Chapter 9 #2
The entry hall is cavernous and cold. The ceiling soars high above, supported by twisting columns that make me think of tangled tree branches.
The floor is polished marble, dark grey and veined with yet more gold.
The walls are covered in tapestries, but they do nothing to warm the chill that's overtaken me.
Everything echoes. Our footsteps. The rustle of cloaks.
The distant sound of voices from somewhere deeper in the palace.
King Reave continues to ignore me, striding forward with purpose. I still follow him, but my steps become slower and slower as I take in more of my surroundings.
There's at least twenty feet between us when a young woman rushes into the hall, the heels of her shiny boots clicking aggressively against the marble, catching my attention.
She's dressed in relatively plain leggings and a flowing shirt, but the material is obviously luxurious, the way it moves and drapes around her—obviously fit for royalty.
She wears no mask, but the accessories crawling along her shoulder and the side of her neck, and up her left arm, seem to be made like the one the king wears; like shining dragon scales that have been molded to her body.
Rings sparkle on most of her fingers. The jeweled headpiece resting on her long, pale hair is probably worth more than I've ever earned in a month.
Again, as I step closer, I'm hoping for the lighting to reveal an ugly appearance to match the ugly, greedy nature of the Mouren nobility.
And again, I'm disappointed.
Just like the king, she's strikingly beautiful, both from afar and up close, though in a more severe sort of way; like an ice storm that you can't help marveling at, even as it snaps limbs and cripples your entire town. Her features are sharp, with high cheekbones and a straight nose that I imagine appears all the more regal when she’s looking down upon others.
She strides directly to the king, who removes his mask as she approaches.
She kisses his cheek, then gathers his face in her hands, tilting it this way and that, as if inspecting for damage.
She looks both furious and relieved as she throws her arms around him, her brightly painted nails digging into his back.
When she pulls away from the tense embrace, her expression remains torn. One of her hands grips the king’s arm while the other clenches and unclenches at her side. She looks like she's fighting the urge to smack him.
I silently root for her to do it.
“Disappearing in the middle of the night with nothing more than a damn note? Really?” She seems to be making a halfhearted attempt to keep her tone hushed, but the words still carry clearly through the vast hall.
“I've come back to you in one piece, haven't I?” says the king, taking off his gloves and handing them to a servant who's just quietly appeared at his side.
The servant wordlessly takes his mask as well, then helps him out of his riding jacket, completely unbothered by the bickering that continues; it seems as though these arguments are a common affair.
I keep my distance, alternating between studying more of my surroundings and watching the two nobles argue.
They don't have much in common, looks-wise.
Still, if I had to guess, I would say that woman must be Princess Kestrel; I can't imagine the king allowing anyone else to speak to him this way, aside from his own sister.
“Arlo hasn't slept a wink since he realized you were gone,” I hear her say, her tone rising again.
“I'll see to him as soon as I can. But there's other business that needs attending to, first.”
“Business.” She lets out an irritated huff. “What business is worth abandoning your family with such reckless disregard?”
He finally acknowledges my existence again, throwing a casual glance in my direction.
The princess's eyes dart toward me. They linger for only a moment before narrowing back on her brother.
King Reave lowers his voice, speaking again in what I presume to be the language of Mouren's elite class.
I watch his sister's expression shift from confusion to disbelief, and finally to something cold and calculating.
When she looks back at me this time, the full weight of her gaze settles, sharp and assessing.
She starts toward me with poised, deliberate steps, circling like a vulture before stopping in front of me and folding her arms across her chest. Her eyes are a much darker blue than her brother's, but they have the same deep-set quality, making her glare seem even more intense.
Looking back at the king, she demands, “Where exactly did you drag this gutter rat out from?”
“He didn't drag me from anywhere,” I answer, before her brother can speak. “I'm perfectly capable of moving on my own, thank you. I decided to come here. I climbed onto the back of his damn horse all by myself.”
The princess regards me the way one might regard a stray dog—or some other filthy, potentially rabid creature. “A talented gutter rat who can balance on its hind legs, then. How amusing for us.”
Apparently, the asshole gene runs in their family.
I'm very close to saying something I probably shouldn't when the king makes his way over to us. “It doesn't matter where she came from,” he says.
I disagree—vehemently—but I hold my tongue for the moment.
“What matters is where she goes from here,” he continues. “And we'll need to discuss that. Maybe you could be useful, Kestrel, and summon the necessary bodies? I'll have a servant prepare the smaller meeting room.”
She scoffs before giving him a mocking curtsy. “Of course, Your Majesty. But we aren't finished discussing your questionable life choices.”
“Are we ever?” he deadpans.
She shoots him one final, haughty look before turning on her heel and sweeping away.
King Reave leads me to a sitting room just off the main hall.
It’s sparsely furnished, with only a curved settee upholstered in deep green velvet, a low table, and a few portraits on the walls—more royalty, I assume, all looking down their noses at me.
There’s one window, but it’s so small and high above me that it only makes the space feel more claustrophobic, somehow.
“You will wait here until my council is ready to convene. I'll send for you when the time comes.” The king gives no more information than that before leaving and shutting the door firmly behind him.
I sit on the settee, massaging my throbbing knee, blinking away tears and exhaustion, and trying not to think about what comes next.
It must be close to two hours before I'm finally summoned. A petite, nervous young woman brings the message, and the three men who have been guarding the sitting room escort me to a room deeper in the palace.
Inside this room, a polished, rectangular table fills the center of the space, surrounded by high-backed chairs.
King Reave sits at the head of it, his sister to his left.
Five others have joined them, a mixture of men and women of different ages who all have one thing in common: the grave expressions on their faces.
They study me without speaking for a long, uncomfortable moment.
None of them look particularly impressed, though only one appears outright hostile—aside from Kestrel, anyway; though I'm beginning to think the sour expression is a permanent feature of hers.
Most of the council's gazes drift back and forth between my blind, disturbing eye, and the marks branded on my arms, but no one comments on any of these things.
The man to the king's right is the first to finally speak.
“What is your name, young lady?” His old, careworn face is the first one I've encountered in this palace that could be described as kind, as is his voice.
I'm also certain he already knows my name—that they've all been discussing me before I arrived—but he's giving me a chance to declare it for myself.
Maybe that's why I answer with little hesitation.
“Arowyn Vhale.”
“And it's true, Lady Arowyn, that you have come to our city with the intention of serving our kingdom as one of the bonded?”
I force a reply out. “Yes.”
The woman sitting beside the old man leans forward. “You swear your loyalty to the throne of Mouren?”
The words rise up only to crumble like ash on my tongue. I swallow once, twice, three times before I finally manage to form them, to get them out. “I…I swear it.”
“Witnessed and accepted,” says the king. “That's all we need, isn't it? Everything else will be handled in due course, as previously discussed.”
A long deliberation follows—quiet murmurs, exchanged glances—but eventually, every council member nods their head in agreement.
The king gets to his feet. The others hasten to follow, standing at respectful attention as he makes his way over to me. Only Princess Kestrel remains seated.
“You'll be needing this,” the king says, holding out a golden ring set with a dark red stone. “Protection and proof that you're sworn to the king's service.”
I stare at the ring in his palm.
After several deep breaths, I make myself take it, somehow resisting the urge to fling it to the ground and stomp on it. It's done, now. There's no turning back.
I slip it on my right hand, where it settles cool and heavy against my finger.
It feels like far too simple of a ceremony, given the magnitude of what I've just agreed to.
But I'm not complaining that they've kept it brief; I'm ready for this part of the ordeal to be over with.
I'm just hoping they allow me to collapse somewhere private after I leave here. Or maybe I could talk them into locking me up alongside Briar? I’d take sharing a musty dungeon cell with her over any other room in this palace, no questions asked.
But something tells me I won’t have a say in my accommodations.
After a brief, spirited discussion, most of the council members file out—save for the old man with the kind eyes, who stays behind to discuss other matters with the king.