Page 66 of Crown of the Courtesan

“And with good reason.” She snorts and heads toward the table of food.

The lute falls silent as the hushed crowd turns to watch the Witch-King step onto an intricately carved ivory stump. A monstrous, iridescent bonfire grows around him, high into the speckled night sky. His silver eyes flash between the peculiar flames as he throws a white branch with silver leaves into the fire. Two shadow hounds circle around before sitting erect on either side of him, pointing their noses at their master.

The first deep, mournful notes of the ancient fae tongue drift from Ashland’s lips, silencing the crowd. I remain transfixed by the haunting lament, each note reverberating through my rigid bones. The whispers join his melody and consume me with their harmony and lyrics that I don’t understand until their meaning becomes clear:

Hearts heavy, spirits cold,

As shadows gather ‘round.

The price of a sword, a story so old

In tear-stained blood, it’s everfound.

I could stay silent

But this, I warn:

For every soul that war does claim,

A thousand more shall bear thy pain.

The people’s shoulders shake with quiet sobs as they hold the portraits or possessions of the dead, but I remain still, paralyzed by guilt. I want to hide, but there is no escape. As the song goes on, loud weeping spreads through the crowd.

Tears prick at my eyes, but I stifle them, burying my emotions as his voice quiets. The silence spirals down, and it takes everything within me not to beg them for forgiveness. The only thing stopping me is knowing these people want nothing from me, especially not my apology—and making a spectacle won’t bring their fallen home.

Valora weaves through the crowd, pressing a pastry-wrapped sweetmeat into my hand. It smells so delicious and aromatic that I laugh at my vacillating mood. Lightheaded, I hide a sniffle and savor the moment when a question surfaces in my mind. “In the training yard this morning, what did you mean by saying Queen Theodora was a natural talent?”

“Do you not know about your own lady mother?” she asks incredulously.

“I know very little. They only ever spoke of her failings, never her accomplishments.”

Any fleeting hunger leaves me as I remember my home court and the difficult people who reside there. Alexandrian courtiers are peculiar, clinging to societal rules while remaining tight-lipped about certain past events, yet becoming utterly obsessed with the newest and most salacious gossip. I suppose speaking about the courtesan queen made the king look bad, so it was avoided in public.

Valora fixes her gaze on Ashland, who is deep in conversation with a weeping widow, before explaining, “I’m not surprised. King Xander was always adept at controlling the narrative. But from what I understand, even as a Lady Courtesan, your mother was renowned for her swordsmanship. That boldness and lack of regard for the rules are what caught the king’s eye initially.”

I’m taken aback by a jolt of embarrassment for not knowing.

Ashland reappears, nudging my arm. For a split second, I foolishly think he’ll ask me to join the other dancers with him, but he marches past with a frown. “Let’s go.”

Even though the Celebration of Return isn’t nearly finished, a suffocating darkness hangs over him. He doesn’t glance my way, his jaw locked and shoulders rigid. As I stare at his retreating figure, uneasy knots twist in my stomach. I long to break the silence as I follow him to the castle, but I’m too scared. His hounds trot behind his trailing shadows, remaining watchful throughout our every muted step.

Once we reach the castle, he deposits me in my chambers and enters the king’s suite without a word. I hover outside the adjoining door, my fist raised. Lowering my hand, I stare at the pattern of wood grain between us.

Instead, I’m confronted with the consequences of what I caused. The pain endured. The broken men. The torn families. My stomach roils, making me run to the chamber pot, where I throw up until my stomach empties of everything except shame.

* * *

The next day, I turn the corner of the corridor, nearly tripping on a rusted ax. I’m attempting to map out the castle from memory, but I perk up when I hear Valora complaining to Agatha, the castle’s cook, “He’s in one of his black moods again—won’t leave his rooms—won’t take his meetings.”

An irritating ache throbs somewhere near my heart. I don’t care for Ashland as a person, but I know how deep grief can drag you down…

With a shake of my head, I keep walking toward the library.

It’s none of my concern.

I try focusing on the literature lining the shelves, but concentration eludes me. Valora’s hushed words lurk at the edge of my mind. I picture Ashland’s hardened face behind the iridescent flames.

Determined to stop thinking about him, I pick a tragic novel about a lost poet before returning with it to my suite. Curled in my chair, I read until I’ve reread the same sentence a hundred times.