5. Ghosts in the Frames
Ghosts in the Frames
M oonlight pooled in the corridor as I walked through the Citadel. No matter how hard I tried, sleep would not come. After everything that happened during the conclave, and all that would come with the morning, my mind refused to quiet enough to let me rest.
Not to mention the pervasive whispers that now plagued me because of the Shadow. This place was filled with spirits; it’s a wonder none of the Erling queens before me ever became hermits in some secluded forest.
The Shadow was dormant, tucked into her corner of my mind.
How nice for her, that she could rest while I tossed and turned the night away.
It wasn’t the first time in the last week I’d cursed her near-constant presence, and I doubted it’d be the last. But at least now, in the earliest hours of the morning when most of the Citadel was fast asleep, I could be alone with my thoughts.
Though that was part of the problem. My thoughts were a twisted, tormented mess, filled with images of my mother and speculations about her death.
They were haunted by the faces of myrkva descending on us in the snowstorm, jagged teeth tearing into soft flesh and spraying blood over the pristine snow.
No, it was better to distract myself.
Although I possessed the power to kill myrkva —rather than merely driving them off, as fire did—it still took me awhile to convince the Hersir it was safe to let me roam the halls of my own home.
The warrior women were behind me somewhere, trailing at enough of a distance to offer the illusion of aloneness.
I didn’t mind though. It was better than being cloistered in my chambers, which were beginning to feel altogether too small.
In truth, I was not roaming. I had a singular destination in mind, one which I thought—prayed, actually—might bring some small measure of peace to my troubled mind.
The gallery.
The first time I’d seen the portraits, I couldn’t have been more than six years old.
I was a pudgy child then, with a hunger I never seemed able to satisfy.
Mother wasn’t too concerned; she said I’d grow out of it, as she had.
I’d always admired her gently sloping curves, long legs, and graceful neck.
She’d been right, partially. I’d grown into my figure, which was fuller than most, and carried it now with pride.
She’d excused me from my lessons that morning, a rare occurrence. When she called for me, I complied, eager to spend some time alone with her. Her duties so often kept her busy.
I’d trailed behind the long train of her gown, taking care not to step on it.
It was folds upon folds of black silk and silver mesh studded with crystals, cascading down like the night sky.
I’d always loved that gown, but I’d never known her to wear it other than on special occasions.
The crown of the Erling queens sat nestled on her brow, her stark white hair intricately woven around it in pins and braids.
It wasn’t until many years later that I learned the importance of that day, and what it meant for my future.
If she’d told me then, that she’d signed the contract betrothing me to a boy I’d never met, I doubt I would’ve understood. But she hadn’t told me. I wasn’t sure why, and recognizing her omission all these years later stung more than it should have.
I was blissful in my ignorance back then.
I’d followed her through the twisting, cavernous corridors of the Citadel, bounding over flagstones I’d trod a hundred times before. A few more turns through the corridors, a pass through an archway and, suddenly, the floor beneath me became unfamiliar.
Flagstone gave way to smooth, polished granite, glimmering white with swirls of black and gray impurities.
The walls, too, had changed. Much of the Citadel felt uncomfortably like a tomb, closed off and full of stale air.
But here, tall, paned windows dotted the wall to my right, sunlight streaming through and illuminating the hall.
A hall I’d never seen before.
On the wall directly across from the windows were portraits.
Sixty-five of them, to be exact. Each sat in a gilded frame, arranged in perfectly neat rows.
I marveled up at them, noting that each one was at least twice my height, if not more.
Though it was clear by the variations in style that many artists had contributed to this vast collection, I found myself enraptured by the single subject that linked them all.
“They’re all you, Mother!” I’d naively exclaimed.
Mother laughed at that, a bell-like sound that always lifted my spirits. “Not quite, child.” Her hands folded at her waist as she smiled up at the dark-paneled wall.
“What do you mean?” I’d looked back at the portraits, noting the smiling faces, the blanched, white hair, and the Erling crown resting on each head. But on second glance, subtle differences began to reveal themselves.
A portrait on the top row held an unsmiling face, unlike many of the others.
Her icy eyes looked tired, and faint lines pulled at the edges of her lips.
Another, further down the wall, stood out as well.
This woman’s hair was much shorter than the others, falling in a straight, blunt curtain to the high collar of her gown.
Here a pair of full lips, there a pair of thin ones.
A thick, lace ruff about the neck of that one.
A dramatic, plunging neckline over there.
“Do you see it now?” my mother asked, cutting through the focus of my inspection. I looked at her and nodded.
“Who are they?”
Mother smiled, though it seemed somehow sad. “That one there”—she pointed to the portrait at the top left, the very first in the row—“is Bridja Falk.”
The name echoed through me, freezing my bones in place. It was a name everyone in Volmere knew and respected. The first in the long line of Erling queens. The woman who’d done what no one ever had before. The righteous sword that ended the bloody Drakon War.
My ancestor, the Ghost Queen.
It was not difficult to understand why she’d been given that name nearly a thousand years ago.
She’d been the first Shadewarden in recorded history, after all.
A magic-user with dominion over the dead.
She’d raised an army of shades and draugr to put an end to the deadly conflict with AEldin and ushered us into a new millennium of peace.
House Erling had sat upon the throne of Volmere ever since.
Sixty-six queens so far, all but one of them hanging on the wall before me.
Seeing them in that way, one Erling queen after the other, another thought had struck me.
The same icy, pale blue eyes stared at me from every portrait; the same blanched, white hair on every head.
Black garments against gray backgrounds.
Each of them looked like they’d been sucked of all color and life. Ghosts in every frame.
And then there was my mother, standing next to me. A living ghost.
“Why are they all the same?” I had asked.
She’d taken a few steps forward, reaching out to stroke the frame on the last portrait in the lowest row.
This woman was dressed in black, like all the rest, but she wore a veil of black lace hooked into her crown.
It draped over each shoulder, framing her face in stark contrast.
“No one is certain of the answer to that, jenta mi. ” She’d placed a comforting hand on my head, my own hair a dull, mousy brown.
“But… why don’t I look like them? Look like you ?”
Mother had knelt in front of me then, the most radiant smile I’d ever seen on her face. “Your time will come, Vor. It was the same with me. And one day, you will be the queen, as I am. As with anything, these things take time.”
I still heard her voice echoing in my mind, even now. Tendrils of gently curled hair fell over my shoulders and down my chest, the color of the snow on the ground outside. Every time I’d looked in the mirror this past week, eyes that were not my own stared back.
Now, after so many years, I saw my own face mirrored in those frames in the portrait hall.
Each of my ancestors, burdened by a power I barely understood, haunted by a strange being that now dwelt in my mind.
The same title and power that had once belonged to her—once belonged to all of them—were now mine, thrust upon me when I’d least expected it.
Finally, I found my way to the gallery, tucked deep within the labyrinthine corridors of the Citadel.
I cast a look over my shoulder at the three armored women who’d accompanied me from my room.
With a wave of my hand, I gestured for them to wait in the hall.
I didn’t wait to see if they complied, but their footsteps fell silent as I continued forward.
Under the archway I went, entering the darkness of the soaring space. Moonlight poured in through the windows and slanted along the lowest part of the far wall. My breath stilled as I entered the room.
I made my way along the hall, footsteps echoing ominously off the high ceilings. The train of my dressing gown whispered along the granite floor and my heartbeat thudded dully in my ears.
The far side of the room was steeped in shadow, but I came to a stop before I reached that crushing darkness. My eyes stayed fixed on the last portrait of the bottom row. The sight of it sent a pang through my chest, and tears stung my eyes.
I stepped forward, running my fingers over the plaque beneath the frame.
High Queen Petra the Fourth
E.R. 942 - E.R. 1007
My eyes trailed up the bottom edge, over the delicate brush strokes on the canvas, and came to a stop at the rendering of my mother’s face.
A tight knot formed in my throat at the sight of her.
She’d sat for the portrait only a few years ago, and I couldn’t help thinking her artist was one of the most talented of the lot.
He’d managed to capture that soft light in her eyes, the one that always hinted she knew more than she let on.
Her mouth curled in a small smile. It was so true to her likeness that I gasped a bit. Every line of her beautiful face and the gentle wave of her hair—from head to bust, every detail was perfect. It was almost like having her with me again.
Almost.
I took a step back and hugged my arms across my chest. She stayed staring at me, unmoving and unblinking. What I wouldn’t give to hear her laugh or feel her embrace again. Nothing would ever fill that void. Not this portrait, and not my memories. Her love and her light were gone forever.
Tears fell before I even knew they were there, tracing down my cheeks in salty rivers of sorrow. Well, at least no one was here to see me. I could allow myself this weakness when I was alone.
A quiet rustle of fabric. The blood in my veins froze.
My head snapped toward the darkness at my right, eyes searching wildly. But with only the dim illumination of the moon to help, I couldn’t see anything within that crushing void.
“Who’s there?” I called, my voice hoarse as I worked past the knot of emotion in my throat. On instinct, I retreated a few steps. But if this was the assassin, come back to kill me too, I had no way to defend myself. No way except?—
“You have nothing to fear,” a voice replied, quiet and cold. It was a familiar voice, but it did not quell my panic.
Corbyn stepped out of the shadows, his black pants and shirt making it seem like he was a part of them—born from them.
The moonlight limned his auburn hair and reflected in his eyes…
Eyes that shone like burnished gold. I sucked in a gasp, realizing with shaky panic that he was in some stage of Shift right now.
No wings in sight. It must have been quarter-Shift. But why?
He stopped just beyond the edge of darkness, hands in his pockets and features inscrutable.
“What are you doing here?” I couldn’t help but tremble.
“Just finding a little peace and quiet,” he answered softly. “Much the same as you are, my lady.”
“Don’t,” I bit out. “Don’t patronize me, Talon.”
I watched as his shoulders stiffened, his square jaw clenching tightly as he strode forward.
Every instinct within me screamed that I should run, but my feet were rooted to the spot.
Corbyn came to a halt an arm’s length away, eyes flashing as he stared down at me.
Veins of swirling copper and obsidian mixed with the gold. They burned into me like molten metal.
Even though my hands shook in terror, I raised my head defiantly. I’d had enough of being made to feel weak. For a few tense, trembling moments we stared at one another. I thought I saw his eyes wander to my chin for the briefest instance, and the unwelcome attention unsettled me.
The scar there grew hot as his sharp gaze cut through me. The Shadow began to stir.
Finally, Corbyn looked away. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Your Majesty,” he said, his voice hard as stone. “Perhaps you’ll keep that in mind tomorrow.”
I bristled at his mention of the delegation, remembering Freyr Reynar’s suggestion. Yet something in me reared at this chance. It was just the two of us. Despite enduring years of his quiet, cold presence, Corbyn had never given me reason to think him dishonorable. Not until the last week.
I willed my face to soften, evening out my breath to slow my racing heart.
“Please.” The word was little more than a breath, and I thought I glimpsed some momentary surprise spark in those startling eyes as he looked back at me. “Will you tell me what happened?”
Something like misery tightened his face. His gaze fell to the floor and his shoulders dropped. For a moment, I thought he might do it—might tell me the truth that would settle my restless grief. But then?—
“I can’t.”
Hatred stirred in my chest once more.
If you’ve nothing to hide, then why not?
I wanted desperately to speak the words aloud, but I’d pushed the boundary of conspicuousness too far. Clearing my throat and straightening my shoulders, I replied, “Very well. I will see you tomorrow when the delegation arrives, Talon Arlbright.”
His eyes flicked back to my face, narrowing in scrutiny. He nodded slowly, but I didn’t give him a chance to say anything else. My heart racing like a band of wild horses, I turned on my heel and practically ran from the portrait gallery.