Chapter 29
My hurt from Cirrian’s rejection and the subsequent restless night had put me on edge, my patience holding on by a frayed tendril that was threatening to snap.
Sayier, Nahela, and I were locked in an impasse that I couldn’t manage to end with a concession.
The dress wasn’t the source of my anger, just the target.
It was insignificant. Feeling helpless made me cling to anything that gave me some semblance of autonomy.
Them adorning me in a beautiful dress seemed trivial to us devising a way to save Cirrian and making an alternative plan in the event he wasn’t given clemency.
I knew presentation was important, and Sayier’s intense eyes and sullen expression that disappeared if my eyes stayed on her too long showed they weren’t taking the situation lightly.
Sayier had just tugged too hard at my dwindling tolerance when she directed me to the table vanity where she’d placed a flat iron.
Not that I was a stranger to irons, but this wasn’t like anything I’d seen before.
In a world fueled by magic and science, I couldn’t understand how these people couldn’t find a way to straighten my hair that didn’t entail me flattening it with a clothes iron over a cast-iron bowl containing a blaze of blue flames.
Her pointing to a cooling rack where the iron could be placed made me bite my tongue to keep from suggesting another place I could stick it.
I’d washed my hair and used the products Nahela had provided.
Although the products smelled like my creams at home, the results were different.
I styled the two twists into a crown halo in front.
The braid out created a fall of thick waves.
I plotted ways to convince Nahela to give me more to take home.
However, when I emerged I was met with a frown of disapproval from Sayier, who directed me to the bowl of fire and the iron.
“I have no desire to cook my hair.”
My comment earned a glower from her. “You will be petitioning for my brother’s life. It is best that your presentation is worthy of their consideration.”
There was an insult in that comment. I cut my eyes in Nahela’s direction. “Do they not find your hair worthy of consideration?” I countered with a bright smile. It was in a similar style as before but with chunky twists and some clips.
“She’s a Legion. There isn’t much she could do to displease them,” Sayier pointed out.
The hierarchy in Umbryth seemed to consist of shadow gods, who collected magic and were perceived to have the easiest job, then the Legion who seemed responsible for guarding the Laytherium and were gifted with wings. I wanted desperately to see Nahela’s.
“I’ll be with you. Wouldn’t I be given the same courtesy extended to you?” I asked Sayier, whose lips pinched together.
“She’s a Sentinel,” Nahela provided. Her conciliatory smile made me believe being a Sentinel didn’t hold the same prestige or advantages. “Their duties are in service of the Bavelon.”
From the heaviness in her tone, there was more to it.
Would she be the one responsible for delivering punishment if Cirrian wasn’t given mercy?
Her inability to meet my gaze led me to believe that could be possible.
A lump lodged in my throat, and piece by piece I constructed the resolve and patience to deal with this and her request.
“May I have some privacy?” I asked. The room still felt like a prison, and it seemed to be shrinking in on itself from the magic rampaging off Sayier and Nahela. Or perhaps the room was a sentient extension of the magical world.
I needed time and space to grieve a life of lies, and the future. To figure out what I needed to say on Cirrian’s behalf to save his life—our lives. Everything was overwhelming, and I needed a moment of reprieve and to dress without an audience.
“Very well,” Nahela offered, “but we need to leave in an hour.”
I flattened my hair bone straight. When I finished, I frowned at the reflection.
Many times I’d die on the hill that my natural hair wasn’t unprofessional or didn’t belong with beautiful formal clothing.
But being on a literal hill of death, I determined it was a battle to be set aside for another day.
Parting my hair, I pulled it away from my face, tucking it behind my ears.
Neatly laid edges were the only traces of my previous hairstyle.
They’d chosen a floor-length champagne-colored silk gown that was quietly unassuming but with a subtle command of authority.
The off-shoulder cut sat just at the collarbone.
Embroidered flowers of gold, gray, and a touch of green clustered across the bodice and sleeves.
It was cinched at the waist and spilled into a gentle flow of material that allowed for easy movement.
I couldn’t stop wondering how easy it would be to run in.
The accompanying shoes with a similar embroidered pattern completed the demure yet commanding dress. Despite its beauty, I felt like I was going into battle, ill prepared.
I wasn’t given the hour. Fifty minutes later, they returned in more official-looking uniforms.
High-collared jackets cut close, and brass buttons with different emblems embossed on them that I assumed indicated their roles as Legion and Sentinel, the uniforms were so black they swallowed the light rather than reflected it.
At first glance, the uniforms suggested menace, but further inspection showed it was a uniform of esthetics and not function.
Officially beautiful. They didn’t have weapons on them, but I was confident that wouldn’t be the case for everyone in attendance.
Matte fabric stretched across their torsos, interrupted by an elaborate panel of raised detailing that ran down the center with circular insets framed in ornate patterns also displaying their official roles.
Decorative. Impractical. The embellishments were masterfully decorative and would undoubtedly be used against them in a fight.
The split in the front seemed functional, but I suspected it was for dramatics.
This was attire that effectively portrayed strength, elegance, and a commitment to the hierarchy of their realm.
There was no mistaking the role the person held in this world, even without a sword at their hip.
I hadn’t determined if I should be offended or flattered that they didn’t believe I was at risk. They’d think differently if they knew how many times I’d tried to devise an escape plan.
Sayier gave me an enthusiastic nod of approval, which was met by my grim frown that remained and contrasted to Nahela’s surprised expression.
Moving in front of me, she gave me a long assessment. “I like it. An equally beautiful version of yourself. When you return, I’ll mist it with all the water necessary to get the version you prefer back.”
Her understanding meant the world. It wasn’t just about hair but what it represented in a world that wanted to tell me that my thick coarse coils weren’t right or were a source of shame.
Sayier removed her hand from my back and cuffed her palm over my wrist. Moments later, the dizziness settled and my vision cleared enough from the travel to take in the ecru stone building in front of us.
Its compact silhouette wasn’t as grand as the Laytherium but commanded attention.
Peculiar amber light ebbed from the series of arched black wrought-iron windows, touting the strong magic and power that waited inside.
The copper-tone cupola crowning the roof contrasted with a projecting central bay constructed of layered inverted stone arches.
Whereas arches and bowed architectural features typically invited entry, here they served as a warning.
Nothing about this place promised mercy—only judgment.
My heart pounded and warmth seeped from my body. I was unable to draw from the strength of Sayier and Nahela, who flanked me. Shoulders back, their faces were devoid of expression except for the apprehension in their weary eyes. Sayier closed her eyes briefly as if she’d sent up a silent wish.
The doors opened for us, presenting a stretch of stone hallway in varying shades of taupe and weathered gray.
Stone pillars were the only features in the vacant space, making the vastness feel unwelcoming.
Each footstep echoed in the emptiness. Despite the muted glow of light from chandeliers in the ribbed arches of the ceiling, it was like being ushered into a deceptive cave.
Everything about the hall suggested purpose, but not compassion.
In desperate need of a distraction and a place to pin my hope, I asked, “Cirrian’s decision will be made by fifteen people?”
“Fifteen emissaries,” Sayier corrected, punctuating their roles as representatives of the five continents that they called spires.
Fifteen decisions. That was significantly better than only that of Lord Zyran, who was Lead of Cirrian’s spire.
Sayier and Nahela were miserly with information about their judgment system, leading me to believe that Umbryth citizens’ staunch devotion to their hierarchical system and the protection of magic didn’t extend to their judicial system.
My pragmatism was overwhelming any sense of hope.
The guards who followed us into the room closed the heavy door behind us, making hope falter more.
I wasn’t convinced that superficial things like a lovely gown, straightened hair, and carefully done makeup would have any bearing on their decision.
Clinging to the hope that whatever decision was rendered, Cirrian would keep his promise and release me from my oath.
But that wasn’t much of a consolation; I didn’t want him to die.