to tremble, flinching as the movement aggravated the welts on my back.
The prince shook his head apologetically. ‘No, please, I’m not – I just wanted to –’ He cut himself off, took a deep breath and smiled. And it was such a shy, sweet smile that I felt the frenzied clamour of my fear fade to a soft echo. ‘I’m … I’m Haldyn,’ he said.
I stared at him, utterly bewildered. Why was he introducing himself as if I didn’t know exactly who he was? Why was he talking to me at all?
Hal took a small step forward. ‘I saw what you did for that young boy, at the feast.’
Terror flared once more. Was Pip to be punished for spilling the wine? Was I to be punished twice over for taking the blame?
Hal must’ve sensed my alarm, for his expression softened, his voice smooth and deep and achingly gentle. ‘You were really brave.’
Nobody had ever said that to me before.
My heart stuttered, then almost stopped entirely as he added, ‘I want to apologize.’
I blinked, convinced I’d misheard him. The future Emperor of Ostacre was apologizing … to me?
‘My cousin was out of order,’ he continued. ‘I tried to reason with her, but my father overruled me.’ He grimaced, his jaw flexing. ‘And I … I also wanted to give you this.’
In his outstretched hand sat a small silver pot.
‘It’s a salve. For your back. I got it from my broth– from a Healer. You’re supposed to apply it twice a day. It should ease the pain and minimize the scarring.’
My lips parted in surprise. For a long moment, we just looked at one another.
I scanned his face for a sign – that this was all some trick, a cruel joke designed to taunt me.
I searched for hate and found only kindness.
His gaze was steady and true, his eyes as dark and beautiful as the eternal night of my homeland.
Hardly daring to breathe, I unfurled my palm and accepted the salve, watching his throat bob as his fingers brushed against mine.
After that, I found I didn’t despise the sun so much any more. In fact, I found myself hopelessly drawn towards it. Towards him.
A lot has changed these past two years, but never that.
I perch on the edge of Hal’s four-poster bed, watching him sleep.
One of his hands is curled into a fist round the bedsheets, while the other lies flat upon his chest, which rises and falls in time with the low ticking of the clock on the wall.
It’s late – past midnight. Witching hour, my sister would call it.
She used to love telling ghost stories. Singing them, too.
Many Obsidian ballads are rooted in eerie folklore, and were made a hundred times more haunting when sung by Astrid, her voice pure and mournful, almost otherworldly.
I can still hear her, even now. Perhaps, some day, I’ll hear her again.
Hal’s eyelids flicker while he dreams, muttering a word that sounds a little like my name. I reach for him and smooth his hair back from his face. He’s been this way since he collapsed during the banquet.
The palace is awash with whispers, and not only concerning the emperor’s ill health but also the unexplained break-in – and break-out – down in the dungeons.
King Balen’s motive remains a mystery. And what’s even more puzzling is how selective he was.
He didn’t free all the prisoners, only some.
What was it about those ones that rendered them of such value to the Ventalla King? What does he know that we don’t?
In light of Hal’s condition, it was with Zephyr I shared the information I’d gathered in the banquet hall.
The two Eyes I overheard discussing King Balen’s plan – the nature of which I didn’t understand until after it was carried out successfully – were arrested.
When both refused to talk, Marina suggested torturing them for answers.
I didn’t relish the idea, traitors or not, but I had no say in the matter. So far, neither has cracked.
With one last look at Hal, I slip behind the tapestry and through the concealed door into the serf tunnels.
My bunk was empty when I left to check on him. Ingra still hasn’t told me what she’s up to, and what with her pattern of unexplained absences, roaming the palace at night has become even riskier. I can only hope Matron doesn’t decide to perform an inspection.
I take a left at the next fork, then a right.
The significant downside to arresting those Eyes is that it’s let other traitorous members of the Imperial Court know that we’re watching, and their discretion has reached new heights.
I haven’t managed to ascertain anything useful these past few days, nor have I found any evidence of clandestine meetings taking place inside the palace.
I pause, my brows knitting together as an idea begins to form.
What if such gatherings aren’t taking place inside the palace at all?
I follow the tunnels down to the lower levels before stepping out into cool night air, glancing round at the moon-bleached grounds.
Often, when they first arrive here, the youngest serfs are assigned unskilled labour such as polishing cutlery or sweeping floors, but many are put to work in the palace gardens.
I remember looking around at these perfectly manicured lawns, sweat dripping down my brow, and thinking that just a handful of Terrathian and Aquatori Etheri could keep them in flawless condition with a mere flick of their wrists.
But instead, the serfs are forced to plant, weed and water, cutting the grass, clipping the hedges, breaking our backs beneath the indifferent sun.
A pair of sentries rounds the corner, the Castellion raven emblazoned across their golden uniforms, swords glinting in their sheaths.
Immediately, my shadows emerge, cloaking me in darkness.
Pressing my back to the wall, I hold my breath as the sentries pass by, engaged in muttered speculation about the cause of the emperor’s illness.
Neither of them so much as glances in my direction.
‘Thank you,’ I whisper as the darkness recedes.
I wander through the orchard, the trees swollen with golden apples. There was an apple tree by our cottage. Astrid used to swing me up on to her shoulders to pick them.
I strain my ears for the faintest murmur of conversation, but there’s none. Disappointment and frustration twist painfully in my chest.
I’m so lost in thought that I barely notice where I’m headed until I arrive.
Hundreds of eyes watch me from all sides, carved into the faces of statues so unsettlingly lifelike it looks as though the bodies were merely dipped in molten gold, the features perfectly captured to immortalize each of Ostacre’s former emperors.
In the weeks following his father’s death, this is where Hal would come.
I used to find him sitting by Emperor Alvar’s statue, which was erected just days after the Binding Ceremony.
It’s no secret that their relationship was strained by the emperor’s dismissal of his wife and infatuation with his mistress.
But in spite of everything, he was still Hal’s father, and Hal mourned him quietly, in his own way.
My gaze lands on the statue, which looks nothing like the haggard, weary man Emperor Alvar became – a pale imitation of his former self.
He was rarely seen without Lady Calloway on his arm, but towards the end I remember thinking that it looked more like she was propping him up.
I asked Hal about it once, but he just changed the subject.
As I continue to stare, my mind makes alterations, and for a moment I don’t see smooth golden perfection but a skeletal frame, hollow cheeks, trembling hands and dark bruise-like shadows lingering beneath the eyes, so similar to …
I drag in a breath. Could there be a connection between the emperor’s peculiar affliction and Hal’s own condition? What if the physicians can’t tell what’s wrong with him because he’s not suffering from some common illness, but from something … hereditary?
‘Hello, girl.’
I lurch with fright as a rasping voice sounds startlingly close.
Slowly, I turn, willing my shadows to remain hidden.
But all I see is a statue. This one is smaller than Emperor Alvar’s, the subject’s mouth twisted into a crooked smile.
Something about him makes my skin turn cold, the same way it did when I touched that crystal decanter – a numbing, bone-deep kind of dread.