Chapter 15
JO
The capital of Maile sits at the base on Mount Zallis.
The salt from the gulf mixes with the snowy draft sliding down from the top of the mountain, creating a rejuvenating sensation in the air, adding energy to my tired bones.
The horses are all but dragging their feet, heads lulling with each step, but we don’t push them.
It’s best to be quiet as we pass through the city in the dead of night, anyway.
Fredrich didn’t protest when I suggested returning home in the earliest hours despite the lack of sleep we’ve gotten the last couple of weeks.
This is exactly what I needed: to be able to return without the weight of my title on my head.
Without eyes watching my every move and the shame over my decisions trailing behind me.
The lamps dotting the paved streets stay lit all night.
Cottages sit along the winding roads, their stoops leading to brightly painted doors.
Their shutters are closed, but they’ll open at sunrise and the streets will flood with people.
The scent of ocean and ice will be masked by cafes, warm breads and spiced teas, and horses as they move their cargoes and carriages.
That’s my favorite time of day. To have breakfast on my veranda and watch the city wake up as the sun rises over the gulf in the distance.
While I found something striking in Alaha’s resilience, in their survival in a nearly uninhabitable place at sea, and saw the appeal of Kenta’s grandeur, the true beauty of Maile is in its people.
Everyone plays their part, not because they have to in order to survive, but because they understand that if Maile prospers, the people prosper, too.
I cover my yawn in the crook of my arm. When I look up, I’m equally relieved to see the yellow door to the palace courtyard as I am filled with dread. But a warm bath and clean clothes call to me and the remaining distance feels nearly insurmountable as we trudge onward.
Tucked between the neighboring cottages, the single door looks unassuming.
The white-washed stone walls framing the courtyard match the walls of the palace behind it.
The third and tallest story is just visible above the trees surrounding the property’s edge.
My mother said she wanted to live near the people, but she still appreciates privacy.
Dismounting, I untie my bag from the saddle and turn to Fredrich, handing him the reins to my horse. I look up and meet his stare.
The need to acknowledge the journey we’ve been on together nearly suffocates me, but nothing I could say would ever suffice. Any words at all would be an injustice.
He nods. “Drink the tea,” he says.
The tea?
Without elaborating, he clicks his tongue at his horse, continuing toward the stables near the training arena at the edge of the city.
Shouldering my pack, I move to the potted garden next to the yellow door and dig my fingers into the soil.
It’s early winter, so I’m not sure if I’ll find anything of use but am relieved when my fingers find a hard root.
I pull the carrot out. It’s small, but enough to pacify my mother’s guard animals.
I dust off my hands and grip the iron handle to pull the door open. The courtyard is beautiful, even at night. Lamps flicker off the trellised vine-covered walls, highlighting the winding pathway through the gardens and to the front door.
Within just a few steps, the hissing begins.
They call to each other as territorial instincts take over.
The light of the moon reflects off their red eyes as they move in.
Six—no, seven of them. Scattered throughout the decorative landscaping, they bare their teeth at me.
I click my tongue placatingly, but it’s no use.
What they really want is the food in my hand … or the soft flesh of my ankles.
The first rabbit to hop within striking distance has its fangs fully extended and I know from personal experience that its warning hiss isn’t just for show.
I break off a bit of the carrot and toss it at its feet.
The rabbit’s nose twitches, fangs retracting as it leans down to inspect the morsel.
Then it chomps down, the loud crack of root between its less threatening teeth signaling to the rest that I’m not an intruder.
The chorus of their hissing ceases as they hop closer, standing on their hind legs to get my attention.
I break off more and more carrot pieces and scatter them on the ground as I continue forward.
I fuss when they begin squabbling with each other, snapping my fingers to break them up. “Dang rabbits,” I mutter.
My mother’s choice of guard animals is unusual, but they’re vicious and surprisingly efficient in taking down unwanted intruders regardless of size. They are also just an overall nuisance to anyone entering or leaving the courtyard with permission.
I knock on the inner door and the wicket slides open.
Iona, the palace’s nighttime doorkeeper, appears in the small opening.
She doesn’t react to my arrival. I’m fairly sure I’ve never seen the old woman blink, let alone smile.
The peephole snaps shut again and a moment later the locks click and the door swings open to the entryway.
Iona looks me over, eyes stilling on my feet. The floors are polished to perfection and her unspoken reprimand for having dirty boots is loud. I murmur my apologies as I bend over to remove them. Only then does the old woman allow me to pass.
“Please don’t alert my mother,” I tell her. “There’s no need to wake her at this hour, okay?”
Iona stares at me, still unblinking, and the best I can do is assume she’s in agreement.
As always, a lamp hangs at the entryway, lit and available for any and all who enter.
I lift it from its post and hold it high to help me navigate the wide hallway.
The flame licks at the darkness, but it never fully recedes.
Not that I need it to, really. I’ve walked these halls enough to know them like the back of my hand.
They’re the very halls I walked night after night when I nursed my broken heart.
Where I learned of my past and who I really am when my mother kept me company in my grief, unable to sleep herself.
The main floor of the palace is mostly empty.
There’s a dining hall, sitting rooms, and guest bedchambers that sit empty, not having visitors in many, many years.
Aside from the kitchens, not much of this area gets utilized.
The entrance to a curving stairwell is tucked at the end of the hall and I take the stairs up to the landing that leads to my room.
Movement catches at the corner of my eye and my mother comes into view from the opposite side of the landing where the stairs continue up to the third floor.
Appearing like an apparition, her fair skin and red hair shining in the lamplight as she moves closer.
Her eyes are like glass as she tries and fails to hold in her emotions.
My voice breaks in the stillness of the night. “I’m fine—”
She has me in her arms as soon as the words are out of my mouth.
The lamp swings in my hand, throwing shadows against the walls.
I drop my boots to hug her back. It hurts, muscles aching from the journey, her embrace tight as she squeezes, but I don’t pull away.
I hear as well as feel the tremble in her breath as she holds me.
I know I reek, but her familiar scent envelopes the both of us.
Like lilacs and clean bedding; I soak it in.
Pulling back to cradle my face in her hands, she gets a good look at me. The intense gaze feels like it lasts forever, but I let her take as long as she deems necessary, knowing she needs this. The reassurance that I’m alive and well and before her, not lost once again.
“My girl,” she whispers in a shaky breath.
I risk a smile.
She doesn’t return the gesture as moisture continues to collect in her lashes. Guilt fights to overwhelm me, but I shove it down as I hold my own metaphorical ground. I won’t let her see my regrets. She can’t suspect I’m anything less than sure of my actions.
“Go,” she says, releasing me. “I’ll have Karla send you some tea.”
“There’s no need to wake her—”
“I already did. She’s making it now.” She bends and retrieves my boots. I reach for them, but she pulls back, pinched between her fingers with disdain. “And I’m throwing these away.”
She leaves as quietly as she had come. On a mission.
In a daze, I walk the remaining distance to my room. Right next to my door is Beau’s own, and there she stands in the threshold. All of my plans to sneak inside without anyone noticing have failed spectacularly.
Arms folded, Beau eyes me suspiciously as I come closer. “Your colors are muted.”
The words hurt, but only because I know they’re true. “I feel muted.”
Sadness lines her features as she lunges in to hug me. It’s a short, tight embrace and then she’s pushing me away again. “Go wash up,” she says, shoving me in the direction of my room. “The stench of war clinging to you is making me nauseous.”
The door creaks as I push into my bedroom.
It puts the tent I’ve been sleeping in at the border to shame.
Fur rugs line the stone floor, panels of sheer linens drape across my bed’s canopy, cocooning the made bed against the far wall and a clawfoot bathtub on the other.
In the center of the room sits my desk, angled to face the terrace doors so I can look out over the city when they’re open.
That’s where I set down the lamp, on the edge of the surface, which is just as messy and chaotic as I left it.
Books and parchments scattered across it.