A Corrupted Spirit
Once there was a dog who loved her master very much. When the master worked late, the dog waited for him at the front door. When the master went to bed, the dog lay at his feet. When the master grew very sick, the dog never left his side. Until one day the master fell asleep and didn’t wake up.
The dog whimpered as the family gathered round the pyre. The dog howled as they said good-bye.
For years afterward, the dog would sit staring at the front door. Her ears perking at every noise, listening for her master’s footsteps. Certain he was coming home.
For seven long years, the family shook their heads sadly and ignored her. They knew how to let go; the dog did not.
And every year on the Relinquishing, it would get worse.
Just after sundown, the dog would start to bark.
And bark. And bark.
Every year, the family stopped eating dinner and looked to the windows. But the night was ink black and they couldn’t see out.
When the dog started to howl and scratch at the door, they lit a candle, illuminating the path to the house. But there was no one there.
Finally, on the night of the eighth Relinquishing, when the dog was old and nearing death, the son of the master took pity on her. “Let her out,” he said. So the children opened the door.
The dog ran out, wagging her tail.
Something else slipped in, wearing her master’s face.
The next morning, when a neighbor came by, the door hung open, beckoning her inside.
She smelled the blood before she saw it. Felt the chill of death before she even stepped across the threshold.
The family was dead. The man’s corrupted spirit had slaughtered them all, leaving only his dog alive.
This was the cost of unrelinquishing.
Twenty-Two
Roa paced her rooms. Her slippers hushed gently against the floor tiles, a sharp contrast to her clenched jaw and furrowed brow.
She needed to find the passageway. Yet she remained heavily guarded. And losing her guards when they’d been assigned to her by none other than Safire was a near-impossible task.
The only time eyes weren’t trained on her like arrows was when she was alone in her rooms. And she couldn’t exactly search for a way out while confined there.
It was already midafternoon. Roa walked to the archway of her terrace, letting out a frustrated growl.
And then she stopped pacing.
Directly across the garden, opposite her balcony, were the king’s quarters. Dax was supposed to be in a meeting now—or so he’d told Roa at lunch—but there was movement inside his room.
Her curtains billowed in the breeze, obscuring her view, and Roa grabbed them, pushing them back so she could see.
The king had just entered the bedroom across the garden. Roa watched him loosen the laces of his tunic.
Had he lied to her about the meeting?
Suddenly, Dax walked out onto his balcony. Roa’s heart hammered as she withdrew behind her curtains, trying to keep out of sight. When she dared a glance back, she found Dax leaning over his balustrade, studying the gardens that separated Roa’s quarters from his.
The palms rustled in the breeze. The bees hummed in the lavender. And still, Dax stared below. As if he were waiting for something.
Or someone,Roa thought.
