“You could eat and drink and make friends and play?—”
“I have made vows,” I said.
“You could break them,” she whispered with a daring smile.
Our arms were linked and our steps slow.Her shoulder was pressed into mine, and the palace was dark apart from the reddish glow of hearths and braziers.
I shook my head, smiling and being confused by how her vulgar words could possibly be making me smile.What am I thinking?I asked myself.I was adoring her, feeling the promise of friendship, the seed of it.It was a hallowed thing to me.To have someone hold my arm like she was holding it.To talk of feelings as if they were important things.
Long after we parted for the night, I lay awake, cherishing the memory of our walk in the darkened halls, the sense of closeness she’d given me.She’d kissed me on the cheek when we parted, and it left my heart raw.Such a foreign feeling: tenderness.It seemed she’d forgotten about the game she’d made for us at the beginning of the evening.I had not.
I’d won.I’d found the prettiest thing.It was her kindness to me.
It had me all but forgetting about that cursed gilded door.I didn’t wonder for one moment what lurked behind it.
Eighteen
The morning after Dania and I had wandered the palace, the sky churned black and threatening above.The sea surrounding Aalt whipped itself into a frothy frenzy.I watched from the window in my chamber, feeling the crackle in the air that meant lightning might strike.I had nothing to catch it with.No amber or copper thread to work with, no place secure enough to leave Loric’s gold for more than a few hours.It felt a great waste to me.
My tongue was sore from the strain of my Norsern lessons with the king—the back of my throat as well, from trying to cough words as the sea dogs did.My shoulders and hips itched endlessly as my scabs stitched themselves closed.Needless to say, I was in a bitter mood.
And then, I was summoned.Not by King Arik, but by a guard—a woman I didn’t know.
“Come.Arik.Come.”
She spoke the phrase three or four times before I understood she’d come to fetch me.I did as I was bid, feeling the whole palace lean ever-so-slightly as the wind outside pressed into it, as the black sea beneath it spun.There was something in the air: sickly and sour.I found myself lifting my skirt as the sea dogs did, so I could hurry all the better.The woman guiding me wore linen trousers and made no effort to walk slowly on my behalf.The halls were empty, echoing our steps.
We arrived in an autumn-laced courtyard with a wooden floor stained dark from the rain.I debated taking off the woollen socks I wore to keep them dry, but the cold was too vibrant, and there were several more pairs of socks in my chamber.The woman led me into the throng of sea dogs gathered in the courtyard—they were tense.I could feel it, though their faces weren’t showing it; their stances were forcibly relaxed.They held steady as the frigid wind riled their hair and billowed loose clothing.King Arik was there as well, standing across the courtyard from me, his steadiness so firm it almost made noise.
I associated the feeling of the scene with demonstrative punishments—something that happened from time to time in my order.When a heresy was widely known about, the punishment must also be widely known.I shuddered and wished myself away from the courtyard, away from the crowd that had gathered to watch what I was certain would be a gruesome sight.
I was correct but also incorrect.
A man entered the centre of the courtyard.He had white eyelashes and a pale blond beard.He kept his eyes on the ground.His fingers curled into his fists and then uncurled.Curled and uncurled.He was a man preparing.My heart stuttered as I watched him, as I caught some of his feeling: determination and woe and… weight.The whole courtyard was heavy—ripe with unspoken thoughts.
Another man entered the centre: he was much older than the first, hair as white as birch bark, skin mottled with the marks of life.But there was great similarity between them.So much so that I quickly wondered if they were father and son.The more I stared, the more I couldn’t doubt it.The same face, maybe forty years apart in age.
The older man said something, and a laugh rippled through the crowd, easing some of the tension, but not all of it.
Someone shouted from among those gathered, and the older man pulled his sword from his sheath and pointed it at the speaker.He said something in return, and my blood swirled in my wrists, in my breasts.I knew only from the tone, only from the feeling of those near me who could understand, that he had said something heartfelt.There was pressure behind my eyes, as if a deeper part of me understood his words.The air tasted salty yet… tainted somehow, almost like the wind was crying or laughing.Or both.
Father approached son, and still, the son did not look up.The father set his free hand on the son’s face and came even closer, resting his forehead against his son’s.They stood there, heads together in silence as the courtyard rocked and the rain dampened the shoulders of my dress.There has been no crime, I told myself as I let out a long, relief-filled breath.
But then, son looked at father, and all the warmth within me was ripped away.Father raised his blade, and the courtyard was filled with the ringing of steel.
Theshring, woosh, clang, of swords meeting.
The grimace, grunt, huff, of warriors swinging with all their might.
I took a step back, fear and horror demanding that I get as far away from the fight as I could, but the woman who’d guided me there grasped my elbow.“Stay,” she muttered, with immense firmness.
My breaths grew ragged as I tried pulling away again, not looking, but knowing all the same that the fight carried on.Her fingers dug into my arm.
And then it was over.The son’s sword had gone through the gut, its blood-coated end sticking out the elder man’s back.
I whimpered, my mouth left hanging open.
I’d never seen death before, let alone one so violent, so avoidable.
