Chapter 22

My horse likes to bite.

She’s black and white, and since we entered the stable at dawn, the only living being she hasn’t taken a lunge at is me.

The stableman at the village told me her name is Rosie—right before she nicked the back of his arm and made him bleed, reminding me of Rhordyn’s big, black stallion, Eyzar. Baze never let me ride him, insisting I use the hacks instead. Said the horse was too savage and unpredictable and that Rhordyn would castrate him if I got trampled to death.

Since we emptied Blue Hollow of its meager stable stock, and since Rosie took to nuzzling me for ear scratches rather than snapping at me, Cainon allowed me to ride her on the condition that I stay right behind him. Naturally, Rosie almost took a chunk out of his horse’s ass, so now I’m leading our small convoy, pretending I’m by myself, going someplace where there are no expectations stacked upon my shoulders.

A pretty ruse.

And still ...

Everywhere I look I see him: in the stormy clouds that won’t stop dumping on us; in the chill wind nipping at my blanched knuckles; in the waiting darkness between the trees.

I’m haunted.

That well of anger churns.

More rain filters down, pattering off the cloak draped around my shoulders as Rosie trots up a small hill. Cresting the peak, I catch sight of a blue-stone structure through the thinning foliage ahead and draw a deep, shuddering breath. With the end in sight, I’ve become painfully aware of my inner-thigh chafe and my back muscles pinched from sitting upright for over eight hours straight.

As we tread closer, the jungle gives way to a much wider path, and the palace comes into full, breathtaking view. The windows are trimmed with gold filigree, a stark contrast to the swirling blue of the walls, blocks of lapis lazuli stacked upon each other—all straight lines and square tops.

I gaze in awe at the sight.

It doesn’t look as big as Castle Noir from this angle, and seeing a structure that’s anything other than coal black is hard to wrap my head around.

Am I dreaming? Will I gasp awake in my bed at Stony Stem, breathless and sweating, fingers stretched toward a bottle of caspun?

Hooves clop against the hard-packed soil as Cainon’s regal, white stallion canters past, narrowly missing another launching nip from Rosie.

“That horse really wants a piece of my ass,” he says, winking. “She’s got good taste, you know.”

I offer him an overly sweet smile. “You have a rather high opinion of yourself.”

“Hoping it’ll catch on,” he belts back, racing ahead, and someone behind me tries to cover up a laugh with a forced cough.

I peek over my shoulder at our plodding entourage, catching Zane’s eye—sitting on the ass of a fluffy, brown horse, hands wrapped around the waist of a stony-faced Gun.

Wet hair pasted to his forehead, he gives me a lopsided smile that warms my chest.

A bell tolls, ripping my gaze forward, and the clank of shifting chains prefaces a mammoth, crosshatch gate lifting from the soil like a square mouth preparing to scream at me.

A nervous breath stretches my too-tight lungs.

We filter through, filing into a courtyard three times larger than Rhordyn’s ballroom and protected from the elements by a lofty stone roof.

The stark space fills with the echoing clop of hooves that litter mud all over the polished stone ground. The walls are tall and bare, buffed to a gleaming shine, the gold veins marbled throughout the stone standing out in stark contrast. A gold gate at the far end is twice the size of the one we just rode through—perhaps leading to the city Cainon told me about.

Aside from the stretch of stoic-faced servants, maids, and soldiers lined up by a large set of gold-brushed doors, there is no welcome party. The tight band of tension strung around my chest loosens a little as I breathe a sigh of relief.

Perks of being ushered in through the back door like some dirty little secret.

A man steps forward, boasting pressed blue threads and golden epaulets that make his shoulders proud and serious to match the look in his eyes. He bows, then reaches for Rosie’s halter, almost losing his outstretched fingers to the snap of her teeth.

I steady her dancing feet, throw my leg across her back, and leap down, giving her sodden flank a rub while she paws at the stone. “Thanks, but it’s okay. I’ve got her.”

His eyes widen, and he swiftly lowers his gaze to the ground and concedes to his spot in the line while the rest of our convoy dismounts. I get to work unknotting my sack, watching from the corner of my eye as a footman carrying a golden plate laden with scrolls dashes toward Cainon, who pinches one off the top and breaks the seal. Brow buckling as he skims the script, he mutters a curse.

“Kolden.”

A soldier with bright blue eyes that crinkle at the corners breaks from the quiet line, his hair only half pinned up, the rest hanging around his broad shoulders. “Yes, High Master?”

“Offer the future High Mistress some refreshments, then take her to meet Elder Creed. It’s important we introduce her to The Bowl right away so she can start wrapping her head around the trial,” Cainon says, splitting the seal on a second scroll.

“Wh—” I move to step forward, but remember my horse hates everybody and think better of it, securing her reins around one of the holding posts. “What trial?”

“The one you must pass to prove the Gods find you worthy of being Bahari’s High Mistress,” Cainon murmurs, concentration split as his eyes chase the scrawl of another opened letter. “You’ll begin practicing for it first thing in the morning.”

I’ll begin— What?

“Nobody told me this …”

Cainon glances up. “Tradition, petal. Our coupling ceremony will be on the next full moon, and the trial takes place earlier that day. Unfortunately, there can be no ceremony unless you complete the task. You weren’t aware?”

My heart plummets.

No.

I breathe deep, blow it out, then grab my sack off the ground. “Well, is there somewhere safe where I can set my things? I’d like to get started right away, if it’s all the same to you.”

He frowns. “You’re tired, Orlaith. It’s been a big day.”

“I’ve been sitting all day. I’m fine,” I bite out, ignoring the twinges in my lower back and between my shoulder blades.

He’s happy to torch two ships and a crew of people to fit his philanthropic narrative. This is a far less destructive path to the same destination.

“Sacrifices, right?”

The words come out a little bitter, and both his brows lift.

Studying me for a long moment, he finally says, “Very well. Izel, take Orlaith’s things to her suite.”

A pretty, blue-eyed handmaiden dressed in a simple cobalt shift breezes forward, hands outstretched. She’s tall and austere, her skin lightly tanned, clothes so perfectly pressed she makes me feel like a scrunched-up piece of parchment.

Something I can’t quite put my finger on has me eyeing her warily.

“I’ll take it to your suite, Mistress.”

“I’d rather do it myself. It needs to be kept upri—”

Cainon grabs my sack and hands it to the woman, and I’m forced to bite my tongue as I watch her step back in line.

I nail him with a hard stare which he holds, his steeped in subtle chastisement.

Right.

Clearing my throat, I offer him a faux smile, drop into a tight curtsey, then look at Izel clinging to my worldly possessions. “Please keep that upright. There’s a cup of soil in there, and I’ll be devastated if it spills.”

A brief frown buckles her brow before she nods, and I force myself to spin—trailing Kolden across the courtyard while reminding myself there’s only one way to earn those fucking ships …

Play along.