Page 29 of Embers of Ruin

He doesn’t look back, but I know he can feel my gaze burning a hole through the side of his head. I want to snap, I’m right here, dummy, but instead I take a cautious half-step forward.

Mazelle’s lip twitches, then morphs into a smirk. “Oh, I don’t doubt it. Thank you for bringing her safely, Captain. I’ll take it from here. The king will not receive her like this.”

Her gaze drops to my boots as if they have personally offended her. “She will be taken to the east wing to wash, change, and learn the rules she will not break.”

“I’m standing right here,” I say.

“That, regrettably, is difficult to miss.” She says so casually that I almost admire her wit until I remember—I hate everyone in this kingdom.

I stare at her. She stares back. We understand one another immediately, which is to say we are not going to enjoy each other at all.

She eyes me warily before turning on her heels, beckoning me with two perfectly polished red fingernails. I take a step forward to follow her but stop, glancing over at Onyx; he raises an eyebrow, but the “okay” in his eyes says he trusts her judgment. I trust him somewhat, and that is enough for me to follow Mazelle, now striding off, to wherever it is she is taking me.

I just hope she’s not leading me to a guillotine.

* * *

We’re in a hallway bathed in blue lamplight, the ceiling lost in shadows far above. The walls are black marble polished smooth, streaked with veins of silver that glow like moonlight through mist. Enormous tapestries hang along the walls, woven with silver thread into images of celestial beings and kings long gone. The palace is so beautiful I worry about my filthy boots leaving behind trails of dirt from days spent traveling.

The king wanted me. Now he gets me. This is what happens when you hunt people down and drag them to your palace.

My thoughts are venomous, and between them and the effort it takes to keep my shield up, I barely notice anything else as I attempt to keep pace with Mazelle.

“This way.” Mazelle glances back at me before continuing her graceful stride.

I want to ask her why I’m here—why the king wants me at all. Right as I open my mouth to speak, I stumble over the thick red carpet lining the corridor. Mazelle reaches out to steady me with one hand on my elbow before stepping back and examining me.

“Careful, Lyra,” she warns, eyes flicking to mine. “King Thorin wants you intact, so please, watch your step. Now for the rules,” she continues, without so much as a glance back at me, “you will speak when spoken to in the king’s presence. You will not wander the palace, enter the west towers, the lower vaults, or the royal library, unless the king has given you express permission. You will not attempt to leave the grounds and you will not lie to me, as I dislike liars.”

“That is quite an extensive list for a guest,” I say, sure my annoyance is written all over my face.

“It is generous for a prisoner. You may hear otherwise, but try to remember your place here. It will be in your best interest.” She places extra emphasis on the last word.

I immediately know I hate Mazelle. I don’t care for the palace rules, or to stay intact for a king who takes villagers from their homes and kills them for possessing magic. I find it hard to believe that he wants me safe at all. He wants me dead, which is fine because I want him dead. And I want to be the one to kill him.

Because I know what he did.

I fall silent as I straighten myself, attempting to straighten my skirts.

“Noted,” I mutter under my breath. “I’ll try to do as little as possible—I hope breathing is acceptable.”

My awful attempt at a joke does not earn me a reaction from Mazelle so I straighten my face, continuing down the corridor that seems to lead on forever. Palace rule number one is probably don’t give attitude to figures in authority—I hope it’s not set in stone, because I know I’ll break that one.

Mazelle nods once and keeps going. After a few steps I manage to match my pace to hers. Is it just me, or does the click of her heels on marble feel like thunder in here? Gods, wherever my end is, I hope we get to it soon because I’m nearly a breath away from Ryza’s doorstep due to lack of hydration and sleep alone.

We finally reach the end of a hallway and she motions to a door. “Two maids will come to your room to assist your bathing and comb your hair.” She eyes my hair before taking in my face, scrunching her nose. I try not to look offended as I nod, placing my hand on the brass handle of the door. “They will also bring you clothing to replace—whatever it is that you are wearing.”

“Many thanks, Lieutenant Mazelle.” I give her a flat stare, because I don’t particularly like being eyed like some sort of diseased animal. I’ve had enough of that back in Elvora.

“I’ll be back for you shortly.” With that, she turns on her heels, leaving me staring at the door in front of me.

The instant my fingers close around the handle, two women hurry toward me. They skid to a stop, looking me over with wide, startled eyes.

“Milady, I’m Tilda, and this is Grace. We’re going to prepare you for the king. Apologies, we had no idea you would arrive so soon!”

They both dip their heads. Tilda, a short, plump woman with rosy cheeks and a severe gray topknot, gestures to the younger woman beside her. Grace is slender, with soft brown ringlets framing a kind face, and she hurries after Tilda as the older woman ushers me into the room.

I take one step inside—and stop. This room is enormous, and way too accommodating for a prisoner. A towering window catches my eye, letting in the dull gray light of Solaris. I take in every detail, from the blue-white flames burning in ornate sconces to the polished floors and the thick ivory fur rug beneath my boots. A massive four-poster bed draped in black silk curtains dominates the center of the room, while an intricately carved armoire and a full-length mirror taller than I am line the far wall. Beyond an open archway, steam rises from what looks like a private bathing chamber. So they were expecting me.