Chapter One #2
“Another one? This one’s covered in dirt! Why are you bringing her to the palace? Do we give charity baths to paupers now?” So quickly I can’t duck, he snatches a twist of parchment out of my braid. “She even has paper stuck in her hair.”
He tosses it to the ground, and I can’t miss the symbolism when he crushes my Courage beneath one boot.
I quietly breathe in for four counts and then out for four more. I may have lost Courage, but I still have Endurance. Artemisen willing, that will be enough for whatever I’m about to face.
The guard next to me, the gentle one, whips around and punches the gate guard in the solar plexus, an anatomical point I learned about in Garethan’s Compilation of Bodily Humors and Healings two years after I taught myself to read.
The Sisters often proclaim that knowledge is godly. The sentiment is even carved into the stone lintel above the library’s front door.
I prefer to think that knowledge is power, and I hoard every hard-earned scrap of both.
The gate guard collapses to the ground, clutching his abdomen and hacking out a cough. I press my lips together against the smile trying to escape, lift my ragged, filthy skirts, and step over his feet.
When I turn toward my escort with some idea of thanking him, his warning glare dissuades me. “Don’t say anything to me, girl. I don’t want to get to know you right before you die.” So much for gentle.
My faint glimmer of satisfaction turns into terror and sinks like cold iron into the pit of my stomach.
Before I die?
What could I have done to deserve death?
As we march across the colorful palace gardens that I don’t have the heart to appreciate, I cast my mind back over the last few weeks. I didn’t offend any patrons, I’m sure of that, because I’m never allowed in the library during the hours it’s open to the public.
I haven’t seen the Sister Superior in months and, anyway, she metes out her own punishments.
I’ve left her study more than once with my hands raw and bleeding from the weight of her edged stick.
She’s good at only beating novice Sisters in places that won’t show, but doesn’t take any such care with her servants.
I refuse to think about the scars my clothes cover. Not now, when I need every ounce of courage I can muster.
My breathing quickens until I’m on the verge of hyperventilating, which Garethan calls the “unfortunate affliction of the weaker sex,” because Garethan is a misogynist fool.
I realize I’m so scared that my brain is spouting trivial nonsense at me, but it’s now so hard to breathe that I wonder if I’ll drop dead right here and save the king the trouble of executing me.
The officer, still in the lead, reaches the palace wall and turns to face the rest of us, impatience stamped in the hard lines of her face.
“Hurry up, already,” she barks, and—just like that—something breaks inside me.
I yank my arm out of the guard’s grip and stop walking. Then I deliberately stare up and up and up at the shining white stone, sparkling glass windows, and crystal spires on the palace turrets and shrug, pretending a nonchalance I’m worlds away from feeling.
“Not a terrible place to die.”
The officer raises an eyebrow and quirks her lips but quickly schools her face into an emotionless mask. “We’ll see,” is all she says before making a sharp right turn into the palace.
I swallow the boulder lodged in my throat and follow her into what may be my very short future.
To my surprise, we walk into a kitchen that doesn’t look much different from the one in the library, if you don’t count the fact that it’s four times the size and contains five times the workers, all of them busy at various tasks.
More fascinating than all that, though, is the food.
This kitchen holds more food than I’ve ever seen in one place, stacked and displayed all around me in a fresh, colorful, fragrant bounty.
The scents layer through the air like a symphony, with undertones of rich beef and pork, and lighter notes of herbed vegetables and spiced fruit, all topped with the sugary, buttery top notes of sweets for the king’s table.
My stomach suddenly growls so loudly that everyone around me hears it, surprising an almost grin out of my escort.
I only had time for half a piece of stale bread this morning before the novices ordered me to get to work, and that was a long time ago.
It’s nearly sunset now, an hour before I’m due for my second meal of the day.
“Not holding out hope I’ll be back in time for that,” I mutter, shoving my hands in my pockets to avoid reaching for any of the tempting baked goods within grabbing distance. I’ve been beaten for taking extra food in the library; I can’t imagine the punishment for stealing from the king.
Although, if he’s going to kill me anyway, how much worse could it get?
The cook, a plump woman in a starched white apron, her silver hair tied back in a knot, puts her hands on her hips and stops in the middle of the aisle, blocking our progress.
“Sergeant Neville, it’s bad enough you’re dragging that filthy child through my clean kitchens. Now I hear her stomach growling fit to scare a mountain bear?”
My guard ducks his head, his cheeks flushing a dull red, much to my astonishment. The man is the size of a small buffalo, all tough muscle and sinew. His close-cropped, gray hair frames a solidly square face with intelligent brown eyes. “Now, Maisie—”
“Don’t you ‘now, Maisie’ me, Garth Neville!” She shakes a finger at him. “I remember when you were her age and sneaking plum pies from this very kitchen.”
Maisie grabs a steaming turnover from a platter, wraps it in a white cloth, and holds it out to me.
“Now, take care when you bite into it. It’s fresh out of the oven, and you’ll burn your tongue.
But you can take this to wherever they’re rushing you off to.
No offense, but hopefully to a bath, young lady. ”
I stare at her, afraid to take what she offers. What if it’s a trick? But her eyes are kind, and she must see my fear. She steps closer and presses the cloth-wrapped pie into my hand.
The scent of sugar and plum and spice stuns me into silence, but I drag the words out. “Thank you, lady. May Artemisen bless you when she is restored.”
Maisie tuts. “I’m no lady—not but a cook. A fine one, mind you, but a cook. And we’ll see what we see about Artemisen, won’t we? May the sun and moon keep her.”
Sergeant Neville puts his hand back on my arm, but gentler this time, mindful of Maisie’s sharp gaze. “Let’s go, girl. Eat quick. We’ll be in the king’s throne room sooner than you’d like.”
I take a bite of the pastry, which both burns my tongue and tastes like bliss … until the impact of his warning smashes into me. When the pie turns to ash in my mouth, I put the remainder in my pocket, hoping beyond hope I’ll be alive long enough to eat it.
Three staircases and four twisting corridors later, I stumble to a stop just in time to keep from running into Flack’s back.
He snakes his head around to scowl at me, and I’d laugh in his face if my stomach wasn’t about to cannibalize itself from pure terror.
I’m immune to scowls after so many years of indenture, but threats of my impending murder are entirely different.
“Over-Lieutenant Rackness to see King Pallan with the requested … person,” the officer barks.
Two guards stand outside enormous, carved wooden doors. They snap to attention and give the officer—Rackness—simultaneous salutes, then pull open the doors.
My first impression: this is not what I expected at my execution.
First, music soars out of the room, the silvery notes of a flute twining with the slightly deeper, rounder tones of a lyra harp. The sounds dance together on a wave of harmony to support the purest singing voice I’ve ever heard.
Second, the room is full of brilliantly dressed courtiers in silks and satins and lace.
Jewels sparkle in the combined illumination from candlelight, sun through the many windows, and reflections in the mirrored walls.
The hum of conversation glitters as brightly as the finery worn by those who speak.
When I pass through the doorway, though, everything on the periphery fades away, because the person on the throne demands all my attention. It’s Pallan.
King of all Pyrrh.
And he’s staring straight at me.