For his part, Soren smiles and laughs freely, and it’s so contrary to the cruel tyrant who returned Rowenna in a coffin and left Tashir in ashes, I find myself wondering if it’s the same man. Could he truly be such a skilled actor? Or are his people just that blind and naïve?
Soren stands and waves to his son. “Come, present your new bride!” he shouts for all to hear. “I’m glad to see you’re attending to your husbandly duties—just as I taught you.” He gestures to me in Alaric’s arms and gives a theatrical wink that makes his audience titter. “But you hadher all to yourself during your romantic stroll up the mountain. Let the rest of us bask in the splendor and charms of Miss Indira Harrak.”
Soren smiles delightedly, and there are so many things wrong with this moment.
“I’ve also just heard the reports from the mines,” Soren continues, nodding to the workers. “Your suggestion to widen the Pyrea Trench, rather than drilling deeper, proved most fruitful, my son. Come rub it in my face and bask in your accomplishment.”
The miners stomp their feet and whoop loudly, and the courtiers join in with eager applause, but King Soren is more effusive than them all. He beams proudly and beckons for Alaric the way you would a puppy—not a nearly full-grown man. It’s excessive, and more than a little embarrassing, but I also find it secretly endearing. I’d give anything for my parents to acknowledge my efforts with half as much enthusiasm.
I fully expect Alaric to bound over and accept his praise and head scratches, but one of the blue-robed spectators steps forward—an elderly man with long steel-gray hair.
Unlike the rest of the audience, he and his comrades aren’t smiling. Or clapping. They stand with their heads tilted together and exchange furtive whispers that make Alaric stiffen. His fingers curl into my skin with painful pressure as the old man lays a gentle hand on Soren’s shoulder.
“Alaric’s bride is clearly unwell from the climb, Your Majesty,” he says to Soren, though his gaze is fixed doggedly on Alaric. “Go care for her, my prince. She needs you more than we do.”
Tension crackles through Alaric’s limbs, and his weight shifts slightly forward, reminding me of a cornered fox in the moment it must decide whether to attack or retreat to the safety of its den. For my sake, I sincerely hope it’s the latter. I’d rather not be literally carried into battle.
Alaric’s eyes dart between his father and the old man, and even though Soren is still smiling and the majority of the crowd is cheering, Alaric steps back with a deferential nod. “He’s right, Father. I mustattend to my wife. I’ll meet you in your study to go over the mining reports once she’s settled.” Alaric turns and sets off across the square at an even brisker clip, ignoring his Father’s calls to reconsider and the disappointed hum of the crowd.
I don’t know what just passed between Alaric and the old man, and I don’t believe for a second it had anything to do with my needs or comfort, but I happily let him carry me out of the sparkling square that’s nothing like the Vanzador Rowenna described in her letters. Eager to get away from the merry, laughing king, who’s somehow tricked his people into loving him.
Once we enter the castle proper, I’m certain I’ll find the dark, loathsome underbelly of this place. The true Vanzador, where everything will make more sense.
Alaric steps quickly past the vendor stalls, under an enormous archway, and down an open-air corridor lined with statues of bobcats and mountain lions. As soon as we’re out of view, he finally sets me down. “Keep up, or I’ll be forced to carry you again,” he warns.
I nod and follow him through a pebble garden and past smaller courtyards partitioned by fluttering sheer curtains. Every time we enter a new space, I expect the luxury to fall away—for decrepit tunnels and sewage-filled streets to reveal themselves, and for people to start hurling rocks and insults at me—but every interconnecting plaza is as grand as the next, and the people we pass watch with respectful interest—ifthey watch at all.
Servants, artisans, and errand boys go about their business with placid smiles, while courtiers sit cross-legged on cushions with one palm pressed into the earth and the other draped across their eyes. It’s the same position Alaric assumed when praying on the Tomb Flats, and even though they look perfectly peaceful, unease scuttles down my neck like a spider.
My anxiety only grows when we enter the castle itself, because it doesn’t feel like a dungeon either. The ceilings are high and vaulted,like an old forest letting in dappled sunlight through the leafy canopy. I find myself wondering if we could recreate something similar under the hill until Rowenna clucks her tongue.
Don’t fall prey to their deception. You’re better than this.
I glare at every vibrant tapestry and gleaming candelabra we pass, my guilt and disquiet steadily growing. I don’t want to doubt Rowenna, but I can’t deny what I’m seeing. There must be another explanation. Perhaps they blindfolded her and tossed her directly into a prison cell because they knew she was a threat, and they have no such fears about me?
I don’t realize I’ve stopped walking until Alaric turns and glances back. It could be the shadows, but I’d swear he’s suppressing a smirk. “What’s the matter? Isn’t our palace to your liking?”
“I’ve seen more than enough of the splendors of your kingdom. Just take me to the dungeon already.”
“Dungeon?” He has the gall to sound confused—and amused.
“We both know that’s where you intend to keep me. Rowenna sent letters detailing everything about her time here.”
Alaric raises one dark brow. “I don’t know what your sister told you, but she never set foot inside a prison cell. We treated her with the utmost care and hospitality, as promised by the treaty.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“See for yourself.” He leads me up a twisting flight of stairs to a white-painted door. “Your sister occupied these very same rooms. Her belongings might still be in the drawers for all I know. We treated her exactly as we’re treating you.”
With a dubious scowl, I brush past him and prowl the perimeter of the room, blatantly checking for bars on the windows and padlocks on the doors. I find neither, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t other ways of locking someone in and holding them captive.
The space is twice as big as my chambers under the hill, and every corner is filled with exquisite stone furniture—a pink quartz vanity, aset of upholstered jade chairs, and a sleigh-style bed made of carved onyx. All of this pales in comparison to the walls themselves, though, which are made of gemstones from floor to ceiling. Amythest protrusions bloom like violets to my left. Emerald crenellations sprout like maple leaves to my right. There’s turquoise, topaz, and opal, set ablaze by intense mountain sunlight that filters through the glass ceiling, filling the room with ever-changing rainbows.
It’s breathtaking and, at the same time, makes me want to vomit, dredging up old memories of King Soren’s first visit to Tashir—back when he still pretended to be our valiant rescuer. I’ll never forget how he galloped through our fields on the shiniest horse I’d ever seen and vowed to save us from the Marauders. He even brought gifts for Rowenna and me—round stones that looked like nothing special from the outside, but when he split them in two, the centers revealed a world of spectacular color, just like this room.
He called them geodes. I called it magic. Now I know it was an omen. Soren has me trapped in the center of a geode—threating to cleave me in two.
My haversack slides from my shoulders and lands with a thump on the carpet.
