“Press your palm against it. The magic will imprint your blood, so you can access the vault whenever you want.”
I don’t fight him on this because I know I won’t win. I’m his wife now, part of the Aurellion family. I take this as a sign that he’s serious about us and won’t change his mind about me. He’s been unpredictable until now, but maybe I can start trusting him.
I press my hand down and feel the sharp sting as the fine blades pierce my skin. It hurts, but the blades are so thin that they barely break the surface to draw blood. The magic pulses through my palm and then releases me. When I pull my hand back, there are tiny dots of blood across my skin.
Altair takes my hand in both of his and kisses my palm softly.
“I’m all right,” I assure him.
He nods and laces his fingers through mine. He leads me through the corridor we came, up the various flights of stairs, and toward the north wing.
When we reach his parents’ chambers, Altair knocks on the door.
His mother is the one who opens it, and I barely recognize her. She’s crying quietly. She looks disheveled and worse than I’ve ever seen her. Her hair is coming loose from its pins, and her face is blotchy and red.
“Mother,” Altair says, pulling her into his arms. “What’s going on?”
She sobs against his chest but doesn’t answer. She just shakes her head and pulls away from him, then leads us both into Varrick’s room. Altair keeps asking her what happened, what’s wrong, but she won’t speak. She just shakes her head over and over and guides us toward the bed.
Altair leans over his father, and I can tell that something is wrong. Varrick isn’t breathing. His chest is still.
Altair touches his father’s hand.
“He’s so cold.”
He looks at his mother and waits.
“I knew,” she says, her voice breaking. “I knew all along that you were poisoning him in secret. I never confronted you because I thought House Aurellion was doing better without him. But I finished the job. I had to rid myself of this awful man who controlled my entire life. I did it because I want you and Tressa to be happy, and as long as Varrick lived, he would never have allowed it.”
Altair doesn’t move. He’s staring at his mother like he doesn’t understand the words coming out of her mouth.
She turns to me, and her eyes are desperate and pleading.
“I apologize deeply for all the madness you’ve witnessed in this house. I promise I’ll stay out of your way.”
I’m shaken, but I force myself to move. I cross the room and wrap my arms around her. She collapses against me. The embrace is long, and she clings to me with surprising strength, though her body feels frail. I’ve never felt anyone so thin and breakable.
At the back of my mind, I wonder what I got myself into. This is a family with secrets, all of them dark and disturbing. When things go bad, they’re not above poison and murder. But then I look at Altair, who has his head bowed low over his father’s body, and I see tears running down his face. Even though he believes his father was a monster, even though he took measures to ensure Varrick wouldn’t destroy House Aurellion, Altair loved him. Otherwise, he wouldn’t cry for him now.
***
The next few days pass in a blur. The servants move through the palace planning the funeral, whispering in corners, preparing food and arrangements. Altair spends most of his time in the library writing letters to the other houses, informing them of his father’s passing.
I sit in my chambers and write my own letter to Alana.
I tell her that she and her four sisters can come live at the palace along with their mother, but I kindly ask her not to bring her father. It’s better for the two old men to remain in the city. We’ll take care of them financially, but they shouldn’t be allowed to ruin our lives further. I seal the letter and send it off, then sit by the window and watch the sky.
The funeral takes place on a gloomy morning. The clouds are low and heavy, threatening rain but never quite delivering it.
I stand among the crowd that has gathered at the foot of the mountain where the funeral pyre has been raised. I’msurrounded by extravagant people, all of them dragons and wyverns dressed in their finest clothes, jewels glinting at their throats and wrists. I can’t believe I’m part of this world now. I notice there are a few humans scattered among them, not in significant numbers but present, nonetheless. I choose to take this as a sign that the kingdom is indeed changing.
An old wyvern dressed in priestly robes stands before the pyre saying words I can’t focus on. His voice drones on, and whatever he’s saying washes over me without meaning. I’m too aware of everything else – the weight of eyes on me, the whispers that haven’t stopped since the rituals began. The wind picks up and makes the flames of the torches surrounding us flicker wildly.
When the priest finishes speaking, Altair steps forward. He takes a torch from one of the attendants and walks to the pyre. He touches the flame to the wood, and the fire catches, spreading fast and hungry across the oil-soaked timber. The flames climb higher and higher, until they’re roaring.
I watch the smoke rise from the burning pyre. The relief I feel is unexpected but undeniable. The old wounds are closing. Brandon’s death, my family’s expulsion, all the years of suffering and hatred are being burned away with Varrick’s body. I don’t forgive him because I think he deserves it. I forgive him because I deserve to be free of the weight I’ve been carrying. Altair deserves that too.
The fire burns, and I stand there watching it, feeling the heat on my face.
