Page 64 of Embers of Ruin

As I get used to my captivity in Andell, I discover that being guarded is somehow worse when the guards are polite about it. At least if they were cruel, I could hate them properly. I could curse them, glare at them, imagine shoving them down one of the palace’s many unnecessarily grand staircases without feeling the smallest prick of guilt. Cruel guards would make sense. They would fit neatly into the version of this place I had built in my head before arriving.

Unfortunately, Riven is not cruel. He’s a sarcastic ass, but he’s not a cruel man. He’s quiet, observant, and irritatingly difficult to provoke. He walks three paces behind me with his hands clasped behind his back, his dark armor polished, his expression calm, his close-cropped hair neat as always. He does not stare at my hair. He does not insult me. He does not look at me as though I am a village girl who fell into the palace by mistake, which is probably true but still rude to imply.

Cadrin, on the other hand, is exactly as unpleasant as expected. At least the gods left me one consistent thing.

The golden-haired guard trails behind us with all the subtle displeasure of a man forced to escort someone he considers beneath him. His blue eyes keep drifting toward me whenever he thinks I am not watching, which is foolish because I am always watching. I grew up in Elvora. Watching people watch me is practically a survival skill.

“Do you have somewhere better to be?” I ask without turning around.

Cadrin’s footsteps falter, but Riven keeps his steady pace.

“My lady?”

I stop in the corridor and turn slowly, letting my gaze travel over Cadrin’s polished armor, his perfect posture, his face arranged into false innocence. If arrogance could wear a human body, I imagine it would choose his and congratulate itself afterward.

“You are sighing loudly enough to disturb the dead,” I say. “Considering this palace’s general atmosphere, I would advise caution.”

Riven lowers his gaze but not fast enough. I see the smile.

Cadrin’s jaw tightens. “I was not sighing.”

“You were breathing with judgment.”

“I did not realize breathing offended you.”

“Only when men do it poorly.”

Riven coughs loudly into his fist and I count it as a victory. Small, but nourishing. Cadrin looks as though he might say something spectacularly stupid, but Riven gives him a sideways glance, and to my surprise, he remains silent. Interesting. So Cadrin can be trained. Perhaps Mazelle should take credit for that too.

We continue down the corridor, and I try not to think about the fact that I am wandering the palace because I have been allowed to wander the palace.

Allowed.

That word sticks like a thorn.

After yesterday’s delightful experience of being thrown repeatedly into sand by Mazelle, I expected to wake sore enough to remain trapped in bed all morning. I did wake sore, but my body healed faster than it should have. The bruise along my shoulder faded overnight, the scrape on my elbow vanished before I even fell asleep, and by morning only a faint ache remained in my muscles.

Mazelle arrived shortly after breakfast and informed me that His Majesty was occupied until evening, which was apparently meant to explain why I would not be training. I pretended not to care and she pretended not to notice that I did. Then, as if the palace had decided to taunt me directly, she told me I was permitted to walk through certain approved sections of the citadel under guard.

Permitted. Under guard. Truly, freedom has never felt so inspiring.

Still, I took the offer because I have spent enough time inside my beautiful cage to understand that walls become more suffocating the longer you stare at them. If the king wants me guarded, fine. If Mazelle wants me watched, fine. Let them. I have spent my entire life being watched for the wrong reasons. At least here, I might learn something useful.

The eastern gallery is quiet at this hour. Tall windows line one side, letting in the dull gray light that passes for morning in Andell. On the other side, portraits hang in heavy black frames, each face stern, regal, and deeply displeased to be remembered by history. Most of them wear crowns. Most of them look as if smiling would have cracked their faces in half.

My attention catches on one near the far end.

A man stands beside a woman with silver hair. I stop so abruptly that Cadrin nearly walks into Riven.

The portrait is old. Older than the others nearby, its paint darkened with age, the edges of the canvas faintly cracked beneath a protective layer of glass. The man wears a black crown set with dark, glittering gemstones. His face is handsome, almost painfully so, but there is a cruelty to the mouth that even the artist could not soften. Beside him stands a woman in a gown of white and gold, her hair falling past her waist in a silvery sheet that catches painted light.

My stomach tightens. For one strange, breathless moment, I think I am looking at myself.

Not exactly. Her face is different. Softer. Older. Her skin is lighter than mine, her features sharper, but the hair—gods, the hair—is the same impossible shade people in Elvora whispered about as if it were an omen.

I step closer.

There is a plaque beneath the frame, but the script is old enough that I can only make out pieces.