Although, if he’s going to kill me anyway, how much worse could it get?
The cook, a plump woman in a starched white apron, her silver hair tied back in a knot, puts her hands on her hips and stops in the middle of the aisle, blocking our progress.
“Sergeant Neville, it’s bad enough you’re dragging that filthy child through my clean kitchens. Now I hear her stomach growling fit to scare a mountain bear?”
My guard ducks his head, his cheeks flushing a dull red, much to my astonishment. The man is the size of a small buffalo, all tough muscle and sinew. His close-cropped, gray hair frames a solidly square face with intelligent brown eyes. “Now, Maisie—”
“Don’t you ‘now, Maisie’ me, Garth Neville!” She shakes a finger at him. “I remember when you were her age and sneaking plum pies from this very kitchen.”
Maisie grabs a steaming turnover from a platter, wraps it in a white cloth, and holds it out to me. “Now, take care when you bite into it. It’s fresh out of the oven, and you’ll burn your tongue. But you can take this to wherever they’re rushing you off to. No offense, but hopefully to a bath, young lady.”
I stare at her, afraid to take what she offers. What if it’s a trick? But her eyes are kind, and she must see my fear. She steps closer and presses the cloth-wrapped pie into my hand.
The scent of sugar and plum and spice stuns me into silence, but I drag the words out. “Thank you, lady. May Artemisen bless you when she is restored.”
Maisie tuts. “I’m no lady—not but a cook. A fine one, mind you, but a cook. And we’ll see what we see about Artemisen, won’t we? May the sun and moon keep her.”
Sergeant Neville puts his hand back on my arm, but gentler this time, mindful of Maisie’s sharp gaze. “Let’s go, girl. Eat quick. We’ll be in the king’s throne room sooner than you’d like.”
I take a bite of the pastry, which both burns my tongue and tastes like bliss … until the impact of his warning smashes into me. When the pie turns to ash in my mouth, I put the remainder in my pocket, hoping beyond hope I’ll be alive long enough to eat it.
Three staircases and four twisting corridors later, I stumble to a stop just in time to keep from running into Flack’s back. He snakes his head around to scowl at me, and I’d laugh in his face if my stomach wasn’t about to cannibalize itself from pure terror. I’m immune to scowls after so many years of indenture, but threats of my impending murder are entirely different.
“Over-Lieutenant Rackness to see King Pallan with the requested … person,” the officer barks.
Two guards stand outside enormous, carved wooden doors. They snap to attention and give the officer—Rackness—simultaneous salutes, then pull open the doors.
My first impression: this is not what I expected at my execution.
First, music soars out of the room, the silvery notes of a flute twining with the slightly deeper, rounder tones of a lyra harp. Thesounds dance together on a wave of harmony to support the purest singing voice I’ve ever heard.
Second, the room is full of brilliantly dressed courtiers in silks and satins and lace. Jewels sparkle in the combined illumination from candlelight, sun through the many windows, and reflections in the mirrored walls. The hum of conversation glitters as brightly as the finery worn by those who speak. When I pass through the doorway, though, everything on the periphery fades away, because the person on the throne demands all my attention. It’s Pallan.
King of all Pyrrh.
And he’s staring straight at me.
Nobody can defeat the goddess of war and death.
—Recorded Conversations of the Oracles: Ninth, Twelfth, Seventeenth, and Twenty-Third Cycles
CHAPTER TWO
“It’s about fucking time.”
The king’s voice slices through the room like an arrow, leaving silence and the faltering notes of musical instruments in its wake. His stare leaves no doubt who he’s addressing. My bones suddenly ache and turn brittle, shards of ice poking at the delicate underside of my skin. Is it simply terror spreading from my brain to my flesh, like plague? Or do the whispered rumors that King Pallan wields forbidden magic carry even a tiny bit of truth?
Beneath my breath, I whisper the mantra from my favorite character in my favorite series of novels. In her darkest moments of despair, Captain Wynona Wavedancer reminds herself:
Storms pass.
Pain ends.
I will never quit.
The words have propped up my faltering courage so many times over the years, no matter the pain or blood or bruising I’ve endured. But now, as I whisper the last word through teeth chattering so hard I have to clench my jaw shut, I realize that the pain a king can inflict mightneverend.
And I’ve never endured a storm like this before.
