Still, the part of me that longs for her approval is ever-present at the back of my mind. I fear her, I envy her, but most of all, I want to make her proud.
“I won’t forget,” I promise her.
“Put your armor back on,” she says, turning back to the stairs. “Leave the silly things for when they’ll matter.”
I sigh, but I know she’s right. My armor hasn’t dried much in the dark, humid body of the ferry, but I wiggle back into it anyway. We’ll be at the palace soon, and who knows what dangers lurk there in the darkness?
We arrive in the early afternoon, a portcullis rising to allow the ferry into the royal moat. The river meanders into a cavern ofancient stone, reflections of light dancing off the water and up the rough-hewn walls.
The dock is bustling by the time we arrive. All of Selara’s nobility will be arriving this week. I’m including us in that list; we’re considered part of Selara again, and I need to make sure I remember that now that we’re in the capital. We’ll all be staying in the palace for three months at least, though a Great Festival can go far longer if the king decrees it.
It's been at least ten years since the last Great Festival, since before the war began. It’s said that if you go too long without a festival, the gods will smite you and the people will revolt. Ronan has been pushing his luck waiting this long, so everyone is expecting this to be the longest and grandest festival ever.
I don’t know any of the arriving nobility, but Adria recognizes members of House Juni, one of the closest allies of the royal house. They politely nod to us from across the dock and exchange pleasantries about our journey and the beautiful summer weather, but their cold looks betray that they’d rather be talking to anyone else.
A man wearing a long, white garment just like Typhon’s approaches us. He’s tall and imperious, with silver hair and a silver mustache that curls at the ends, and from the way that he surveys our group as if we’re nothing more than a bug under his shoe, I know who he must be: Lord Cyrus, Ronan’s Grand Vizier and Typhon’s father.
Typhon breaks away from us and approaches him, but rather than a hug or other familiar greeting, he simply bends at the waist and kisses a ring on his father’s hand.
“I’ll expect a full report after dinner,” Cyrus says quietly to his son. It’s fairly dark in the cavern, so I’m almost certain I’m the only one who can see Typhon’s cheeks turn scarlet.
“Welcome to the Vaylanian Palace. His Majesty God-King Ronan has requested that I personally greet you and show youto your chambers.” Lord Cyrus’s voice is unpleasantly nasal and full of condescension; it’s clear he didn’t personally agree with Ronan’s request, but what choice did he have when it came from the God-King himself?
“Please follow me and be careful of your step. We wouldn’t want you slipping and dashing your heads upon the cavern floor.”
I shoot a look at Larus. What an oddly specific warning. Larus shrugs his shoulders in response.
There’s nothing for us to do but follow Grand Vizier Cyrus, resident psychopath. He leads us through a torch-lit hallway and up a flight of stairs. “The baths are there,” he says, waving a thin finger in the direction of a passage.
“It’s almost as if his heart isn’t in it,” mutters Larus.
I smirk. “There’s the kitchen. And here’s where we’ll hang you if you misbehave,” I whisper back.
“Is there a question?” asks Cyrus.
The heat rises in my face in response. I hope he didn’t hear any of that.
I make a note to be more careful, especially once the king arrives tomorrow. “Are the baths separated by gender?” I ask, giving Cyrus the question he asked for.
Larus gives me a look that could kill, but gods, if I’m going to be stuck in this miserable place with these miserable people for months, I’ve got to find a way to have a little fun.
“No,” says Cyrus. “All bathe together, except for the God-King, of course.”
Well, well, well. There’s a little fun, at least. It’s been a minute since I’ve shared anyone’s bed. If I get desperate enough, maybe I can find a fire-born to fuck me and then fuck me over like they always do.
We leave the carved stairway for a much larger hallway that appears to be made of the same reddish stone, but in blocksrather than natural formations. It’s similar in style and structure to our castles back home; only the materials are different.
That and the nearly endless amount of gold.
It’s as if we left the cave and entered a pirate’s treasure hoard. Anything that could be goldisgold. Torch holders and hinges, the handles on the furniture, frames that hold the portraits, pots holding plants. It’s…a lot.
I mean, I get it. I guess if I’d discovered the secrets of one of alchemy’s greatest mysteries, I’d put that shit everywhere too.
And I guess there’s a chance that it’s just brass, and they just want us tothinkthat it’s gold—
“Everything you see is real gold or at least plated with it. All made just down the road at the Alchemists’ Guild,” says Cyrus.
Made with the ash they’ve starved our people for. The price of this gold was Nithyria, and we paid it in blood.
