10. Chapter 10 #2
“How generous. I was hoping for a standing ovation, but I suppose I will survive.”
“Follow me.”
“Do you ever say please?”
“No.”
Well, at least she’s honest. I can hate her for many things, but I can’t hate her for that.
I follow Mazelle into the corridor as we navigate halls stretching wide and endless, carved from the same black stone as my chamber.
Servants move quietly along the edges, carrying trays, linens, and stacks of parchment.
They exchange quick glances when they see us—Mazelle pays them no attention, holding her head high as her eyes focus straight ahead.
I have the decency to give a polite smile as we pass.
I spend the walk glaring at the back of Mazelle's head wondering how she manages to look judgmental from behind. “How long have you served the king?” It's a random question, but if I can get her talking, maybe something will slip. It's a long shot, but I've had worse ideas.
“Long enough.” Her answer is short and simple. Right. So she's not giving me anything.
"Why is everyone so vague?" I throw my hands in the air behind her back. "Do you all gather in a room and practice being infuriating?"
“No,” she says. “Some of us are naturally gifted.”
I blink. Did she just make a joke? Gods help me. I may like her against my will.
We pass through a gallery lined with tall windows overlooking the city.
Gray light spills over the marble floor enough to reflect the arches overhead.
Along the walls hang portraits of kings and queens I don't recognize, their faces severe, their eyes following us with the same joyless disappointment that seems to be a requirement of nobility.
Beneath each portrait, silver plaques bear names written in an old script I can't read.
Beyond the gallery, the palace is anything but empty. Servants, soldiers, scholars in dark robes, and courtiers with jeweled collars weave through the halls, speaking in quiet voices as they hurry about their business.
Every step through this place chips away at the simple version of the world I have carried since childhood.
I’ve always heard that the Shadow King is a monster.
That his palace is a den of vipers where everyone is cruel.
His people suffer beneath him as we do in Elvora.
All of that should be easy to believe. And yet, the servants here do not look starved, or miserable.
The soldiers do not look neglected, and the halls are maintained.
Either the king is excellent at hiding rot in his kingdom, or I have been wrong about more than I want to admit. I dislike both possibilities, because I know a fact about the king that will never make him a just ruler in my eyes: the king did something awful, and it affected my entire life.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask Mazelle as we descend a curved stairwell.
“To the Sacred Gardens.”
I nearly laugh. “What? There isn’t a garden anywhere on Solaris because of the rot. How could anything grow here? There are gardens here, in this palace?”
“Yes.”
“As in an actual garden?"
“It’s called the Sacred Gardens, Tarethyn.”
“I thought my official title was Lady Tarethyn.” I flash her a smug smile and attempt to hide my laugh because the look on her face is priceless. She looks as if she would rather swallow nails than exchange any more words with me.
Mazelle sighs deeply. “Lady Tarethyn, you will see.”
“That doesn’t sound comforting.”
“It was not meant to be.”
When we finally reach the Sacred Gardens, I discover the name is exactly what I thought it would be.
Misleading. It might be sacred, but there is no garden.
The space lies beyond the palace walls, still within the citadel, enclosed by high black stone and silver gates that swing open as we approach.
I'd half expected someone to prove me wrong anyway.
Flowers, perhaps. Trees shaped by gardeners with too much time on their hands.
Marble fountains. Something beautiful enough to justify the name.
Then again, Solaris doesn't grow. It can't.
White stone pathways curve through beds of black soil where thousands of dead stems stand brittle and gray.
Marble arches rise overhead, draped in vines long since petrified into twisted ropes.
Trees line the outer paths, their trunks white as bone, their branches reaching upward in frozen agony.
An empty fountain sits in the middle of the courtyard surrounded by statues of old gods and long dead rulers.
But it isn't neglected, not in the way a dead garden should be.
The paths are swept clean. Dead branches have been neatly trimmed, and the fountains shine despite never carrying water. Someone still cares for this place, though there's nothing left to save. Even the brittle vines have been pruned, as though someone still believes they'll bloom again.
No—they're not preserving this place because they expect it to bloom again. They're preserving it because it mattered once.
“This garden was sacred to Illurine,” Mazelle says, as if reading my thoughts. She stops beside a dry fountain carved in the shape of a woman pouring water from an urn. “Before the curse, this garden bloomed in every season.”
I look at the dead beds, the petrified vines, the bone-white trees. “And now?”
"Those who remember the gods remember that we are to keep their sacred spaces intact."
Her voice softens enough for me to notice and I nod.
The wind moves through the dead branches, making them clatter softly against one another, sounding almost like whispers.
I wrap my arms around myself, though the cold isn’t the only reason my skin prickles.
My magic stirs, faintly at first. Then the warmth spreads until I'm fighting the urge to press my palm against the ground.
The pull grows stronger, my magic racing through my veins as though it's reaching for something buried beneath the soil.
That's when I feel it. Something deep below the earth that isn't alive, but isn't dead either.
I look up and notice Mazelle watching me closely.
“What?” I snap, a little too sharply.
Her eyes narrow. “Nothing. I am simply observing you.”
“You people say that often when you mean something. No one ever wants to say what it is that they want from me, though.”
“And you speak often when silence would serve you better. Perhaps someday you will learn your place.”
“Silence and I have never gotten along and I don’t see it happening anytime soon.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed.” Her face has turned cold and she looks beyond me, as if she sees something that I don’t.
A voice behind us interrupts before I can answer. “So have I.”
I go deathly still, watching as Mazelle lowers her head immediately. I don’t turn at first, which is idiotic because pretending the Shadow King has not appeared behind me won’t make him vanish. It would be wonderful if it did.
When I finally face him, King Thorin stands beneath one of the marble arches looking as if he’s been there for some time. There’s no crown on his head today, but that doesn’t make him appear less kingly. His presence alone radiates royalty.
His black coat is fitted close, and shadows gather at his feet with the devotion of loyal beasts. His dark hair is swept back from his face, and his eyes, impossibly gray and threaded with silver, are fixed on me.
The warmth beneath my skin flares in answer. Traitorous magic.
“Your Majesty,” Mazelle says.
King Thorin doesn’t look away from me. “Leave us, Mazelle.”
Mazelle’s posture stiffens slightly. If I were not looking, I would have missed the subtlety entirely.
“As you command.”
She leaves through the gates, and I suddenly become very aware of the fact that I am alone with the Shadow King in a dead garden surrounded by walls tall enough to swallow a scream. Very comforting.
“Do all your guests receive private garden tours?” I ask.
“No.”
“How fortunate for me to be one of the special ones.”
“No, Lyra,” he says, and the calmness of his answer makes my stomach tighten. “Not fortunate at all.”
I swallow as he begins walking, not toward me exactly, but along the path beside the dead beds. After a moment, I follow because curiosity has been trying to kill me for years with remarkable persistence.
The hem of my gown brushes against the stone path as I move.
“Nothing grows here,” he says.
“Really? I haven’t noticed.” I put on the most sincere face I can muster, and the king smirks.
“It has not grown here in centuries, but I suppose you know that.”
“Ah, yes, the curse that dooms us all. Do you want me to feel sorry for your garden?”
“No, I don’t.” He looks ahead as a muscle in his jaw ticks. “Pity has never made anything bloom.”
I glance at him, surprised by his honesty.
We stop before a low stone planter filled with black soil and the remains of what might once have been roses. The stems are twisted and brittle, thorns still sharp despite the lack of life in them. A single bud hangs from one branch, closed and gray, preserved in death.
Thorin turns to look at me, gesturing toward the bud. “Touch it.”
I blink, wondering if I heard him correctly. My eyes dart to the dead plant, then back to him.
“No.” I say, shaking my head. “What would be the point? Your Majesty, I know what you think. I do not possess magic.”
His expression doesn’t change as he stares at the contents of the planter. “Touch it, Lyra. That is an order.”
I open my mouth then close it, because there is no denying a direct order from a king.
“I don’t know what kind of tricks you want me to perform for you.” I know he can sense the lie. I feel his shadows creeping up my spine, caressing my hair, trying to find a way in. I refuse them. Why does he want to know if I possess magic? What does he gain from knowing this?
“I don’t want you to perform any tricks, Lady Tarethyn,” he says, his voice soft with an edge to it. “What I want is for you to stop lying to me. And you are going to stop lying to your king.”