6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
A few days later, a wooden box sits outside my chamber door. The past few nights Viridian and I have dined together have been tensely silent, as though neither of us knows what to say to each other. Well, I can think of multiple things—only, anything I have to say to him right now would most likely end in an argument. Perhaps he feels the same.
I pick up the box and bring it into my room. Sitting on the bed, I place it on my lap and open it. Inside, I see an array of art supplies—a collection of drawing pencils, charcoal sticks, a small cloth to wipe my hands with after smudging the charcoal, and a large sketchbook lying in the center .
Speechless, I close the box and pull it closer to my torso. Even after that stunt I pulled with the butter knife, Viridian still brought me the sketchbook I asked for. And so much more.
My chest fills with warmth. Though I immediately furrow my brows.
The sketchbook doesn’t undo everything he’s done. How could it?
I almost consider not using it, solely because it’s a gift from the male I despise. The male holding me here against my will. Forcing me into a life I will never want.
But I take the sketchbook and the charcoal sticks out. Spite isn’t a good enough reason to let them go to waste.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
I make my way from my chambers and find myself outside in the courtyard. A circular hallway lines the area, with open arches that lead back into the castle. The plant-growth here is well-kept and tamed. Nothing like the wildflowers that grow in the meadow behind our house in the summertime. Every year since we were children, Acantha and I would spend hours laying in the grass. We would make flower crowns and stare up at the clouds, while pointing out what we see in them.
The sun shines overhead, its warmth dampening the chill of the wind. The weather here isn’t much different from home. Like Keuron, spring will be coming to the Gold Court soon. I think of Acantha and Father. Of my basket for collecting wildflowers that will stay empty .
Don’t think like that, I scold myself. I’ll be home come spring.
Can I ever go home? If I make it out of High Keep, they’ll come looking for me. If not to drag me back and force me to marry the Crown Prince, then certainly to arrest me for treason.
There’s no way the royals would let me run away with no repercussions.
If I want to be free, I’ll have to leave Inatia. For good.
There’s a chance I’ll never see Acantha or Father again.
The threat of tears sting at my eyes. Taking a breath, I walk closer to the center of the courtyard and kneel on the grass. Then I open the sketchbook, putting the charcoal sticks down in a pile on my lap. They leave black smudges on my dress when I move, but I’ve never been one to care much for my clothes.
Picking up one of the charcoal sticks, I lower my hand to the page and let it wander.
My mind drifts, my thoughts fading into the background as I draw. That’s one of the things I’ve always loved about drawing—no matter how much is on my mind, no matter the emotions I feel, everything vanishes the moment shapes start to take form on the paper.
It almost feels as if I am no longer in control as I draw. Like some unseen force guides my hand into swirls and lines and edges. I can lose myself in it. And when I emerge on the other side, I see something on the paper that didn’t exist before.
When I stop, I hold out the sketchbook to look at my drawing.
It’s Acantha, lying in a summer meadow with her face turned to the viewer. A poorly made flower crown slips a little too far down her forehead. She’s beaming, with her eyes crinkled in the corners like they are when she’s very happy. It’s a scene taken directly from my memory—an image of her I’ve seen enough times to memorize nearly every detail.
Closing my eyes, I press the drawing to my chest and hold it near my heart.
Gods, I miss her.
The sound of many footsteps echoes on the stone behind me. Standing, I turn around, holding the sketchbook even tighter, desperately clinging to whatever piece of my sister I have left.
In the castle, the High King walks, flocked by his personal guard. Two noble fae are with him—one male and one female. They’re dressed in similar attire and carry an air of grace and power.
The female leans toward the High King as she walks. I immediately notice a resemblance to Lymseia—sharing the same blue-black hair and gray eyes. Her pointed face is drawn with concern, dark brows knitted together.
“Your Majesty, the mines… They aren’t producing metal like they have in years past. I fear there is a decline. ”
“A decline?” the High King asks. Worry pinches his voice.
“A severe decline,” the female—Lymseia’s mother, I realize—says. “And there aren’t enough miners left to mine what metal is there. If we cannot find a solution, I fear we will be unable to produce enough steel to keep ourselves afloat.”
I hold my breath as I listen in.
The High King’s jaw tenses. “And what of the Silver Court?” he asks the male.
“The same, Your Majesty.”
The male must be Asheros’s father—Head of House Larmanne. Though, unlike Lymseia and her mother, Asheros and his father look nothing alike. While Asheros has white-blond hair the color of snow and ice-blue eyes, his father’s hair is dark brown, and eyes such a light shade of silver, that they almost look white.
Those eyes fall to his feet. “It’s as if there is something draining the land of metal.”
I knew of the mining sickness sweeping our lands, but…
The metals are disappearing?
“Thank you for your concerns, Lady Kylantha and Lord Eldred,” the High King says. “I shall discuss this issue with the council when we meet next.”
Lady Kylantha and Lord Eldred give their praises to the High King. They continue speaking, but the farther away they go, the less I’m able to hear.
Fear grips my stomach .
What will become of Acantha and Father if the gold mines run dry?
What if they already have?
I feel utterly powerless. If I were home, maybe I could help. I could do something. As long as I’m trapped here, there is nothing I can do to save my family from ruin.
I can’t stay.
Whatever I’m going to do, I must do it soon.
V iridian is quiet at dinner tonight. Again.
The main course for tonight’s meal is roasted duck served on a bed of fresh greens. The meal is wonderful, no doubt, but I can’t stop thinking about what I heard earlier. I think of the metals being drained from the land and wonder what will become of all the human families who depend on them.
Fear grips my stomach.
What will become of Father and Acantha if the gold runs dry?
“Has the duck offended you?”
“What?” I look up, torn from my thoughts.
“You seem very intent on cutting it into a thousand little pieces,” Viridian says, briefly looking at me. Something flicks across his face, though it’s too brief for me to make out what it is. “Has the duck done something to offend you?”
“No.” I rest my fork .
Viridian’s eyes meet mine, and he holds my gaze. The tight expression he wears softens.
“What is it?”
I cock my head. My voice comes out hard. Cold, even. “What is what?”
“What’s wrong?” His tone matches his expression, even after I spat venom his way. The softness shocks me. I struggle to make sense of it.
“Nothing,” I tell him, picking up my fork again. The bitterness doesn’t fade from my tone. “There’s nothing wrong.”
Viridian doesn’t look away. The tightness returns to his mouth, as if he doesn’t believe me. But even if that’s true, he doesn’t press me for more.
“Thank you,” I say awkwardly, changing the subject. “For the drawing supplies.”
I feel like he’s won this battle, and I’m returning with my tail between my legs. I hate being indebted to him, even for something as minor as a sketchbook. How is it that even when he’s done something kind, I despise him for it? For the way it makes me feel?
“Of course.” His voice is subdued, as if he doesn’t know how to respond.
Then the tense silence I’m becoming all too familiar with falls over us. And my mind can’t help but run in more circles.
“Why were you there that night, in the stables?” I ask. There’s a sting of accusation in my voice, as if he were somehow at fault for Theelia making her will be known.
“I don’t know, really,” Viridian admits. His candor surprises me. I would have thought that he’d refuse to answer. “I was in the Gold Court for political reasons.”
“Political reasons?”
“Yes,” he replies. “As you may know, relations between the Gold and Bronze Courts have been… strained, since the last Pelleveron queen’s death.”
“Ah,” I muse in understanding. “The Lady Maelyrra isn’t one to let go of old grudges, is she?” Even with what little knowledge I have of her, that wouldn’t surprise me at all.
“No.” Viridian lets out a long, tired sigh. “She isn’t.” He continues, averting his gaze, “When I’m overcome with worry or stress, I ride. Sometimes I do it when I can’t sleep.” He pauses, looking up at me now.
My eyes lock with his, and I can practically feel my hardened stare melting as he speaks.
“I don’t know what it was that night—fate, destiny, or noise, perhaps. I couldn’t sleep, no matter how much I tossed and turned. I was staying at an inn not far from the stables—I preferred that to staying at the Pelleveron manor—and went to prepare my horse.”
I finish the thought for him. “When you found us.”
“When I found you.”
Something about his words, the way he says them, strikes a chord inside me. So much so that I almost forget who he is, what he’s done.
Almost.
Then I remember that he’s holding me captive here. That he’s keeping Loren prisoner. And the bite of my hatred returns to me.
I’ve been here too long. For too long, I have been dining and lounging and waiting. Living lavishly, while Loren suffers. While Acantha and Father worry for me at home. It’s time. I can’t wait any longer.
Swallowing, I narrow my eyes. My mind is made up.
Loren and I are leaving.
Tonight.