“It’ll be okay,” he says, taking my hand and looping it through the crook of his arm. He places his free hand over mine, and I feel steadier at his touch. “I promise I won’t let anything happen to you,” he adds. “And if we’re lucky, maybe I can convince King Osian to become an ally in our cause. Whatever Katharine’s experience, there may still be a way to get him on our side.”
I’m pretty sure luck has nothing to do with it.
I swallow the anxiety bubbling up my throat and nod. I don’t trust this King Osian, and I wish I’d never mentioned the mad king all the way back in Veteria’s hut, but I do trust Dietan, and that’s worth more than a city made of gold. He gives my fingers a reassuring squeeze before we walk side-by-side through the gates.
“Welcome, Prince Dietan of Loegria and Aren of Evandale,” the emissary says, smiling so wide, his teeth look like fangs. “To Engel. The last free city in Albion.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Dietan
The gold is a little much, if you ask me.
Castle Engel is situated high on a hill in the middle of the walled city. I keep Aren close as we walk up the steep, sloped streets paved with more gold. As the emissary guides us through narrow alleyways, I can feel Aren’s fingers trembling in the crook of my arm. I place my hand over hers again, stroking her knuckles with my thumb.
I want to assure her that whatever occurs, I’m going to make certain nothing happens to her. I, too, feel deeply uneasy walking the streets of Engel. A golden city hidden in the Waste, resplendent and clean, a shining example of the ingenuity of mankind—but I see hardly any evidence that people actually live here.
Most shops are closed, homes shuttered, and schools quiet. Flags with the king’s crest, a sun on the horizon opposite a three-peaked mountain, flap in the oppressive desert breeze. We pass by parks and squares, where a handful of people walk quickly. No one lingers near the pools or misting gardens to stave off the desert heat. In a city as grand and beautiful as this, I expect to see its people thriving. This is more of a ghost town than Alba.
Aren’s hand tightens on my arm, and I know she’s noticed the oddity as well. A cold knot forms in my stomach. I force myself to breathe evenly, to keep my shoulders relaxed, though the tension mounts beneath my skin. My calm demeanor and perfectly practiced smile never crack, especially when the emissary glances back at us every now and again.
“Beautiful, absolutely gorgeous,” I say, my voice smooth, even as that knot in my stomach twists.
“Thank you. We’re very happy here. King Osian takes excellent care of his citizens.”
All five of them…
I refrain from saying anything further, instead turning my attention to Aren. “It’s marvelous, isn’t it, my love?”
“Yes,” she agrees, a little breathless. She isn’t quite as convincing as I am. “Is this the kind of city we’ll be living in once we’re married?”
“You haven’t shown your blushing bride the pride and joy of Loegria yet?” the emissary asks, a teasing glint in his eye.
“Saving the best for last. No offense,” I say with a casual laugh, though my shoulders feel stiff under the weight of his scrutiny.
“Indeed, Your Highness. I have no doubt that Aren of Evandale would feel right at home in Loegria. But a woman from Alarice must be feeling far too flush in our climate.”
Aren is caught fanning herself, and I can tell it isn’t an act. The heat has us both on edge. “I’m sorry. I’m not used to the heat. I deeply apologize for my obvious discomfort,” she says.
“Not at all. All who come to Engel are welcome. We shall see to your every need.”
His hollow hospitality makes the tension knot in my shoulders. I try to keep my expression neutral as we follow our guide up and up the sloped streets all the way to the palace entrance. I can’t help but feel exposed without my knife.
Stone-faced servants are already waiting for us at the front doors, dressed in uniforms embroidered with gold thread. It’s the most people we’ve seen all day.
The castle is grand, with its many towers and parapets ascending toward the bright-blue sky. The glare from the sun is blinding. I avert my eyes, afraid I might lose my vision if I stare too long.
Inside the castle, the relentless heat finally abates. I feel a wave of relief as we step into the grand entrance hall. The painted ceiling above us depicts a starry night sky that contrasts with the golden walls and pink marble floor. It’s supposed to feel majestic, I’m sure, but all I can think is how tacky it looks.
Too much gold. Too much pink marble. Just…too much.
Oil paintings of the historical kings of Estyrion line the walls, their stern gazes seeming to follow us as we pass. Sheer curtains frame doorways leading to rooms that branch out of view. A grand double staircase stretches toward the second floor. Sunlight pours through open windows, illuminating every inch of the castle with an unnatural brightness. Servants in pristine white-and-gold embroidered uniforms stand at attention by every door, their eyes fixed straight ahead, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice.
“Welcome,” the emissary says. “The king is occupied at the moment, so please allow our staff to guide you to your quarters.”
He smiles warmly, but I don’t trust it.
Servants step to our sides and relieve us of our rucksacks. Aren resists for a moment, hanging onto her precious skillet and herbs, before relinquishing her pack when I put a hand on her elbow. We’re outnumbered. We must trust in Osian’s eerie hospitality if we’re to ask anything of him.
