Chapter 8
I shivered beneath the dreary sky.
Mist plagued the lands, drifting into the crevasse at our feet. A damp and rotten odor rose from the soil, the dug-up ground like a mouth eager to swallow the filled casket that lay within.
Men threw dirt over the late Lord Eadric’s coffin, where a wreath lay of red thistles and greenery that wove together like a crown to adorn the dead. A threnody strung in the air by means of a raven’s caws, and Lucien hummed a dirge. I recognized the song but couldn’t remember the lyrics.
The estate, Captain Tynan, and Cedric joined the funeral.
It was not sad here—not because I did not know the man, but because no one shed a tear. We all merely stood, as though waiting for Eadric to pop out of the casket and walk inside.
As one of the last to arrive, the only empty place in this crowd was beside a statue. Apprehensive as I was to stand beside shifting stones, I would never risk offending the lord by not attending. So I stood tense and still, waiting for the stone hand to grab me.
Captain Tynan had concluded his words of the late lord, rather surfaced and dull. He seemed more a man who expressed himself in acts rather than words, and I had an inkling his work in Tharen Crest would be his means of honoring the late lord—imprisoning and killing elves.
Crowned with a veil, I shifted my gaze behind the black gossamer fabric, watching in an attempt to learn. Know the makings of these people.
Lucien, situated between Alistair and Freya, dismissed himself and stepped onto the wooden platform adorned with a gold canvas. Looming over the crowd, he cleared his throat.
“Late Lord Eadric. My dearest comrade,” Lucien began, shoulders lifted.
I glanced at Alistair to see if any tears had come. Nothing. He stood as a soldier towering over his father’s corpse, the lord solid and complacent, apart from the furrowed brow. His stare was set upon the casket’s wreath.
Lucien’s face snagged somewhere between a glare and lament, but his eyes remained dry.
“I stood beside Lord Eadric in his retribution against the elves, forcing them to the western seas. Together, we witnessed the walls of Tharen Crest rise from the dirt. Lord Eadric Raven was a great man with great aims.” Lucien extended his arms at his sides and raised them to Alistair.
“Through Eadric’s living heir, his work will continue.”
Not a breath, not a frown or grin. Alistair was artfully still—he could have been a painting.
“Let us not allow Lord Eadric’s ambitions to die,” Lucien continued, attention on the laurel wood, pacing on the podium.
“His breath will live on in the work our hands cultivate, in the sweat that steams from our brow, and the ache of our labors. We will rebuild Andrael to what man desires. Beneath Lord Alistair’s reign, the gods will fall.”
Deceit grinned, hissing through his teeth. When man speaks curses over the gods, they only curse themselves.
Twirling a strand of her golden hair, Freya glanced up at Alistair. Standing beside the grave, mud caked her shoes as she dug them further into the dirt, twisting herself closer to the lord. Many times, she sucked in air as though to speak, but she remained quiet and upheld her glare. Something lingered beneath her eyes—care, worry, mourning? I could not make it out, but Alistair did not seem to care. His attention remained consecrated on the casket.
“I’m bloody cold,” Catriona hushed a groan to my right.
“Might I have a small taste, Father?” She reached towards Neil’s liquor-filled pocket, but he was quick to swat her hand away.
“Cat,” Maisie whispered.
“Please be quiet and show your respect. Those who pass must be offered reverence.”
“Ah, what do you fear, sister? The late lord will haunt you if you speak?” Catriona lifted her hands and wiggled her fingers as though she’d summon a spirit. She then whisked her hand to Maisie with a chuckle.
“Always so paranoid, you are.”
Maisie pouted.
“Silence, both of you,” Neil hushed a bark and waddled to the stage, trading places with Lucien.
Maisie watched her father leave then paused with unusual stillness. Her shoulders rolled in a shiver, like nudging away a pesky insect, with eyes pulled towards the edges—towards me. Her neck twisted so slowly, I could hardly discern the movement. When Maisie looked at me, her focus was pulled over my shoulder. Her lips fell open with wide eyes.
I watched the funeral’s first tear fall, but it was not a tear of sadness.
This was a tear of horror.
A deep cold pressed my shoulder, sinking down past flesh to bone. I shot my gaze to my side but saw nothing apart from a field of statues and the laurel wood. The lands darkened for a spell, and an unexplained anger settled in my heart and left.
Maisie shook her head in a tremble, found my eyes, jolted, and immediately looked away.
Do you see anything? I asked the god.
The insidious adorning of their fallen with worthless words and praise. Though this lord was destined to die, so says the Divine, and he now walks in the eternal sands, always.
No, not them. The way Maisie looked past me—
Perhaps madness is her mind, and she merely sees what is not there. Before my thoughts could run wild, Deceit hushed, There is nothing beside you, child.
I believed the god saw nothing, but I did not see a madness in Maisie.
“Eh hem,” Neil cleared his throat with teetering feet. From beneath his pocketed flask, Neil tugged on a piece of parchment and held it before his nose, the paper shaking in his hands. His eyes narrowed to the page, and he spoke slowly.
“Lord-Eadric’s-passing…” He twitched.
“Oh, wait.”
Reaching into another pocket, Neil pulled out spectacles. Bridge to his nose, he sighed in relief.
“Ah, much better.” He cleared his throat again, paper still shaking.
“Lord Eadric’s passing brings solemnity to us all. He brought a strength to this land that surpassed all other houses in the realm. Raven is now a renowned name, where one remembers the resilience of these great lands beneath the wings of our good lord. Lord Alistair will carry his father’s name well. We honor the life of Lord Eadric this day.”
Another dull homage.
After neatly tucking the paper back into his pocket, Neil bent down, lifted a spire of heathers from beside his feet, and let the dozen florals fall from his hand and drift down to be buried with Eadric. Leaving the stage, he set himself between his daughters and swilled his whiskey.
Catriona wetted her lips as she stared down the canteen.
All then turned to the son of the dead, knowing his recount of Eadric’s life would end this frigid gathering.
A beastly noise left Alistair’s throat, but he did not break his concentration from the coffin. He loosed for a moment only to return to his stiff posture, snapping back into rigid form—arms at his back, shoulders drawn, chest broad—he became like the many statues of his estate.
The pale complexion of his sunless face only added to the illusion of it.
Alistair did not take his place upon the podium and did not tear his gaze from the coffin as he spoke.
“My father has found himself where we are all destined to be—beneath the soil the gods fashioned upon creation.” His voice was so hushed, such a deep murmur, we all leaned slightly to hear more clearly.
“The gods awoke our souls, only for us to become one with the ground we walk. For many years, I had watched my father live as though his life were not to end. Perhaps he believed himself as lasting as those in the Everlaides. Perhaps he believed himself a prodigy—an exception to the passing of time.”
The air was still. Even the mist fell motionless to listen.
“The moon rises and falls each night. The passing of ages is inevitable, and one day, no one will remember this era. It will be a tale in books of old.”
Alistair made me out in the crowd, his black eyes piercing through my veil, his face without warmth.
“So, perhaps we must lay our own paths, regardless of what burdens weigh upon our shoulders. For we are all promised an end.”
With a slow blink, Alistair lowered his gaze to his father’s coffin. From his hand, he revealed a bloodred rose. Lifting it above the chasm, he delayed for a moment, then let the rose drift into the ground. I watched it fall, tumbling too gracefully, too carefully, to rest beside a man so heinous.
I do not understand this lord, Deceit.
My troubles found themselves in the god’s hands, and he glided his talon along my words, causing them to repeat until they were a drone.
Do you hear how maddening you sound? Deceit grinned.
I am not in the mood for your tasteless jokes.
When I lifted my eyes, Alistair was marking me once more. Measuring me, as though he attempted to tear back each layer of skin I’d worn in my life. He then showed me his back and paced towards the estate.
Freya yanked her feet from the dirt and chased after him.
“My lord.” She covered the distance.
“Let us share wine in your father’s name.” Freya wrapped her slim arm around Alistair’s and glanced over her shoulder. Glanced at me. Stormy and thrashing, those ocean eyes were laden with something I did not know.
Though I would. Soon enough.
The funeral ended, final respects marked by dead flowers drifting upon the coffin, and the crowd retreated to the warm fires of the estate as servants filled the burial hole.
I waited a moment before following, watching others leave. Lucien and Cedric had walked inside together, gossip suspected in their quiet tones. Neil continued to herd his daughters—mostly Catriona—like sheep out of their pen. I imagined if he put his canteen in front of her and walked ahead, she’d be incredibly compliant.
Maisie did not look at me as she left.
I stepped to the estate, but I did not gain a grain of distance.
Air wrung out of my lungs.
Strangled, feet slipping on the damp soil, I nearly fell, but something held me up.
“Gods, what is—?” I wheezed and reached to my back, feeling the icy touch of soot and stone like chalk or ash. Behind me, ribbon tangled around a limb. I traced the outline of another limb and three more. The base of these limbs folded.
A hand.
No part of me yearned to turn, to see what held me. Steadying what breath I could seize, I slowly twisted while unweaving the ribbon and angled towards the statue.
I saw it.
Her.
Her eyes, the statue’s eyes, were wide spheres, her lids chiseled away, with a mouth carved midscream, as though the artist had nabbed the final moment before a horrific death and carved it.
Her cries strung in the air, hazy and distant, as she peered down at me—eyes fixed on me and me alone.
I thought I heard my name, there in the screams.
When her mouth twitched, I yelped and fled.
Dark magic, Rhoswen. Deceit stirred under my skin. This place is of dark magic.
In the estate, the door shut behind me, and I was greeted by loneliness. I almost called out to ask where anyone was, but I wouldn’t dare speak to the silence in a haunted home.
After some moments stalking the halls, a torchlight bloomed around the corner. Guided by whispers, I tread softly. Fixing myself at the wall’s edge, I peeked around the bend to see Freya and Alistair, alone.
Grabbing Alistair’s collar, Freya pulled him close, his shirt tight along his back. When her lips almost sank into his, Alistair reached to the wall behind her, flexed his arm, and pressed back.
“I do not lie to you, Freya,” Alistair hushed.
“But, my lord, you cannot—” She huffed and threw up her hands, trapped between Alistair and the wall. She sighed and whispered.
“Our fathers had planned this a decade ago.”
“Aren’t you tired of living beneath your father’s decisions? I know you do not want this life.”
She scrunched her nose.
“Do not tell me what I do and do not want, Alistair Raven.”
“Then you tell me. What is it you want? What is it that keeps you here besides Lucien’s demands?”
Freya bit down.
“Precisely,” Alistair said.
“You are not troubled by this, only you do not know what other life you might have apart from the estate.”
“I have stayed loyal to this house, Alistair.” She stabbed her finger into his chest.
“Even when you would not join me for dinner, would not walk with me on the grounds, would not even have the decency to share a visit. Leaving me to wonder what man I was to marry, as you locked yourself away in your study for days on end.”
Alistair’s glare deepened.
“Do you wish for your demanded loyalty to be rewarded?”
“I was promised a husband.” Freya may have been rude, but she was bold.
I admired that.
“A husband you fear, Freya Brine?” Alistair snapped, breaking his whisper.
“You know my makings, you know the shadows of this estate. You do not wish for this life, for there is nothing here but darkness and death.”
Freya tensed for a moment, then loosened each limb and swung her arm around Alistair’s neck.
“I have desired you, my lord.” Her words were swathed in lust.
“If our courtship is to be annulled, you may still have me.”
Bold, indeed.
Tangling her fingers in his hair, Freya drew Alistair near, but he jerked his hand off the wall and stood upright, away from her.
“Desperation does not look good on you, Freya,” he said with a soft snarl.
“It ends now. Consider this the last moment where our fathers’ conspiring pulls our strings. Eadric is in his grave. His plans died with him.”
Alistair tore around, straight towards me. My heart leaped, and I swung myself into hiding.
“Alistair, wait,” Freya called.
When no footsteps sounded, I shifted warily around the corner.
Freya set her hand upon Alistair’s shoulder, compelling him to her.
“I am sorry for your father’s death,” she said quietly as he rotated towards her.
“It was unexpected. He was well the day before he died. The entire estate was entirely perplexed.” Freya’s shoulders slouched, scowl marks softening.
“I-I am sorry you were not here when he passed.”
“Do not grieve for my sake.”
Freya whispered.
“You never loved your father, did you?”
“Whatever that man felt for me, it was shared.”
“You’re always so cryptic, never able to speak the whole truth.” A tear nearly escaped beneath her raised brows. She removed her hand from him.
“Well, my lord, perhaps this is for the best.”
“It is, Freya. What you want—” Alistair shook his head.
“—I cannot give you.”
The mask she wore—her scowl—loosened and dissolved. Water coated her eyes, a tear breaking past the barricade.
Freya’s voice cracked in her curtsy.
“Very well, my lord.” The tail of her gown flicked in the hallway as she vanished beyond the torchlight. Before she turned entirely, she wiped a tear from her cheek.
A low breath left Lord Alistair, and he fell against the wall, hand running through his hair.
I left on silent footfall.
Freya Brine. I contemplated her, seeing how she might fit into my tactics.
That sour woman was perhaps my blessing offered on a silver platter—hostile, desperate, and had history with the lord. Nearly a decade of history.
I was compelled to steal her skin. Her boldness.
Hm, the daughter of the man of mercenaries? Deceit emerged from the unlit corners within. So long as your desires do not lead you into the lord’s arms, pressed against a wall in the dark of a hall.
I gagged on every word. Alistair is a slayer of the gods’ chosen. His heart is depraved.
You once said the same of Percival.
Sorrow and rage tightened my chest. Percy did not kill a guildmember.
Deceit hissed and clawed in the dark. Blood of the guild may not have stained his hands, but they were coated in the blood of elves. In this Dark Era, my dear, no one walks with clean hands. Not even you.
My teeth smashed together. Do not start with this, Deceit.
A princess by fate, her father’s hands doth bathe in the blood of his enemies. What crimson stains his hands too stains yours.
I fell into the wall at my back. You know well the High Gods have not cast blame on me. My old name is dead. My old self is dead.
You are a sapling from your father’s tree, it cannot be denied. The roots are deep, the stalk is rigid. Your blood is the blood of a king.
Davina Torrance is dead.
No, no, child. She merely awaits to be awakened.
My tears came from the depths of my being—the darkest of places I dared never touch, where the crown jewels were sharp in my memories and the gold was lead in my bones. It was as though Davina herself broke a hole in the barrier I built, reached out her hand, and gifted me her tears. I swallowed each one and dragged them back into the pits, listening to Deceit’s deep, knowing cackle.
Voices simmered in the distance. I drifted down the hall, following the sounds, and left my qualms and untold past behind me. A bellow of laughter echoed in the estate, bouncing off stones, so soon after Eadric’s funeral. When the laughter became its loudest, I found myself in the dining hall, twisting around servants wrestling to and fro with trays of wine.
“Rhoswen, my dear!” Catriona called, her black gown frolicking behind her as she ran with wine in hand, red drink splashing every which way.
“You must come settle a bet for me, immediately.”
I hadn’t a moment to beg context before Catriona stole my arm and slung me across the dining hall. Slamming her chalice against a table, Catriona claimed Maisie’s attention and the attention of another I had yet to know.
“All right, Mister Brains,” Catriona slurred to the young man.
“Tell Rhoswen what you told me. Do it, I dare you.” She stuck up her nose.
“You’re about to be humbled.”
He laughed.
“It does not matter how many people you ask, my darling, Cat. The facts remain.”
“No, no, I’m not convinced, Earnest. Tell her.”
Earnest remained quiet with a snarky grin.
Catriona swilled wine and wiped her chin of the spill.
“What is the matter, Earnest? Afraid our Rhoswen might hold a suitable reason?” She swiped a chalice from a passing servant and set it in my hands.
My fingers played with the stem.
“Please, do not overvalue me, Catriona. I have yet to know what you speak of.”
“Rhoswen Fallen, is it?” The young man asked.
“You’re the new advisor, aren’t you? Bit young, but—” He looked me up and down, and I did not care for it.
Catriona thwapped the back of Earnest’s head.
“Come on, Earnest, spit it out! Tell Rhoswen what you told me!” When he delayed, she hit him on the head again.
Earnest lifted empty hands.
“Mercy, Cat, mercy,” he laughed.
“I’ll play your games.” He cleared his throat. “Miss Fallen—”
“Rhoswen,” Maisie politely corrected.
“Rhoswen,” Earnest said my name a bit too low, too slow.
“I have told Catriona and Maisie that the gods choose only the illiterate or ignorant to serve in their guild.”
Such predictable sentiments in a house of god-haters.
“The sisters deny it,” Earnest continued.
“They claim the gods choose only the wise. Borderline traitorous claim, if you ask me.” He took a swig of wine and set his hand along his chin.
“But, I am curious. What does this young advisor think?”
Maisie spoke from behind.
“The gods’ chosen must be wise. Otherwise, they’d be incapable of wielding the powers the gods bestow.”
Earnest mocked.
“Because they are hollowed out, emptied shells. Gods, that Hendry Baird was an odd one. He got what he had coming.”
Molten iron was hot up my spine. I fought the urge to spit on Earnest’s smug face.
“I do not believe people should be killed for their beliefs.” Maisie’s words were barely a whisper, no one else seemed to hear.
“Well, Rhoswen?” Catriona nudged my shoulder.
“What do you say?”
“I’m sorry, sisters, I agree with Earnest. Hollowed shells are easier to manipulate. People who are wise often have their own ambitions. The dimwitted are simply easier to control.”
Catriona frowned.
“And here I believed you to be my new favorite.”
I hid my smile at the brim of the chalice, offering a wink as the sweet crimson cleansed my palate.
“You will simply have to make it up to me,” she said.
“Is that so?” I stuffed my anger with a giggle.
“Come to the city with me. I need someone to accompany me to the caverns. Maisie does not care for the noise, and Freya—” She winced.
“Well, you’ve met Freya.”
“Ah, so I am to be your last resort?”
Catriona shook her head a bit sloppily and clasped my shoulders.
“No, Rhoswen. My best resort.”
A deep, bubbling laugh rolled up Catriona’s throat, bringing scents of wine with it. I joined with a warmth simmering in my belly, the wine loosening a layer of ache. We laughed together, fresh waters glossing our eyes, and we were not alone. The estate seemed to find itself in a shred of merriment. I was glad for it. I had learned young to savor those small moments of delight, living in a realm creeping towards eternal darkness.
Grand doors swung open, the Raven Lord joining the company.
We all fell silent, seeming to remember what brought the company together.
Alistair’s hands were latched behind his back with an unbending spine. His beating leer scraped over each of us twice. A servant offered wine, though Alistair whisked his hand in refusal.
“Come,” he said to us.
“Let us leave this estate. I’m sick of the wine.”
The door opened once more, a small crack, far less dramatic. Freya stepped in, adorned in her usual lines that held her lips and brows captive in a glower. She looked at Alistair for a broken second before staring at the carpeting, her ocean eyes bordered by red.
Catriona squeezed my arm.
“It appears you can already make it up to me.” Her lips curled wildly, pouring out smells of wine, flooding my senses. She yanked at Earnest’s tunic, then pulled Maisie near.
“I love leaving this drab place. Come on, come on!”
We walked together, arm in arm.
Catriona was far more familiar with the layout of the Raven Estate, taking us to the outlet without a single misstep. I was glad for the sisters’ company. In this home of sin, Catriona and Maisie had a simplicity similar to their father. Perhaps their hearts held a light in need of kindling outside the sheltering estate.
As we ventured to the stronghold of Tharen Crest, I wished for Catriona and Maisie’s company, but my oath to the gods staked claim this night. Before we left the estate, I unlocked arms with Catriona in the front room, ran to my quarters for a bottle of wine, then found hair like a river of gold exiting the estate. Freya Brine was in my sights—she was my prey as I hungered for knowledge, secrets, perhaps revelations. To know this Lord Alistair, learn of his plans, and summon Carnage’s slaughterer to end the Raven’s reign.
Then, I could flee this cursed place.