Chapter Twenty-Three #2
Owen’s smile falters. “Yes,” he says, his voice hollow.
Haunted, as if there were more to his knowledge of this palace—and what waits for us inside—than he wants anyone to know.
“The Bouchers have collected rare, magical artifacts for centuries. If the Helm is here, it will be in their vault, most likely disguised as an ordinary trinket.”
“So they have the Helm,” Gabriel says, “they just don’t know they have it?”
Owen nods. “But Morana knows about the vault, too,” he says, eyes dark. “And we’re not the only ones looking for the Helm.”
Carved from moonstone, the palace seems to glow from within, its towers pointing toward the starlit sky like upturned hands presenting some divine offering to the heavens above.
Titus and I flank Gabriel as we approach the outer gate, wrought from gold, framed by guard towers equipped with men in gilded suits of armor.
Some arrive by carriage, others stroll leisurely up the banks of the river and join the line of guests waiting to be let inside the outer court. We assimilate into the throng of dignitaries, blending in with a group of delegates from Nera.
Gabriel looks nothing like himself. Straight red hair in lieu of wavy dark locks, pale complexion rather than his warm olive skin, his hazel eyes now the dark green color of dried seaweed.
He’s scrawny, as if someone had chiseled Gabriel’s broad, muscular stature into something fragile.
It’s obvious that Simon Bellamy has never worked a day in his life, and he’s certainly never brandished a sword—much less two.
I doubt he’s ever wielded much more than a silver spoon.
Blood pounds in my ears, drowning out the sound of Titus’s muffled voice as he announces “Sir Simon Bellamy” to a man in orange livery.
The man peers up at Sir Bellamy from behind a scroll, brows drawn with suspicion, but I note the tremble of his hands.
His eyes dart to the pair of Bloodknights scanning the crowd from ten feet away. He gulps.
It’s difficult to see through the slits in my visor, but I try to focus on the falcon perched on Gabriel’s bony arm—calm and serene, but with predatory eyes that gleam in the desert sun.
Owen might be a bird, but if anything goes wrong, I trust that he’ll be able to whisk us away from here in the blink of an eye. Until—
“You can’t bring the bird.” The guard’s voice is firm, but his eyes are pleading. He glances at the Bloodknights.
Gabriel follows his gaze, his jaw set. We’re seconds away from drawing unwanted attention, but Owen screeches, taking flight, and soars away, toward the river.
Gabriel’s smile is tight. “Will that be all?”
The man shrinks back a step, but he nods. A moment later, a trumpet blares, and we’re ushered through the gates, into the palace.
If I thought the oasis along the riverbank was lush, it’s nothing compared with the palace.
Metal lanterns the color of precious jewels cast elaborate patterns, like firelit constellations, on the gardens, red and green, blue and purple.
Water flows from fountains, cascades over sandstone falls, under terra-cotta bridges—my pulse calms, if only a little, at its presence.
We fall into step with nobles, dressed in finery from throughout the Known World, making their way to the ballroom.
Lewis would love this, I think, trying my best to memorize the styles so that I can describe them to him later.
I’m grateful for the distraction, but it doesn’t last. As we enter the receiving line, my eyes wander to the portraits that line the walls, and my heart sinks as we pass the life-size image of Princess Leo standing in front of a brown horse with white patches, its massive, feathered wings spread wide—a Pegasus, I think, remembering the Myth from Elsie’s books.
Leo smiles, her contagious laughter evident in the crinkle of her eyes. Alive. Free.
I glance at Titus, but he’s staring straight ahead—at the band of Bloodknights near the entrance to the ballroom. I must shuffle backward a step, because Titus’s hand comes up to touch the small of my back—just for a second, brief enough I wonder if I imagined it—urging me forward.
“Just keep walking,” he says, his voice low.
But when we reach the doors, my stomach twists as one of the Bloodknights dips his head to Titus and me in greeting.
There’s a part of me that wonders how many of these Bloodknights have been compelled—and how many of them joined Morana’s regime of their own free will.
Either way, we can’t afford a confrontation.
I force myself to nod in return, hoping that’s enough to satiate him, but Titus walks past him as if he doesn’t exist.
This doesn’t seem to sit well with the Bloodknight.
He steps forward, as if to prompt Titus further, but the soldier halts abruptly—looks down.
A puddle of liquid seeps out from the leg of his armor.
Titus never misses a step. He enters the ballroom, leaving the Bloodknight standing dumbstruck as his comrades—drunk on power and expensive liquor, by the smell of it—ridicule him.
Gabriel glances back at Titus, cocks a brow. Titus lifts his shoulders slightly and I might not be able to see his face, but a vengeful, mischievous grin twinkles in his eyes.
Too soon, we reach the front of the receiving line, and Gabriel and Titus drop to one knee.
I hesitate, struck by Leo’s resemblance to her mother and father, the king and queen of Hellion, both seated on thrones hewn from opal and crowned in bands of rose quartz.
The queen shoots a puzzled look at me as I drop to my knee beside Titus, my chest tight.
“Sir Bellamy,” Queen Sade croons, and my head snaps up, just slightly, because it’s her voice—Leo’s voice. Only, it isn’t.
Beside me, Titus’s fist clenches.
“Rise,” she says. “Let me look at you.”
There’s something about her smile that seems forced as she sweeps down from the dais to greet Gabriel. And there—a flicker of panic in her eyes as her gaze darts to Titus and me.
It’s the armor, I think. The Bloodknights must be a nuisance here at the palace, and despite whatever deal Leo’s parents might have struck with Morana’s regime, the queen seems far from pleased with Calantha’s soldiers.
Still, she glides gracefully toward Gabriel, her head held high.
“Oh, our Leonora just adored you. Please,” she insists, “you must let me give you a tour of the palace.”
“My dear,” the king says, his voice taut, “surely you don’t mean to leave your party?”
Her shoulders tense as she turns to him, and when their eyes meet, it’s as if a thousand unspoken words pass between them. His lip twitches, the ghost of a frown, and his gaze drinks her in as if memorizing her. As if saying goodbye.
Two Bloodknights step forward to escort the queen, but the king raises his hand. “Sir Bellamy’s soldiers can accompany them. Besides,” he says, swirling a goblet, a rueful grin playing on his lips, as sharp as a blade, “if you go, who will supervise me?”
Supervise. The Bloodknights exchange a look, hesitating before stepping back behind the king’s throne.
The queen doesn’t waste time, beckoning us to follow. Her pace increases as she leads us from the ballroom, down long hallways and up winding staircases, the muscles in her shoulders coiled with tension.
We say nothing as we follow, but I think I hear Titus’s heart beating faster and faster until—
“In here,” Queen Sade says with false brightness, opening a door and ushering us inside.
We enter a sizable bedroom, and Sade quickly closes the door behind us, sealing us in the pitch-blackness.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Sade says, her steady voice breaking as she pulls Titus into her arms, weeping softly on his shoulder.
Titus returns the embrace. “I wasn’t sure you’d know it was me.”
She draws back, placing a hand on the side of his helmet, her palm resting over his metal cheek. “I could smell you from a mile away.”
It’s too dark, but I see the hint of Titus’s smile lighting his eyes. Once, Leonora told me that her mother was a windwalker with a particular talent for recognizing people based on their unique scent. “Everyone has one,” she said. “And my mother never forgets a smell.”
The memory feels like a mockery now that I know this was Morana, stealing not just Leo’s body but her mind as well.
“Is this her?” the queen asks, turning to me. I don’t know what I expect, but Sade pulls me into a hug. “We know it wasn’t your fault what happened to our girl.”
I’m too stunned to move—to speak.
“They brought her back to us,” Sade says, speaking quickly now as she steps back to face Titus once more. “As a warning. If we didn’t fall in line—if we didn’t obey—they threatened to feed her body to Morana’s hounds—to the Deimos.”
I barely have a moment to process what’s just happened—what the queen has said—before she flips a switch. The electric chandelier buzzes to life, revealing a room adorned in shades of petal pink and dusky lavender. A room fit for a princess.
And there, lying atop the bed in a casket made of glass, is Leo.