Misrule, page 16
Torin and Neve are on the dais, their heads bent in conversation. I’m about to change the subject, having no desire to discuss the Shifter leader, when there’s a stir in the crowd, near the throne room doors. I angle myself to see better. And then—Aurora strides into our midst. The Imps have her in a black gown with silver branches accenting the low neckline and fitted sleeves. Her lips are painted dark red, and kohl lines her eyes. She looks like some kind of night goddess, and my heart beats harder.
“This is a surprise,” Regan comments. “I haven’t seen her in a few days.”
I don’t tell Regan that Aurora was in the stables with Derek earlier, possibly hatching some plan, as I’d prefer to find out whatever she’s doing for myself.
“Invite her over,” Regan says.
My eyebrows jerk up. “Really?”
“Why not? I haven’t had the chance to spend any time with her.” She gestures at the board. “The game can accommodate three players.”
For some reason, the thought of Regan and Aurora playing together—even sitting together—sends a shiver of apprehension down my spine. But I can’t summon any viable objection. And Regan doesn’t give me the chance to voice it even if I could.
“Princess,” she calls, waving. “Join us.”
“We don’t have to—”
But to my absolute surprise, Aurora glides across the room and settles herself at a chair to my left. The scent of her washes over me—apple blossom and cool water—and everything inside me softens.
“It’s good to see you up and about,” Regan says, resetting the pieces. “I’m happy to explain how everything works if you—”
“I understand already,” Aurora replies, not unkindly. But not exactly kind, either.
“Excellent.” Regan lifts a piece in salute. “Then it shall be a worthy match.”
The game begins in awkward silence, the only sound that of the pieces clacking softly against the board as we pick them up and set them down. And with each passing moment, it becomes increasingly painful that Aurora and I are not talking to each other. Not even looking at each other. My tongue feels glued to the roof of my mouth. I cannot think of a single thing to say, though thousands of possibilities swarm through my mind. Each is more ridiculous and stupid than the last.
“And how are you finding the Dark Court?” Regan asks her at last. Goblin laughter travels from across the hall.
“As well as can be expected.” Aurora moves a piece over mine, capturing it. I slide her a sidelong look, but don’t comment. “How long have you been in residence?”
“I was the first,” Regan informs her. She smiles at me, proud, and I smile back. “I stowed away on a ship bound for Briar and nearly drowned upon my arrival, actually.”
Aurora pauses at her next move. “Drowned? Is that because of Alyce?”
“Yes.” Regan laughs. “But I don’t blame her for it.”
Imps scamper past. A few of them shout a greeting to Aurora.
“Why not?” She captures two of Regan’s pieces in one fluid move. “Don’t you care that you almost died?”
The Vila leader’s smile is tight, gaze fixed to Aurora’s growing collection of markers—both of ours are paltry in comparison. “No. I don’t. Sometimes, Princess, I believe the ends justify the means. Do you not agree?”
I sip my wine, pressure building between my temples.
Aurora trails her fingertips down the spiny collar of her gown. “I think justice can be rather subjective. To you, it clearly entails razing realms and collecting trophies.” She gestures to the Etherian heads. “But I wonder how Oryn would define the term. Or even the realms across the sea.”
Regan grins in triumph as she seizes a piece of Aurora’s. “And why should their opinion trouble us?”
She studies the board. “Because by your own logic, if they came seeking their justice, wouldn’t that mean you would deserve whatever means they employed?”
In a move I would never have seen coming, Aurora picks off the last of Regan’s pieces and sets them neatly in her corner. She folds her hands on the table and gazes serenely back at the Vila leader. And I do not know whether to be proud or horrified.
Regan goes perfectly still. “I see I am outmatched.”
“Don’t take it too hard,” Aurora says. “I am often underestimated.”
The Vila leader bristles.
“It’s no matter,” I attempt, sensing the storm brewing. “We can—”
But Regan raises a hand to stop me and rises from the table. “I have endured enough games for one evening.”
Her boots clip as she strides across the chamber, and I fist one of the abandoned pieces in my hand, the edges biting into my palm.
“Did you really need to be like that?” I ask Aurora when we’re alone, not bothering to curb my tone. “It was her idea to include you, and she was being perfectly welcoming, and then you—”
“Oh, now you have something to say to me?” Aurora crosses her arms. “You think her invitation was a coincidence? I’ve dealt with countless courtiers just like her, who—”
“No, you haven’t,” I snap. “Because this is not Briar’s court. It’s not filled with vipers who don’t care who they step on to get ahead.”
She pushes back from the table. “Believe what you like.”
“Where are you going?” I call after her, exasperated.
“Why should I tell you?” The branches on her dress shine. “Every movement I make in this court is tracked. Every word repeated, probably. I’ll let the mystery linger until someone else informs you.”
And then she’s gone, melting into the throng of my court. And I’m so angry I could burst into a million pieces. I hate that she’s being this way. Throwing every kind gesture back in my face. Through the press of bodies, I see a Demon ask Aurora to dance, and she accepts, allowing herself to be glided about the floor. Jealousy piles in my belly like hot coals, spitting and seething.
But then my attention catches on something else. Derek stands at the fringes of the crowd. He’s wearing breeches that are far too short and tight-fitting, coupled with a footman’s tattered jacket and a moldy cerulean wig that now sports peacock feathers jutting out at haphazard angles among the ratty braids.
Like Regan, I’m tired of Aurora’s games. I will know what she’s planning. If Rose doesn’t know, the ship’s boy certainly will.
* * *
—
“This isn’t the way to the stables,” Derek says as we traipse up a set of back stairs. “And I promise you, Chaos is doing quite well.”
“Is it not?” I ask, feigning ignorance. “I must be lost.”
He scratches under his wig. “If we’re not going there, then…”
“Are you nervous to be alone with me?”
“No.”
“Then you’re not as smart as I thought, and I didn’t have high expectations to begin with.”
I lead Derek through countless twisting corridors, a path intended to incite confusion and anxiety. I assume he guesses we’re headed to some remote torture chamber or to a rat-infested tower cell. But we emerge from the top levels and onto the battlements.
The night wind is brutal. All of ruined Briar rolls out to the south and west, ending at the cusp of the obsidian sea that engulfs the horizon. Mist curls in tentacles around our legs. The wrecked structures of the Grace District wallow in the murk like skeletal creatures from a story.
“Why have you brought me up here?”
“You enjoyed exploring the palace, abandoned libraries and whatnot. I thought you might appreciate the opportunity for a similar excursion. How does this view compare with that from the back of a Fae steed?”
He tugs on the sleeve of his jacket. “It’s…different.”
“Not as good. I understand. Flying has always been a favorite pastime of mine. Nothing can match it.” I lean out over the stone wall. The Demon sentries rarely patrol this area, as the vantage point is much better higher up. Which means no one will be disturbing us.
There’s a screech and a flap of wings and Callow lands neatly on my shoulder. She nudges her head against mine, then clacks her beak at Derek.
“That bird hates me.”
“She has excellent intuition.” Callow also despised Endlewild.
I didn’t bring a torch with us and his brown eyes look liquid black in the night. “Have I offended you in some way?”
“You’ve been keeping interesting company recently. Someone a ship’s boy should have no opportunity to meet.”
A peacock feather brushes Derek’s nose. He tugs it out and lets the wind take it. “Do you mean the princess?”
“Is there someone else I should know about?” He fumbles out an incoherent reply. “Giving her riding lessons, were you?”
“How did you—” His brow scrunches. “You saw us together at the stables. I thought the Imps made that mess as some kind of prank. But did you—”
“Did I what?”
Defiance flashes in the way his jaw works from side to side. “Nothing.”
“Indeed.” The growl of faraway thunder creeps toward the shore. Lightning forks over the horizon. “If Aurora decides to ride, I will arrange for someone to teach her. You do not need to trouble yourself.”
“It’s no trouble.”
“I did not request your opinion on the matter.”
He ducks his head.
“If…” The boy ventures too near and Callow warns him back. “If what happened in the stables was because of the princess visiting me there, she’s never done so before. I’ve kept away from her like you told me to, and I’m sorry if you thought—I mean…”
“What ‘happened’ in the stables was your own fault. Because you seem to have forgotten your place—as a servant. Entirely insignificant.” I advance one step. Two. Large chunks of stone are missing from the walls. Callow flaps to the piecemeal ledge and chuffs. “So much so that if you were to disappear, absolutely no one would notice. Least of all a princess.”
Derek glances behind him, where the husks of buildings sprawl like waiting jagged teeth. His boot skids on loose stone and pebbles fly, pinging down the side of the palace.
“I know she asked for your help with something. What was it?”
“I…It’s nothing bad.”
“I’ll decide what it is,” I all but growl. Another inch and he’ll be nothing but mangled bones. Callow screeches, and possibilities tumble over themselves in my mind. Is Aurora plotting escape? A coup? How far have matters progressed?
His throat bobs. “She wants a funeral.”
Wind whistles between us. “A what?”
“A funeral,” he repeats, his knuckles white as he grips the crumbling stone. “For everyone she lost when Briar fell.”
The answer pulls me up short. I step back and Derek drops forward, scrambling away from the perilous edge. A funeral. Callow warbles. “But why wouldn’t she have told me that?”
“I think,” he says from his knees, “she assumed you wouldn’t be keen on the idea.”
Waves crash in the distance. “I don’t understand. Briar was broken and corrupt, and…they never cared about her. Not even her family.” Not like I did. “They were horrible, all of them. She mourns them?”
Derek rises, legs wobbling. “It’s still possible to mourn horrible people. Was there no one you missed…after?”
Hilde. My attention travels over the battlements, picturing the last time I saw her. I pretended it didn’t matter when she didn’t come to me. Choose me. But her rejection stung. Is that the same as mourning?
“No one I missed enough to mourn.”
No, pet. Mortania stirs. No one who mattered.
“Well.” He prods a loose stone with the toe of his boot. “I understand what it’s like to have complicated relationships with family. I’d still mourn them if they died.”
Callow chuffs, and I recall Aurora’s fury when she woke. Her haggard appearance when I brought Rose to her. I knew she was furious with me, but for the first time I realize she was grieving. That I caused her to grieve.
My throat tightens. “And why did she come to you about such a request?”
“She asked to hold the ceremony in the stables,” he explains. “I think she knew better than to try to organize anything in the palace.”
In her own home. The blade of my conscience digs deeper. A raven’s cry carries on the wind.
“She’s right. That wouldn’t go well.” But as much as I despised former Briar, I hate to think of Aurora honoring her dead in the stables. I suppose she could go to the crypt. But that is a place for effigies and relics of the former queens. Briar always sent its dead out to sea on floating pyres, a tradition started by Leythana herself. “She’ll want to be near the water. There are tunnels leading from the palace and under the main gates. Take those so that the sentries don’t see you. I’ll send you a map.”
He must have expected me to forbid the memorial. “Thank you,” he says. “And I know she wanted the servants to be able to come, too.”
I care far less about their grief. But if it’s what Aurora wants…
“Fine. I’ll hold a revel. Hardly anyone notices what the servants are doing once they get drunk enough. And I’ll find a way to distract her Imps.”
Callow mutters in what might be approval. And the boy is tripping over himself in gratitude. I’m suddenly weary of his company. “Don’t get caught,” I say, turning back the way we came.
“Nimara,” Derek calls after me. “Are you the one who broke her first curse?”
I whirl. “How dare you ask me such a question?”
He puts up his hands, placating. “I mean no offense. But there was clearly something between you. And if I’m correct…you should know that she cares for you.”
An intoxicating warmth blooms in my chest. Does she really care? It’s hard to believe, after everything that’s happened, especially tonight. But I don’t let the ship’s boy see the effect of his words. I leave him without a reply and bolt the door behind me. Maybe he’ll topple off the battlements without my assistance.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The revel is easy enough to suggest during the next council meeting, in which Malakar is again advocating for our immediate charge of the High Court. The others toss out ideas regarding strategy, and speculate about what the Fae might be doing in the mortal realms. But I don’t contribute much. My thoughts are fixed on what I’d learned from Derek—the funeral that will be taking place. Regan had said that tragedy changes people. The death of Pansy’s child was what had driven her to lash out against her own sister. Grief could explain a great deal about Aurora in these last weeks, her obstinance and smoldering hatred. Perhaps this ceremony will allow her to put the past behind her. Accept the Dark Court—and me.
If so, I want to do whatever I can to help her along. As soon as the meeting is over, I disappear to the royal library. The shelves are painfully bare, as these books were some of the first relics of the old regime to be destroyed. I’d happily fed dozens of volumes to the flames myself, eager to cleanse the palace of the sort of stilted history that had all but smothered me during my years as the Dark Grace.
But a small number of books survived the purge. I sift through them, searching for something about Briarian royal funerals. I barely remember when Aurora’s elder sisters perished for lack of kissing their right suitors. There had been a gathering at the shore. Princess Seraphina’s pyre had been massive—the size of several carriages put together—and teeming with her favorite foods, and gowns, and paintings. Aurora will not be able to manage such an elaborate display. But there might be some other tradition—songs or words that need to be spoken. Anything I can dig up to show Aurora that I respect her grief, even if I don’t share it.
Something rustles at the far end of the library. It sounds heavier than a rat. Maybe the Imps have decided to get up to mischief. I sink into the shadows and creep toward the sound. It’s not a rustling after all, but sniffles. And then a quiet sob. Who would come here to cry?
Holding my breath, I peer around a shelf. Someone is hunched over an open book. A shaft of dull sunlight fights through the grimy windows and illuminates a shock of red hair.
“Elspeth.”
She spins around, hugging the book to her chest. Tears streak down her face. “W-what are you doing here?”
“I am mistress. I go where I please.”
Mortania laughs. But the flex of my authority doesn’t feel as satisfying as it typically does. Instead, shame prickles up my neck, and a rotten taste cuts between my teeth.
Elspeth swipes a dirty sleeve over her face and scoots away. “I didn’t realize. I’ll go.”
“Wait.” Her shoulders hunch, and the defensive gesture bothers me. The fact that I’m bothered at all is worse. “What were you looking at?”
She hesitates, and the look on her face tells me that she’s worried I’ll burn the book simply for the pleasure of watching her beg me not to. But she eventually holds it out to me, another bout of silent tears dripping from her chin.
The volume is heavy. It must have been designed by the innovation Graces, for the pages are in stark and living color. It’s filled with paintings whose subjects move slightly as they pose. Elspeth was studying a woman wearing a gown that would have made Rose green with envy. It’s constructed entirely out of wildflowers that bloom, burst, and sprout again in various shades and species.
“What is this?”
“A record of the best gowns for each season,” she says. “The royal designers put them together every year, in time for the Grace ceremony.”
The annual event when the Grace houses would be honored for their achievements. Not that I would know much about it, seeing as I was never invited. I’m not sure how the book has survived this long, and I’m surprised that, despite what it represents, I feel no urge to rip it to pieces. In fact, I almost enjoy seeing this glimpse into former Briar. The innovation Graces, whether they were designing fashions or jewels or ingenious contraptions, were immensely talented. The woman in the portrait fans herself with an array of plumy feathers, eyes twinkling. They’re a striking enough shade—and her attractiveness is so perfect—that I know she commissioned a beauty Grace’s elixir to manifest them. But there’s something else about her. My gaze flits up to Elspeth and back.
