Chapter 8 Carys
Carys
The second Quarterly Raid started a few days ago, so by now the Forayers should’ve returned with their plunder.
I yank my bedchamber door open and there’s Callum standing guard.
Something within me unfurls now that I don’t have to deal with Tiernan’s suffocating logic and sternness. “Good to have you back,” I tell him.
He nods, a small smile on his lips. “Happy to serve, Your Highness.”
My forehead creases. Why the formality?
But a flash of beige and grey robes moves across my plane of vision as a portly young man comes to an abrupt halt.
Surprise lifts his dark brows, and there is stubble across his normally clean-shaven dark brown skin.
He bows a tad awkwardly, struggling to balance a stack of leather-bound books in his arms. “Your Highness,” he says with a cocky smile.
I resist the urge to scowl at him. The councilors in general are infuriating, but Jac, being the youngest Master Historian ever to sit on the Council, is particularly annoying.
“Councilor Jac,” I respond with cool, rehearsed politeness.
I stare at him a while longer before he bows again and departs.
There aren’t normally council members on this side of the fortress. It’s odd, but there is always something strange going on around here. I sigh and set off toward my intended destination.
“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” Callum asks, catching up to me with a single stride.
I glance up at him. “The depository.”
He smirks. “Bored again, are you?”
“Always. I had to endure Tiernan for the entire morning, you know.”
Callum chuckles as we set off for the other side of the castle. “He’s not the most jovial, but don’t tell him I said that. I’d hate to be on the receiving end of his fury. You have the best of the best guarding you.”
I look up at him, my lips curving. “Patting yourself on the back, are you?”
“A tad.” He schools his expression into neutrality as we arrive in front of the heavily guarded depository door.
The guards bow to me and open the door to an enormous room with bare stone floors and unpainted brick walls.
It’s filled with all kinds of odds and ends, from ornate chests to unmarked scrolls.
Often, it’s a tossup whether there’s anything valuable or if it’s all just rubbish.
“Where are the new things?” I ask a burly guard.
He points and I follow his finger.
It’s a dress.
My eyes widen. The hangs over a crooked, rusty nail. I’ve seen a lot of dresses in my twenty-one years, but they’re usually painfully comparable. This one is a breath of fresh air. Why is it in the depository, of all places?
I make a beeline for the knitted garment and stare at it in awe.
The embroidery on the bodice beckons me and I cannot resist lightly running my fingers over the design.
The embroidery is the same color as the dress itself, but it still somehow stands out perfectly.
The point of a knitting needle protrudes from the bottom and the rest of the hem is tragically unraveling.
My focus is fixed on the work of art as I ask no one in particular, “What is a dress doing here?” No one responds.
“Callum.” I don’t have to say anything else for him to appear at my side.
The dress hangs well beyond my reach; even Callum has to rise onto the balls of his feet to retrieve it.
When he hands it to me, I’m surprised by the weightiness of it as I cradle it in my arms. Still, no one has answered me, and a stab of impatience propels my temper.
“Somebody speak, godsdammit.” I fix the guards with a simmering glower and the burly one spits out his words like I’m holding a sword to his throat.
“It was confiscated from a home in one of the Big Three villages, Your Highness.”
“Ballybaeg?”
“No. Cluain Baile,” the shorter guard says.
My brows furrow. “That can’t be right. No one in the agriculture village could possibly have this sense of fashion or talent. Are you certain?”
“Yes, Your Highness. I collected the report. The woman claims she made it.”
“What is her trade?”
His face crumples in concentration. “Botanist, I believe, Your Highness.”
I stare at the dress in my arms. How could a botanist make something this exquisite? “Has Lord Iywan seen this?”
“Not yet, Your Highness.”
I take a few strides toward the door, and in the silence of the depository, the clacking of my heels echoes. “This botanist … Was she arrested or … ?”
“Yes, she waws arrested, Your Highness.”
Theft isn’t treason. Moreso, this would be petty theft.
Not any business of Mainland. I hold it up the dress as high as I can and focus on the knitting needle poking out the bottom.
I’ve been to Barr na Cahar numerous times and I’ve had countless dresses made for me.
This dress is unlike anything worn by Grounders, but it’s not a Mainland style either.
It could be common to the Outer Isles, perhaps.
But I doubt the woman stole it. Whoever this woman is, she has extraordinary talent and she’s wasting it in the brig. Or worse …
I want her in my service.
Immediately.