Chapter Thirteen #3
There is no great cheer for a peasant—just disgust, and a wary coldness that seeps over the exposed skin up the curve of my upper spine.
When we make it to the bottom of the stairs, a new wave of heat from all the bodies washes over me, sending blood rushing to my cheeks. There’s a cloying sweetness to the air, heavily floral in a way that makes my throat clench, but I can’t quite place it.
Each of the noble daughters who went before me stands lined up with the serious-looking women and men who must be their escorts, like Talon is mine.
My heart thuds. “Talon?”
They lower their head toward me, keeping their intelligent eyes on the crowds pressing in from all sides. It makes no sense, but having Talon here helps calm me.
“Thanks for being here.”
The corner of their mouth twitches. “Where else would I be?”
You’re not the only one with lives on the line if you fail.
Old Ones, I want to ask what they meant then. How many people in this room, in this castle, might be working with them. But Talon’s words aren’t the only ones pressing into my mind now. My mother’s do too.
Secrets are your greatest shield.
I can’t ask anyone to lower their shield if I won’t either.
We make our way to the very end of the line, past the sixth noble daughter—Oona of House Dunluce. I keep a wary distance, the desire to wedge something sharp into her ribs warring with the knowledge that doing so right now will almost certainly get me killed.
My eyes leap to where the line of us faces a dais in the center of the long room.
Two thrones, gilded with ornately carved backs and cushioned seats, wait there.
The High Queen sits in one of them—I recognize the coldness of her crystal eyes, the black kohl lining the rims, and the brutal tangle of delicate braids crowning her white-blond hair.
Her eyes harden on mine, and my blood turns to ice.
But it’s the quiet mutterings of the man on the larger throne beside her than make every other thought vanish from my mind.
The High King—that specter haunting the streets of Quay-side with every waft of rotting flesh from the Black Quay, the man whose title is whispered like a curse on every street—looks as frail as a starving newborn.
Sharp bones jut from his cheeks like blades beneath the skin.
His hair hangs in thinning strands that might once have been blond, and the rich velvet tunic hangs off his shoulders. As if it fit him once, but no longer.
There’s something so disturbingly… ordinary about him.
There are no thick bands of menacing strength down his arms. No scales or fangs. No outward sign of the cruelty I know all too well lies inside him. His thin hands barely look strong enough to lift a sword, let alone defend himself from an attacker.
To defend himself from me.
A shudder of the dread that’s trailed me since I came down the stairs eases, and I shake the ever-present fear from my mind, then dare to let my gaze return for a second look at the king—and the figure standing at his left shoulder.
Eyes as blue as a starlit midnight lock on mine.
The prince watches me with the intent focus of a cat with a cornered mouse.
My skin erupts in a shiver all the way down the open back of my gown—and my fingers fly to the buttery leather of the gauntlet sheath at my left forearm.
The smooth skin between the prince’s brow knots, and his gaze turns to ice as he tracks the movement.
My brain is all too quick to remember the cold spice of his scent in the night air, like falling snow. There was something beneath that sharpness too. A faint floral so much like whatever is weighing in the room now. Like…
Fear twists like a thorn around my gut.
Like roses.
The candlelight seems to pulse, illuminating farther into the corners of the hall and the back of the dais where the prince stands.
Heavy copper pots gleam on every long table, every surface exposed by the light.
Each one is crammed full of white roses—exactly like the one he gave me in the garden.
The familiar desperation to run races through my veins. But there’s nowhere to go.
Talon’s arm presses into mine, a silent question in their touch as every hair down my exposed spine rises straight up.
At the touch, the prince’s gaze narrows.
There’s no warmth in his eyes, no softness.
Just a brutal beauty every bit as sharp as his father’s bones.
The contrast between father and son chills me as the High King teeters up from his throne, eyes darting over the robed, glittering bodies filling the hall.
His watery blue eyes narrow across the gathered crowd.
No words come, though. His eyes tighten, lips working furiously. One hand grips the arm of his gilded throne, and a frustrated noise breaks from the High King’s mouth then.
The prince lays one hand softly on his father’s black velvet sleeve and steps forward. His other ringed hand strokes the hilt of his sword.
“To rule is to be always ready for challengers.” His voice is colder now than it was in the rose garden. “To adapt on a moment’s notice or pay with your life. We must be quick. We must be clever. We must be cunning.”
My stomach plunges. Wolf’s voice from behind the tapestry fills my mind—
Three tests for the Assay. That’s what he’d said. Cunning, wisdom, and strength.
Midnight eyes carve searching lines across my face as Prince Cashel’s sharp voice slices through the palpable shock silencing the crowd of nobles.
“Welcome to the Test of Cunning.”