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Sensing her sudden shift in mood, the guard took even more caution to help her from the horse and allow her space once her feet had settled on the stones. The reins were given to a waiting servant.
“My queen, please allow me.” With a flat palm, he pushed open one large door, leaving his handprint against the glass.
The veil of muted music was lifted and the sheer volume of the party slammed against Ambrose’s senses. She batted her lashes heavily but otherwise would not allow any other sign that she’d been surprised by the event her sister was hosting.
Being the newcomer at such a social gathering created a hub of whispers. It was a wave of awareness that swept across the room; Ambrose could watch it crash into each individual person as though it was something physical. The disgust turned to awe as their attention went to the staff strapped behind her.
Ephram was right. She’d never be common if she had magic such as this. Not that she wanted to be, even if the appearance of such could be useful.
The guard’s armored back disappeared amongst silk and taffeta. Ambrose refused to so much as smooth down an errant wrinkle and instead clasped her hands firmly in front of her. Her staff pressed into the nearest wall.
Voices picked up as conversations resumed their normal volumes. Ambrose was nothing but a wallflower. There she waited for Ophelia.
She waited.
She waited through the raised glasses and cheers to rainy days. She waited as the guard weaved back through the room and assured her Ophelia had been informed. She waited as swaying citizens turned into sloppy props only held up by the way they leaned into one another. Time ticked away and Ambrose had the sneaking suspicion she’d been forgotten.
Or ignored.
Conversations roared and so did the nonsensical chatter inside her head. Sounds pressed against the walls of her skull. Fractions of words, syllables that didn’t line up or make something complete. Whatever spirits were living in her head had sprung to life and they’d only made her head pound.
Where was Ophelia?
Oph-eeee—lia, something inside her repeated. It drew out the syllables tasting the name.
Queen Ambrose stood until her feet ached and the pulsing behind her eyes could no longer be ignored. The voices were thunderous, only the occasionally recognized word here or there like a clap of lightning for Ambrose to identify.
She stretched her slender arm behind her, fingers curling around the smooth handle of her staff. It slipped free from its sheath. Moss curved against the bottom of the globe, thorny vines curling against the rounding edges. The vines slipped against each other in response to the anger that rose inside the queen. Serpentine in nature the enclosed, lush but dangerous, bit of nature curled and pressed to the glass as if looking for a way out.
Magic hit her veins with that sharp addictive spike of adrenaline and the demand to be used. The unsuspecting citizens of Marlux stepped aside, sweeping away their full ballgowns or tucking their jackets neatly against their chests. Most shifted out of the way, unaware of the power that commanded that they do so.
Ambrose waited no longer.
The tap of the staff became a heartbeat. It thrummed and came alive with the rhythm of the music that filled the room. It guided the angry roar inside of Queen Ambrose through halls and rooms all threatening to burst with people.
Ophelia had always liked the idea of a castle being some sort of a maze and she’d made that a reality when she took her crown. Everything connected in what appeared to be an unorganized pattern.
If one was not careful, they could exit a bathroom and end up in the kitchens, or they could mean to be stepping out into the gardens but really be opening a door to a bedroom. To make it through the castle unguided one would have to be well acquainted with it.
Or at the very least they should be familiar with the scent and prickling sensation of magic to know which doors to avoid touching. Ophelia probably laughed when she’d asked her warlocks to spell some doors. Who knew what was on the other side once opened? Reality? Some sort of fantasy? Would they transport you from the dustier terrain of Pasia to somewhere more lush?
Queen Ambrose would not be finding out.
Great power from the gods was never truly meant for humans to hold; it could be concentrated into artifacts, such as the staffs, as a means for conductivity, however, that was still not without its negative effects.
Greed. Impulse. The need to wield magic, to kill. The voices. Everything came with a price. Some of them far greater than the sacrifice one might have intended.
She knew Farah had thought her mad for listening to whatever spirits spoke to her. However, she was certain she was not the sister who’d lost her mind.
Power led her through the twisting path of the castle, pulling her toward Ophelia. Stepping through a doorway, she found her feet slipping against the smooth checkered pattern tile that tipped steeply to one side.
Large framed paintings with perfectly placed brushstrokes took up the entirety of the farthest wall. Each picture was a little more off center than the next. Her curls spilled over her shoulder as she watched the paintings back, with the same level of scrutiny they watched her. To anyone else, these might just have been pictures, but Ambrose knew who each person was and she didn’t need magic to do so.
Her chest tightened with memories of the people who were no longer with the living—all of them except two. The soft eyes of her mother watched her, an eyebrow quirked as if she was annoyed. Her father’s jaw was set, clenched in worry as it often was as he tried his best to provide for his large family.
She wondered if anyone had recognized the other paintings; all variations of younger, more innocent versions of their ruling queens. And one other. Her caramel gaze flicked to the final picture. A large goofy smile lifted the youngest of the children’s faces. Her brown eyes shimmered and her hair was pretty much made of flyalways.
Ambrose had always thought her youngest sister looked wild and untamed. She loved that about her. Somewhere behind that painted smile, she bet a question lurked too. Always curious. But such was the nature of young children.
