Chapter 21
Twenty-One
Sorin
The guard rounds the corner, drawing Roman’s attention. I take the opportunity to slip from his hold and sprint down the hallway.
Deep and piercing pains thrum across my chest. I rub my hand against my heart over and over until the pain begins to fade.
Slow down.
Breathe.
Shuffles echo down the hallway, so I dart through an open door. Lucky for me, it’s a supply closet. Broom handles clank together as I squeeze myself in, but because the space is so small, I’m forced to leave the door open a crack.
Roman steps into view, now with a guard following closely behind. Roman pulls his hands through his hair, his mossy eyes frantically searching the shadows.
“They’re gone, Your Majesty.” The guard’s voice trembles. His red face is damp and sweaty. As if he’s been running all evening.
“Who?” Roman grabs the guard by the collar of his shirt. “I haven’t the patience for riddles.” Roman sighs, dropping the man's shirt and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Explain yourself plainly before you find out why they call me the corrupt king.”
He hasn’t placed his mask back on, and I finally have a chance to really look at him. I didn’t know our father well. Only broken memories, most of which I’ve chosen to suppress. But his dark hair and jawline are those of a Rudhek. My stomach turns, and I’m regretting the drink I indulged in earlier.
“The…” The guard peers over his shoulder. “The prisoners, Your Majesty. They’re all gone.”
The air in my lungs freezes.
Roman pulls his curly locks through his fingers again. Something like relief flashes across his face, the crease between his brows smoothing. Then in the blink of an eye, his face contorts. He lunges for the guard again, but this time refrains from touching him. Instead, he runs his hands down the front of his shirt. “Why weren’t there extra guards on patrol?”
“They’re all here, Your Majesty. For the ball. And anyone not here is on assignment, from Sir Galen.”
Galen.
The last bit of hope I had that what I saw was a mistake, shreds. I cradle my head in my hands, breathing slowing through my nose.
“No one else hears about this, do you understand?”
“What about Sir Galen?—”
“ No one .” I glance through the crack in the door. Roman’s brows are furrowed, a muscle in his jaw flexes. “Send any and every guard you see outside. I want a man stationed at every corner. Do what you need to with the others, but make sure the Dyrsjel is returned or you’re all on the line.”
The guard dips his head, and before I can let out a breath, he scurries out of sight.
Once the guard is gone, Roman runs a hand down his face. He backs himself up so he’s propped against a wall. His mask hangs loosely at his side, and it’s the first time I remember just how young he is. His eyes snap to the doorway, so I slink back, attempting to use the shadows to my advantage.
Footsteps inch closer.
Closer.
I hold my breath.
“Ro?” Galen’s voice is distant, but my traitorous heart warms at the sound of it. I want to run to him. To tell him there’s still time to make this right. Whatever this is, perhaps a misunderstanding.
“Coming, sweetheart,” Roman says, his voice so close it’s as if he’s in the closet as well. My lungs sting from the pent up air, and just as I’m about to exhale, the door pushes shut from the outside.
Slinking to the floor, I allow myself an extra minute to catch my breath.
All of my rage should be aimed at Roman. For so long it has been. The son my father chose over me. Deeming him more fit to rule just because his mother was that of noble blood. His treatment of Enchantresses only deepened my anger the last few years, but as my fingernails dig into my palms, it isn’t Roman’s face I picture.
It’s Galen’s.
My stomach twists. I need out of this closet. Out of this castle. But if there’s a chance Elora escaped tonight, I’ll be damned if I leave without her.
Despite the tension in the hallway, the party has continued uninterrupted. Dancers still crowd the space as the musicians up their tempo and vigor.
I keep myself tucked into the wall of the room, nerves sloshing in my stomach, until I reach the entryway where we arrived. My shoulders unclench when I realize Thaddeus is there with the members of the Guilds.
They haven’t given up on you yet, Sorin.
“It’s about time,” Thaddeus whispers, pulling my arm.
“In the drawing room,” a woman says. Her scarlet, silk dress hugs all of her curves. Her dark hair, piled onto her head with crimson lips to match her dress. Small flecks of gold glitter against her ebony skin.
Lady Mordona of the Bloodstone Guild.
“Almost lost your chance.” A woman with hair and skin as pale as snow brushes my shoulder as she passes by. Her beaded, turquoise gown swishes in time with the music as she walks.
Lady Oletta of the Cerulean Guild.
Thaddeus pushes me forward, but I shrug out of his grip. I can’t read his expression as he turns to face the room across from us. “Thaddeus we must leave?—”
“Don’t be foolish!” He grabs onto my arm again. “We’ve made it all this way, we will not leave without a meeting.” He pats my arm, offering a quick smile before heading into the drawing room.
My feet pull me forward, my legs uncertain, my heart even more so.
I have to get to her. I have to?—
“Sit.” Lady Mordona snaps her fingers before pointing to a chair at the end of the table.
Despite the gnawing instinct in my gut to leave, I do as she says. Once seated, everyone pulls off their masks, and I truly get a look at the ladies. Oletta looks similar to Agnes in age. Lines creasing around her mouth and eyes, especially when she smiles. Mordona is much younger, but something in her dark eyes tells me she could outsmart any one of us.
“Come on, boy. Let us see this so-called decree before the king himself waltzes in here.” Lady Mordona’s stare sends a chill down my spine. She watches me as she sips casually from a crystal glass filled with light pink, bubbly liquid.
I smile, but she looks away. With shaky hands, I pull the sacred paper from my pocket. Thaddeus reaches for it. My hand tenses around it.
“It’s all right,” Thaddeus says.
My hand trembles again as I let go of the parchment. My eyes don’t leave it as he passes it straight to Lady Mordona and Lady Oletta. The two of them read for what feels like ages. Whispering back and forth to each other.
Placing my hands in my lap, I twist my father’s ring until the skin beneath the cool metal begins to sting.
“Well it certainly looks legitimate,” Oletta says.
“Not to mention he could be Silas’ twin.” Mordona laughs, the sound grating on the last bit of patience I have to be here.
A few tense moments of silence fill the space when the door to the drawing room bursts open. My chair tips backward as I stand abruptly, hands going instinctually to the blade on my hip. Only I remember, it isn’t there. I dropped it in the hallway.
Fuck.
“Lord Calix,” Thaddeus says with a long sigh. “We were beginning to worry.”
Calix’s eyes are frantic as he glances around the table.
Then, they meet mine. His face contorts, softening his expression.
“Sorin Rudhek,” he says. Not a question, but an understanding. I nod. His eyes direct to Thaddeus, then to Mordona and Oletta. “The boy is who he says. I’m sure of it.”
Nerves erupt in my stomach. How is this man so sure? I glance at Thaddeus but he’s focused on Calix. His smile looks victorious, as if he’s won in some way.
“It isn’t that simple, Cal,” Mordona says. She finishes her drink before setting it down on the oak table. “It isn’t just our vote. It’s the council as well.”
“But with each of you backing me, backing this”—I point to the paper still in Mordona’s hands—“there must be a fair chance.”
She smiles, all teeth, and it reminds me so much of Ruse’s that my knees shake as she stands and joins my side. “You have a fair chance. But don’t think we offer our aid without a price.” She leans in, her breath tickling against my ear. “Nothing is ever free.”
The hair on my arms raises. What could she mean?—
“That’s a conversation for a different night,” Lord Calix says.
I turn to him, and it’s then I realize his pristine black boots have been smeared with mud. Not to mention his lapel completely disheveled.
He cradles his right hand to his chest, his soft eyes narrowed. “Sorin, Thaddeus, I think it’s time we leave.”
“What’s the rush?” Oletta chimes in. She swirls her finger in her drink before popping it into her mouth. “Thaddeus?” She points to him. “You insisted we come to this dreadful event. Don’t tell me you’re leaving so early.”
Thaddeus chuckles, but it’s nervous and stifled. He glances again at Calix, who nods.
“We’ll reconvene in a week,” Thaddeus says. He stands from the table, smoothing the lines from his green suit. “One week, ladies, at the Onyx Guild.”
Lady Mordona backs away, her dark skin shining with that iridescent, gold powder. “One week, Rudhek. And my price will be set.” She smiles and as she waltzes out of the room, the red bloodstones hanging from her ears catching the light.
I follow Thaddeus to the door, but Calix’s hand lands on my back, pushing me further. “Quickly,” he whispers.
“You’re pushing your luck with those two,” Thaddeus says to Calix. “It was difficult enough to get them to come and now we’re leaving just barely before we’ve spoken.”
“I have my reasons,” Calix says.
Outside the castle the rain falls in sheets. I place my mask back on just in case we run into anyone on our way to the caravan. Calix pushes ahead, practically jogging through the mud.
“I’m an old man, Calix Winterborn! What is the rush!” Thaddeus shouts, hobbling behind me.
Calix turns, his eyes finding mine. He hangs his head a moment before he takes a few steps forward so we’re face to face.
“She’s with us,” he whispers. “Elora’s with us.”