Chapter Ten
A long, dark velvet robe filigreed in jade drapes across his shoulders, the moonlight silvering his bare chest beneath. A golden torque wraps the column of his throat, his ears and fingers decorated with gems as they always are, yet he’s so much more ethereal here.
He looks like a Fate.
Then I notice the chalices he’s carrying.
Not one, but two.
I can’t look away from those chalices, even as I want to. I will my legs to back away, but here I remain, frozen in place.
Another figure strides out behind him.
I watch, stone-still, as she peels the robe from his shoulders, slender fingers working the fabric down his chest from behind until he wears only a pair of dark breeches slung low on his hips.
I don’t dare breathe as Dahlia curls her long arms around Anton’s torso, her lavender curls nestling into the curve of his back. Her teeth graze the bud of his shoulder.
It is only once he laughs that I drop to my knees.
The moment I do, it’s as if I’ve shot an arrow his way.
His gaze travels over the balcony.
The balustrade shields me, but still I see a narrow slice of him through the sheen of threatening tears. But I quickly look away—duck farther—then heave the meager contents of my stomach onto the stone between my hands.
By the time the world slows its spinning and I manage to crawl inside, Anton is gone.
Back in the study, I curl into the tall wingback chair and wrap a blanket around my shoulders, small sobs rattling free from deep within my chest.
I feel as though my heart has been picked apart, one seam at a time, with every reminder of our time on Anell. How similar this place feels, despite everything. It’s as if I’m a pane of glass, removed from the mosaic of his life.
Like I no longer exist at all.
And there’s no sign of Moranya. Or even Emilia. In the mortal land, twenty-seven days remain before my father wins—if time even runs the same in this world. Queen Sadira is surrounded by enemies. The clock is ticking.
I feel the weight of the world, like I’m anchored to the bottom of the sea, my body too weak to break free and reach the surface.
It’s morning when I wake. I only know because the azure haze of this place has lifted into a pale periwinkle.
The dawn is soft yet without a sun, but sheaves of light layer over the sky, not unlike the aurora we used to see in the north.
But instead of emerald, this one yawns to life in shades of cerulean and the softest gold, like melted butter.
Nothing else stirs outside save for the waterfall’s soft churn, but I don’t dare gaze at that balcony again. Instead I glance around the study, which is clearly in use.
I slide into the chair before the desk, only to find a heap of fabric in its seat. It’s a thin, silky material, threaded with jade beads along the sleeves and collar, with more running in lines all the way down the robe.
Then the aroma hits me, making it clear exactly who it belongs to—the sweet tang of a clementine, the undercurrents of salt and spice.
Anton.
It must have fallen from the back of the chair.
Despite what I saw, I can’t help but drape it over my shoulders and curl into it, a new wave of longing swelling within me. I wonder how often he comes here, and why. What it is he might be reading.
I reach for one of the books there on the edge of the desk.
The tome has no title, and the same with the others scattered near it, the spines empty save for loops and flourishes of gold embossing.
Even so, I crack the first open, tracing my finger across lines of text.
It details someone’s birth—a name I don’t recognize.
I flip forward several pages, only to find the words disappearing.
Frowning, I turn back to the first page and skim.
Only then do the words appear on the second page.
Understanding dawns. You can’t skip ahead. To read, you must go in order.
I grab another tome, then another, flipping through the beginning. Each records another soul, though I recognize none of the names inside.
These are…logs of people’s lives. They vary in size, too, which I assume correlates to how long a subject lived.
Has Anton brought them all here himself? And if so, from where? What could he be looking for?
Toward the end of each book, the paper is thicker and slightly darker, like textured parchment. I hinge one open again, expecting these pages to be blank, too, only there are words penned here, the ink red as blood. At first, I think it’s the finale. The tale of the person’s death. Only it isn’t.
It’s their sins, outlined one by one, along with the verdict of their station.
I remember, then, what Dahlia told me.
He is the only one who can permit a soul into a higher tier, too. That’s what the appeals are for.
Perhaps he references these tomes to help guide his decisions?
And yet…has Moranya really handed him the keys to this place? Given him this much authority—or all of it, for that matter? Why?
Is she really so absent?
I need to see for myself.
With newfound vigor, I make haste across the bridge again and through the palace halls, skipping past the doors of a residential wing—which I realized only after barging in on two sleeping souls by accident, because apparently souls sleep?
I learn the look of the bedrooms, at least: the smaller, brightly colored doors, all facing the mountain, the hallways lined with plush carpets.
They’re stacked on top of one another, each floor like the last. There are darker doors scattered between the bedrooms, however, and when I try them, each one opens into another black void.
When I reach out my hand, I feel nothing but cold, still air, absent of a breeze.
It isn’t until I reach the main corridor that I find the palace milling with souls.
I can’t stay in the outfit I was seen in last night; already the dye is beginning to fade, so I find the Modiste’s Hall first, right where Dahlia said it would be, just inside the dome pavilion.
It’s a large space, complete with a lounge at its center, the walls ringed by racks of clothes, broken only by a shelf with bolts of silk and another displaying jewelry and other accessories—bone crowns, ribbons, gemstone tiaras, sashes, and other trinkets I don’t recognize.
I am so overwhelmed that I grab the closest gown—a peony-pink ensemble with thin straps and green lace that splits above each thigh, where it’s embroidered with tiny asters.
It seems to mold to my body, as if by magic—as if they’re all made to do such a thing.
The bodice is intentionally loose, cut into a slope that dips down to my collarbone, then slimming to hug my hips.
The fabric is so light I feel as if I’m wearing nothing at all.
Not to mention, the curve of my back is bare.
I steal a faded, sage-green sash and wrap it around myself before meandering out the door.
The scent of spice twists a growl of hunger from my stomach.
I wonder if soul food is even suitable for a mortal like me.
Even so, I follow the scent, finding a pavilion lined with windows facing the slope of the city on the next floor—the same one I’d seen last night.
The same dining table is heaped with fresh platters, the food not so unlike what I might have found in Illian’s palace: pastries, fruits, and spreads of jams.
Anton is still mortal like me, and he must be eating somehow. It affords me the courage to try. Grabbing a slice of bread, I take a tentative bite, and I’m relieved to find it tastes as familiar as sweetdough from Brisendale. And it sits well in my belly—as well as food ever has, at least.
The bottom floor, similar to the rest, is decadent in an odd sort of way—the walls glistening, the view outside the open windows grander than any painting.
But there are no actual paintings or curtains, no mosaics or grand displays otherwise save for indoor fountains and a scattering of garniture.
I turn another corner, only to pause at the influx of souls forming a line before a set of open doors.
A line that trails down and out of the palace itself.
My breakfast almost rises when I peer inside what looks like a throne room.
It’s vast, packed tight with upper-echelon souls hovering gracefully around the outer edges.
They observe the line of lesser souls, some of whom are attired in decent robes, others in rags like Illian.
They all wait to approach the throne at the far end—
A throne upon which Anton sits, sprawled like the king he is—a vision in dark silk and glittering gems.
I can’t bring myself to look at his face. Not after last night.
Moranya offered him a kingdom, indeed.
I skirt around the Exalted—so apparent in all the finery and decadence of mortal lords—and slowly make my way toward the dais, careful not to draw attention by staying behind the outer ring of the crowd. The guard-like figures with their reaper’s axes stand at silent intervals past the throne.
I don’t dare draw much closer. But I observe as a woman bows before Anton, her gaze bright with unshed tears.
“Your Majesty, as I told you last week, I was judged to live my life in the Shadows, and I have served this palace faithfully for over a century now, though I believe my judgment was unfair.” Whispers circulate, but she continues bravely.
“While it is true that I had an affair, I did so only after my husband cheated on me! Multiple times, I might add, and in the most debasing of manners…”
Anton lifts a book that looks just like the ones in the study, and I realize it must be hers. He flips through the pages at the back, the ones listing her sins, which I’ve gathered are visible without reading the rest.
After a moment, I hear his voice.
“I will review your case. Return in a fortnight, and I will tell you my decision.”
When she leaves, another steps forward. Before she has a chance to speak, he says, “Terra, welcome back.”
“Your Gloriousness,” she whispers, her hands shaking as she awaits his verdict.