Chapter 5
Five
We cross the drawbridge over the Hetaira River, passing under a raised portcullis.
A gray beauty of pinnacle-topped turrets and spires, Alexandria Castle boasts a massive keep full of windows and crawling ivy.
Waterfalls cascade down from the garden battlement walls, creating a low roar as the dark water lazily encircles the castle, separating it from the city.
I’ve attempted to glimpse the rumored merrows swimming in the moat during previous trips, but they fail to interest me tonight. My heartbeat slows, but nothing can remove the dread filling my veins.
Wheels crunch the gravel as the carriage pulls into the round drive. A footman opens the door, and I step down and gaze upward. The keep towers over everything, including most of the indigo night sky. Behind it, the constellations shine especially bright, twinkling above it all.
If the fae do exist, are they like the stars, laughing down at us?
My name, screamed, brings me back to the ground.
The nobility gathers on the emerald lawn to observe the subjects of their bids and bets.
Fresh from their countryside estates, they spread out, resembling a swarm.
Every year, they’re a nuisance. They give barely enough space for the Lady Courtesans to edge onto the rose-petal pathway leading into the arched stone entrance.
I advance down the path, looking straight ahead and avoiding the sides, refusing to acknowledge the audience. A plume of foul breath mixes with strong perfume.
Rude remarks pass from one nobleman to another:
“I wouldn’t count on her this year.”
“Even her glow has dimmed.”
A lady of high rank screeches incoherently as her friend whispers behind her feathered fan, but I still hear, “Yes, yes, yes, I’ve heard the same! He’s been seen out with no fewer than seven debutantes as of late. Preparing for a new bid, it seems.”
Not wanting to, but deciding to do it anyway, I break my rule of never making eye contact with the crowd. Through the faces, I search for Balor. If I could just see him, it would reassure me of what to expect. But he’s nowhere in sight.
I have to keep myself from rolling my eyes at what I see instead.
The High Lords and Ladies have no scruples with their revelry as their speech and actions become sloppy.
Whatever intoxication I feel from the stolen wine dissipates thanks to being surrounded by those who are drunker.
Someone slurs my name, trying to get my attention, but I turn away and walk into the brightly lit castle.
The receiving hall connects to the ceremonial chamber via the ballroom, all linked like a chain beneath the ornate and mighty arches that bridge the heart of the keep.
Above me, a painted ceiling of majestic and mythical creatures spreads, supported by columns with metal ivy climbing their cylindrical frames.
At the far end, the king’s throne platform juts out into the ceremonial chamber, providing ample space for the audience.
A butler-guard announces in a deep voice: “High Lady Courtesan, Tabitha Rilea.” My first and middle name. Belonging only to Alexandria, courtesans possess no family titles.
Every head swivels as I glide down the center aisle to the Stage of Ceremonies in front of the raised platform where the throne sits. King Xander always positions himself at the highest vantage point.
My throat tightens. A wave of panic threatens to overcome me before I remember the most important rule of being a Lady Courtesan during the Bidding Ceremony.
I’m not a person tonight.
I am a jewel.
Jewels don’t have feelings.
Sought after for their beauty, jewels never feel the sting of passing between hands.
I repeat this to myself over and over.
Tears blur my vision, but they do not spill over. Instead, a puddle of insecurity pools in my stomach. I’m usually so good at bottling up my emotions in public, molding them so I can play my part. I save my breakdowns for the loneliness of night, so why do I crumble like this?
Keep going, a small voice in the back of my mind declares. There is no other choice.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I join the line of Lady Courtesans and take my place on the Stage of Ceremonies.
Candles burn from the crystal chandeliers, illuminating us, mixing with our glow, creating a shimmering trove of beauty.
We watch as the courtiers and nobility take their seats.
Everyone waits for the monarch with bated breath.
Typically a rambling and fair-tempered man, King Xander is now curt and to the point as he leans heavily on the arm of his Captain of the Kingsguard.
“Here we gather today to embrace a tradition as time-honored as the Kingdom of Alexandria itself,” the king says weakly, a bit of spittle flying from his mouth. “Let the Bidding Ceremony begin.”
Instead of a crown, he wears an iridescent circlet on his bald head. Below it, old dragon-fire burn scars cover half of his ill-looking face and neck.
The audience breaks into scattered whispers. I push through the bog of noise with my heightened hearing, listening as they exchange hushed words about his stark change in personality and appearance.
King Xander’s brother, Klay Metalla, a land-ruling ducal prince and the highest war general, watches intently from the sea of faces in the audience.
He’s never participated in the Bidding Ceremony before, but perhaps he has his reasons tonight.
I look at the people around him for a glimpse of Princess Klara, his teenage daughter and heir to the kingdom, but she isn’t there.
Rumors have been circulating that the princess will attend events soon, but it appears that time has not yet come.
Over the assemblage, the Master of Ceremonies, a rotund and jolly man of middle years, welcomes everyone with his booming voice.
It’s deep and resonant, a comforting sound to hear year after year.
With a rhythm like a poem, he announces, “Ore Harvest has arrived. Summer-Set has finished. Lady Courtesans offer themselves in gowns of silver to represent the vitality and strength of Alexandria’s mining power.
They evoke the protection our forges provide for our ironworks defense and the trade of powerful weapons.
The fertility of the Rite symbolizes the bountiful harvest of ore and wheat.
Another season, another Bidding, another honor! ”
He begins calling each courtesan to the center of the room to stand on a dais edged with bands of braided iron and silver.
And there we go: courtesan after courtesan displays her best on that raised pedestal while a lone cello plays in the distance, its notes echoing and expressive. My heart aches at the beauty as the blinding lights shine on them.
Only one debutante looks sickly green around the face, but she composes herself until she finishes her turn. The room’s silence, save for the scratching of quills on parchment, bears down on everyone. They won’t announce the new Keepers until the very end.
“Lady Tabitha Rilea.”
Voices whisper.
Their delight in my failure haunts me now that I’m not as new or as interesting. Now that it’s more fun to tear down the thing they so carefully built up.
Despite it all, I step onto the dais. I do the duty I was born to do. I stand there. My face blank as a statue, barely breathing, barely living.
Quills continue to scratch around the room. It sounds too much like the whispers, and I’m unsure how long I’ll last under the lights and eyes.
The Master of Ceremonies gives me a quick nod, signaling to me that my time is over. I let out a short breath that catches in my throat. As I descend, the music changes. A harp and violin join the cello, creating a new melody marking the transition to the ritual dance.
The audience remains silent as the courtesans form a circle around the dais in the expansive space between the two seating sections.
Directly beneath the dome, we begin. Our hands meet in the center before fanning out, while our complicated footsteps beat in perfect unison with the notes of music floating over the assembly.
Singing in the Dead-Fae language, our harmonizing voices join the instruments. The song, which we learned as children, is known by heart. It’s an ancient melody honoring the Spirit Goddess.
We may not understand the words, but we recognize the raw feelings she stirs within us.
Our wild, flowing skirts twirl in and out of the circle like oil paint on a smooth canvas. We repeat the steps three times. Each time, we glow brighter. Voices grow louder. A calm darkness washes over my mind—pure bliss.
We end the dance kneeling but still encircled, arms outstretched. Our cascading hair billows out as our heads tilt back to face the heavens. From above, we look like a blossoming flower ready to be plucked.
We’re the human offering to the Spirit Goddess who watches over us—protecting and inspiring our mortal selves.
There is no sound in the room until King Xander approaches, his gait much slower than normal. The Captain of the Kingsguard hands King Xander a silver goblet, allowing him to begin the next phase.
As High Lady Courtesan, I’ll be first.
My heart races, and I don’t think it’s from the exertion of the dance.
The king reaches the circle, his sharp azure eyes meeting mine. But he isn’t staring at me. He gazes beyond, clearly lost in thought. His pale, wrinkled fingers are like ice as he passes me the goblet filled with my Rite.
Priestesses dressed in ivory robes and hooded cloaks present the remaining goblets to the other courtesans. Even though I can’t see the priestesses’ faces, observing them makes my skin crawl. I tear my eyes away to watch the king chant in the Dead-Fae language after everyone receives their Rite.
I bring the Rite to my lips, sending the cold liquid to the back of my throat—its usual chalky taste is gone, replaced with a bland sweetness. I stop and look into the goblet’s base. A transparent substance sloshes in place of the regular creamy potion.
My head snaps up, but nothing seems amiss with the other courtesans. Everyone’s glow revitalizes—mine flickers but remains.
We rise to our feet.
My heart skips a beat as Balor stares at me through the crowd, but he backs into the shadows, disappearing again.
Damn it all. I don’t have time to linger on what any of this could mean.
With a scroll in hand, the Master of Ceremonies is already calling the courtesans back to the Dais of Alexandria. We move to our new positions, and before I’m able to register anything, names strike like lightning over the crowd as he announces their new Keepers to the court.
Name after name, bids are won or lost. Hearts break or revive. Women I’ve known since childhood are traded from nobleman to nobleman as if they were nothing more than silk at market. Our expressions remain serene while the audience openly reacts with rippling gasps of surprise.
“Lady Alisse Brie.”
The crying debutante from the garden smiles demurely now, with no sign of distress on her glowing face.
When she reaches the top of the pedestal, she swishes the silver skirts of her dress for emphasis in a dainty, feminine show.
The crowd murmurs in appreciation, observing this waif.
She may know what she is doing after all.
“Andras Shellton, Master of Horse.”
Something sparks momentarily in Alisse’s eyes in response, but she betrays nothing. It’s an excellent first placement. She’ll soon sit in the highest-ranking drawing rooms across the kingdom, and most importantly, Shellton is known to be kind and gentle.
My concentration wanes as worry gnaws at me, especially when I remember the lack of potion in my goblet. Or worse, when I think of Balor. If being reduced to an item bought and traded is demoralizing, it doesn’t compare to the dread of being rejected and discarded.
“Lady Vennisa Faye.”
She’s blinding, with her icy-blonde waves that blur together with the bluish glow of her aura as she steps onto the dais, appearing completely ethereal.
As much as it pains me to admit it, I know she’ll make a lovely High Lady Courtesan.
Vennisa seems to inspire the debutantes and the other courtesans in a way I simply can’t.
And despite her sharp nature, she’s a natural-born leader.
“Rolfe Edwards, Justice of the Realm.” Her eyes light up at the announcement, and she smiles at the chittering audience before stepping down.
The Master of Ceremonies pins this name to the top of the scroll displayed next to his podium.
Although Vennisa’s new Keeper isn’t the Chancellor, he’s the highest bidder so far.
Balor must bid tonight. Otherwise, Vennisa will still win as High Lady Courtesan.
“Lady Tabitha Rilea.”
It’s almost over; I can get through this.
My heart pounds against my chest as I pass Vennisa on my way to the dais, a negative energy pulsing from her. If she wishes to see me fail, then her dreams are about to come true.
The pressure of the unknown, as all eyes are on me, makes every ticking second seem like an eternity.
My hands grow hot and itchy.
Someone whispers in the back row. The whispers crescendo in my ears until they become unbearable and unintelligible.
I am a jewel. Made of stone.
I am an object. No feelings. No pain.
The noise stops in a sudden wave, sucking the air out of my lungs.
“Balor Black, Grand Chancellor.”