THE ENTIRETY OFNEUMOVOS GATHERSinside the gates.
It is, to be certain, chaos. The courtyard is so crammed with people I cannot spot the gray stones underfoot. Even the smallest gap is occupied, either by an unruly child, a harried husband attempting to calm his family, a horse or goat or rickety cart piled high with sentimental goods. The soldiers, with their battle-scarred bodies and blood-drenched armor, only heighten the distress.
Pushing through the crush, I call out, “Those in need of food, please head to the stables. If you require warm clothing, please go to the eastern courtyard.”
“My lady.” A young mother clamps her hand over my arm, halting my progress. “Is there any information about the missing soldiers?”
She’s not the first to ask. I give her the same response I offered the woman before her, and the man before that. “I’m sorry, I won’t know anything until the king’s arrival.”
Eyes wet, she nods, releasing my arm. But I feel her gaze trailing me as I direct an older couple toward Orla, who is busy distributing woolen socks.
It has been many hours, and still no sign of Boreas. I worry for him, and it is a new, uncomfortable feeling. When word reached Neumovos of possible attack, they packed up and came here, to the citadel. Three thousand specters, hands empty of supplies, many partially clothed, desperate and afraid. I could not turn them away.
Boreas will be furious when he learns what I’ve done.
When the last blanket has been distributed, the parlors and ballrooms and sitting rooms occupied, I retreat inside the vast stone halls. It is dawn. Twelve sleepless hours, gone in a blink.
My body is so drained I’m tempted to curl up on the floor, but I make the long climb upstairs. Instead of turning right where the hall bisects, I turn left, where four guards block my way into the north wing.
“I wish to visit my husband’s chambers,” I state.
“No one may pass but the king himself, my lady.” This spoken by the largest of the soldiers present.
“Seeing that I am hiswife,” I say, “surely that restriction does not apply to me.”
“Let her pass.” Pallas appears at the end of the corridor, irritable and weary. “Lord’s orders.”
The men step aside, and I’m given a clear path to a set of sturdy double doors at the end of the hall. My fingers wrap around the cool wooden handles, and I push.
Darkness. And from that darkness comes frost, an absolute cold that respires from the obscured doorway. A high-pitched trill rings in my ears, warning me away. It is a cave, a crater, a cavity, a pit. The den of a darkwalker. And for whatever reason, I’m contemplating stepping foot inside.
I seriously doubt Boreas would set any sort of trap. After all, the staff enter to clean. Or rather, Orla does. She’s never told me how often, though, and—
My teeth grind together. I’m no coward. This will not be the first time I’ve entered his rooms, but it’s the first time I’ve entered via a door as opposed to a window. I see no reason why anything would differ.
Into his chambers I go, locking the door behind me.
After some fumbling, I manage to light a fire and the lamps. The king’s rooms are vast, but I hadn’t the opportunity to study them during my last visit. The space is far less utilitarian than I thought it would be, marked by small touches of hominess, like a blanket tossed over one of the sitting room armchairs. The main room empties into a circularchamber edged with tall bookshelves, curtains shrouding the windows. Behind another door lies a bathing area.
I sway, overcome with uncertainty. What has happened to Boreas? I know nothing. Deaf and blind to his whereabouts, I lack comfort, security. Clarity slips its knot, and I find myself rifling through his desk, peering behind his bookshelves, searching his rooms in the hope of finding a stash of wine, but there is none. My heart sinks in disappointment, yet relief, too. He was not lying when he said he disposed of his entire collection.
I turn, and there is his bed: a panoply of blankets dyed the color of wine and a gleaming headboard the size of a horse.
My curiosity gets the better of me. I launch myself onto the mattress, falling among soft, sinking pillows and feathery blankets. Oh, this is nice. Very nice. My body sighs at the contact and sinks down…
I don’t remember falling asleep, but something startles me awake—a strange sound. The fire is but hissing ash and smoke, yet a few coals still burn.
The door handle jiggles. Someone utters a curse from the other side of the door. Right. Because I locked it.
Leaping off the bed, I flip the bolt and haul the door open just as Boreas’ weight slams into my front. We hit the ground, my body crushed beneath his.
He groans, his face mashed against my neck.
“Boreas.” I shove his shoulders. He doesn’t budge. “You’re crushing me.”
“Wren?”
The slurred question pricks my alarm. Where are the guards?
