Page 19

Chapter Eleven

T he Miridranian wing is at the other end of the palace, crowning the top of a cliff. The journey alone, which took me across multiple arc passes overlooking the whole of the island, left me weary, breathless. But once I cross its threshold, I find myself slowing for another reason.

This wing is by far the oldest and the most luxurious.

Glass mosaics predating even King Junien bedizen every wall, floor to ceiling, each pane encased in copper.

They tell stories from every generation of Miridranian Crowns.

The most elaborate illustrates the story of Mercy, a healer from the Mirin clan before Miridran was formed.

During the War of Rites, Mercy became a renowned medic on the battlefield, healing not only her Mirin allies but her enemies as well.

She later became the first Miridranian queen.

Here, Mercy wears a robe and a crown, cloth bandages slung over one arm. She kneels at an altar open to the skies, tears pearling on her cheeks. After her coronation, she was plagued by nightmares about those she couldn’t save, so tormented that she was often found weeping in the chapels.

On the mosaic, Mercy’s story ends there. But Emilia once told me the rest.

The Fates took notice of Mercy’s pure, wholesome heart and bestowed upon her the power to gift the mourning with eternal peace.

But the more death she witnessed, the more her heart sickened and swelled, like rotting fruit.

The Fates did nothing for the dead, and so Mercy, in her bitterness, convinced one to come near so they might experience what she felt.

But it was a trick. She seduced the single Fate that obliged her, thieving enough of his power to create a Realm of Souls. Some say she even killed him. Drained his soul until he was but a shell.

Many claim that the Fate of Morta, once known as Mercy, uses her stolen powers to tend to the souls of the dead, issuing her judgment to grant peace or peril.

But as real as she feels here and now, I remind myself that she’s just a myth, a tale fabricated from history and interpreted through art.

Whatever truth her stories have, it matters not.

Faith has dwindled. The Fates no longer speak.

And the monsters of this day and age wear flesh and bone.

I find one of them watching me.

I pause before his scene. It’s a younger Illian, kneeling before his subjects. He smiles a plotter’s smile while a priest positions a crown over his head. But it’s his too-bright eyes that give me pause, seemingly lit from within.

It’s as if he’s truly looking at me.

I could almost swear he is.

After mosaics showing similar scenes for King Anton and King Estienne, the hallway branches in three directions—a newer addition, likely retrofitted from a singular one.

A flag embedded into the limestone marks the two on the right as Illian and Estienne’s corridors.

I veer toward the left, halting before a set of double doors made entirely of sea glass.

I run my fingers along their granular surface.

While I’ve seen sea glass before, Illian’s pride keeps him from making use of it, and even here, I’ve never studied it up close.

While most sea glass is clear if not dyed, the doors before me are opalescent, frosted, as if someone smeared around fragments of sand inside to obscure whatever lies beyond.

Even so, a pair of guards sense my presence. The doors swing open from the inside to reveal the labyrinth beyond.

I stand there, unable to move, trying to make sense of the scene before me.

Beyond the quiet, marbled entrance are multiple arches, the largest of which opens to an amalgamation of twinkling lights and lively chatter.

A vivacious melody dances about, intercut with peals of laughter.

Strung crystals drip from a frescoed ceiling like shards of severed moonlight, and underneath, a long table is spread with copious heaps of food.

I press my hand on the doorframe to steady myself, until a courtier swings past, pausing when he notices me.

“You must be Miss Moran,” he says, a glimmer of teeth flashing between a broad yet gentle smile. “We are so honored to have you. Please, come with me!”

The courtier offers me an arm, and I stare at it a moment until I realize he means for me to take it.

I feel small the moment I do, next to his tall, willowy frame.

Then he leans in, his kind, amber eyes brimming with excitement.

“Consider me your biggest fan,” he says.

“We all saw you at the Welcoming, and I said to myself, ‘Gustav, you have never seen a real show until this moment.’ You have altered my very existence, you know.”

I still at that, until I realize no lust gleams in his gaze as he beholds me. Not once do his eyes dip to my mouth or skim the curve of my neck or chest. Perhaps I am not his preference, except . . .

His compliment seems more innocent than that.

Genuine, even as he ushers me along. I utter my thanks, unable to trust myself—unable to rein in my curiosity, too, as I study him.

He must be higher nobility, if his waistcoat is any indication: a maroon silk ensemble cuffed in gold that favors his olive skin and dark head of curls.

“Have you ever been to a king’s banquet, Miss Moran?”

“I haven’t,” I lie. I’ve been to more than I can count, though this feels different. So unlike the stiff formality of King Illian’s court.

“Ah, see, you were supposed to say yes, so that I could then tell you why this one is far superior.” He’s grinning ear to ear, no doubt hoping I’ll inquire further.

I can’t help but indulge him. “All right, why’s that?”

“May I call you Vasalie, my lady?”

“Oh, I’m not a lady—” I begin, but Gustav drops my arm and whistles.

My throat constricts as an enormous heap of white fur slinks from the shadows, one claw-edged paw at a time.

I shrink back, but Gustav puts a reassuring hand on my arm.

“Vasalie, meet Ishu. Ishu, Vasalie. Don’t worry, she’s quite friendly. ”

I’m not sure if he’s talking about me or the tiger.

Because that’s what I’m gaping at, I realize. And a humongous one at that, shimmering white with soft brown stripes, a maw full of dagger-thin teeth and eyes as blue as lapis stone.

Gustav threads a hand through the beast’s fur, proceeding to press a kiss to her head. “She’s practically a large pillow. Don’t be afraid,” he says, scrunching her cheeks. “Come on, give her a pat.”

Tentatively, I let my fingers graze the tip of Ishu’s ears. She watches me languidly, her eyes half-lidded, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think she’s enjoying this.

Or perhaps it’s that she isn’t threatened by me, and why would she be? One swipe of a claw and I’d bleed out. But . . .

“How?” I breathe. Tigers are not indigenous to Miridran.

“A gift from Queen Sadira, from the first time His Majesty crossed the border. She was just a cub then, so cute. Though she was quite the terror, chasing the guardsmen around. She even took a chomp out of Anton’s pants once, right in the bum,” Gustav says, a laugh slipping out.

“But now she’s just lazy, aren’t you, Ishu, dear? ”

A gift from Queen Sadira, after King Anton talked her down from a war. What had he said to her? What had he promised? My mind scrambles, but I can’t take my eyes off Ishu. “She’s . . .”

“Breathtaking?” Gustav guesses.

“Yes, and so much more.”

“She demands to greet each guest individually, you see. Otherwise, you would be an intruder. That’s why she’s here in the entry-way. Royal watch kitten.”

Ishu shoves her wet nose into my dress and nudges up against me, knocking me into Gustav’s side. Panic seizes me. I worry she’ll somehow sniff the vial I have hidden, but Gustav pushes her back. “Away, Ishu. Others want to greet Miss Moran as well.”

Ishu retreats into her alcove obediently, albeit with a groan, plopping down on a pillow larger than my bed. Even so, she doesn’t take her eyes off me.

Our foray into the dining room garners less attention.

I expect to find King Anton at the head of the table.

Instead, he’s lounging about in the center, relatively unassuming.

A loose, dark tunic rests against his chest, gaping at the center to reveal a wedge of smooth, sun-bronzed skin.

The top of his hair is gathered into a small knot, revealing just how sharp the sweep of his jaw is.

And while a few ridiculous bangles adorn each arm, he hasn’t bothered with a crown or waistcoat.

A small affair indeed, I scoff inwardly, because no less than twenty of his courtiers surround him. Or so I assume, until I take a closer look.

On his right sprawls the Queen of Razam herself, a flute balanced between her fingers, her head thrown back in a fit of laughter.

Here, there is nothing of the knife-edged woman from the Welcoming. She tilts her glass to her lips as King Anton leans in, whispering something into her ear. Then, to my bemusement, wine sprays from her lips at whatever he said.

I swear I even hear her snort.

They are friends, I realize. Likely more, though she’s twice his age. And her sons, all seven of whom surround them, join in the revelry, springing upward to clink glasses from across the table.

The closest prince detects us when he sits, sneaking me a friendly wink.

“Who have you brought us, Gustav?” His bangles clank on the edge of the chair as he twists to shake my hand, and I can’t help but notice he rivals Anton in both embellishment and charm, his dark cotton kantha richly embroidered in azure and gold that matches the layers of necklaces gracing his neck and the gems piercing his lobes.

“No one for you to play with, Your Highness,” Gustav chuckles. To me, he says, “Prince Sundar is Her Grace’s oldest son.” It’s then that King Anton notices us.

“Lord Bayard,” he calls, gesturing us toward two open seats directly across from him. “And my Lady Vasalie. Join us, won’t you?”

My pulse jumps. Lord Bayard ?