Chapter 13
The chamber is breathtaking, the size of a grand dining room, with an entire wall of glass overlooking the outer walls and the sea beyond.
Glass doors lead to a large balcony of white moonstone.
The view here is mostly sky and the lilac-tinged clouds drifting past. Dark blue bookshelves span another wall, with a cushioned reading nook in the center.
A moonstone table set with wine stands near the books.
By the door, ropes hang from the walls, each one joined to a bell in the servants’ quarters. Beside every rope, a small brass plate bears a symbol: a key for my head servant (Tristan, I’m assuming), a pie for the kitchens, a dress for the laundresses, and a broom for any cleaning tasks.
Most of the room is deep purple and blue, and the ceiling is dappled with glowing stars that shift slowly like a moving solar system. Lanterns float above me, drifting through the air. A fire burns in a small fireplace.
Above the mantel hangs a portrait of another raven wearing a Jacobean ruff.
I open a door to find a private washroom with a copper tub. One wall is glass, and the air smells of starflowers.
When I turn back into the bedroom, a flutter of movement catches my eye. A raven peers at me from the bookshelves, a living bird wearing a lace ruff around his throat, looking utterly dignified. The raven launches into flight and glides through the open window.
I open the wardrobe doors to find that it’s already full of clothes in my size, somehow, like the room has been waiting for me. There are gowns, chain mail, trousers, a dagger, training clothes, a silk bathrobe—even brooches and hairpins adorned with raven symbols.
My Have you tried turning it off and on again? T-shirt lies folded neatly at the bottom of the wardrobe.
But the thing that grabs my attention is the bed. It looks soft and inviting, with silver blankets and pillows, and I want to sink into it. A faint silvery mist roils around its base like a cloud. Quickly, I change my clothes, slipping into a silky white nightgown.
I start to blow the candles out, one by one, and the lanterns overhead dim, as if hearing my thoughts. Outside, clouds churn, and a light rain falls against the glass. A perfect sound for sleeping.
I’m too tired to do anything but crawl beneath the covers. I pull them over me, and my body sags into the comforting embrace of the bed.
This is the kind of place I dreamt about when I lived in my own little Waste Land—first the Undercroft, then the closet in London.
Death lingers around every corner in the Veiled Court, and I don’t know where the grail is yet, but I still feel a thrill that I finally made it in here after all these years.
I fall asleep to the sound of rain hammering against the glass, and a raven sweeping by my window.
* * *
I’m at home—my childhood home, tending to the garden near the sycamore tree.
It used to be neat little rows of cowslips, violets, and rue.
Now, it’s overgrown. Abandoned. Tall grasses grow up high around the pale peach roses.
I don’t remember Mama planting those, but I never paid enough attention to what she planted.
I wonder if she thought of me when she chose them, because I loved roses. I only have vague memories of her tending to the gardens outside our tiny cottage. Now, everything seems old, forgotten. It’s so quiet here without Mama’s singing, and the silence gnaws a hollow in my chest.
The wooden fence around the chicken coop sags and crumbles. The rope on the swing is frayed, useless. Papa made that for me when I was six, carefully measuring it to make sure it was safe.
Did I thank him?
A sharp ache unfurls in my chest. It’s darker here than I remember. Quieter. Desolate. I kneel among the roses under a dusky sky, trying to set things right. Frantically, I tug at the weeds, determined to fix Mama’s garden for her. No one has been tending it since…
Anyway, she isn’t here anymore. I haven’t lived here since I was a child. Mama and Papa died long ago, and how did that happen? And no one took care of the garden, or the swing, or the fence. No one sits among the flowers.
And how did they die?
I don’t want to remember. It’s a secret that lives like a sleeping monster between my ribs, waiting to open its eyes again.
Gritting my teeth, I rip out nettles, dandelions, and bindweeds that grow wild, trying to reverse time itself. Trying to set things right. Maybe I can bring it all back to the way it was before the Fall. To the time of innocence.
But as I pull the weeds, blades grow from the earth where the flowers once bloomed. They carve into my skin, drawing blood.
* * *
I wake to the sound of my door opening and bolt upright. My throat is tight. I’m not sure if I’m relieved to be awake or if I want to go back to that cottage so I can fix the overgrown garden and stomp the blades into the earth. I want to go into the cottage.
Tristan stands in the doorway, holding a leather suitcase and a large duffel bag. “I knocked, but you didn’t answer.” He pauses, his eyebrows raising. “Are you all right? You look upset.”
He drops the bags on the white table inside the room.
I blink, trying to regain control of myself. “Just a dream.” I pull the sheets up. “How was Vero?”
He steps inside and closes the door quietly behind him. “She’s absolutely fine.”
Irritation simmers. “No, she isn’t. Did you actually see her?”
“Yes.” He holds my gaze for a long time.
“Well, fine. She’s sick, but you know that.
She was coughing up blood, but she’s holding on.
I gave them money to take a boat to Balin’s cottage, so they don’t need to walk.
And because I knew you were going to worry about it, I made sure they had food before they set off for the Melian Forest.”
I close my eyes, exhaling a shaky breath. This whole night, I’ve been carrying the tension of worry about Vero—and that’s at least one thing I can clear from my mind. “Thank you, Tristan.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Already, he’s opening the bottle of wine. “They gave me my own little room in the servants’ quarters, but I wanted to find you first. You need to fill me in on what I missed.”
“We went to a dragon ceremony, and the dragon didn’t burn me, so apparently, I’m worthy.
And it turns out that people are going to fight in a series of trials to win the crown.
Those of us with halos can only leave here if we’re dismissed by the noble houses for performing poorly in the trials.
So, long story short, I won’t be able to leave until after I’ve fought in a trial by combat. ”
He stalks closer to me, holding two glasses of wine. “You’re going to fight in a trial by combat? Are you mad?”
He hands me a glass, and I take a sip. Strawberry wine, sweet and tangy.
“There’s no way around it. We will compete against each other, and the Council of Nobles judges us through mirrors.
Fifteen rounds of eight contestants each, fighting to the death.
Anyone caught lying will be burned. Anyone who performs poorly will be dismissed.
” I lift the glass again. “Also, yes, you were correct that if we leave without permission, we’ll be hunted to death by the cugol, so I really have a wonderful array of death options to choose from.
But if things go perfectly, I’ll find the grail, fight terribly in the trials but survive, and go home. ”
His expression darkens. “You haven’t fought in over a decade. You have no magic, and you’re not trained anymore. It should be me fighting.”
“Well, it’s not. We have two full weeks to look for the grail. And when I’m not looking, I’ll be training. Two weeks is plenty of time.”
“First of all, no, it isn’t, and you know that. Second, did anyone suspect anything?”
“Someone said I smelled of mortals, and they all thought my outfit was wildly inappropriate. But a dragon ceremony put their suspicions to rest. I’m officially nobility now. I’ve got a symbol and everything. So, now I just need to survive a few weeks.”
“Okay.” A wry smile flits over his lips. “Well, you’ll be learning from me, the best possible teacher in the world. Pity I’m not in the competition. I’d eat them all alive.”
“My most humble servant.”
He laughs—a rare, warm laugh from Tristan that sends a pulse of heat through me. Firelight and shadows carve the masculine planes of his face, the inviting curve of his lips.
Owain and I only just broke up, but clearly, I’m on the rebound. It doesn’t help that I’ve always dreamt of what it would feel like to kiss Tristan for the first time. He’s taking care of me, and he always has. I’m fighting the urge to pull him into bed with me.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks quietly.
My heart races, and I can feel my chest flushing under my shirt. But I could never tell him what I’m really thinking. This is the one long-term friendship I have.
I lick my lips, and I see his gaze shift down to my mouth. “Just that I need to sleep.”
But instead of turning to leave, he shifts closer, settling on the edge of my bed. I breathe in his delicious smell from here, and I lean closer.
His green eyes study my face. “Syn, I need you to tell me every single thing you heard or saw tonight. Every person you met. Every detail you can remember about them. Nothing is too small, too insignificant.”
“Now?”
“I’m here to keep you safe,” he murmurs, and that ache returns.
“And the best way for me to do that is to know everything. I need to know exactly what we’re up against. And before dawn breaks tomorrow, we rise early and start training.
We will train day and night until I think you can survive against them, because I will not let you die here. ”
Before dawn breaks.
The Undercroft never left Tristan. It never left either of us.