Chapter 38
I had neither breathed so many breaths nor slept so many nights without the God of Deception crawling in the dark of my mind, hissing and twisting through thoughts and whispering of faith and weakness. Beyond seven nights, I no longer tallied dusks and dawns without him. I no longer wondered where he might lurk, be it Andrael or the Everlaides.
Since Constantine had stolen Maisie, an ache had settled heavily in my chest. I spent days treading through the quiet of the estate, never able to find Maisie. My mind often raced, wondering what she endured within my father’s house, and Deceit was not here to silence my endless thoughts.
Abandoned by the deity, I was left to my own devices. I lingered in waiting, though I had yet to know what I waited for. In this place, I lived as any other resident—quiet and doleful. Since the night Alistair chased me through rains, I could not find my purpose, if I was still ordained a purpose.
It was odd, not knowing my place.
I wondered if Deceit would ever come back to me.
The burgundy and gold dress hung in my wardrobe. I tried to ignore it and reached for one of navy and silver. Slipping the gown over my skin, weaving the bodice at my back, the burgundy became a needle in my eye. I thought of Deceit’s vile amusement, that maniacal laugh, when I wore the gown in Tharen Crest, seated beside my brothers in our house color.
I grabbed the dress, wrenched it from the hanger, and clenched the neckline. Tore it. Ripped it beyond repair.
The burgundy stitching came undone, snapping and fraying with each torturing tug. I felt nothing as I did it. Anger harbored deep within me, I knew it did, though I had no reason to unlock it in recent weeks.
The princes were gone, along with Constantine’s invasive purring. I had denied the gods’ desires of killing the lord, and Lucien was stagnant after Lilian’s son fell to poison. Deceit did not live in me to stir my wrath, and Vera’s fiery soul had left me as well.
The mangled fabrics fell from my hands, becoming a pitiful heap on the floor.
A long sigh left my lips.
Following my reflection to the mirror, I pinched my cheeks and thought of no one. Heat simmered the trail of my cheekbones, and I wrenched back the skin. It burned—my flesh manipulated by the magic of a god that seemed to loathe me. Holding onto skin, I pulled out my cheeks and curled the edges. Squeezed my temples and fashioned spiraling horns.
I looked disgusting.
This is what the God of Deception did to me. He made me a horrid creature to mankind.
Something to fear. Something to hate.
Fingers to eyelids, I dented the skin, then pulled the sockets downward. I winced in the sharp pain of it, which distorted the clay further. Brows bent, mouth straightened. Absence of anything—anger, joy, exhaustion, life—met me here as I looked at the haunting face in the mirror.
This is what the god made me.
A rhythm tapped at my door—three loud knocks.
I relinquished the magic, and my skin snapped back.
Opening the door, I found Jones standing there, his hooked nose scraping at me. A monocle snuggled between the folds of his skin, and it nearly cracked in his glare. Since returning from Sariem when the guild fell, since I’d cursed his name, this glare was expected.
He spoke as bitterly as his face let on.
“Our Lord Alistair requests everyone’s company. You are to join in the front room immediately.”
I shut the door in his beaked face.
“Filthy wench,” Jones bit before leaving down the hall, his feet heavy on the old floorboards.
You must be careful, child. Though these men are destined for Oldurem, you must remain in good regard. Deceit would say something of the likeness if he were still here.
I tangled my hair into a plait, yanking and folding, the strands screaming at my scalp to be released. At the end of my braid, I tied the ends and plucked two strands free in front of my ears.
In the reflection, there now stood a woman with magic and royal blood, but no god and no crown.
Before I joined the others in the front room, my feet carried me to the kitchen. Often as appropriate, I would make for the kitchen to see Lilian. We never spoke. She found no comfort in the station I held, though nothing could truly give her comfort these days.
Alistair had given Lilian leave after Ewan’s funeral, but she refused him, pressing the coin back and claiming the servant’s life was all she knew. That she needed to stay within the familiar to keep her sanity. Her olive eyes were distant anymore, chasing between the back door and the mound of bags where Ewan would giggle in clouds of flour. Another servant, Fiona, often stood with Lilian to share in the silence.
Beside one of many fires in the kitchen, I locked my fingers around the kettle’s handle and poured boiling water into two cups of herbs.
At the edge of my sight, Fiona hushed something I couldn’t hear above the clamor of breakfast preparations. Then, Lilian’s frowning lips glinted at life. I smiled into my tea, glad to see those mourning were granted a sliver of solace, no matter how fragile it might be.
I followed the echo of my footsteps, joining the estate where hearths roared, and ebony tiles clinked. Alistair stood beside the door, all others before him, some seated, some standing. Many used to be before him in reverence, but our numbers were now few, and our hearts soured.
Alistair found me in the corner of his eye. A shy grin immediately took his lips, enlivening my heart and painting my cheeks in rose.
I took my place beside Freya, who I’d begun to chat with in recent weeks. After hearing her dismiss her father’s ruthless ambitions, my guard beside Freya had lessened. She was kind these days. Still dour and severe, but kind.
I set a saucer of tea beside her.
“Thank you,” she whispered and took a sip.
Catriona came behind me, latching my shoulders in a tight embrace.
“Good morning, Rhoswen.” Jolly did not mask her hurt, and her breath did not smell of Neil’s whiskey. Either Neil’s supply had run dry, or Catriona refused drink after Maisie was taken.
“Good morning, Cat.” I held her hands that held me.
“Are you well this morning?”
Her smile fought against the sorrow.
“Well enough.” And she sat beside me.
Alistair paced before us as we awaited the reasoning for his summons. His hands clasped to his back and, as he strode, I noticed parchment bearing the king’s seal in his grasp. My spine straightened at the sight, and anticipation set the brim of my tea to my lips.
“The crown has called for our attendance,” he said, low timbre rumbling against aged stones.
“We, and all other Andraelian houses, are to attend the celebration for the fall of the guild.”
Neil’s elbow slipped from the arm of his chair. I looked at him, my heart falling.
Neil had grown thin. Jowls sagged at the edge of his once rounded jaw. He neither smiled nor offered us his inherent compassion. He had no reason to. The crown had ruined the good in him. Ghostlike, Neil now lived like many of us in these days—within the shadows. Shadows that his youngest daughter had warned him of. Shadows he did not believe in until it was too late.
Alistair continued.
“The Chosen have been dying of the cold in the prisons, and King Paden wants a public display of their execution.” His sigh stretched into his words.
“And if the king wishes for it, so it shall be.”
Whispers filled the hollow.
I fell into myself, thinking of my brothers and sisters who were tortured at the castle, awaiting their death. And I thought of the promise I had made myself the day the guild fell, watching Gwendolyne walk in row to the prisons—
That I would leave the king’s guillotine thirsting.
“We are to visit the castle?” Neil’s shaken voice carried past the whispers. A tear filled the cusp of his eye, and, for the first moment since Maisie was taken, he smiled. However weak, however thin, it was still a smile.
“Yes.” Alistair folded the parchment.
“King Paden requests our attendance immediately, before more guildmembers freeze. We leave today.”
Neil filled his lungs with a sharp breath. A hopeful breath. A breath in hope that he might see his beloved daughter.
…
I lingered inside, beside the estate’s door, and watched others be eaten by the carriages. Winter snow had melted, leaving us to wander through the dead grass that decorated the land. Still, the crisp air bit until our noses were burning red.
“You are troubled.” Alistair stood before me, deciphering my face that I no longer concealed from him.
I was still not accustomed to laying down my veneer, which left me feeling naked. Though standing before Alistair was the only place I felt any honest sensation, reminding me I was still alive in a dying realm.
“I do not care for the castle,” I whispered.
“There are too many eyes, too many men who believe their words are sanctified as true. Too many of those who plot.”
“You had mentioned you’d never been to the castle.”
“I said I had never served in the castle,” I corrected.
“But regardless, I have spent plenty of time with man. I know what occurs when hordes of them collect.”
He set his forearm above me, myself cradled between Alistair and the frigid wall at my back.
“Are you afraid?” Hand beneath my chin, he kept my eyes raised to him.
“No, I do not fear the castle.” I could not watch myself lie in his eyes, the ebony swallowing any trace of my reflection.
“It only makes me uneasy.”
“Rhoswen.” My name sounded like a dark poem from his lips—spellbound in a low growl.
“I have never met a woman who challenges men the way you do.” He dipped lower to me, his broad shoulders flexing in the soft light.
“It is men who should fear you. I fear you.”
His dimple showed, and a gentle giggle rolled from my throat.
Before my breath ended, Alistair leaned forward and pressed his lips between mine. He compelled me from the wall with a hand gently pressed at the soft of my waist.
I’d forgotten my worries, my afflictions, for the moments that his breath fell into me. The moments where sage and wood seduced my senses, and his short breaths confessed the pounding of his heart at my touch.
Our lips divided, slow and wet, and I spoke a name that should never be uttered in such a pure moment.
“Have you seen anything curious from Lucien?”
Alistair was hesitant to set himself back. He teetered forward as though he might refuse my question and weave his parted lips between mine.
“No.” His voice was soft.
“Jones searched the kitchen and Lucien’s quarters for the petals and found nothing. Lucien has been quiet in recent days.”
“I do not trust him. What if he hires mercenaries?”
“No letters have been sent, all ravens accounted for. No more, no less,” he said, sweeping hair behind my ear.
“Whatever Lucien was planning, he seems to be done with it.”
“It?” I tensed.
“You mean poisoning me, so Freya can court you freely? You should have called the guards. Sentenced him to Tharen Crest’s prisons to rot.”
Alistair’s calm was resilient.
“Not without proof, Rhoswen. Without the petals, there is no means of accusing him. If I were to imprison Lucien, he would only buy his way from confinement and come to you with vengeance. This is best. We will continue to watch him closely.” The lasting dark of his eyes poured over me.
“I will never let him hurt you.”
The Lord of Ravens extended his wings, wrapping me in feathers as soft as silk. I used to fear his arms, I used to dream of his death, but now, he was the only one who made me feel safe. I rested my head upon his chest with a slow breath. A quiet smile wove across my face as I listened to the drum of his heart.
We strode to the carriages, embarking for the City of the King. My arm severed from Alistair as I took my place with Catriona and Freya. Alistair proceeded to the carriage where Neil and Lucien sat, both with eyes fixed on their feet.
I stepped in line with my thoughts, buzzing in my head. I knew where I was going, and I knew the purpose of our calling. Where the Chosen dwelled in shackles, I was to be a guest. But I could not allow my brothers and sisters to remain in the prisons. Not when I was an opportunity for their escape. I knew the castle well, and I had ventured to the dungeons in many restless nights.
In my bag, there were many gowns and stockings for the regal affairs. Though one outfit in particular would be a piece of my mask as I attempt to aid the gods’ Chosen—a servant’s linens.
I tightened my cloak around my arms, securing warmth as I nestled into the carriage. Freya looked at the laurel wood, memorizing the bark. Catriona glared at the stitchwork of the leather seat. I, myself, tilted my head back and shut my eyes as we strode to the home of my childhood.