CHAPTER FIVE
EMMERY
Later that day, after Brennen escorted Emmery back to her chambers, company arrived.
Whenever visitors came to Blackdawn, they hid her away and told her to keep quiet like a good little prisoner.
She had heard “the Council” whispered like a curse among the castle staff, which only piqued her curiosity.
So, today, she’d snuck from her room and pressed her back against the wall as she eavesdropped on the meeting. She heard Destonne’s lazy voice first.
“What do you propose we do?” She could practically see him slouched in that high-back white chair, his cheek propped on his hand, and that bored expression he always wore levelling his mouth.
Heart racing, Emmery pressed her ear to the door.
“Your quota must be met,” a voice responded, one she didn’t recognize. It sent a chill skittering down her spine, simultaneously too sweet and moulded by nightmares. “The means by which you do this do not matter, but you have a week.”
A brief, eerie silence dominated the room and sank into Emmery’s bones.
What she would give for the briefest glimpse into that room to see with her own eyes who that voice belonged to.
Its power seemed to echo off the castle walls, claiming each brick and tile as its own. She’d never heard anything like it.
“You’re ordering children into the mines,” the King replied, strained, as if pinched between clenched teeth. “They’re juveniles.”
“They are uncleansed. Their lives mean little. If the mines do not claim them, the fever will.” Sugared talons raked Emmery’s ears with each word from the higher pitched voice. “You will do it.”
A fist thumped the table chased by the King’s clipped words. “Though you know how I cherish our monthly heart to hearts, I’m a very busy man. Is there anything else before I take my leave? A puppy you wish me to kick? Elderly women to torment? Children’s candy to steal?”
“We have received word that your supply shipments have been raided on their way to the north. It seems your problem with thievery has only grown. Those goods are owed, and we anticipate you will replace the pilfered items,” the higher voice said, this time not honeyed, but molten. Burnt.
In the pin-drop quiet of the room, Destonne’s clothes rustled as he shifted. His voice rose and she pictured him leaning forward to close the distance in a power move she’d seen him make. One he’d used on her. “I have already sent my Justice to investigate this. We have no replacement goods.”
His Justice? Was that what Cyrilla was?
“I suggest you act quickly. It’s not only us growing impatient.
The northern patrons are displeased their trade lines have been dishonoured, especially after years of delayed goods.
I’m sure you understand how this looks. How doubt is festering as to whether you will keep your promises.
We anticipate you will deal with this or you will force our hand. ”
Emmery’s breath caught at the thinly veiled threat.
The King cleared his throat. “Very well.”
Emmery clenched her jaw at the utter spinelessness of the reclusive King. He was sending children to their deaths, starving his people, only to lounge in his castle, safe and well-fed. Coward.
Footsteps neared the hall and Emmery narrowly ducked behind the door before it swung open. The handle missed her by a mere whisper.
Three figures in crimson cloaks trimmed in gold exited the room.
Ethereal coldness clung to them, an other-worldly power that set her teeth on edge.
Emmery didn’t see their faces as they exited through the main doors, and she could hardly blame the guards when they slammed them shut as if they couldn’t be rid of the guests fast enough.
Emmery strained her ears to hear the King’s hushed, deep voice, but each click of Brennen’s nails along the floor drew her attention. She couldn’t make sense of the words as they jumbled together, but from the heated undertone, the meeting hadn’t gone as planned, she could glean that much.
“The Council won’t return for several months,” Destonne said in his usual bored tone. “There’s time.”
Brennen exited first, followed by Vera. They shared a tense look, before Vera turned to the west wing, and Brennen took the east toward Emmery’s chambers. Where she was supposed to be.
Shit.
Destonne’s graceful footsteps sounded as he breached the doorway, and, as it always did, his presence sucked all the oxygen from the hallway.
When he paused at the staircase, his spine stiffened like someone called his name and his hand gripped the shiny railing.
Emmery pressed into the wall, wishing she could sink into it, and sent a prayer to Deimos he wouldn't turn and spot her.
Like the lack of air would grant her camouflage, she held her breath.
But the King didn’t turn. He merely rolled his shoulders, stretched his neck to either side as if he’d slept poorly, and climbed the staircase.
Emmery barely had time to dart up the stairs and throw herself inside her room before Brennen came to check on her. It was a small miracle he’d stopped in his own chambers first.
Emmery watched out her bedroom window as a family, far in the distant field, wept over an empty grave—another body unretrievable from those godsforsaken mines. Her chest plugged with ice at the thought of those children’s rotting corpses left alone in the darkness.
Only the faintest vestiges of sunset kissed the sky. It was strange that the Hollow buried their loved ones at night, led only by lantern or candlelight. In the mortal realm such an act would be blasphemous. But for Kenna, it was a final rest before their souls were sent to Deimos.
This was the sixth burial this week. Each one was harder to watch than the last, even though there were no bodies per Asaella’s law forbidding the burial of loved ones. Emmery remembered Vesper telling her as much when they’d visited the boneyard. Another reason this kingdom was inhumane.
A woman, the mother she assumed, fell on the grave, her shoulders heaving with silent sobs as her family gathered close.
Emmery tore herself away, unable to look a moment longer.
She found herself picturing Cyrilla crying over Soren’s empty grave.
That could be her reality if the fever were to take him.
When Maela died, Emmery had cried for months.
Years, really. She’d truly never gotten over that impossibly tall mountain of grief.
Somewhere along the way she’d slipped on the rocky terrain one too many times and settled somewhere in a cliffside refuge.
“Will you ever wear these beautiful gowns? I would love to see you in them.” Talia’s voice yanked her from her thoughts as she hung Emmery’s dress inside the wardrobe and frowned at the torn patches.
Emmery glowered at the array of fabrics that peeked out from the doors, all lovely shades of greens and reds that only brought her rage. “I’d rather not.”
She returned to the window and spotted the women’s faces caked with dirt. They hadn’t even had time to wash before saying their goodbyes.
“I know you feel for them.” Talia strolled to the window and joined her. “I can see it in your eyes.”
Emmery turned to her. “Don’t you?”
“Of course.” Talia smoothed her white skirts. “I care for all of those in Asaella. And I thank Deimos each day I’m lucky to be in the King’s care.”
A laugh spluttered out of Emmery. Lucky?
That was a bold word choice. “He doesn’t treat his help like people, Talia.
They’re scared of him. Even I can see that.
And the number of staff he has is appalling.
He has enough to keep the castle sterile, tend to his gardens, do any mindless task he dreams up, and still have people to wipe his ass for him. ”
Emmery flopped on her bed, with a subtle tug, adjusted the quilt, hoping the bottle of wine and rolls she’d stolen at dinner would remain hidden. The rolls were for her nightly ventures, the wine was for later once she returned to the castle.
Talia’s brows lifted. “Do you not think we are privileged? King Destonne cares for us. Gives us shelter and food and safety. It’s more than most have.”
“And what about those people?” Emmery asked, flinging her arm towards the window. “They’re as much a part of Asaella as you or me.” She scoffed and added, “And he acts like he owns you.”
“I supposed he does.” With a shrug, Talia turned away from the window and scooped up two finished novels from the night table. “I’ll return these to the library. Is there anything else you need before I bid you a good night?”
Baffled, Emmery stared at her. “You’re truly fine being property?”
Talia drummed her nail-bitten fingers on the book cover.
“There are worse things in this life. Crueller Kings. Ways people can own your body and soul that leave you a husk. But I’m honoured to serve Destonne if it means this is the life I get to live.
I’ve known him since he was a boy. I suppose I think differently of him than you. I don't share the same doubts.”
Maybe it was years of brainwashing, blissful ignorance, or she merely compared Destonne to his father.
Held up to Thellonius’s rule, Destonne was practically a saint.
But Talia was right about their privilege.
It was unfair they should have this and not others.
Everyone deserved to feel safe and fall asleep each night with a full belly and not wonder if their child would be the next victim of famine or fever. Or if they would even wake up at all.
“I left some clean rags in the bathing room for your monthlies,” Talia said. “Call upon me should you need more.”
Emmery laid a hand on her abdomen and sighed.
They were unnecessary and would go unused, but the gesture gave her the same motherly warmth Marlys had.
“Thank you.” She gazed out the window as her hand traced the ugly scar on her lower stomach, nestled between her hip bones. “Do you have a family, Talia?”
She shook her head.