Chapter 15
The cleaning continues the next day. And the next. And the next.
My muscles burn, and I constantly have dirty gloves, hair, and skirts.
I curse every step as I haul sloshing buckets of water to and from the well, and I mutter some choice words for Alaris as I sponge down surfaces on my hands and knees.
I finally get the floor clean, only to splash more mess down onto it when I climb up the ladder to empty the troughs.
I hate it. But there is no way forward except through.
At least the cut on my finger is healing. Without using my lobellum, I didn’t know how long it would take.
When I can’t stand another minute up to my elbows in grime, I wander the grounds, searching for somewhere to dump the growing piles of waste collecting outside the aviary walls.
I could ask Dashol, but I scurry away the moment I spot him and the other guards crossing swords in a training yard.
I don’t intend to be here long, and it’s better if no one really notices or remembers me.
After a few meandering searches, I find a promising mound of refuse alongside a glass building: a greenhouse, with beads of water clinging to every pane. But I don’t want to carry all that muck and straw here until I’ve checked with someone first.
Warmth rolls over me as I open the door. It’s almost as balmy as Illios in here, but the air is heavier with moisture. The lush foliage reminds me of Delvos, the rows of pots and stands overflowing with growth, where the rest of the castle grounds are barren dirt.
“Hello?” I call.
I step farther into the greenhouse, moving between rows of unfamiliar plants. The heat radiates up from the floor, fed by some underground mechanism, rather than relying on the weak sunlight above. I glance around for any sign of its caretaker, but there’s no one here.
I pause when I spy a familiar shape: translucent green flowers with five petals each.
Lobell bushes.
I drift over. There are only a handful of blooms per plant. I’m so used to my own variety with double the buds and clear flowers, these green ones look sickly and sparse in comparison.
Still, they make me think of the marble room I left behind. I raise a hand and cup a peridot blossom.
“Hello,” a voice behind me says.
I whirl, heart thundering.
Not the masked man.
Not even close. A young woman with braids stands before me, dirt smudging one golden-brown cheek. It still takes me a minute to convince my heart that the trowel she holds aloft is not a knife.
She stabs it in the dirt, and I flinch. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” I fidget. “I’m Lyra, the new hawk keeper.”
“Siro,” she replies. “Gardener.”
Even though I don’t recall meeting her during Dashol’s introductions, there is something familiar in her face. “We haven’t met, have we?”
“No, but you wouldn’t have gotten far in this castle without meeting my brother.”
I place her the moment she says it. She has the same fine features as Karns, pointed and delicate, though her eyes are wide and lined in black where I’ve only seen his narrowed behind his golden frames.
She gestures at the bush in front of me. “Interested in lobell?”
I glance at the translucent green petals. “Yes, I grow them. Grew them.”
“You garden?”
“Definitely not. I don’t know what most of the things in here are.”
“Even still, I wouldn’t mind a few pointers if you have them. These plants are from around the continent, and there is a fair amount of trial and error to get them to take to Arastos’s soil. We’ve had a few funerals.”
It never hurts to know where I might get more lobell if I need it. “Are these the only lobell bushes?”
“Yep. We buy most of our lobellum. Lasts longer if the travel time is only one way.”
I hum my understanding. The healing power gets spent quickly as the ointment made from lobell flowers starts to spoil, but it’s the only known conduit for vernalian magic.
Shipping jars to Vernys and back eats up that time.
“Vernalians make it from the bloomed flower for volume. But it lasts much longer if you make it from the buds.”
“Really? I’ll have to try that.”
“You’ll get a lot less, but if you cut them here—” I point to the spot on the stem where I’ve snipped so many heads, I couldn’t possibly count. “—more buds will grow.” I blush. “But again, I’m no gardener.”
“If you have a few minutes, you could show me.”
I’m surprised to find myself tempted. It’s so warm in here, compared to the chill in the aviary.
And I spent weeks in the Sunrise Palace with little to do but stare at the translucent flowers, learning their tells.
Based on the droop in the leaves, these look like they’ve had a bit too much water.
Maybe they would do better in sandier soil…
But I don’t need more lobellum, and I’m not employed as a gardener. I shake my head. “Maybe another time.”
“Then if you’re not here to garden, what brought you to the greenhouse? Don’t go searching for anything to eat in here without asking. I have a whole section for poisons.” She smiles, one canine sticking out, sharper than the other. “Want to see?”
“I was looking for a place to bring the muck from the aviary.”
“Is there bone in it?”
I wrinkle my nose. “Yes. And fur. And droppings and feathers.”
“Perfect.” She grins on the word, her canine flashing. “How soon can you bring it?”
I’m startled by her exuberance, but I recover. “Do you have a wagon? I can start tomorrow.”
“Yes! I’ll come and get it myself if you forget.”
I only get one wagonful of waste to the greenhouse on my own before Dashol spies me and helps me get the rest of the job done. Siro stands back with her arms crossed, her sharp tooth showing as we add all the straw and feathers and bones she could possibly want to her pile.
After a week and a half, the sludge in the aviary is reduced to stains.
The only smell is fresh straw. The water is clean.
I admire the light stone surface of the bench, finally revealed from under a layer of dirt, and the wall of gleaming tools.
I’m a mess, shaking and aching, but satisfaction hums through my tired bones.
I take a half bucket of water up the ladder, which is all my quaking arms can manage, and pour it into the trough.
I jump as a hawk lands on the rim beside me.
I’m getting used to them, but we are rarely this close.
Its feathers aren’t flat black, but iridescent, shimmering purple and blue and green as they rustle and catch the light.
As Dashol said, the hawks don’t seem to need much from me. Sometimes they look like majestic, noble guardians, perched high above, judging the world. Other times they fight over a rat or hack up fur, squawking and flapping like base animals.
“If you don’t bite me, I won’t bite you,” I mutter. I keep my eyes on the bird as I pour.
“I see you’re acclimating well,” a voice below me calls.
I nearly tip off the ladder, grabbing the trough and splashing myself.
Alaris stands below. “Steady now.”
“What happened to knocking?” I mumble.
“What was that?”
“Nothing, my lord.” I plaster on a polite smile and climb down the ladder. “What can I do for you?”
His gaze tracks from the polished tools to the swept floor. “Nothing in particular.”
My fake smile stiffens. “You have a lot of free time on your hands.”
“My hawks are very precious to me.”
With the state this aviary was in? I say nothing but raise an eyebrow.
He smirks, like he can see my commentary on my face. He holds out a cloth bundle. “And I made time for this.”
I set down the empty bucket, wipe my hands on my skirt, and accept it. I take it to the bench and unwrap it in my lap.
“I went to a market in Nyvos this morning,” he says. “The red one is a blood pom. They only grow mountainward in the foothills. The nut is a bolka. And the bread is called a cinnamon wing.”
“Thank you. I’ve never heard of any of them.” I would rather try them in private, but it’s clear he’s not leaving.
I pick up the blood pom first. It’s the size of a plum, with red skin that shines like a ruby and pops around my teeth.
The juice is slightly salty, with a metallic aftertaste that makes my nostrils flare.
I didn’t imagine it was called a blood pom because of the flavor.
I gain control of my face as I chew and swallow, returning the rest of the fruit to the cloth.
The cinnamon wing looks safe, so I try that next. It flakes as I bite into it, the layers melting into buttery goodness. It’s delicious. I want to shove the whole thing into my mouth, but I put down the other half.
The bolka gives me pause. Everything but the cinnamon wing has been a surprise, and the pitted exterior looks questionable. I roll it between my fingers before I take a bite.
It’s smoky. And the center is a different texture, soft and creamy. It tastes just like…
“Honey!”
He smiles.
“How unusual. Thank you.”
He tilts his head as he watches me chew, the stone at his ear sent swinging with the motion. “You do that a lot.”
“Do what?”
“Hide your reactions.” He pushes off the doorframe. “You didn’t like the blood pom.”
Caught. I huff. “It’s not polite to insult a gift.”
“At times. But you hide it even more when you enjoy something.”
I open my mouth. Close it. “I don’t.”
“You do.”
“Perhaps I’m just not very expressive.”
“Hm. That’s one theory.” The teasing edge in his voice doesn’t quite match his calm and steady eyes. “And yet, I don’t think I’ll ever forget how you devoured that murkfruit.”
“Well…” I can feel my cheeks getting pink. “If you starve me a little, maybe you’ll get the reaction you’re after.”
“I’m not after anything, Ly. Only what’s true.
” He strides over to me and takes the other half of the blood pom from the cloth on my lap.
Light reflects off his rings as he pops it into his mouth.
My eyes follow as the red fruit disappears between his lips.
“I can also recall an evening you weren’t starving that tells me otherwise. ”
His calm expression doesn’t change, his voice almost clinical, but my mind flashes back to being pressed against the wall, his knee between my thighs. His mouth on my neck, me pulling him closer by the collar…
“No one is themselves on Somnus,” I manage, my voice rough.
“Ah,” he says. The silence stretches. A hawk clicks its beak overhead.
He takes the voidstone out of his cloak, and my greedy gaze fixes on it. I force myself to look away, examining the remaining food in my lap.
“When are you coming back?” I ask, mildly.
“At the end of this week, as promised. I’ve ridden ahead of my carriage, and my horse is very fast.”
“As any horse would be, without a rider.”
His lips twitch. “Until later, Ly.”
Sure enough, a few days later, I get called to the gates.
I join the line of servants assembling to receive the lord.
Karns stands at the front, vest immaculate, glasses catching the light, his posture rigid enough to pass a military review.
Behind him, the household arranges itself in practiced order: maids and footmen in pressed gray, the kitchen staff still dusting flour from their trousers.
The guards stand apart in dark leather, Dashol at their head.
I take a place beside the groundskeeper and the stable hands.
The gate opens, revealing Alaris astride a midnight horse.
His cloak swings over a burgundy silk shirt that clings to the lines of his shoulders and chest like it was molded to them.
His hair flies up as his horse canters inside.
He looks far too clean for a man who has been on the road all this time.
Which, of course, he wasn’t. He could have popped by a hot spring for a bath, gone across the continent for a change of clothes, and still arrived here at this moment.
A white and red carriage rumbles down the road after him. I frown. Based on the colors, I doubt it’s his. Plus, there is no way it could have traveled here from Norville’s so fast.
He swings down and turns toward the carriage.
When it rolls to a stop, he opens the door and offers his hand.
A woman in a bright red dress accepts it and steps out, her dark hair pinned in an elaborate arrangement.
He pulls her in close and murmurs in her ear.
Whatever he says makes her painted mouth curl up, and she snakes her arms around one of his.
He made it sound like he was rushing back, but he had time to pick up a woman on the way? I purse my lips.
Karns bows. “Welcome home, my lord.”
“Karns.” Alaris inclines his head as he walks the lady forward. “How is the castle?”
“Siro is down with a chill, but otherwise, all is in order.” Karns adjusts his glasses. “I’m pleased to present the hawk keeper you sent us. She’s been getting acclimated to her duties.”
“Very good.” His attention flicks to me, then returns to Karns. “Prepare refreshments and have them sent to my room. Lady Pashri is going to be staying the night.” He turns to her and brushes a curl from her forehead. “Come, my dear.”
He guides her through the main door in a swirl of red fabric.
What was the point of lining us all up for that? I don’t know why I’m surprised. It’s not like my father ever hesitated to waste his servants’ time. Perhaps it just feels different now that I am one.
This is the real Sovereign of Arastos, the one with a reputation that even a marithian governess knows about.
I stay rooted to the spot, even as the line breaks apart. Someone is watching me. I twist to face a maid with curly hair and aqua eyes. I reach for her name…Drina. We stare at each other another second before she turns away and falls into step with the other maids.
I shake off my stupor. Alaris is back now. That means the stone is here. It’s time to search.