Page 34

XV

MISSING SILVER RING

E

Elara adjusts the green silk dress,

her fingers dropping into the deep fold of her pocket until they find the rough, coarse fabric of the small linen pouch Asma gave her. The light weight of the poppy seeds rest against her thigh with every step she takes down the long corridors.

Waking up long past the morning meal, Elara foregoes cosmetic paints in her haste, driven by a restless undercurrent of worry. Annie assists her into the green silk dress, providing the effortless comfort she craves before leaving her to navigate the day.

Though the dining hall stands empty when she descends, a request to the kitchen provides a bowl of fruit drizzled with honey, which she finishes in silence. Resolving to explore the palace, she carries the winter seeds like a hidden treasure, intending to plant them safely in the soil later.

She walks through the vast halls, navigating the unfamiliar corridors as she begins her exploration of the palace Turning to her left, she finds another long corridor. A carpet stretches down its center, and several doors stand ajar along the way. The first chamber reveals a spacious guest area. Velvet black couches and chairs are arranged around a crystal table at its center. The walls are adorned with paintings depicting Riverath’s historic victories, the triumphs of its early builders, and its people’s enduring resolve to protect one another.

The second chamber, across from the first and set farther back, is even larger. It is not a dining hall, but a private dining chamber. A long black table occupies the center, draped with a light gray cloth. Chairs trimmed with silver steel and embroidered in silver and black surround it. Paintings line the walls, and the table is set for a meal, though the chamber looks unused. In the far corner on the right stands a grand black piano. Elara pauses in the doorway.

In Veyrenn, meals are performances of silence, every clink of a utensil a small liability. Here, the presence of the piano suggests something entirely different. Something more like ease.

She imagines a dinner where someone rises afterward and plays, where the music fills the chamber, not because it is required, but simply for the joy of hearing it. She wonders who among the Riverath family plays. Perhaps the king, or the princess. Elara finds herself almost wishing it is Cael, a mute prince who speaks through keys rather than words. Elara thinks back to the beautiful poems she read within his booklet. Those verses are a form of music themselves, prompting her to realize that his artistry would naturally bleed into another instrument beyond his pen.

Stepping away from the threshold to continue down the corridor, the memory of the piano lingers in her mind as her path leads toward the third chamber. A large table occupies the center, with a framed slate board positioned against the far wall. More chairs surround it, and black wooden shelves lined with books fill the space. No plates or utensils are in sight.

This is a council chamber. It is smaller than Elara would have imagined. Paintings and rolled maps are arranged across the table. The ceiling bears sweeping artwork that stretches across the palace, though most other chambers remain unadorned. Elara wonders why only this chamber has been granted such distinction.

The final doorway opens into a hushed sanctuary reserved for private reflection, where rows of black wooden benches stand in equal alignment. Walking slowly down the central aisle, her footsteps are muffled against the deep velvet runner lining the floor as her eyes track the crystal chandeliers hanging overhead. She runs her fingertips along the smooth silk lining the backs of the benches, her gaze tracing the intricate lines carved into the grand chair of silver and black crystal at the front.

Coming to a stop, she clasps her hands behind her back as she stares up at the portrait of King Raelith and his late queen standing side by side, their hands not touching. There is something tender in the composition, as if the painter noticed a moment too small for words and chose to preserve it anyway.

Elara’s father never commissioned a portrait of her mother after her death, or even before. He did not mourn. He simply erased. Every painting was taken down from its hook. Every gown was given away before the cold air had even left the quarters. Every flower arrangement her mother once favored was pulled from its vase and discarded without hesitation. It was a correction, as if her mother had been a mistake to remove. At barely six years of age, the harsh lesson took root that love, under her father’s rule, was a temporary fixture. Sinking onto one of the black benches, the firm wood provides a grounding sensation against her body.

Her hands rest on her lap. Formal prayers are absent, as traditional religious education never offered genuine comfort, leaving her uncertain if she even possesses the knowledge to speak to the divine.

Elara has always offered a prayer over the falling petals of a rose, a practice her mother taught her. She takes what could be considered a loss and attempts to transform it into something beautiful, full of hope. Releasing her sorrow into the stillness of the sanctuary, she does the same with her own sadness, hoping that whatever forces are listening might turn that grief into something worthwhile.

Elara’s gaze returns to the canvas overhead, absorbing the image of a king who chooses to keep his queen’s face prominent upon the wall.

The chapel holds its heavy silence around her. Elara remains seated longer than she intends, not moving, not speaking, only staying where she is as the light shifts across the stone floor, moving between pale lines carved into the marble. Rustle of footsteps causes Elara to startle, and she turns to find a maid approaching the altar.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” the maid says, offering a weary smile as she prepares a bucket of water and unfolds a large cloth to clean the benches and table in the chapel.

“Good morning,” Elara replies, returning the smile. She leaves, giving the maid space to work.

Crossing back through the grand hall to ascend the central staircase, the upper corridor reveals a door standing ajar, prompting a soft gasp of surprise to die in her throat. The chamber is a grand hall filled with musical instruments. Pianos, cellos, violins, and flutes rest carefully throughout the space, accompanied by rows of seats and a centrally placed couch. The music, she imagines, must be gentle and calming, sometimes resembling a prayer.

She has never seen such instruments before. In the castle of her childhood, none exist. She stands in the doorway, hesitant. She has read of music in stolen books, of its power to make people weep or dance, of the emotions it conveys without words. Still, she has never heard it. Her father banned musicians from the castle the year her mother died, claiming their presence was frivolous and distracting.

Stepping forward slowly, her fingers brush against the smooth, cool wood of a cello. The pristine surface indicates constant care, as though someone regularly polishes the instruments and tightens the strings for hands that may never arrive. An unbidden impulse guides her toward the grand piano, the largest and most recognizable silhouette in the chamber. Extending a single finger, she presses the final key along the board.

The sound that comes is low and resonant, deeper than she expected, filling the chamber before fading into the walls. Elara does not move. She had read that music could reach somewhere inside a person that words could not find, but until now, she had never understood it. The sound caught her off guard, pressing against her heart and staying there long after it faded away. She stands very still, her finger still resting on the key, and breathes.

Tapping a few more keys results in a discordant rhythm that clashes against the walls. Frowning, her attention shifts to a nearby violin. Lifting the taut bow to trail across the strings, the resulting sound is incredibly harsh, causing her to wince. In a flustered attempt to stop, one of the strings snaps with a sharp crack. A gasp escapes her lips as she returns the instrument to its place while her heart races with panic.

“Your Highness?” a voice calls from behind her.

Turning to find Elias standing in the doorway with one curious brow lifted, an instinctive shift to conceal the damaged instrument. Guilt and nervousness radiate from her posture, but he does not scold. His gaze softens, then he glances down at the book in his hands.

“I was searching for you to hand the third volume of the tales of adventure, courage, and discovery,” he says with a small smile. “I assumed you had finished the second.”