Chapter 9
As we walk through a series of archways and corridors, Jonas tells me about people he thinks I should remember. People who are in the Retterheld. Those who tried but didn’t make it as far as the offering. Those who made the offering but didn’t get selected.
‘You remember Lora, right? You two used to be friends. She tried to enter but got bitten by a dire wolf outside the temple. Luckily, she had a team of healers on standby, so she’s fine.’
I’m glad that Jonas is happily talking away to himself. It means he isn’t looking at me. Lora. That’s a name I’ve tried to push from my mind in the last decade and a half. He was right. We were friends. But that was before.
‘Florian was a baby,’ she said when she saw me after the queen’s death. ‘You should be grateful it wasn’t you or Acacia the king decided to kill instead.’
Gratitude for the murder of my brother. That’s what my best friend thought I should feel.
That was the last time I spoke to Lora, and I’m more than a little delighted that she wasn’t able to get into the Retterheld.
‘We’re all in the eastern arc,’ Jonas says, walking through a large gate set into yet another wall and leading us across an open courtyard. ‘The king’s guards had to give over one of their barracks and training grounds for the Rettlings. It’s basic, but comfy enough.’
The eastern arc is a part of the High Hold I’ve never been in, though I used to dream about it often enough.
I dreamed about being selected to become a guard.
About training for four long years before being sent to the Afaven Forest to bond with a dire wolf.
Now though, I can’t help but wonder how many knights there are going to be in the competition.
The more we walk, the less concerned I feel about remembering so little about my life here. High Hold is bigger than I ever realised – and coming from someone who’s lived in the shadow of it for years, that’s saying something.
‘After tonight’s announcement, this’ll be home,’ Jonas tells me as he offers a nod of thanks to a guard who steps aside so we can move through another gate. ‘No going out unless it’s for a trial – or a ball, obviously,’ he amends.
As I step into the sand-covered courtyard, I take a moment to breathe it in. The slums are so crowded that the marketplace is the only space large enough for a gathering, but even then it’s still claustrophobic. Here, there’s space. Space to run. To feel. To breathe.
‘You coming?’ Jonas calls from ahead.
I pick up my pace and hurry to join him. A minute later, we’re walking into a grey stone building several times the size of Etta’s temple.
‘This is us.’ He grins. Seeing this small fraction of the training barracks reminds me of the size of the army needed to defend against the Torailian and Issen. I might despise King Korvane to my very core, but at least he’s keeping his people safe, which I guess is something.
‘You okay?’ Jonas brushes his hand against my arm, causing me to jerk at the unexpected shudder that rolls through me. When our eyes meet, a single frown line is etched between his brows.
‘Yes, sorry, you were saying?’
His gaze lingers on me for a moment longer before he continues. ‘The main training ground we get to use is around the back. Out through the dining hall, which is here.’
I step past him into a massive room filled with rows and rows of wooden tables, all currently empty. It must seat at least four hundred people, and my eyes are drawn to the end where a large fireplace roars with gold and ruby flames. Outside may have been warm, but inside it’s toasty.
‘I can’t get over how warm it is.’ I say the words more to myself than to Jonas.
He looks at me quizzically before shrugging his shoulders. ‘It’s just the residual magic, right? Same as everywhere.’
His na?veté is cute. ‘Right,’ I say, suppressing a snort.
Residual magic. Those currents of power that drift from the Gods and run down through the citadels.
By the time they reach the slums, virtually every drop of power has been leached away, leaving no warmth.
With Korvane keeping his massive dining halls fully heated even when no one is in them, that’s hardly a surprise. Selfish bastard.
‘What’s downstairs?’ I ask as we walk past a narrow stone staircase that weaves its way to the floors below.
Jonas offers a shrug. ‘Kitchen, I guess. Dorms are upstairs. That’s where I was going to take you next.’
The word kitchen causes a growl to rattle from my stomach.
Even with all of the food gifted to me, I’m still hungry.
My stomach wasn’t able to manage much after going so long without.
Hopefully, once I’ve dumped my things, I can grab some bread or something before the Cotillion ball that will kick off the Retterheld this evening.
But I can’t think about the first ball right now, not when I’m busy trying to keep pace with Jonas.
That man has one hell of a stride on him.
‘Here.’ He stretches out his hand as we reach the bottom of another staircase. ‘Let me take one of your bags for you.’
‘I don’t need you to do that. I can manage.’
‘I know you don’t need me to, but I’m offering. There’s this thing called chivalry? It’s still alive … at least with me, anyway.’
He flashes a smile that causes more fluttering in my stomach and a spike in my pulse.
Realising that I’ve been staring a fraction too long, colour rushes to my cheeks and I hand Jonas one of my bags in an attempt to distract him from my rising blush. Some of the ballgowns inside weigh a tonne, yet he slings the bag over his shoulder like it’s weightless before continuing on.
The staircase is wide enough for four people to happily walk side by side, though Jonas stays close to me the whole time.
Close enough that it almost feels like my hand should be in his.
Halfway up, I pause at a large window offering a view out over the training grounds.
At least twenty people are out there, most of them currently fighting, and their movements are mesmerising.
The kicks, the blocks, the flashes of swords and daggers.
I’m too far away to hear their shouts and grunts, but I can sense them in my bones, and for the first time since my name was called, I feel a surge of genuine fear.
The way they move is so fluid, so flawless, that it’s as if they are one with their weapons.
Something tells me they haven’t been scraping by on whatever scraps of food they could come by these last few years.
They’ve been training. Training for war.
Training for this. And Etta found them worthy, too.
It’s far from a comforting thought.
‘How many people have been accepted?’ I ask when I look up and find Jonas several feet ahead. For the second time, I quicken my pace to catch up, and he graciously waits until I am beside him before he answers.
‘Around fifty this year. Rooms will be fairly tight until the first trial, and you’ll want to pick where you bunk carefully. People have already formed alliances.’
Alliances. Just the thought of it makes me uneasy. And that unease only increases when Jonas suddenly stops and turns to face me. Good Gods, his eyes are amber. And the way they’re looking at me is intense.
‘I wasn’t sure if I should tell you this, Rose,’ he says, his timbre serious, bordering on forlorn, ‘but there have already been two deaths.’
‘Deaths?’ That pulls me out of his gaze fast. ‘How? The Retterheld hasn’t even begun! Surely Etta won’t approve of deaths outside the trial?’
He presses his lips tightly together. ‘Some people don’t agree with your thinking.’
‘They were killed by other Rettlings?’ I ask, feeling faintly sick. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know the ins and outs,’ he says, but he’s turned away from me, as if he doesn’t want to look me in the eye. ‘Come on, let’s find you a place to sleep.’
I want to know exactly what happened and why two Rettlings have already been killed – and by whom – but he obviously doesn’t want to talk about it, and the last thing I need is to alienate the only person who might actually help me in this thing.
If nothing else, I’m going to need a sparring partner on training days, and I can definitely think of worse people to work up a sweat with than Jonas.
‘Where’s your dorm?’ I change the subject as naturally as I can. ‘And have you already made your alliances?’
‘There are people I know,’ he says vaguely.
Gods, I’ve forgotten how the nobles talk in riddles and circles. Information is power, so everyone scrambles to grab it, then hoards it like a squirrel with nuts.
I press on. ‘You know them from the High Hold, you mean?’
He nods. ‘Not sure whether I’d call them allies, though. We’ve not really solidified anything.’
He’s turned off the stairs now and is walking down a corridor.
‘So are you sharing a dorm with any of these “not-quite-allies” of yours?’
‘No.’ This time he turns to face me. ‘And I’m not in a dorm.
I managed to snag myself a space on my own,’ he says.
‘It’s a box room, but it’s quiet, and it’s away from most of the others.
An advantage of being in the court is that I was able to get over here and claim my spot the moment the announcement was made.
I think all ten of us from Wrohelm did.’
‘A room to yourself,’ I say, trying to stop a grin from twisting my lips. ‘And away from the other Rettlings. It’s almost like you don’t want people to hear what you plan on doing in there.’
‘I haven’t made any plans yet,’ he replies, a smirk twisting his lips.
‘No? Want to see if we can think up any together?’
The flirtatious words slip out before I can stop them, nerves making me far bolder than I usually would be.
Still, I don’t regret it; he’s attractive and friendly, and I need someone in my corner.
Hearing about the deaths, and seeing the others sparring, has reminded me that I can’t take on all the other Rettlings alone.
I need allies, and I could do far worse than Lord Lorathin’s son.
To my surprise, a pink tinge rises on his cheeks as the tension between us stretches so taut I’m pretty sure it could snap a rope.
His eyes drift down to my lips, and heat stirs in my gut.
I consider taking a step towards him, but I don’t.
I might flirt, but I don’t chase. And although we were childhood friends, I don’t know the man he’s become. Not yet.
His pupils are blown wide, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips as I wait for him to respond. Finally, with a light chuckle, he releases the tension growing between us.
‘Let’s get you a place to put your belongings,’ he says.
He takes a few steps down the corridor and stops in front of a door.
‘Let’s try this one,’ he says, placing his hand on a metal doorknob and twisting it open.
Just then, a voice yells from down the corridor, ‘You found her then? The slum rat?’
I turn away from Jonas to find a young woman about my age standing with her arms folded across her chest. She’s dressed in the blood-red colours of Rowell, and while the sides of her head are shaved, the rest of her auburn hair is worn in three braids, the thickest of which runs down the centre of her scalp and is phenomenally intricate.
I always thought I was adequate at braiding, but I’ve never managed anything as elaborate as that.
Though given the way she’s practically snarling at me, I don’t think she’s going to give me lessons on how to do it.
She’s flanked by a few other Rettlings, and they don’t look any more welcoming.
‘Zara, you need to back away.’ Jonas steps in front of me as he speaks. His voice is measured, but I can hear the firm menace beneath the tone. ‘Go back to your room.’
‘Oh, I will,’ she assures him with a sneer. ‘Just as soon as I’ve culled the final runt.’