Chapter 24

Itrail Cainon past wall sconce after wall sconce—nothing but a blazing blur as I struggle to put one foot before the other. I glance back, catching sight of two stoic-faced maids mopping my wet footprints, like I’m nothing but a ghost gliding across the polished, gold-veined floor, before losing sight of them as we turn a corner.

We’re moving through a grand atrium, its hard edges softened by sweeps of blueberry velvet hung from the window rails, when my gaze snags on an open doorway tucked beside a pillar—the gloomy innards unlike the rest of the palace from what I’ve seen so far.

Steps slowing, I place my hand on the doorframe and peer into the dim interior …

My breath catches at the sight of a woman clothed in lantern light, facing away from me, her silver hair a trickle of thin waves down her back and piled on the floor. She’s hunched on a stool before a large loom, manipulating threads with practiced dexterity.

I realize with a start that she’s missing a thumb and forefinger, the sheer beauty of her work suggesting it’s of no hindrance. The piece she’s working on is magnificent: a blossoming tree in full bloom, the odd petal floating down into the unfinished nether.

Something about it casts little prickles on the backs of my eyes—makes me feel like someone just scooped out all my insides, leaving me empty.

A cognitive shell.

Her hands still.

“I see you’ve found Old Hattie,” Cainon whispers too close to my ear, then relieves me of my boots hanging from my hand. “She likes her privacy. Especially when she’s weaving. Come.”

I snag one more glance of her still paused mid-motion, then follow Cainon, waiting until we’re a respectable distance from the room before I ask, “Who is she? To you?”

“My old governess.” He clears his throat, rolling his sleeves. “She no longer speaks. She was involved in a tragic accident that took her son and coupled.”

His words strike like nails to the chest.

For the first time, I picture him as anything other than the suave, sarcastic male. Picture him too young to do things for himself. Things she would have helped him with.

Being so close, her heartbreak probably felt like his own.

“I’m sorry, Cainon …”

No answer.

I’m led up sweeping staircase that skirts past multiple stories, the silence pecked at by his heavy-booted steps. “I gave her a permanent residence here after the accident,” he finally says. “She now spends her days nurturing her woven art.”

“That’s kind of you.”

He shrugs. “So long as her hands are busy, she seems content, so I keep throwing yarn at her. Everyone in the palace knows to respect her privacy and leave her be.”

At the top of the staircase, we enter a grand hallway—globed chandeliers that look like sitting suns hanging from the ceiling every few steps.

“High Master. Mistress.” The monotone greeting snaps my attention.

Kolden swings a gold-brushed door wide, his stare stabbed at the wall. Walking past, I wonder if he knows how spectacularly I just failed.

We step into a lobby that boasts two other doorways, one on each side, and I glance back at Kolden—standing at attention in the hallway, wearing a blank expression.

I frown. “Is my room to be guarded ... always?”

“Of course,” Cainon chuffs, stepping toward the door on the left while digging through his pocket. “Safety precaution.”

“An unnecessary one.”

I fail to point out the fact that the first round of guards didn’t work out very well.

Quite the opposite.

“A non-negotiable one,” he volleys back, brow arched as he looks at me from beneath a sweep of golden lashes. “Between my extended absence and compromised fleet from our little detour, I’m time-poor. I’ll be spending a lot of the upcoming weeks offshore, overseeing repairs rather than being right here where I’d like to be. I need to know you’re protected.”

An idea hits, widening my eyes and soothing the restless beast in my chest. “I’ll come with you! I’d love to see the islands …”

See where the ships are stored.

“What? No, Orlaith.” A deep roll of laughter tumbles with the words. “Island days are too taxing. I need you to spend every spare moment right here, practicing for the trial.”

“You’d rather have me spend my days scrambling up the slippery side of an oversized bowl? Really?”

“Of course! You’re going to need all the practice you can get. When you conquer it, we’re one step closer to being coupled, and Rhordyn’s one step closer to getting his fleet and sailing back to his world of problems. Isn’t that what we both want?”

“Yes ...”

But the thought of floundering in that bowl for the next two weeks while Elder Creed watches on makes my chest cramp. Makes the ache in my shoulder throb with newfound gusto.

“As the High Master, can’t you just … absolve the tradition?”

His face pales, expression hardening, and I realize I’ve said something wrong. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” he mutters, giving me his back. “And pray the Gods weren’t listening.”

Doubt it’ll make a difference if they were. I’ll probably never climb out of that fucking bowl because no God in their right mind would let me sit on a seat of power.

Not willingly.

I button my lips, watching him shove a long key into the lock. He swings the door open, revealing a large space and opulent furnishings bathed in rich, golden light from the abundance of chandeliers. It all passes by in a blur as I dash straight to the balcony’s double doors, pulling them wide, inviting a blow of brisk wind that ruffles the sheer curtains and makes my damp skin prickle.

I swear it howls at me.

I draw a deep breath, savoring the smell of freshly fallen rain as I step out onto the stone balcony, eyes widening, struck by the brightness of the city beneath the sheet of night—such a blazing contrast.

Cainon lifts my heavy, sodden hair off my back, startling me.

“Sorry.” He drapes a plush robe around my shoulders. “You looked cold. And it’s unseasonably chilly at the moment.”

I stuff my arms into the holes, then cross them over my chest, offering him a small smile. “Thank you …”

“No problem.” He runs his fingers through the tangled length of my hair, partitioning it off into three long sections he then begins to braid. “You have the best view in the palace,” he murmurs. “You can see the entire city from here.”

Huge, fire-filled bowls dot the bridge that spills from the palace grounds far below, stretching toward the mainland and the illuminated metropolis. Separating the city from the dark jungle beyond is the wall, its abundance of turrets blazing, creating a stark shield around the compact civilization.

It’s breathtaking. Unlike anything I could have imagined.

Little pops of excitement explode in my chest.

I wonder if the city is busy or quiet. What it smells like. Sounds like. What plants and wares and food it harbors. Whether Madame Strings is just beyond that bridge with all the answers I can swallow, my questions stacking up like a crooked pile of stones wobbling around inside of me.

What am I … exactly?Are there more of us around? Do all of my kind have this noxious thing living inside of them? Is there a way to control it?

Destroy it?

Perhaps she even knows why the Irilak don’t seem to be interested in suckling me to death.

Another blow of wind batters my face, and I shiver despite the robe.

He ties off my braid, then steps up beside me. “I trust the rooms are adequate?”

I spin, looking through the balcony doors, giving the vast space my full attention: lapis lazuli walls; gold trimmings; a plump, velvet floor pillow set before an open-mouthed, blazing fireplace. There’s a four-poster bed that’s low to the floor, the gold-brushed structure softened by blue chiffon curtains that flutter in the wind.

Again, my mattress is dressed in stark, white sheets. Even the comforter folded at the end is white.

A blank canvas for me to bleed on.

I look away, toward a frosted glass door that likely leads to my own personal washroom, then to the dressing table overlooked by an ornate mirror hanging on the wall. Beside it, a dressing room packed with rows of gowns in the richest shades of blue—beaded with gold, threaded with gold, dusted with gold.

There’s an entire wall of shoes, and my feet ache just looking at them.

I scan the bare walls of the suite, so straight and square … no long benches for me to display my treasures. Drawing a breath, I fill my lungs with the sterile smell of eucalyptus and vinegar … not the gentle, sweet aroma of flowering wisteria.

Another blunt reminder of just how far I am from home.

“The rooms are more than adequate,” I say on a blown-out breath, forcing a smile. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

Izel paces through the room, carrying a tray capped with a large cloche. She sets it on my bedside table, curtseys, and leaves without once meeting my eye.

“I’m having dinner with a Regional Master,” Cainon says, pocketing his hands and heading for the door. “I’ll leave you to eat and get settled in.”

Tapping my finger on the handrail, I chew my bottom lip and stare at the glittering cityscape. Perhaps I’ve swum past the point of exhaustion and delved into energy reserves I didn’t know I had, but I’m suddenly charged—my mind jumping from one thought to another like a skipping stone.

“Cainon?”

He looks at me over his shoulder from halfway across the room. “Yes?”

“May I have some coin?”

His brow buckles. “Coin?”

“Money? Drabs?” A blazing warmth spreads across my cheeks. “I, ahh—I only packed the basics. The storm was setting in, so we were in a bit of a rush when we left Castle Noir ...”

He frowns, and I shake my head, clearing my throat.

“It’ll just be nice to have my own little purse for when we visit town, you know? So I don’t have to ask in front of people …”

“That won’t be necessary.” He strides outside, takes my hand, and pares back my sleeve to reveal the cupla caught around my wrist—gold veins threaded through the blue glinting in the firelight. “You just wave this. We share the only lapis lazuli cupla the forgery has crafted, so anybody who sees it will know exactly who you are.”

I look into his cerulean stare. “But how do I pay?”

“You don’t.”

“I don’t follow ...”

“Parith is the most decorated capital in the continent. Its future High Mistress can’t be seen trading coin for goods and services, Orlaith. You can have whatever you please, whenever you please. My people respect that and are repaid tenfold by my constant protection.”

“Oh,” I mutter, trying to pull my hand back. “Sorry, this is all very new to me.”

His grip on my wrist is unfaltering, tethering me by more than just his physical touch. “You’re going to be happy here. We’re going to be happy.”

I look from my hand to his face. “Are we?”

“Yes.” He tucks a sodden strand of hair behind my ear, the touch so tender I almost lean into it. “You belong here, in the sun. I’m going to give you everything you ever dreamed of. Everything he didn’t.”

He …

My heart leaps. Skin pebbles. Even the buds on my tongue tingle, as if anticipating the taste of Rhordyn’s presence on the air.

Cravingit.

“And what’s that?” I rasp, voice grated for all the wrong reasons. Shameful ones that burn in my heart.

He steps forward, a bold half smile crinkling his eyes. “Me.”

I swallow, sliding back a step so that I’m pressed against the stone railing as another blow of chill cloaks me from behind.

“I smelled something while I was in your room at Castle Noir,” Cainon says, voice dropped so low it’s like he’s passing me a secret he fears the wind will snatch. “Your last heat. Your desire to be fucked.”

Every muscle in my body locks, and a burn floods from my chest to my cheeks, blazing with a shameful wrath that leaves me wide-eyed and voiceless.

He could smell that?

Looking him in the eye is torture, but looking away feels like some sort of defeat, so I force myself to hold his stare.

Force myself to breathe.

“I saw your want to be treasured in the tears you cried,” he continues, pushing closer. “Felt it in the way you kissed me.”

It was all a lie.

I want to scream it at him. Bunch the words, then bash them against his chest.

The woman he thinks he has—the woman he wants—she doesn’t exist. Not anymore. Her flame was extinguished the moment she saw the monster she really is.

He steps so close his warm breath falls upon my face, eyes blazing. “I’m going to give you it all, Orlaith.” He leans in, pauses, plants a swift kiss on my temple before he turns and strides back through the room. Out the door.

My lungs empty with a shuddered exhale.

I crumble against the balustrade, sliding down the smooth stone bars until I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor. Head tilted back, a spritz of rain peppers my face, just enough to give the wind something to catch on when the next blow hits, hard and heavy.

Almost a shove.

I spin, knees against my chest as I wrap my hands around the bars and peer out across the bridge to the illuminated city beyond.

Something twists inside my chest.

Being this high up, looking down upon the world used to make me feel untouchable.

Safe.

Now?

All I can think about—obsess about—is the thrill of the fall.