Chapter 52
Who would die at the hands of a Bloodletter?
I asked myself again and again, the question ringing each time I found a new face in the gathering before the guillotine. Tonight could have been a night of wonder and riches, the way the king regaled his people with decadent joy and full bellies.
Still, knowing their zeal was in praise of my brothers and sisters to fall, I could not mark a soul. Someone to mark for a rageful Bloodletter, unleashed.
The men gathered in circles, dark speech infesting their tongues, drowning themselves in wine beneath the twilight. Elegant strings played.
My gown matched the moon, adorned in an ivory I did not merit. It was too pure, too sinless, all while I walked a line in search of a man to die. Upon the black stones in the courtyard, that single stroke dividing sacrifice and slaughter was thinning. Though, in this place, perhaps any man was worthy of death.
Deceit continued to urge me towards the Lord of Ravens. His fate is sealed, the god reminded me time and again, his sentiment sounding intolerable and repetitious.
I did not see Alistair. Not yet.
As I walked the courtyard, I sought Briarwood—perhaps the only situation I’d ever search for that man—but, just as Alistair, I did not see him.
My fingers traced the rim of an ornate fountain. I peered past the lanterns and flora.
“Have you seen my father?” Freya’s satin gloves grazed my arm.
“I have not seen him since we arrived at the castle.”
I looked at her, my eyes straining. It had nothing to do with Lucien’s attempts to kill me—Freya was not of her father, and I knew that. No, it was her yellow hairs melding into her golden gown and gloves, and flakes of the same shimmered on her eyelids and cheeks. Not many things in this age echoed memories of sunlight, but she did tonight. It burned my eyes.
Even the fountain waters reflected her gilded glow.
“No, I haven’t seen him,” I lied. I assumed Lucien fled the castle after Slumber’s spell wore off.
“Could he be conversing with others?” I asked.
“You’d mentioned he has contacts within the castle.”
“No, his pride would not allow him to miss a party so significant. Will you tell me if you find him?” Her oceanic eyes looked at the crowd, catching moonlight that exposed a sorrow beneath.
“I am beginning to worry, Rhoswen. My father has many allies, but he also has enemies, even within these walls.”
Would it be so bad if he disappeared? I left that thought for Deceit to play with.
“Of course, I will let you know if I see him,” I said dryly, then coupled my arm in Freya’s, drawing her in.
“Freya, can I ask you something?”
Her brow cultivated dour wrinkles.
“What is it?”
“Who here is notorious?” I asked, Deceit’s disdain slipping into my tone.
“Who here has done the most wicked acts in bidding to the crown?”
Her neck flexed in a scoff.
“Why would you ask such an odd question?” She leaned to whisper.
“Besides, who here hasn’t done such deeds and called it just beneath the crown? Barters, slavery, murder. They are all right here, men devoted to the greater of goods.”
A body slammed against me, then Catriona slung her arm through ours.
“Gods, these castle parties are absolutely exquisite!” She shouted with a slur, smells of wine fresh on her breath.
“I haven’t been bloody sober for hours. But, shh,” she set a finger to her lips.
“Don’t tell my dad.” Catriona found my eyes, narrowed in a glare, and she pouted. “What’s got your face all ruffled up?”
Freya’s curious eyes did not leave me as she answered.
“Rhoswen would like to know who is the most evil of the men here.”
“Strange,” the drunkard said as she lifted her glass to her lips then expelled a gust of wine.
“But there is an incredibly easy answer. Lord Gallant of the south,” she stated plainly.
“That arse and his house have been inbreeding his lineage for decades. Keeps my line pure,” she mocked his tone. “Grotesque. And when he isn’t working on his lineage, he is robbing his people of food and coin. Most houses have their trees branching in many directions.” She chuckled as she swilled another taste. “But not him, no, no. That man’s tree goes straight up!”
Deceit’s tail slithered around my spine. Men are repulsive.
And that man seems worthy of death.
As is your lord, child.
“Listen to me, carefully,” I articulated as I drew them near.
“You both need to leave. Now.”
“Need to leave?” Freya’s tone hitched.
“The king demands we be here. And besides, this is the event of a lifetime.”
“Do you really believe that?” Anger chafed the back of my throat.
“Death is the event of a lifetime? It happens each day, every hour, Freya. You only do not see it.” I marked them both.
“Leave. Trust me.”
Catriona slurred her speech, but her words fell unheard.
I saw it then—crimson eyes levitating in the dark.
The guillotine stood upon a stage before me—the instrument of my father’s bloodlust, laid out like a holy relic. Gilded soldiers lined the perimeter. Tucked in the stage’s corner of thorns and mist, a Bloodletter made me out in the crowd, stooped low, waiting to pounce. Pounce at the man I’d claim as Lord Alistair Raven.
Acid roared in my stomach.
“Catriona,” I hushed, my eyes not leaving Taison.
“Where is Lord Gallant?”
“Why, in the names of the gods themselves, would you want to spend time with Lord Gallant? Where is your Lord Alistair, hmm?” She giggled and nudged my shoulder with hers.
“Shouldn’t you be after him?”
I tore my eyes from the blood-stare and glared at Catriona. Her joy in this moment was not her fault—she didn’t know what was to come, but I felt like a twig in a twist. Cracking and near breaking.
“Tell me now, Catriona,” I pleaded as a tyrant.
“Where is Lord Gallant?”
She jolted, wine hitting the black stones.
“Gods, Rhosie, he’s over there.”
Before she could point, I strapped down her arm with a tight grip.
Taison’s gaze burned into my back.
“Do not point,” I uttered through a clenched jaw.
“Only say. What is he wearing? Where does he stand?”
Confusion struck Catriona harder than her drink.
“He is beside the wine barrels. He wears his house color of silver.”
I peered into the crowd and found silver shoulders shimmering against the backdrop of woodgrains. Gallant—the man who may have been my only opportunity to shield Alistair from slated death. Doubt hung over me, Taison’s eyes boring into me, but there was a hope—I’d felt it in recent days, a hope that death might not claim all those I cared for. Perhaps it was misguided or misplaced, but I held onto it as best I could. This night, my hope for Alistair’s life remained on the shoulders of a man with a silvern jacket.
Gallant stood alone, wine in one hand and flicking his nails with the other.
I looked back at the women.
“Cat, Freya, please, you need to leave. Before the executions begin, be in your chamber and do not come back.”
“Rhoswen.” Freya’s brows arched with her lips.
“You’re frightening us.”
I looked at her, bright in gold, and something split it me—that split between my oath and heart. No matter how dear a friend I considered Freya, I was her enemy. I knew this night held a chance that this would become known—that I’d need to reveal my magic.
All might know what side of the war I stood on, but I did not care. No, I could not care. Not tonight. My eyes were fixed, my motives settled. This night, I needed to stay alive, I needed the guild to break free, and I needed Alistair to dawn another day.
I stepped from them, weaving through the crowd towards the silvern beacon.
“Lord Gallant?” I asked, curtsying low.
Hairs sprinkled with salt, he appeared to be near the end of his peak, though not as timeworn as many others. A suitable man to play Alistair’s role.
He nodded, his arrogance dripping from his lowly stare.
“And you are?”
“Rhoswen Fallen, my lord.” My hand met my chest as I rose.
“I serve Lord Alistair Raven of the west.”
“Yes, I know where Alistair’s house is,” he said curtly, and I valued this. A man with conceit stapled to his stare, a man who mistreated his house and people—these men were those who warranted death.
“What is it you want?”
I curdled air in my lungs, licked magic onto my lips, and raised my chest to accentuate my breasts.
“I have heard many wonders of your house, Lord Gallant. I have heard of your practices, and it has given me interest.”
“Please, if you have come to mock me, be gone.” Spit flung from his tongue.
“Enough ridicule attempts to stain my house, but these idiots do not understand what it is I try to accomplish.”
“The purest of houses,” I breathed with sour air, capturing his hand and seducing his senses.
“That is what you wish to achieve.”
He stood starstruck, as though he’d been understood for the first time.
“Why, yes, actually.” He cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry, what was your name again?”
“Rhoswen Fallen,” I pour my name over him.
“Would you enjoy my company, my lord?” It was a rhetorical question in Deception’s sway, but he had no choice but to answer as my magic tormented his tongue.
“There is nothing I would favor more than your presence, Miss Fallen.” He kissed the back of my hand.
I puckered my lips and blew the enchantment in the air.
“I will stand with you tonight,” I said, looking at the thick glass of his eyes.
“Only, do not leave my side.”
“I could never,” he hushed, and stole the distance between us, pulling me closer.
The barrier to his mind was thin. Weak. Gallant was spellbound.
Deceit groaned.
A dark figure approached from over Gallant’s shoulder. My lips upturned like a beetle upon its back, and a hard knot rooted in my stomach. Alistair approached on quick feet. His eyes narrowed on me.
“Gallant, I will only be a moment. Would you wait for me?” I asked.
“You aim to leave me already?” He held my arm.
“But, you’ve just arrived.”
“Only a moment, I swear.”
“Do not be long.” He kissed my hand again in farewell, and I wiped away his affection on my dress.
Alistair’s brows furrowed.
I tore away from Gallant and twisted to his back, closing the distance between myself and Alistair. I was ready to cast the lord away, but, before I could, Alistair hooked my hip in his arm and threw me between two trees—away from the gathering and away from Taison’s eyes.
“I told you, do not come to me tonight.” I stifled my yell through a tight jaw, my teeth ready to crack.
The Raven flew me further into the dark. His dominating stature and heavy steps left me in his shadow, treading backwards. I tried to regain my confidence, stopped my feet, but he merely hooked me at the waist again and delved me further in until my heels scraped against the castle’s outer wall.
The party sounded distant. Trees swayed above us like ancient canopies.
“What are you doing with Gallant?” He growled. Like the black flames of the cathedral, a fire burned in Alistair’s eyes.
“Why did you tell me to forget you?”
I reflected his scowl.
“Only for tonight, Alistair.”
“And then what happens?” His arm tightened around my waist, possessing my balance.
“I don’t know,” I lied with a grimace.
“But you do.” He pressed my back against the cold wall, capturing me beneath his stature. Eyes sharp beneath the pale moonlight, his tone clawed at me.
“I think you know exactly what is to happen after this night, otherwise you would have stayed in my chambers. We would have been absent from this damn show. But, again, you left me without clarity.”
A silent command hung between us, summoned by the resilience sculpting his face and tensing his body. He was in charge now, and he would not let me get away so easily.
“What can I do?” My voice choked in my throat. I needed to leave. To be beside Gallant so Alistair might live.
“I wish to, Alistair. To be in your chambers and forget the king’s guillotine, but this is where I must be. What we want, what we truly want, cannot be. I have sworn my name, as have you, and this… This is not meant for us.”
“What do you mean to say, Rhoswen?” There was a sorrow beneath the anger—the man beneath the stone.
“What is not meant for us?”
“This, Alistair!” My hands flung in the air.
“All of this!”
“Say it,” he whispered with a dangerous edge.
I struggled through the pain in my throat—the tears I would not let fall.
“You and I, Alistair. You and I cannot be.”
Alistair’s eyes darkened.
His palm pressed behind my head, his waist pressed against mine, and he stole my lips.
Locked in his arms, my will surrendered to his touch. His bite sank into my lips, his tongue grazed my teeth, and his hands clenched me so tightly, I thought he might break me down until I was nothing.
“You are my dark waters, Rhoswen Fallen.” He snatched my lips between his teeth and growled.
“And I will be damned if you are not the death of me.”
I savored his taste, his breath in me—but the continuation of his breath was bound to our severance.
Twisting my neck, I nearly wrung out the tears. I set my hand upon his chest with a gentle touch that belied the storm within. In all my strength, I straightened my arm and pressed him away. My heart nearly died—that beating flesh was an infected wound.
“As you had said, my lord.” I looked at the night of his eyes, garnering a moment to memorize the depths. The eyes that manifested beautiful light, destined to fall into utter darkness.
“One cannot tread dark waters. Only drown. And this day, I cannot be immersed in the dark. I cannot go where you go.”
“But you do not know what path I walk.”
“And that is the darkness, Alistair. Where you go, I cannot go blindly. Not while I have my own path to follow.”
Alistair lifted his hand to my face, but I craned my neck away from his touch.
He stopped, midair.
“Rhoswen, what path do you walk? If you don’t say, our steps will forever be in the shroud.” His eyes sought me with a hunger. And beneath the starve for truth, red seas plagued the whites of his eyes.
I tapped into Deceit, letting his magic brace my tone.
“And that is where my path must remain. And I will walk it alone.”
I looked towards my feet and away from him. Slipping from beneath his arm, I tread beneath the wooden awnings. At the edge of the grove, my hand flexed around a tree, the bough laden with my burden.
Over my shoulder, the lord remained a statue, cracking and still.
I kept my words steady.
“Our fates do not align. Forget me, Alistair.” From my lips, his name met me like a solemn scribe of what could never be.
Stumbling into the discord of laughter, debates, and strings, the tears streamed down my face in knowing I would never surrender to love again. And the pain only reached further as I placed the sacred title on what my heart confessed.
I would never allow myself this. Never again.
Rhoswen, it is not love.
I grit my teeth.
Deceit was not a god of adoration or care. He was mischievous and vindictive.
Do not speak to me of love, you damn creature.
My voice died within myself, and Deceit did not retaliate. Allowing heartache to storm around him—not touching a single memory or emotion—the god rested his head upon the curve of my mind and surrendered in silence.
A drum beat a foreboding tune—tap, tap—patiently, then three more, quickly paced.
“Rhoswen, darling!” Gallant summoned me to his side with glassy eyes and a tortured smile.
“I fetched you wine, my dear. Please, drink.”
Smearing any trace of tears, I then lifted my palm in refute. I thought Gallant might cry at the rejection. My spell was too strong, his mind too weak, and we nearly became an odd pair of mourners.
Within the depths, crimson eyes lurked.
Like a rope to a neck, I entwined my arm with Gallant’s while staring into Taison’s eyes.
By my acts, in my will, this lord was painted guilty of holding the Raven name.
Voices hushed to the toll of chains, and the king dawned into the night with eyes dripping in oil. At the sight, I cringed with a curling spine, feeling the echo of the Shadow’s insidious touch lurk within.
“Are you unwell, my sweet?”
Gallant’s question went unanswered.
Are you with me? I called to the god.
I am here, child.
“Men!” The air split, riven by the violence of my father’s voice. The courtyard shuddered beneath our feet, as though the castle itself trembled before the Torrance crown.
“Upon this night, the gods will weep in their damn haven. The Chosen will perish at my hand!”
Praise emanated all around me.
My father continued to boast and cry, but everything drifted away as dark eyes made me out in the crowd. With his estate at the edge of the courtyard, Alistair’s gaze was interrupted by those prowling towards the guillotine where blood was to spill. Alistair did not mark me, did not measure me, but looked at me like a curator to his collection—precious, but untouchable.
With a bleeding heart, I severed my eyes from Alistair and leaned closer to Gallant, wrapping his arm around my shoulder.
The princes joined, Knox and Evandor at either side of our father.
Knox wore his gold crown, modest compared to the king’s, and Evandor’s circlet of ebony roots wrapped around his neck. Evandor looked at me from the stage with his evergreen gaze. With Gallant doe-eyed at my side, I expected a glower or confusion to contort Evandor’s brows. But, he merely stood with something at the edge of his stare that I was unable to read.
Chains groaned against the ground.
From the edge of the stage, the imprisoned Chosen trod before man, plated in white linens and guided by armors of gold. Moonlight scraped down the castle walls and shined down upon my people, catching each infected wound, sunken face, and bites of frost that blotched their skin.
Strings strung, simmering alongside the torchlight and trampled by the drumbeat.
At the head of the row, Wylie walked with arms reaching out before him—blind. Blinded by Shadow at the hand of the matron. His lips moved, though no words came, and he was set before the guillotine by one of the many soldiers.
Heartache was consumed by the disquiet in my mind.
I looked away to see the Bloodletter’s eyes, but Taison was gone.
“This night,” the king cried.
“Will be a night the gods will know. This day marks the age of man!”
Knox’s smile widened, and Evandor stood without trace of emotion.
The torment is breaking me. A quiet cry strayed through my senses. If this is my fate, may death find me swiftly. She sounded lost of innocents, tormented by dark sufferings, but still, I knew her voice.
Maisie? I cast my own voice.
I was not afraid of her. I would never be afraid of her.
What? Who’s there? She asked with a shaken voice. What are you doing in my head?
Maisie, it’s Rhoswen. I am not in your mind. You are in mine.
A man in black robes and veil took his place beside the guillotine. A ring of keys chained to his belt—the shackle keys.
Gods, I cannot keep it straight, I feel myself coming undone, Maisie said with a fragile strain. Her anguish compressed at my temples. I am in a thousand heads, a thousand places at once. The Shadows, Rhoswen, they call for you. They call a thousand times, and I hear each call. I see more than I can remember, and everything feels so… hollow.
More guildmembers took to the stage, all bonded together by faith and chains.
Where are you, Maisie?
I am where the Shadows hearken, she purred her words. I am with the Shadows. Always.
A smoothness came over Maisie. She smiled in my mind, but it did not have piercing edges like Deceit’s. It was charmed and slick, draping in my mind with harmony. As though my mind had cultivated a place for it. As though her smile belonged in my mind.
A silence fell between us.
Porcelain clinked over the string instruments. Gwendolyne, bound by shackles, walked apart from the others with a soldier beside her. Even as cracks and frost blemished her perfect skin, her steps were of ethereal grace. The moonlight cast a halo above her head. She found me, and a dying gleam took her lips.
The soldier held her arm and set her beside the guillotine.
The king smiled menacingly.
“And here, we have the leader of the guild.”
Men and women sneered and cursed.
Gwendolyne stood unchanged, apart from a single, glass tear that glistened beneath her marble eyes.
The king watched the crystal teardrop shatter on the ground.
“Look how she mourns her people,” he roared and took an abrupt step closer to her.
Instinct tightened my arm, until I remembered it was Gallant I held.
“You will watch him die,” the king uttered and gestured to Wylie.
“You will watch them ALL die!” He laughed and extended his arms over the crowd, raising his eyes towards the Everlaides.
“Where are your gods, Mother of the Guild? Where is your rescue?” He cut his eyes to her. “They’ve forgotten you, for your fate is not written by gods. Your fate is written by man!”
Gwendolyne’s skin screeched into a bow.
“My king,” she said, composed.
“You too shall fall to the same fate. Only, you will not be greeted in the afterlife by the Divine. The God of Sands will consume you, and you will walk in his domain for eternity. Your crown will fall to the passing of ages, and you will be remembered as the king who left his kingdom in ruin.”
“No god shall claim me. Not I. I will bring the gods to their knees!”
The king stepped towards her. Gwendolyne stepped back.
“There is one whom you know, my king,” she said in a loudened call.
“One whom you lost, one whom you condemned, one who will lead us into days of light. My death is only the beginning.”
The princess. My breath snagged in my throat.
The king raised his fist and struck Gwendolyne—a shard of porcelain fell from her cheek, revealing the pink flesh beneath. He left her there, Gwendolyne standing like a sanctified sacrifice before the damned.
Rhoswen, they know. Maisie slipped back into my mind. The Shadows watch, the Shadows listen to your acts of treason as you hide in the crypts. They were there too.
Maisie, what are you talking about?
They were there too, Rhoswen. They know.
It was a dreadful plunge.
Fear bit into my chest. My heart beat raced like prey in the wood. Blood left my skin, and my stomach curled in on itself with a deep scream that refused to rise. I called for Maisie as my vision tunneled at the edges, but she no longer spoke.
Deceit, the Shadows know.
The god crawled out from the corners.
Behind the guillotine, the executioner grabbed Wylie’s shoulders and forced him to his knees, his neck smacking the wooden bow. Wylie hacked in the impact, coughing up black liquid over the crowd.
I wanted to run—to find the others and warn them, but there was no time. We already stood at the precipice.
The executioner wrapped his hand around the lever.
Where is everyone? I cried to Deceit.
They come, he said, his voice grazing against the trenches of my mind. They already come.
The king’s eyes scraped over his subjects.
Wylie screamed, wailing in the guillotine’s hands. He heaved a mighty breath, and a shred of whiteness cracked past the ink in his eyes. He shouted through torment.
“The princess is alive!”
No.
All fell silent, but the realm cried at me, screaming me towards the edge of a cliff.
Wylie convulsed where he knelt.
“The crown will fall. Against the Shadows, anointed by gods, the end will be brought by the descendant of the king!”
“Kill him,” The king yelled.
“Kill him now!”
My body trembled, legs barely holding steady. I was stripped bare, flayed open for all to see. No one was ever to know the princess stepped beyond her grave, never to know she remained amongst the living.
Thunder cracked overhead. All gasped and crouched low. Clouds fell above us, materializing from nothing, but they did not weep tears. A slender creature swam through the clouds, her wispy gown curling in the storm.
“It’s a god,” one cried.
“It’s a fucking god!”
From the mouth of Deceit, it was professed—black feathers doth fall from the sky.
The collection of the goddess’s wings raining overhead was like a corpus of the death to come. The souls to be torn from life. The Goddess of Fate prophesied with black, oracle feathers. Beneath this night, blood would spill.
A lever skreiched.
My eyes cut to the guillotine. Blood dripped from the ebony basin. The king held himself at the lever, his knuckles blanched with clenched fists. With a face flushed in fury, his chest heaved violent breaths, eyes narrowed in darkness.
This man, the King of Andrael, lied about his daughter’s death.
And now, all knew.
Wylie’s headless body fell into merciless rest.
A woman screamed before grief could meet me.
From all corners of the courtyard, chaos ruptured through shattering glass, bloodcurdling cries, and twisting feet. From one soul to the next, a ripple of fear strung through the wealthy.
A flame scorched the air, licking brambles and devouring. Blades unsheathed in a rally of resonance, and a man sailed upon a breeze, tattooed with the Goddess of Wind’s crown. A Feytra, a Volant, and, somewhere prowling in the dark, a Bloodletter.
This was it. The beginning of the end of days.
Carnage was to be had.