Page 36 of Embers of Ruin

“I thought my official title was Lady Tarethyn.” I flash her a smug smile and attempt to hide my laugh because the look on her face is priceless. She looks as if she would rather swallow nails than exchange any more words with me.

Mazelle sighs deeply. “Lady Tarethyn, you will see.”

“That doesn’t sound comforting.”

“It was not meant to be.”

When we finally reach the Sacred Gardens, I discover the name is exactly what I thought it would be. Misleading. It might be sacred, but there is no garden. The space lies beyond the palace walls, still within the citadel, enclosed by high black stone and silver gates that swing open as we approach. I'd half expected someone to prove me wrong anyway. Flowers, perhaps. Trees shaped by gardeners with too much time on their hands. Marble fountains. Something beautiful enough to justify the name. Then again, Solaris doesn't grow. It can't.

White stone pathways curve through beds of black soil where thousands of dead stems stand brittle and gray. Marble arches rise overhead, draped in vines long since petrified into twisted ropes. Trees line the outer paths, their trunks white as bone, their branches reaching upward in frozen agony. An empty fountain sits in the middle of the courtyard surrounded by statues of old gods and long dead rulers. But it isn't neglected, not in the way a dead garden should be.

The paths are swept clean. Dead branches have been neatly trimmed, and the fountains shine despite never carrying water. Someone still cares for this place, though there's nothing left to save. Even the brittle vines have been pruned, as though someone still believes they'll bloom again.

No—they're not preserving this place because they expect it to bloom again. They're preserving it because it mattered once.

“This garden was sacred to Illurine,” Mazelle says, as if reading my thoughts. She stops beside a dry fountain carved in the shape of a woman pouring water from an urn. “Before the curse, this garden bloomed in every season.”

I look at the dead beds, the petrified vines, the bone-white trees. “And now?”

"Those who remember the gods remember that we are to keep their sacred spaces intact."

Her voice softens enough for me to notice and I nod.

The wind moves through the dead branches, making them clatter softly against one another, sounding almost like whispers. I wrap my arms around myself, though the cold isn’t the only reason my skin prickles. My magic stirs, faintly at first. Then the warmth spreads until I'm fighting the urge to press my palm against the ground. The pull grows stronger, my magic racing through my veins as though it's reaching for something buried beneath the soil. That's when I feel it. Something deep below the earth that isn't alive, but isn't dead either.

I look up and notice Mazelle watching me closely.

“What?” I snap, a little too sharply.

Her eyes narrow. “Nothing. I am simply observing you.”

“You people say that often when you mean something. No one ever wants to say what it is that they want from me, though.”

“And you speak often when silence would serve you better. Perhaps someday you will learn your place.”

“Silence and I have never gotten along and I don’t see it happening anytime soon.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed.” Her face has turned cold and she looks beyond me, as if she sees something that I don’t.

A voice behind us interrupts before I can answer. “So have I.”

I go deathly still, watching as Mazelle lowers her head immediately. I don’t turn at first, which is idiotic because pretending the Shadow King has not appeared behind me won’t make him vanish. It would be wonderful if it did.

When I finally face him, King Thorin stands beneath one of the marble arches looking as if he’s been there for some time. There’s no crown on his head today, but that doesn’t make him appear less kingly. His presence alone radiates royalty.

His black coat is fitted close, and shadows gather at his feet with the devotion of loyal beasts. His dark hair is swept back from his face, and his eyes, impossibly gray and threaded with silver, are fixed on me.

The warmth beneath my skin flares in answer. Traitorous magic.

“Your Majesty,” Mazelle says.

King Thorin doesn’t look away from me. “Leave us, Mazelle.”

Mazelle’s posture stiffens slightly. If I were not looking, I would have missed the subtlety entirely.

“As you command.”

She leaves through the gates, and I suddenly become very aware of the fact that I am alone with the Shadow King in a dead garden surrounded by walls tall enough to swallow a scream. Very comforting.