Chapter 32
Thirty-Two
A knock.
From the door adjoining our chambers.
My eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and I snap my book shut as I straighten my posture. “Come in.”
Ashland’s broad frame fills the doorway, though he doesn’t fully step inside. He clears his throat and says, “It’s time to depart for dinner. We’re eating in the village tonight.”
The dust-covered clock on the mantel chimes. I’ve lost track of the hour while I’ve been buried in the novels he gave me. “I need a second to change into something more appropriate, and then I’ll be ready to leave.”
“What you’re wearing will do,” he grumbles. “This isn’t the type of night for finery.” He still wears the warrior garb from earlier, along with the same simple black cape.
After smoothing down my hair, I grab a faded crimson wool cloak and follow him through the corridors, out of the castle, and into the bustling courtyard. Courtiers and royal staff chatter somberly, preparing to trek to the village.
My heartbeat quickens as I fall in step behind Valora and Ashland. He has yet to mention the missing womenfolk I revealed at the strategy meeting, but his jaw is tighter, his shoulders seem heavier, and shadows drift from him in immense swaths as we leave the castle grounds.
“It’s a Celebration of Return for the last ships arriving home from battle,” Ashland explains once we’re inside the village square that is lit up with torches and lanterns.
Scores of commonfolk mill about with armored soldiers.
Long tables are laden with bread, vegetables, fish, and wild game that looks suspiciously like squirrel and rabbit.
Lutes play, drowning the atmosphere in bittersweet music.
After leaving me with Valora, Ashland meanders through the crowd, clasping shoulders and shaking hands.
He scoops up a small child, tickling him briefly before setting him down.
The toddler scrambles happily to his father, who is limping on crutches and appears as if he has come straight off the battlefield.
Valora’s female fighters, Stormwatch, also mingle, but they stay far from where I awkwardly stand. My gaze drops under their probing glances.
Was this the battle that was waged on my authority?
I catch glimpses of other weary and injured warriors among the townspeople, their limbs missing or bandaged and bloodied.
Regret pierces me like an arrow, sudden and sharp, lodging beneath my ribs and stealing my breath.
Everyone knows that soldiers and knights have families, but seeing them up close makes me wish I’d chosen differently.
It makes me wish I’d fought against the council and not allowed them to sway me—but I’ve always been moldable, bendable, and usable to fit my current circumstances.
Still am, but my decisions aren’t just hurting me; they’re also hurting innocents.
And my heart can’t handle hurting other people anymore.
Valora studies me for a second before she snatches my hand and squeezes it. “Regret can break you, or it can teach you.”
“It’s currently doing both,” I murmur, barely audible.
“And with good reason.” She snorts and heads toward the table of food.
The lute falls silent as the hushed crowd turns to watch the Witch-King step onto an intricately carved ivory stump.
A monstrous, iridescent bonfire grows around him, high into the speckled night sky.
His silver eyes flash between the peculiar flames as he throws a white branch with silver leaves into the fire.
Two shadow hounds circle around before sitting erect on either side of him, pointing their noses at their master.
The first deep, mournful notes of the ancient fae tongue drift from Ashland’s lips, silencing the crowd.
I remain transfixed by the haunting lament, each note reverberating through my rigid bones.
The whispers join his melody and consume me with their harmony and lyrics that I don’t understand until their meaning becomes clear:
Hearts heavy, spirits cold,
As shadows gather ‘round.
The price of a sword, a story so old
In tear-stained blood, it’s everfound.
I could stay silent
But this, I warn:
For every soul that war does claim,
A thousand more shall bear thy pain.
The people’s shoulders shake with quiet sobs as they hold the portraits or possessions of the dead, but I remain still, paralyzed by guilt. I want to hide, but there is no escape. As the song goes on, loud weeping spreads through the crowd.
Tears prick at my eyes, but I stifle them, burying my emotions as his voice quiets.
The silence spirals down, and it takes everything within me not to beg them for forgiveness.
The only thing stopping me is knowing these people want nothing from me, especially not my apology—and making a spectacle won’t bring their fallen home.
Valora weaves through the crowd, pressing a pastry-wrapped sweetmeat into my hand.
It smells so delicious and aromatic that I laugh at my vacillating mood.
Lightheaded, I hide a sniffle and savor the moment when a question surfaces in my mind.
“In the training yard this morning, what did you mean by saying Queen Theodora was a natural talent?”
“Do you not know about your own lady mother?” she asks incredulously.
“I know very little. They only ever spoke of her failings, never her accomplishments.”
Any fleeting hunger leaves me as I remember my home court and the difficult people who reside there.
Alexandrian courtiers are peculiar, clinging to societal rules while remaining tight-lipped about certain past events, yet becoming utterly obsessed with the newest and most salacious gossip.
I suppose speaking about the courtesan queen made the king look bad, so it was avoided in public.
Valora fixes her gaze on Ashland, who is deep in conversation with a weeping widow, before explaining, “I’m not surprised.
King Xander was always adept at controlling the narrative.
But from what I understand, even as a Lady Courtesan, your mother was renowned for her swordsmanship.
That boldness and lack of regard for the rules are what caught the king’s eye initially. ”
I’m taken aback by a jolt of embarrassment for not knowing.
Ashland reappears, nudging my arm. For a split second, I foolishly think he’ll ask me to join the other dancers with him, but he marches past with a frown. “Let’s go.”
Even though the Celebration of Return isn’t nearly finished, a suffocating darkness hangs over him.
He doesn’t glance my way, his jaw locked and shoulders rigid.
As I stare at his retreating figure, uneasy knots twist in my stomach.
I long to break the silence as I follow him to the castle, but I’m too scared.
His hounds trot behind his trailing shadows, remaining watchful throughout our every muted step.
Once we reach the castle, he deposits me in my chambers and enters the king’s suite without a word. I hover outside the adjoining door, my fist raised. Lowering my hand, I stare at the pattern of wood grain between us.
Instead, I’m confronted with the consequences of what I caused. The pain endured. The broken men. The torn families. My stomach roils, making me run to the chamber pot, where I throw up until my stomach empties of everything except shame.
* * *
The next day, I turn the corner of the corridor, nearly tripping on a rusted ax. I’m attempting to map out the castle from memory, but I perk up when I hear Valora complaining to Agatha, the castle’s cook, “He’s in one of his black moods again—won’t leave his rooms—won’t take his meetings.”
An irritating ache throbs somewhere near my heart. I don’t care for Ashland as a person, but I know how deep grief can drag you down…
With a shake of my head, I keep walking toward the library.
It’s none of my concern.
I try focusing on the literature lining the shelves, but concentration eludes me. Valora’s hushed words lurk at the edge of my mind. I picture Ashland’s hardened face behind the iridescent flames.
Determined to stop thinking about him, I pick a tragic novel about a lost poet before returning with it to my suite. Curled in my chair, I read until I’ve reread the same sentence a hundred times.
My gaze lifts to the adjoining door between our bedchambers.
Should I?
I select a different book.
Because no, I should not.
* * *
Valora’s chambers are a clear, lived-in reflection of what matters most to her.
Breastplates of every metal type—iron, bronze, silver, and gold—hang on wire mannequins, and stacks of training pamphlets and expensive weapon collections take up every inch of dresser and wall space around her generously furnished room.
“When’s the next training session?” I ask, eating dinner at Valora’s small table.
“Wait—isn’t this the same cod we ate yesterday in the village? ”
Valora slurps down her bowl of fish soup, leaving the spoon forgotten on the table. “We don’t waste food around here.”
Eyeing the meal warily, I dunk my only biscuit into the broth. I take a bite, and flavorful herbs bloom across my tongue. Now I understand why Valora wolfed hers down.
She sets her empty bowl onto the table with a clatter.
“Training is every other morning at dawn, in either the courtyard or on the shore. The male units also practice at that time, but they prefer the fields. I alternate to make Stormwatch more flexible in combat.” She nudges my elbow. “I expect you to be there.”
“Should I, though?” An unbearable heat creeps up around my ears. “Won’t that provoke him?”
“Probably,” she admits, “but it doesn’t matter because he’ll be away for the next few days.”
“Away?”
“He left before dinner to help a fishing vessel that ran aground up the coast.”
After we finish our meal, she walks with me back to my bedchamber. While she’s chatting about her feud with the weapons master, my mind races with one possibility.
My circlet is unguarded in his chambers...
Valora stops at my door, her brow creasing. “Listen, I’m sorry I sprang that information about your mother on you yesterday.”
“It’s fine,” I say, biting my lip until it stings. The small pain helps me focus. “As I said before, it’s interesting to hear any sort of praise.”
“I must confess, it’s the fate I fear most”—Valora’s face pales—“that I’ll marry someone, and the scribes will ignore my victories in favor of listing a man as my greatest accomplishment.
” Her eyes grow wide as she kisses the air above my cheek goodnight.
Wandering off, she mutters down the length of the corridor back to her chambers.
My mind wavers between caution and recklessness as I pace the floor once I’m in my room.
Despite my best efforts, I can’t shake the temptation that gnaws at me. If I could just see where the circlet is being kept, then maybe I could devise a plan to steal it before finding a way to escape.
My heart thunders against my chest as I approach the adjoining door.
This is madness...
But the whispers in my mind call, encouraging me, and before I realize it, I’m turning the handle and slipping inside.
There is no light.
Not even a sliver from under the door or between the curtains. My vision goes utterly black, like a blindfold, and an overwhelming, woodsy scent—like pine or cypress—invades my lungs with each shaky breath.
But I can feel it.
Its presence.
Its power.
I creep into his chambers, one hand trailing along the wall to guide me. My pulse beats wildly with unshattered fear.
What am I doing?
I should turn back—but still it calls.
I take one tentative step, only to collide with a solid wall of bare muscle. In an instant, his arms wrap around me, forming an unyielding cage of warmth and danger.
Fae, help a fool.
Gasping, I recoil, but his hand reaches up and grabs my throat. Not squeezing, just pressing firm—a warning. But he doesn’t need to choke me for all the air to leave my lungs, my chest constricting with knife-like regret.
“If you search in the dark,” his voice rolls over me, “the monsters will find you.”
“Are you a monster?” I whisper.
“Some have called me that,” Ashland growls, releasing my neck, his finger tracing along the swell of my cheek. “What are you doing here, Tabitha?”
A pitiful sound escapes my lips.
“Come to warm my bed for real?” He steps forward until the backs of my knees hit his bedframe, and I topple onto the feathery mattress.
His leg slides between my thighs, easing them apart as his hand trails my bodice and pushes me down, squeezing my sides.
He leans over me and whispers in my ear, “Don’t you remember our rules?
I don’t want your needy cunt. I don’t want anything to do with you. ”
My hands meet his naked chest. I gasp at the contact of his hot skin so close above me and shove him away.
His fingers linger on my waist as he allows me to roll over out of his reach, but I have to crawl across his rumpled bedding before I can flee into the darkness.
His hate-filled words still burn in my ears as my hip smashes into the sharp corner of a table. I fall over a chair, cursing at myself.
“You stand there pretending you didn’t start this war.” His voice rumbles in his northern accent from every corner, suffocating me with accusation.
“I started nothing.”
“And you’ll finish nothing because you are nothing. Not so lucky for you—nothing is all I’ve ever known, so I’m well acquainted with seeing it for what it is.”
“I shouldn’t have entered uninvited.” Each word comes out in a gasp.
“No, you shouldn’t have. I warned you not to.” His powers wrap around me like silk ribbons as his tone deepens. “Beg for forgiveness.”
Angry tears prick at the corners of my eyes. “I beg you, please let me go home! You’re better than this—” His powers slither away from me.
“Better than what? Better than detaining the person responsible for the murder of over a thousand of my people? You don’t know how ridiculous you sound.
” Ashland starts to laugh, but I stop listening beneath the weight of my growing anger.
I reach for the wall, trailing my hand along it until I find the doorknob.
I twist it and run back into my chambers.
Fueled by indignation and the safety provided by the burnt wall, I kick at the closed door. “I’m not nothing!” I cry out, clutching my throbbing foot.