Chapter 11 Lyonsreach
Lyonsreach
“Little is known about the origin of the Sapphires, but we do know they come from the west. They conquer not for glory, but to drain.”
— Captain of the King’s Guard
Riven made himself comfortable on the couch while I quietly gathered my things upstairs. It was easy considering I only had my clothes, some gold, and my cyanotic, green trophy.
Another knock thudded downstairs. I snapped my head around.
The homeowner still drunkenly snored like a hog as I tugged my boots on. I prayed it wasn’t Pearl security—or worse—an intruder attempting to take my gold.
I rushed down the stairs, passing by Riven, who sat silently in the darkest corner of the living room. He watched from the shadows, waiting for me to open the door. If it were a thief, at least Riven was here.
I exhaled and twisted the knob.
My eyes widened at Lord Ansel towering in the doorway, holding a black pack with braided straps.
“For Fate’s sake. What do you want?”
He leaned back. “Have I offended you, Blackheart?”
He truly had no idea that the king had summoned me, nor did he know that Riven lurked within the residence.
“It’s late.”
He narrowed his eyes, noticing I was fully dressed, down to my boots. “It is. I figured you would still be celebrating. Heard I might find you here. I brought the things you requested.”
He dropped the bag at my feet.
Shocked into silence, I swallowed, unsure of what to say about being given something. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“You earned me quite a bit of gold tonight, so consider it a thank you.” He glanced at my boots. “Heading somewhere?”
Riven slowly mouthed ‘no’.
The Draker wanted me to lie to the Witchlord? That could be just as dangerous as trying to avoid the king. I carefully picked at the skin on my thumb. Riven had always proven to be different—better than the other Drakers and Witchlords. I hardly knew Lord Ansel.
“I just got in for the night. I was actually about to go to bed.”
Lord Ansel stepped back, full lips falling into a flat line. “You’re a terrible liar. Goodnight, Elora.”
Something about a Witchlord saying my name and not simply calling me a Blackheart or an inkweed left me stunned. The door remained open as he took to the streets on foot, not bothering to use his clouded mist to travel.
My face stung with embarrassment as I stared at the gifted bag resting at my feet.
I turned toward Riven. “Why doesn’t the Witchlord know we’re going to see the king?”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “It’s not his business.”
If even the Witchlords didn’t know, then it was surely bad news. Though if it really were the king's orders, I had no choice.
Reluctantly, I left the comfort of the Pearl, following Riven through alleyways and unpopulated streets. Practically dragging my feet in silence until he brought us to an abrupt stop.
“Put this over your head,” he instructed, holding out a black hood.
“Have you lost your mind?”
“Have you got one? Do you want the entire ‘Wards talking about you the way they do Arielle?” His jaw ticked, the hood still waiting in his fist.
He had a point. If I were returning, I didn’t want to be labeled mad. “How am I supposed to see anything with it on?”
“You’re not.” He tried to hand it to me again. “You’ll survive this. I promise.”
The Oathkeeper.
Luna had loved to talk about his famed reputation with the king and other Drakers.
Oathkeeper or not, I found it hard to believe that the king would want to see me for any benevolent reason.
Fear rapidly outweighed any trust I had in Riven. I turned on my heel and bolted back down the alley.
Riven followed, yanking me by the braided strap of my bag.
I yelped before a gloved hand covered my mouth. His harsh eyes scolded me, a wisp of brown hair falling on his forehead. It was as if a small piece of Riven refused to be tucked neatly into place like the rest of him. He removed his hand and pushed the hair back.
I groaned. “Swear that I’ll make it out of the castle alive and not go mad.”
“I swear,” he promised, eyes locked on mine.
I felt the soft hood. “You only get my trust once.”
“That’s all I need,” he said with certainty.
For better or worse, I placed my life in his hands. He put the hood over my head and a gloved hand on the back of my arm, guiding me towards the Northern Wayward’s gate.
The blinding darkness wasn’t scary, but trusting a man was.
The rowdy festivities continued, voices and commotion growing louder and the air sour as we passed taverns. My new bag bounced against my back as we walked. It wasn’t too heavy, but certainly not empty. I’d yet to have the chance to even look through what Lord Ansel had given me.
“Dronis,” Riven said casually as we came to a stop.
“You’re late,” the Witchlord replied, his voice deeper than most.
My body tensed. Lord Ansel was kept from knowing that the king had requested me, but Lord Dronis was privy to such information?
“Apologies.”
A slow whine followed a click as the gate creaked open. Riven pulled me forward once more, but we only made it a few feet before being stopped.
“Wait—”
Lord Dronis’s voice was so close.
“Yes?” Riven asked sharply.
“May the Mother guide you well.”
I stilled, exhaling shakily into the hood. The Witchlords enforced that we follow the church of Fate, with no exemptions or mercy for those found worshipping another. For Lord Dronis to say such a thing out loud was heresy.
A distant commotion caught my attention. It was hard to make out, but it was certainly something I’d never heard before. It wasn’t coming from within the Waywards, but beyond. The darkness under my hood made the sound feel intimidatingly closer, like a march.
“You as well, Brother,” Riven said as he tugged my arm.
His pace quickened to a jog while I followed, blind as could be. We were out of the Waywards. The moment would have felt liberating if I could have seen it for myself.
The marching became louder, followed by other unfamiliar sounds. Were they wagons? There was clinking, too. We slowed and started an uphill trudge, my shoulders bumping into tree trunks every so often.
Then there was a huff. Not from Riven, but an animal?
He pulled the hood off my head, revealing a horse standing in the moonlit woods. There was no jail wagon and no rope to tie my hands. The black stallion waited patiently, coat shining and mane swaying gently in the wind.
The bizarre sound was getting closer, but I could hardly see through the woodline.
“What is that?”
Riven strapped a pack to the stallion before stretching his hand out, motioning for me to give him my bag. I complied, dropping it off my shoulder and tossing it in his direction.
“Not our concern.”
It certainly sounded concerning, like a million stomps, working their way toward us.
Riven remained unbothered, helping me onto the horse and then sitting in front of me.
“Don’t fall,” he said before setting off for the capital.
As we rode, I kept my eyes peeled for any sign of Luna.
The majority of the ride was through the woods. A couple of hours passed before Lyonsreach—the famed castle carved into the top of a cliff—peaked over the trees. It sat above the wintry capital of Lyonscliff, which was beautiful from a distance but a notoriously annoying climb.
The black stallion picked up speed, racing along the cobblestone path.
My muscles tightened as I neared the entrance to Lyonsreach. It hadn’t even been twelve hours since I’d won Orb Hazy, my body still aching from head to toe.
The massive grey and gold structure was only steps away from where we dismounted. Riven guided me through a secluded entrance. Strangely, no guards stood waiting, nor stableboys around to gather the steed.
Late as the hour was, the castle hallway was eerily quiet, especially compared to the celebration in the Waywards. Bulbed lanterns trailed along the elegant cream and gold walls, dimly lighting the stone walkway. Riven led me up a stairwell, around and around, until we finally entered a new floor.
Dread set in.
I no longer cared to know why the king would want to see me. I wanted to disappear, hide, melt into a puddle.
Riven stopped in front of an ivory door, elaborately carved with flowers and the sun in a soft pink. It was more artistically elegant than any I had ever seen.
Before opening it, he turned to me. “Promise me that regardless of your conversation with the king, you will not lose trust in me.”
I lifted my chin. “You said nothing bad would happen.”
“You will leave this castle alive and sane. That is my promise to you.”
I sighed. “Can we please get this over with before my heart succumbs to an explosion?”
Riven nodded and opened the door, gesturing for me to enter first. I couldn’t calm the shaking in my legs or the churning in my stomach as I took slow steps forward into a bedroom.
White and pink stained glass windows overlooked the capital of Lyonscliff. To my right was a white and gold bed, and in it lay little Princess Clayvarie.
Oh shit.
I stepped back.
The princess was as still as death, her golden hair like silk over the light covers. Her skin was almost as white as her nightgown, but her veins were dark as night. Her face looked towards the ceiling, eyes open and clouded over entirely black.
The incident had happened on her fifth birthday. Soon, she’d be nine. For almost four summers she had been trapped in a nightmare.
Chills ran down my spine.
Shackles chained her dainty wrists to the bed. She did not react to our arrival, as if sleeping with her eyes open. Forever stuck—forever trapped.
Steps came from the balcony until a man stood in the doorway.
The king.
“Your Grace,” Riven said, bowing.
I was still, like a small bird caught in a lion's den.
Though the king was young, he looked aged. His crown shone on top of brown, disheveled hair, but there was no light in his eyes. He did not acknowledge Riven, but nodded at me curiously, studying my face. I wasn’t sure if I should attempt a curtsy or fling myself out of the window.