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I give him a withering look. “Easy there. My friends and I are to be sent away unharmed, remember? If you have a problem with that, take it up with His Majesty.”
“I’ll do just that,” he snarls, and he races off, while his companion protests loudly at being left alone.
“Guards,” I call out. “Do your duty to the King and escort me and my friends to the palace gates, if you please.”
It’s comical how the guards stammer curses and shout confused questions at each other, while I turn slowly around and head back through the house, with every potential bride following in my wake.
In the hallway stands Bede, stripped of her maid’s uniform, a thatch of dark hair between her thin legs and her arms wrapped around herself.
“I’m glad you’re joining me, friend.” I put my arm through hers, and she relaxes, matching my stride as we lead the crowd of women to the front entrance.
Venedict is there, clad in his garish finery, with half a dozen House guards at his back. At first I think he’s planning to stop us, and I meet his gaze head on, with as much calmness and strength as I can summon, my head held high.
Venedict Luron, Steward of the House, looks into my eyes, and a flare of vindictive triumph shoots through his gaze.
In that moment I understand that the King has wronged him, too. And he never forgot, and he never forgave.
The steward steps back with a nod and a half-bow. “It is the King’s wish. May the goddess bless you and your friends. You are fortunate to have so many.”
“There’s always room for more,” I tell him.
But he only gives me a stiff, sad nod, withdrawing another step. “Some opportunities come too late.”
With another bow, he lets us pass. The guards behind him mutter to each other, but none of them try to stop us.
People gather as we cross the courtyard, headed for the palace gates. Servants, stable-boys, guards, visitors, nobles, even a cluster of people in robes who appear to be a foreign delegation pause to stare at our procession.
I can’t think about the fact that dozens of people are seeing my breasts and my genitals right now. I can’t think about what Rupert might be enduring as he makes his deal with the King. This is the only way out—the only path to save us both.
The mass exodus of the concubines from the House of Bounty is about their freedom, of course, but it’s about more than that. If I’d gone out alone, or with a couple others, we’d have been an oddity, true—but we’d have been more easily overlooked and more quickly forgotten. Once I bargained or begged for some clothing, I’d be invisible again—unknown except to the soldiers the King would surely send after me.
Now, everyone will know who I am. They’ll observe my face as I lead the women through the city, and they’ll remember it. They’ll see on my body the marks of what the King did to me—they’ll hear that he promised me safe passage. As long as I stay in the public eye, the King won’t be able to touch me without showing everyone that his promise counts for nothing.
He stole us from our villages swiftly, had us transported to his wretched House inside closed carriages, treated us like stolen goods, like chattel... but now his treatment of us is on full display, as is the fact that every one of us would rather parade naked through the city streets than spend another minute as his concubine.
My heart is crying for Rupert, but I can’t let myself think about him yet. I stay firmly in the moment, seeking out the guard with the highest rank when we reach the main gates of the palace. A captain, judging by the embellishments on his uniform.
I hold his gaze as we approach. “The King has promised me and my friends safe passage, as long as we take nothing with us,” I call out.
One of my original pair of guards is still straggling along with us, and when the captain looks to him for confirmation, he gives an exasperated nod. “It’s true. I heard the order myself. And Lord Venedict let them leave the House of Bounty, so...” He throws up both hands, shaking his head.
The gate guards converse rapidly with each other in low tones... but the gates are standing open already, probably for a delivery of some sort—so I forge ahead without waiting, waving my crowd of sisters onward.
As we pass through the gates, Nerith lifts her hands, and the stone turns momentarily translucent, its crystal planes shattering the sunlight into a thousand rainbows that carpet the cobblestone street before us. The effect only lasts a few moments, but it’s enough to inspire the other women. One of the girls grows violets from her hands and plucks each one, tossing them into the air—another creates the illusion of tiny iridescent butterflies dancing over our heads, and a third makes her hair grow longer and longer, a sheet of glorious gold trailing covering her body and trailing behind her. Nature gifts seem to be preeminent among the group—small, simple things like creating mist, shifting light, enticing plants to bloom as we pass—stirring up the breeze so that it rushes through our hair, warming the air so it breathes with delicate softness over our bare skin.
We are a mob, a flood, an army of goddesses marching the gates, and the soldiers yield, withdrawing as we flow through. Arm in arm with Bede, I lead them all down the broad street, past shops and eateries, past merchants and families, past gawking citizens whose numbers seem to thicken every minute. Carriages halt to watch us pass, carts and horses pull up short, wheelbarrows thunk to the ground as their owners stop to stare.
Shenya and Nerith are right behind me, and as we walk, Bede lets out a wild shout, a burst of wordless joy at being free from the House. The other women join in a victorious cry that echoes through the square we’re crossing.
And then, soft and plaintive, Shenya begins to sing.
It’s a song I’ve heard before, a folk ballad my mother used to sing, and my heart swells up when I hear it—swells up so tight I can barely breathe.
Bede wraps her other hand over mine where it rests on my arm. She and I can’t sing—her from physical inability and me from emotion—but our sisters use their voices on our behalf. The afternoon light slants yellow between the shops and tenement houses, and the rays turn the cobblestones to glinting gold. And their voices are gold, heavy and rich and glowing with liberty, with strength.
In this moment, everything is gold.
We walk through the city for two hours, fortified by water, wine, bread, and fruit offered up by kind citizens. There’s an intensity in their eyes when they present the gifts—a desperate gratitude, a silent triumph. These people exist directly under the eye of the King, and their suffering has likely been greater than I’ll ever know.
