Chapter 20
20
SAOIRSE
F or the second time that day, a hood was violently torn from Saoirse’s eyes, leaving her blinking in the light of a new chamber. Still reeling from the truth of Rymir’s identity, she couldn’t tell if her eyes burned from the harsh light or from the hot tears that threatened to spill over. With each moment that passed, she was reminded of Rymir’s connection to her mother’s death. Like a flooded tidepool, the pain threatened to drown her.
Pull yourself together , she chided. Now is not the time to lose yourself.
She pushed the churning waves of emotion behind a mental wall. She needed to focus on the present if she was to survive. It would do her no good to ruminate on Rymir’s betrayal and surrender to the rising panic that burning in her stomach. She forced herself to look around, ignoring her stinging eyes.
Instead of a murky prison block, she found herself standing in a luxurious antechamber lit by gleaming embossed sconces. Like the prison, this room was made of stone. But instead of ugly sedimentary rock, the chamber was hewn from white marble, its crystalline texture polished to a near-blinding shine. Ornate tapestries hung from the walls depicting various scenes of the Under Kingdom, including a panel portraying the silver lake that ran through the center of the city, framed by a garden of crystals woven from gem-bright threads. Standing in chains and wearing sweaty, weather-worn clothing, Saoirse felt incredibly out of place as she surveyed the lavish antechamber.
“Hel’s teeth,” muttered Neia as she took in the garish scenery. “We’re in the Hall of Kings. Prepare yourselves.”
“Silence,” barked a guard. He jabbed Neia with the blunt end of his spear, eliciting a grunt of pain from her lips. “Once we open these doors, you are to remain silent as the grave. Do not speak to the king unless you are spoken to first.”
Another figure emerged from an adjoining hallway, silver-bright hair catching as she stepped into the light. The guards straightened as the woman strode into the antechamber, the air shifting with something unknown. She wore a midnight-blue gown that sparkled with tiny star-like crystals around its low-cut bodice. Her face was gaunt and hollow, her cheekbones so sharp they could cut glass. Blue veins shimmered under the paper-thin skin at her temples.
“Ah, Sloane. I was wondering when we might see you,” Neia huffed.
“I said silence ,” seethed the guard who’d just struck her.
The hollow-eyed woman cocked her head at Neia, a lock of moonbeam hair shifting over a bare shoulder. Her white irises were rimmed with a glacial blue, reminding Saoirse of a frozen lake.
“You should not have returned to Terradrin, Commander,” came a voice as cold as her frosty eyes. “You’ve made the worst mistake of your life in coming here.”
“So I’ve gathered,” Neia replied.
Sloane . Saoirse turned the name over in her head, trying to place her. She mentally rummaged through the index of names she’d created after years of studying the royal families of Revelore, suddenly placing the name. Sloane was Grivur’s elusive daughter, a woman whom anyone outside the Under Kingdom had rarely, if ever, laid eyes on. It was said that Grivur was so protective of his only child he’d forbidden her from ever leaving the walls of the palace, hiding her away like a dragon hoarding his jewels. Though she didn’t know much about the princess of Terradrin, Saoirse could tell Sloane was not a polished jewel, but rather a gleaming shard of ice.
“I have come to escort you into the Hall of Kings,” Sloane stated in a bored tone. “My father has been anticipating your arrival for some time.” With a flippant flick of her hand, the two guards obediently pushed open a pair of gilded doors.
Saoirse sucked in a breath as the room beyond the doorway unfurled. If she’d thought the receiving antechamber was lavish, this chamber was positively resplendent. An enormous gold chandelier hung from the vaulted marble ceiling like a captive star, dripping with shining crystals and a hundred gold-lustered candles. More ornate tapestries adorned the high walls, their designs oscillating as gold-flecked threads caught the flickering light. A long table cleaved through the dining hall with at least thirty upholstered chairs crammed around its polished length. At the opposite end of the room, a wall made entirely of glass overlooked the glowing city that sprawled far below the palace. The glittering lights of the Under Kingdom shone like veins of diamond through a quarry.
Saoirse’s eyes raked up the dining table, drinking in the opulent feast that spread before them like gems spilled from a treasure chest. Piles of caramelized meat gleamed in the candlelight, tendrils of steam curling upward from where crystal-encrusted knives impaled the tender meat. Innumerable platters of fine cheeses were scattered across the table. Gold-rimmed bowls were laden with glossy berries glistening like gemstones. Steam wafted off honeyed bread loaves, their crusts shining and golden underneath thick glazes of butter. Bronze decanters were filled to the brim with crimson wine, accompanied by fine chalices set at each seat. Elaborate candelabras glinted amid the overflowing platters and bowls, holding dripping beeswax candles that melted like icicles under the sun.
Saoirse couldn’t stop the grumble from her stomach. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. But her budding appetite all but shriveled up when she finally saw the figure standing at the back of the room, silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling window.
King Grivur surveyed them slowly, his colorless eyes glittering with a gleeful, unnatural shine. A massive crimson cape pooled around his feet like spilled blood. Thick animal fur lined the collar of his robes. His sallow skin appeared sickly in the candlelight, the blue veins at his temples bulging. Grivur’s white beard had been perfectly manicured the night Raven gathered them in her tent, but now his facial hair was wild and disheveled. His shoulder-length hair appeared stringy and unwashed, his waxen lips as pale as death.
“How wonderful it is to see you again, Commander,” came his grating voice, the timbre of it sounding like gravel under boots. He raised his arms in a mock gesture of welcome. Every one of his fingers was covered in golden rings, many of them gleaming with rubies and emeralds that likely cost more than entire neighborhoods of the Under Kingdom. Grivur’s gaze burned with palpable hatred as he surveyed his kingdom’s former military leader. Neia said nothing in return, merely curling her upper lip with disdain. He prowled forward, his crimson velvet cape dragging several feet behind him.
“You can imagine my shock when I was informed that one of my most loyal servants had been scheming with revolutionaries for Titans-know how long. When word reached my ears that the great Neia Landum had betrayed her kingdom and broke her oaths, I didn’t believe it at first.” Malice dripped from every word. “But that just goes to show how convincing your performance was. All this time, a snake slithered in my hall. You poisoned my court against me with your venom. And then you condoned an uprising that cost precious lives and wreaked insurmountable havoc on the economy of our land.”
With that accusation, Neia could hold her tongue no longer. “You don’t care about ‘precious lives’ or the good of our kingdom. If you cared about your subjects’ lives, you wouldn’t have sent countless tributes to their deaths in the Tournament. You wouldn’t have submitted to Aurandel and tithed away our precious stones and silk, materials your people mined and harvested with the sweat of their brows. If you cared about your people, you wouldn’t have obeyed the whims of a heartless queen like a dog on a chain. You wouldn’t?”
Her words broke off as Grivur struck her in the face. One of the sharply-cut gemstones from his rings sliced across her cheek. Saoirse flinched in her chains when Neia fell to her knees, clutching at her torn face. Neia’s blood stained Grivur’s bejeweled hands.
“Silence, snake!” The king’s pallid skin flushed with ruddy heat, his chalk-white eyes appearing bloodshot. His doughy cheeks quivered with rage. Saoirse wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d started foaming at the mouth. “I will not hear another word from your forked tongue. I am fortunate your prodigy, Captain Barrow, was not foolish enough to follow you into ruination. If not for his loyalty, you may have succeeded in storming my keep and destroying this city. I’m fortunate to have found a commander to replace you so quickly .”
Spittle flew from his mouth and splattered on the marble floor. Neia flinched at the mention of Rymir, the first real jab that seemed to truly affect her.
Saoirse saw a glimpse of the madness Ezra had spoken of as Grivur’s eyes went unfocused, milky pupils dilating. “Sit,” Grivur ordered abruptly. “I’m starving. Let’s enjoy this wonderful feast, shall we?”
His fur-trimmed cloak swirled around his feet as he spun away from Neia and made his way to the head of the table. Saoirse exchanged a glance with Hasana, bewildered by the outburst. The underguards shoved each of them over to the dining table without another word, appearing unphased by Grivur’s abrupt change in mood.
Sloane took a seat next to her father’s throne, her shoulders seeming to hunch as she settled beside him. In the antechamber, she’d appeared the very picture of a facetious monarch. Now, the princess almost looked afraid with her lowered gaze and wilted posture.
Saoirse was thrust into a dining chair upholstered with velvet, her shackles rattling against the elegant armrests. Hasana was assigned a seat across the table from her. Saoirse stared at the mountainous feast spread before them, garish and lurid under the light of the chandelier. The food could’ve fed several families, but instead, it was piled high in the hall of a deranged king. Her stomach roiled at the thought of eating it.
“Go on,” Grivur urged. He began loading up his plate, not seeming to notice?or care?when his long sleeves dragged through puddles of gravy and knocked over a goblet of wine. He lodged a polished fork into a hunk of meat. To his right, Saoirse could’ve sworn Sloane flinched.
“This meal was specially made for you. Think of this as your very own tribute banquet. I recall that you all enjoyed the banquet in Coarinth well enough.”
Ice ran through Saoirse’s blood. Tribute banquet ?
Grivur noticed their befuddled expressions and paused halfway through a bite of meat. He grinned, a delirious sheen glinting in his eyes. “I see you’re confused.” He casually wiped a dribble of sauce from his mouth as though they were chatting over afternoon tea. “You see, the Tournament never did achieve a satisfactory ending, did it?” He jerked his head toward Neia and Hasana. “It was rigged from the start, what with your merry band of rebels plotting that little stunt during the final trial. No body won the Crown of Revelore in the end, did they? There was no victor. No justice .” The nonchalant mirth in his voice sharpened with each word, unbridled rage returning like a sudden thunderstorm.
Saoirse’s pulse throbbed in her throat. She knew where this conversation was heading, but it seemed too mad to comprehend.
Grivur began ticking off each of their crimes, gold rings glinting under the chandelier: “You caused Meysam to burn. You desecrated a centuries-old tradition. You made spies of my courtiers. You infiltrated my kingdom.” At their silence, Grivur pounded his fists on the table, causing platters and chalices to spill. “What do you say for yourselves?”
“We didn’t turn any of your court members against you,” Hasana dared to reply. “If you imagine treachery in your palace, it isn’t any fault of ours. You see lurking shadows where there are none.”
Grivur’s pale face turned bright red. “What do you know of my court, Daughter of the Desert? Everyone has turned against me. Terradrin has no more allies. The Under Kingdom is rife with corruption thanks to you . If your meddling rebellion hadn’t stolen the Crown, I would still be in Queen Raven’s favor. I would still have a full cabinet of advisors rather than a graveyard of executed spies.” His ramblings made no sense, but it was clear the king could not be reasoned with.
“Where are your Elders?” came Neia’s voice. Her fingernails dug into the wood surface of the table, as though she was restraining herself from clawing a cut identical to the one he’d given her on his cheek. “I know you never cared much for their religious fervor, but you should ask them what happened during the Tournament. If you think your court has turned against you, just wait till you learn that the Order has been secretly plotting against all of us for centuries. We are not enemies. They are.”
Grivur glared at Neia, his fingers flexing around his goblet like he was itching to hit her again. “The Elders of Terradrin have remained in Aurandel. They did not make attempts to return to their homeland. Nor, I hear, did the Elders of Elorshin and Tellusun. The rumors say they’ve locked themselves away in their temple. But I am well aware of their true allegiances, Commander .” He spat the word like it was poisonous. “The Elders, like the rest of my court, would see me usurped from my throne. They are loyal to the Iron Queen alone. Even if they attempted to return to my city, I would not let them in. Those purple-robed fools are not welcome here any more than your rebellion.”
Saoirse was not shocked that he was completely missing the point. Even if they told him outright that an ancient goddess was trying to resurrect the Titans, he would still manage to make it about himself. He was lost to his delusions and would not attempt to understand the truth of what was at stake.
“If we’ve caused you so much strife, why don’t you just kill us and be done with it? Why play games?” Hasana asked.
“Because you will right your wrongs first,” Grivur snapped. “You do not deserve a clean, quick death. You shall amend the Tournament here in the Under Kingdom. You shall give me the outcome Revelore deserves. You will face the trials over again, keeping in tradition with the Elders’ decree a hundred years ago. Then you will die.”
Time warped and slowed around Saoirse as though the syrupy glaze of butter that coated the bread loaves had draped over the table. The gleaming candles on the table blurred into an unfocused haze of gold as her mind reeled. Redo the Tournament ? It was madness.
“We already have three nations represented here,” Grivur rattled on as if it were the most logical thing in the world. “How lucky! We’re only missing a tribute from Aurandel.” A crazed expression crept across Grivur’s face as he focused on Saoirse. “But he will come for you , Princess, if the rumors are true. And when he does, the games will begin.”
Bile crawled up her throat. Rook .
“No.” The word came out in a whisper. “You cannot do this. This is madness .”
As flawed as Grivur’s logic was, his theory that Rook would come looking for them was sickeningly accurate. When they failed to arrive at their meeting place at Raj’s Point, Aurelia and Rook would know something was wrong. They’d inevitably come for them, loyal as they were.
And they’d fall right into Grivur’s trap.
The mad king laughed maniacally at the head of the table. “You have no choice in the matter, I’m afraid. Now, you’d best indulge in this marvelous feast. This will be the last meal of any substance before your trials. Let the celebration begin!”
His words were a mockery of High Elder Korina’s opening speech at the tribute’s banquet. Saoirse couldn’t think of a worse circumstance to be in. Beads of sweat prickled on her brow as the heat of a hundred candles burned overhead.
“Eat!” Grivur ordered over a mouthful of bread. Saoirse couldn’t bring herself to touch the food. She’d vomit it all up the second she swallowed. She spared a glance at her companions, who were looking as disturbed as she felt. None of them touched the elegant silverware that lay wrapped in starch-white linens.
“Very well, if you do not wish to partake in our feast, you can return to your prison cells. Take them back, daughter.” He snapped his grease-slicked fingers, and the guards immediately swarmed the table. Sloane rose hastily from her chair, resuming her strange role as their escort. With her full plate having scarcely been touched, she almost seemed relieved their banquet was cut short.
As Saoirse was yanked from her chair and shoved from the Hall of Kings, cold shards of despair lodged in her heart. They were completely helpless, obedient to the games of a deranged monarch hundreds of leagues below ground. The Titans-damned black hood was forced over her head again as they crossed the threshold of the dining room. Peels of delirious laughter chased them down the hall, mingling with the metal clatter of their chains.
Once, Saoirse had been so hungry for the Crown of Revelore that she’d all but given a part of her soul for a chance to compete in the Tournament. Now, she was being forced to compete in a second-rate imitation of the Tournament when they should be traveling to the Northern Wastes and stopping Selussa. But this time, there was no prize to be won, no glory to obtain. Only torment and death waited for her on the other side of Grivur’s games.