Chapter 20
Tea.
Aldor-berry. Spiced. Floral. Combinations of blacks and greens. All night, I’ve measured dried leaves from their canisters into the same porcelain cup, filled it with boiling water, and waited for the perfect moment to serve the tea.
Nearly all have been burnt, under-steeped, watered down, or too strong.
Most of the maids returned in the late evening and throughout the night.
Some had snored around me, others tossed and turned each time I scalded my fingers under the scorching-hot water, sucking in a breath to keep from whimpering.
Once the maids had all finally fallen asleep, the tea started tasting better. Less bitter, less hot.
As the sun begins to glow from the tall east-facing window in our quarters, I make the last cup.
I’d made several perfectly by mistake. For one, I fell asleep and the tea had cooled to a desirable temperature, and for another, I had been anxious and tried the tea before it should’ve been ready, and it had the exact right flavor.
This final mug, however, tastes of cinnamon and clove, and is the perfect temperature as well. I’ve nailed it just in time.
Gulping, I stand and brush my skirts. I’m keenly aware of the dagger resting beneath my pillow, far at the other end of the room.
I’m utterly defenseless.
I stop at the mirror before I exit and watch my finger drag over the smooth curve of my ear, then press against the flat stumps of teeth where my canines belong. Disgust fills me alongside a dull thankfulness for Ronan’s elixir. It may have saved my life, but it has softened me.
With a deep breath, I push through the door and step into the dim hallway. Servants have not yet lit the sconces, leaving the sun to illuminate the shadowed walls. Bernadette had mentioned an escort would collect me, so where?—
Two black-cloaked individuals swarm the entrance, their scraggly shadows teetering toward the ceiling. But it isn’t their ominous garb that deters me, it’s the bright blue mist of magic spinning around them and whipping through the air like venomous lightning.
The bolts are long luminescent snakes that coil around the figures, zipping through their crippled bodies and wrapping their bandaged heads and arms. It deforms them like some kind of magical plague.
But instead of this blight weakening them, their power grows even as they simply stand there, hovering.
It is like nothing I’ve ever felt before.
Monsters.
These must be the mages Marchus warned me about. But how am I able to see whatever evil magic they possess now, when I couldn’t before? I can sense their energy too, whereas I’d been blind to it before. No light comes from them, only hostility and darkness.
Sweat covers my palms as I retarget my stare at the ceiling and attempt to pass them along the wall. But one of them clasps my elbow with a clammy hand, locking me in place.
I want to scream, but the sound sticks to my throat.
My legs barely keep me upright. The mage is doing most of the work.
“Ether Malaphon, you are to come with us.” As they speak, it’s as though a chorus of two dissonant tongues sing the same tune. The resulting screech makes me cringe.
The bandaged hand bracing my elbow is thin and bony, yet uncharacteristically strong. It takes barely any guidance—one slight pull, and they’re dragging me along with their inhuman smoothness to Aldorin knows where.
I’ve been notified of my meeting with the king, so why are these two being this forceful? They can’t possibly be my escorts, can they?
My eyes dart to one of the ghastly once-humans. The blue light still bends chaotically around its arm, but somehow, even as tendrils whip out and brush through me, I can’t feel them. Would I be able to if I also had this tainted magic coursing within me?
Would Ramiel feel their thwacks against his arm? Would Ronan?
Neither mage seems to care that I haven’t brought a steaming teacup with me, instead focusing ahead.
We enter an area of the castle beyond the prince’s quarters.
I know this because of the change in decoration.
Chandeliers are clean, and walls are covered in regal dark blue pennants and drapes.
Candelabras and tea carts are wedged into corners politely as we pass.
The maids driving them steer their eyes away from us.
They’re almost…fearful. For once, I’m sure it’s not because of me.
We enter another room and pass walls of books with gold embellishments on each spine.
The library. My heart aches, never having seen so many books in one room before.
The ones we have in Nwatalith have been smuggled in, and most of them, we are unable to read.
Still, the beauty of them is astonishing.
Spines of gold and green and red and purple seem to come alive under the light of the sun streaming in through a bay window.
And the smell of them, of parchment and ink, sends shivers down my arms. Even if I couldn’t read the books, I always made sure to breathe them in.
My wonder catches on the stacks of well-loved volumes strewn across a mahogany desk littered with scrolls and scribes.
A stringed instrument is nestled against the window behind it, cushioned with small pillows and a cozy blanket.
This has to be someone’s favorite spot—the well-loved desk and many books stacked atop it aren’t for decoration.
My admiration is cut short when the monsters in black pull me into a long hallway.
A dark red velvet rug stretches down the corridor like a thick scarlet river.
We move slowly now, perhaps to allow me to take in the swollen, circular walls.
It’s like walking through the inside of a snake constricting its prey.
The mages halt and twist to face a magnificent iron door encircled with gold spirals, silver dragons, and rivers of crimson.
The dragons are full of life and motion, though they are melded into place over the arch, frozen in time.
They are similar to the dragons above the ballroom door.
The gold and red twist together, a symbol of the royal bloodline coiling above each beast’s maw.
Stamped into the center of the dark, robust metal door is the king’s emblem: a dragon on its hind legs, bearing a sword in its jowls.
The mage releases my arm, and both of them turn to me, their choir of highs and lows ordering me to enter.
I want to refuse, to heed the warning that staggers my heart into irregular beats, but I know I’m the one at a disadvantage here. The dread slithering up my neck is familiar, but I’ve only ever felt it once, It’s signaling that I’m about to die. That this is the end.
The king knows who I am, and he’s going to end my life.
I think of Ramiel and Ronan, but mainly Ramiel, who is counting on me. It’s silly how much I care now that I’ve convinced myself I’m about to enter my execution chamber.
I’m sure Ramiel will find another master, but I’m now wishing I had at least taught him something . Would he be able to keep his promise if he were here now? Would he protect me from whatever evil lurks beyond?
But he isn’t here , my thoughts scoff. And you can’t stand here forever.
I’m weak and defenseless. If I die, I’m sure the king will make it so they’ll never know what happened.
So don’t die .
With this despair in mind, I take a deep breath and press my palms to the cold door. It opens smoothly.
To my left, windows line the walls, all different artistic designs arranged with pieced-together glass, similar to the glass in the corridor near the mess hall.
Then I lift my chin to the ceiling. A painting of the glorious map of Arioch swoons at the ground in full color.
Have I never realized how vast the kingdom is?
Gods, am I admiring the ceiling right now? I truly must be at death’s front door.
The floor is a whirlpool of black and white and red marble. A path of scarlet silk shoots down the center and up a tall staircase to a gilded throne.
It is not vacant.
My heart plummets, and for a moment, I think it hits the bottom of my stomach so hard that it makes an audible thud, but I realize it’s the heavy door shutting behind me.
Bile coats my tongue.
What do I even do? Do I bow? Yes, that seems to be the right decision. My tongue is like parchment as I open my mouth to continue breathing, which has become a chore. I crumple to the ground, rest my forehead on my hands, and press my palms to the red fabric.
In this position, at least he can’t see me tremble or the way my fingers dig into the rug, drawing feeling back into them.
“Ether,” he booms. My name on his tongue is spoken like a curse.
I don’t respond. Heat barrels into my head and spreads to my ears. What in the seven hells am I supposed to say? Isn’t there a rule about not speaking until asked to speak? If I appear too nervous, will he begin to suspect me? Or would any of the maids bleat in front of their dictator?
“Come forth,” he orders. The sheer weight of his words brings me to my feet, and I obediently march toward him, eyes respectfully trained on the ground. I stop a few yards from the dais.
I don’t need to fake my fear. I genuinely try to make myself appear smaller.
I’ve realized that simply being in his presence forces me to feel the weight of history he carries like trophies on his shoulders.
The deaths of my people. The lack of care he has for elvenkind, the oppression he’s turned a blind eye to.
Our denial of a civil education. All of these gather around him, making the air heavy, thick.
“To what do I owe this pleasure, Your Majesty?” I say as steadily as I can. Perhaps he can detect the fear in my voice, though, since my tone wavers slightly at the honorific.
“Silence,” he roars.
The sound of that one word is loud enough to rival the cries of dragons.
Despite myself, my knees buckle together. My chin tucks into my chest, the one attempt I get to stop myself from trembling.