Chapter 28 #2
The center of the masterpiece dips as if the hall behind it just took a breath, and I peel the corner back, thrusting my torch into the throat of darkness beyond.
I step into the gloom, let the tapestry thump back into place behind me, then make my way down the long, slender hallway that’s as dusty and unkept as the first time I walked along it.
Discovering this passage just shy of my thirteenth birthday was my most exciting find in years—something I knew from the moment I stepped past the heavy tapestry and saw the distressed state of my surroundings.
Neglected tunnels always lead to interesting finds.
I round on a small booth pressed into the wall with a seat skirting its length. It could easily pass as a strange little resting spot, but it’s so much more than that.
I can hear the distant burr of a voice radiating through the wall, and I stab my torch into the empty sconce, freeing my hands.
Kneeling, palms flattened against stone, I seek the wound in the wall—a hole the size of a large plum, perfect for garnering a full, overhead view of the people crammed into the throne room. They fill the entire room to my right, bar a crescent of space that separates the dais from the crowd.
Separates Rhordyn .
Ceiling aglitter with hundreds of chandeliers that sit not far above my eyeline, the room looks like it was carved from a slab of night sky. It’s beautiful, I’ve always thought that, but beautiful things don’t always bring you happiness.
Somehow, and despite the ocean of bodies all garbed in Ocruth black, the room still gives me the sense of a vacant chest cavity.
My gaze darts to Rhordyn, sitting atop a throne made of cleverly placed silver stems soldered together to form an elegant dais. Beside him is a pile of offerings almost taller than himself: crates of chickens, jewelry, fine materials, baskets of herbs, and much more.
A man’s standing within the arc of empty space—years etched into his face and stacked upon his shoulders in bricks of brawn. A farmer perhaps, considering the crate bulging with fat, yellow fruit on the ground beside him.
He’s dropped to one knee, shoulders hunched, revering Rhordyn with dull eyes rimmed in shadow.
“It was a monster that destroyed the fence. A great beast of a thing. And now there’s a gaping hole welcoming anything to slip through!”
Rhordyn nods, chin notched on his fist. “And it will be fixed, Alstrich. I will see to it.”
Plucking a sack off the floor, he loosens the silver drawstring, digs through the clattering contents, and retrieves a black chip he then extends.
Alstrich lifts his crate and places his offering next to a leashed goat. He then takes five steps up the dais and drops to a kneel to receive his token. The currency of promises.
Made from a near-worthless metal and stamped with a Master’s sigil, a token can’t be used to purchase grain or stock or to buy yourself out of debt with a neighbor. It’s worth so much more than that.
To hold a token means you’re owed a promise, and it’s only revoked once that promise is fulfilled.
A scribe at a nearby table scratches notes onto a roll of parchment as Alstrich backs down the dais and, with the vow held in his white-knuckled fist, merges with the crowd.
Rhordyn waves for the next person to come forth: a young woman I recognize from a previous Tribunal as being the medis from a nearby town.
Her eyes are large and tawny, cheeks flushed, hair long and brown and fastened in a low ponytail. Her black, ankle-length dress flatters her curvy form, its long sleeves drawing my eye to her porcelain hands and the deep blue and gold cupla secured around her left wrist.
A shackle of promise. One that wasn’t there last time I saw her.
She curtsies, head bowed in a sign of respect.
My attention slides to Rhordyn—to his straight lips and stony eyes—and I can tell he’s noticed the cupla just by the way his brow pleats.
“Mishka, what is your query?”
She straightens, worrying her bottom lip, smoothing the front of her dress. “High Master, I come to you with a full but heavy heart.” Her words are spoken softly in a reluctant cadence. “I’ve accepted a cupla.”
Rhordyn’s gaze doesn’t waver from hers as he says, “Congratulations. May you be blessed with a long and happy coupling.”
“Thank you, Master.” Her hands settle over her lower belly like a shield, then swiftly fall to her sides. “I ... I come today because my male is not from the West.”
There’s a slight lift of Rhordyn’s brow—a ruse of shock that doesn’t reflect in his stormy eyes nor the tone of his reply. “Oh?”
“N-no. He’s from the South. The capital.”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd.
“Quiet,” Rhordyn says, his voice a low command.
Starched silence sweeps over the room.
Mishka clears her throat, though it doesn’t stop her next words from coming out rusty.
“My placement in Grafton as the town medis has been my greatest honor, Master. It has brought me so much joy over the years, but with my change of circumstances, I ...” She pauses, hands twisting before her.
“I must ask you to bequeath me the sanction to cross the wall into the South.”
There’s a collective gasp from the crowd, and even my own hand claps across my mouth.
People don’t often search for love outside their territory, but on the off chance of it happening, the male generally relocates so the female can remain close to her family for support in raising their eventual young.
Not the other way around.
And for a female medis who loves her post? Who I’m beginning to suspect is already with child? It makes little sense.
“Mishka, I must ask. Is this decision your own?”
There’s a silent threat in Rhordyn’s question, and the crowd goes dead quiet, as if their intake of breath is hinging on Mishka’s reply.
Just like mine.
A territory’s strength is in its people’s ability to breed strong men and fertile females. Therefore, the law protects women, preventing them from being coerced into crossing walls and trading colors against their will ... by penalty of death.
Mishka’s feet shuffle, her almost tangible well of nerves serving as fuel for my hammering heart.
“It’s my decision, yes. But as I say, it’s been made with a heavy heart.” Her hands settle over her lower abdomen again. “I’m seven weeks pregnant. Although the thought of raising our young without the support of my mother is daunting ... the thought of staying in Grafton is frightening. ”
The last word cracks out of her, and I lean closer to the wall, pressing my face against the cold stone.
“Frightening?” Rhordyn asks, tone even.
Too even.
There’s murder in his voice.
“Y-yes, sire. After the attack on Kriesh a week ago, I had to feed liquid bane to any who were left breathing. A short while back, a bard passing through Grafton sang of other incidents very close to home. Sang of the Vruks growing in numbers and strength. Of children disappearing.”
Children ...
I taste bile, and even from here I can feel the air chill.
“Go on.”
The ball in Mishka’s throat bobs.
“My male says the attacks haven’t yet hit the South, so with great respect, we feel this move is the safest choice for our swelling family.”
Rhordyn shifts forward on his throne, hands steepled, eyes like chips of ice illuminated beneath a full-bellied moon.
There’s a waiting sort of stillness about the room—a silence stretched too thin.
It’s Rhordyn’s job to keep his people safe, and right now ... they’re not.
His hands fall and he straightens. “Another medis will be found to fill your absence. Do what is right for your family.”
Though the words sound genuine, it’s like they’ve been bitten from a slice of slate.
Mishka bows so low her hair brushes the ground, then rises and slips into the murmuring crowd.
I pull back and spin, spine hitting rock.
Children are missing. Vruk numbers are swelling. People aren’t feeling safe anymore ...
I close my eyes, picturing my invisible line of protection hard like a diamond. Hard enough to keep me in. Keep the monsters out .
But it’s all a pretty lie I tell myself, because they’re already here ... in my head.
They already got me.