Chapter 5 #3
Kael considered her for a moment. “If you’d seen what I’ve seen, you’d grow cold, too.”
They stood in silence, the distance between them full of things neither could say.
Alina tried again. “Tell me the truth. Why am I here?”
Kael’s voice was almost gentle. “Because the palace has lied to you your entire life. You’re not who you think you are. The truth will reveal itself soon enough, whether you’re ready or not.”
With that, he stepped back, vanishing into the gloom of the corridor.
Alina was left alone, the echo of his words reverberating in her skull.
She pressed her back to the cold stone and slid down, pulling her knees to her chest. She sat there for a long while until the cold from the stone had chilled her backside into total numbness.
Stiff and clumsy, she got up and started back to her room.
Unsurprisingly, she needed quite a while to find the way.
When she finally arrived, she entered and looked around in surprise: there were furs on her bed, some extra candles, a washbasin, soap, and towel.
Alina had not planned to return to the mess hall, but hunger is a hard tutor.
The communal cavern had filled for the evening meal.
Long plank tables occupied every inch, lit by candles jammed into wine bottles and the flickering torches set into the walls.
The smell of baking bread and broth made her stomach contract with a violence that was almost comical.
She sat at the edge of one table, her bowl of stew steaming in front of her, and tried to ignore the constant ripple of glances and whispers.
The woman at the serving station had handed her the bowl wordlessly, face closed.
The hate that she was met with was staggering.
The rebels were everywhere, loud and unafraid, their faces split between exhaustion and fierce joy, their children darting underfoot in elaborate games of tag.
Some wore the same patchwork clothing as she did now; others, better dressed, wore their status in the way they spoke and laughed and gestured. No one sat with her.
She had resolved to eat as little as possible—a symbolic resistance, however petty—but the first spoonful of stew nearly undid her. It was richer than last night’s, thick with root vegetables and the flavor of something wild. She ate quickly, never raising her head, as if the act were shameful.
She was reflecting on the enhancements to her room, when a voice said: “Mind if I join you, Highness?”
The voice startled her so much she splashed broth onto her tunic. She looked up into the face of a roguishly handsome man, grinning as if they were old friends.
He dropped into the seat beside her without waiting for permission.
He was roughly in his mid-twenties, wore a faded shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and his hair was an unholy mess, half-tamed by a strip of cloth knotted around his brow.
He pushed a chunk of bread toward her, then another, and set his own bowl on the table with a flourish.
Alina tensed, waiting for the joke or the insult. Instead, he only said, “I promise it's not poisoned. We save that for Tuesdays.” He winked, then slurped at his stew with the enthusiasm of a man who'd missed three meals.
She couldn't help herself; she laughed, a single, startled bark. He offered her the barest sketch of a bow, spoon still in hand. “The royal seal of approval. I'm honored.” He stuck out a hand to her. “Finn Redbrook.”
For a while, they ate in silence. Finn attacked his food like it might escape, dipping bread, chewing with the gleeful abandon of someone who'd never had a governess rap his knuckles for putting elbows on the table.
When he finally spoke again, his mouth was predictably half-full. “Ever actually seen the world beyond those fancy palace gates, Princess? And royal processions don't count.”
She stiffened, the title landing like a slap. “No.”
Finn smiled, not unkindly. “Not so different from here, once you get used to the smell. Which, I’ll admit, is worse on laundry day.
” He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “I used to be a messenger. Ran the rivers, ferried notes, sometimes people. Saw a lot. Good, bad, and the occasional sheep festival, which defies categorization.”
Alina nodded, still wary.
Finn leaned in conspiratorially. “Some days, I miss it. The freedom. The sky. Even the rain, when it wasn't trying to drown me.” He looked up at the stone ceiling, as if expecting to see clouds. “But mostly, I miss the not-knowing.”
“The not-knowing?”
He shrugged. “When you’re on the run, every day's a mystery box. Here, you wake up and it's always the same: rock, soup, more rock, occasional rebel plotting. Gets predictable.”
Alina almost smiled. “I always thought life in a palace was the same. You wake up, and every day is exactly what they tell you it will be.”
Finn snorted. “I’ll take soup over 'proper tea-pouring technique’ any day. Though I hear you get better desserts.”
They shared a moment of companionable silence. Alina relaxed a fraction.
Finn gestured with his bread. “So. What horror stories did they tell you about people like me?”
She hesitated. “That you were dangerous. That you wanted to overthrow everything.”
He grinned. “And do we?”
She weighed her answer. “I don't know. Maybe. Given that I wasn’t exactly invited politely to come here, I am rather inclined to think that you do.”
Finn tapped his nose. “Smart answer. If you ever figure it out, let me know.
I'm still deciding myself.” He flexed his hand, palm up.
“People say it's the Gift that divides us.
Truth is, I don't have any magic. Never did.
Most here don't. But the ones who do...” He glanced toward the head table, where Kael and the impressive white-haired woman sat in low conversation. “They change everything, don't they?”
Alina followed his gaze. “They do.”
She gestured with her chin to the both of them. “Who is she?”
“You mean Elara?” Finn looked at her for confirmation. “Oh, she’s something special. Elara Moonshadow. Wise woman, sorceress, who knows the difference? I would try not to get on her bad side, if I were you. Might turn you into a frog.”
Alina snorted for lack of a real answer. What was one to reply to something like this?
Finn's face turned serious; all the jokes vanished. “Not all of us were born with abilities. Some of us just believe in the cause.” He tore his bread, chewed, then looked at her, really looked. “That's what scares the palace, I think. Not the magic—the belief.”
Alina’s shoulders dropped from their defensive arch. “Why did you join?”
Finn's smile faltered. He swallowed, hard. “Because I had a sister. And then I didn't.”
She didn't ask for the details. She didn’t need to—she could fill in the gaps for herself.
Finn slid the breadbasket closer to her. “Eat. You'll need your strength for all the brooding you’re planning.” He kept his tone light, but the shadows lingered around his mouth.
She took the bread, and for the first time since her arrival, she didn't feel watched.
When she finished, Finn stood. “I know you've been told differently, but we're really not the bad guys here. Just open your eyes, Princess, and you will see." He left her then, whistling, the notes bright and odd in the underground hall.
Alina lingered, turning his words over and over. When she finally stood to go, she noticed Seraphina, alone at the end of the table, watching her with a glare sharp enough to strip paint.
Alina met her gaze and held it—long enough to send a message.
When she left the hall, the taste of bread and Finn's stories still lingered on her tongue. She looked around the hall one last time and wondered what tomorrow would bring.