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A quick twist of her wrists releases the balcony doors, and she throws them open, too.
I gape for a moment. “How did you do that?”
“I turned the knob, Your Highness.”
I’ve rattled those doorknobs a hundred times, at least, and they haven’t budged. I roll my eyes at her back, even as a victorious warmth swells in my chest. Zander must have approved my request.
“I will draw a fresh bath. When you have finished properly washing, don the blue dress that I leave out for you. It should suitably cover those scars so no one sees them during your escort.”
While I know my injuries are far from appealing to look at, her words are a sharp prick to my confidence.
“Put your nightgown in the hamper and I’ll have it laundered.” Under her breath, I hear her mutter, “If there’s any salvaging it.” As quickly as she stormed in, she departs.
I clamber out of bed to dart for the door. The sun is high in the sky and blazing, its heat roasting the balcony’s stone, but I barely notice the burn against my bare feet, too busy gaping at the splendor before me.
I arrived in Cirilea in the cover of night, and my brief travels within the city have been beneath hoods and blankets and through underground tunnels and dark stairwells. I had yet to even glimpse this castle I’ve been incarcerated in, beyond a cold tower and my papered walls.
It’s like nothing I could ever have imagined.
Stone the color of pale sand shapes walls that are sculpted into countless pointed arches. Multiple towers reach into the sky, and the spires—I count a dozen from where I stand, though there are surely more—are capped in rich burgundy pinnacles and adorned with a contrasting black detailing. The windows are massive, copious, and ornate, with geometric patterns crafted by an artist’s hand.
If I’m reading the sun’s position correctly, I’m on the third and top floor of the east side, though it feels so much higher given the height of the ceilings. A mirror of this wing stretches from the other side of a center section. Only the top floors have these circular balconies, all supported by a complex construction of pillars and stonework beneath. There must be hundreds of rooms within this place.
Peeling my stunned gaze from the castle for a moment, I shift my focus to the grounds below. It looks more like a botanical park, the manicured space stretching far, most of it obscured from my view by foliage. Intricately laid stone paths meander around leafy trees, beneath vine-clad trellises, along ponds, over decorative bridges. I hazard a person could get lost in that expanse, even without the cedar labyrinth.
The wall I escaped through that first night surrounds the entire vast grounds and on the other side of it, below the ridge, are lush, green rolling hills and dense forest as far as the eye can see. The city of Cirilea must be located on the other side of the castle.
And somewhere within this space has to be the nymphaeum.
I inhale. There is a faint, familiar scent in the air, though I can’t place it.
A shout calls out, followed by a clash of metal. I seek out the source. Nimble bodies are sparring with swords in a courtyard to my right. Many are men, though I spot the feminine curves of several women. Back and forth, they parry in pairs, an intricate, skilled dance, their blades gleaming in the sunlight, proving they are not mere wooden props.
I smile as I admire their proficiency and fearlessness. That takes so much more talent than pointing a gun and pulling a trigger, and can be just as deadly, if Sofie proved anything in the warehouse that night. While I don’t envy her talents as a cold-blooded murderess, learning how to throw a dagger to stop a threat is a skill I wouldn’t mind acquiring.
These people must practice often. Are they the royal guard? Or maybe nobility? Do they live within these grand walls? Someone other than Zander and his two siblings—and unfortunate prisoners such as I—must occupy these rooms. Just one of these wings could house multiple families.
My gaze sweeps across the castle again. There, on the palatial balcony overlooking the sparring courtyard, a man with hair that gleams gold in the sunlight, dressed in all black, leans against the railing.
Even from this distance, I know it’s Zander, and while it appears he’s watching the action below, my gut tells me his attention is not on them.
Wendeline said there would need to be a reason to let me out of my rooms, to let people know I’m still alive. I’m being escorted somewhere, which means people will see me. What does he have planned for me?
The brief excitement over my window victory fades. I skulk inside to prepare for what is to come.
My fingers are occupied with the tiny, embroidered flowers on my skirts as the guard leads me down flights of stairs and along the seemingly infinite corridors of the castle. I struggle to remain composed as I take in the opulence. Floors of marble in tones from a rich charcoal to a bottomless black gleam beneath the candlelight of enormous candelabras, lit to counter the moody darkness inside, a stark contrast to the gushing sunlight outside the windows. Gilded pillars reach to the domed ceilings, where a vast and endless mural begs for attention.
Footfalls and voices echo, and everywhere we pass, people stare and whispers follow. At least the servants are more discreet. The nobility—I assume, based on their richly colored silk clothing and gleaming jewels on their sword hilts—openly gawk.
I guess I’ve earned that notoriety, given who they think I am and what they think I’ve done. Or, more likely, it’s because they thought I was dead. I’m suddenly thankful to Corrin for ensuring the dress she brought did an adequate job of hiding my scars. The foul-smelling salve did wonders, slogging away through the night as Wendeline promised, but the dragging claw marks on my shoulder are far from invisible, and it will take time for my confidence to come to terms with them. I don’t like this attention, but I can’t avoid it, so I hold my chin high and return the favor of staring.
What are they?
Human?
Caster?
Elven?
