Page 23 of Nightingale (The Broken Kingdoms #1)

H e paused as he passed his sister’s door, his ears picking up on the strained humming from within.

Orla.

It had been quite awhile since he’d last visited her, last seen her even. Their father liked to collect pretty things, to put on display in rooms or hang on his walls. He kept Orla under lock and key, allowing her out once every blue moon for meetings or in a vain attempt to use her beauty as a tool of negotiation with the lords of the lands. The unmarried ones searching for a wife, a womb to pop out young sons and daughters that would serve him faithfully.

One mention of the unwed Princess with looks to rival the fairest maiden in the world, of her piety and sheltered life, and it usually had the men handing over whatever it was that the King was trying to gain. A bartering chip, nothing more.

Another pretty prisoner.

The Niroulian Princesses fell into that category as well, all three of them. Vrea, shoved into the furthest reaches of the Keep, stored like a bag of grain in the stock room for three years. Only to be brought out when absolutely necessary. Then her younger sisters, Mira and Zara, if his memory served him properly.

Twins.

Decorated, with cuts and bruises and peeled flesh. Hung on the castle walls for all to see what had been done to them, to send a message to Niroula about the fate of the heirs that came their way. Revenge, for Theseus and Daria, for any others that would fall.

But Orla, sweet and good Orla, didn’t deserve to be treated like a prisoner. It was one of the things that he and Rian, and to his surprise, Brioc, all agreed on. The one, and only thing. They all visited her from time to time, selecting certain time frames when their father was too occupied with ruling and losing a war to slip into her chambers.

Castil had been the one to steal the key first, secretly ordering copies of it to be made from the Keep’s blacksmith and handing them out with a gracious stack of staggers in order to remain silent about the task. Enough to last the man a month if he used the coins wisely. Castil handed out two of the three replications to Brioc and Rian, uttering that it stayed between them, that no one found out about the theft and replacement of the original unless they all suffered the consequence. He’d take them all down with him if their father ever found out.

It was easy enough to sneak the first version back without anyone noticing. Not when the King was fast asleep in his room after a night of sexual activities, passed out in the crumpled sheets in nothing but his bare skin.

But it was that key he used now to quietly unlock her door, pocketing it and opening it wide enough for him to dart in, shutting it silently behind him.

Orla rotated from her dainty perch on the day-bench carved into the window, a bright smile breaking out on her devastatingly beautiful face. Her golden hair waved down her back with shimmering strands, translucent skin from the time indoors. She rarely saw the sun, clear in the paleness that was even lighter than he was.

Her light green eyes lit up.

Not that same cool shade as Vrea’s, but softer, daintier with hints of lovely blue that snuck past.

“Cas!” She cried out with joy, leaping from the cranberry cushion and throwing her arms around him. He hugged her back, spinning with the extra momentum she added. She wasn’t large by any means, tiny thanks to their father’s lack of care for her. “You’re here!”

Even her figure was underdeveloped, a pity since she was a beautiful thing to behold. If Castil could have had his way, he might have added an additional bargain to allow his sister another sort of life. But he already sold his soul to the devil in order to prevent Vrea’s death, and there was only so much of him he could pawn.

At least his sister was awarded every comfort she yearned for, thanks to the simple fact that she was the Princess of Carylim. If she were anyone else, Castil wasn’t sure she’d live the same.

A small relief, then.

Her room was the largest out of them all, and it was the single good thing that their sire gave to her in her imprisonment. It was on the lowest floor, across from the serving hall that led into the plain chambers of those who wished to stay in their place of work. Easier to hide something so pretty in the darkest places of the castle.

Though her room was decorated in pale colours that provided a bit of light. There were shelves upon shelves of reading material on the furthest wall, a massive dollhouse with porcelain toys next to it. There was a pianoforte, a harp, a flute all within one part of the chamber. All things that Orla knew how to play, and divinely too, thanks to her confinement.

Sometimes he slipped new sheets of music under her door for something to excite her. And then when she’d play them over and over again in the late hours of the night, he’d stare up at his ceiling as he lay in his bed and imagine. Imagine Vrea singing alongside her and listening to them both lose themselves to the harmony.

Even if the ferocious royal from across the border would rather slit her own wrists before singing for show, he could imagine how lovely the two of them would sound when joined on a stage. He could picture the tears in each and every eye that watched them because he knew that if Vrea ever sang, unburdened, uncaptured, unmuted, that every single heart in the room would shatter from how beautiful it could have been. And with Orla by her side, nothing would ever compare.

“I missed you.” Orla whispered in a voice that belonged to a child and squeezed him even tighter.

He smiled into her small shoulder.

No freckles, no beauty marks, nothing.

“And I, you. I’m only here for a moment. I’m leaving for a trip and thought I’d come to say goodbye.”

He didn’t tell her that it wasn’t the sort of goodbye that she thought it was, but a permanent one. It was the only reason he’d risked coming here at all. To bask in her radiant warmth that rivalled the summer one last time before heading into the depths of the darkest despair for the rest of his short life.

“When will I see you again?” Orla pulled away, tucking a lock behind her ear. She had no earrings, no rings, no necklaces. Just a pretty cream gown that brought the strawberry blush rising up to her skin. He memorised it all, looking at every inch of her to tuck away. An additional bit of light for when he was stuck in the darkest of places, the most shadowed of times.

“Not for quite a bit, I’m afraid. And Rian is gone as well, but he’ll be back before I will. Brioc promised to come see you soon enough, however, so you won’t be alone.”

She sat on her bed, tapping the spot next to her for him. He didn’t sit, but propped himself against the twisting bed frame that rose into the pink canopy. Golden lace adorned the sheer fabric, the curtains pinned back with matching cords of braided string. As if their father wanted to keep her a naive child that needed his influence for as long as possible.

“You’re so good to me.” Orla chittered, swishing her legs back and forth as her gown moved like the ocean waves. Small pearls were sewn onto the hem, staggering in an up-and-down pattern that climbed up the bodice. “No one else comes to see me as often as you do.”

“I wish I could do more, be better.” Castil regretfully sighed, dragging a section of his hair over his shoulder. It was competing for length with hers, but hers held more of an ochre glow whereas his held pearl. It was additional confidence that their father sired them both, since they both bore lighter hair as he did. Over the years, it darkened with his age. Now, it remained as a dirty blond. “I wish I could take you out of this room, let you roam the halls.”

“The fact that you come to see me at all is enough ,” She assured him. “Brioc comes maybe once a month, and Rian comes even less. Twice is not nothing, you know. At least I get to see you, at least Father hasn’t caught any of you sneaking into my room yet. I can’t imagine how horrible it would be if he did.”

Castil didn’t need to imagine.

He hadn’t even done anything , except exist which was apparently enough to warrant the most final of punishments, and yet he was being sent to the executioner’s block. Even with the revolting bargain he’d made for Vrea’s sake, apparently he failed in that portion of his duties as well. Though with everything inside of him that he’d used to push back, perhaps he’d stepped over the line one too many times for the King’s favour. Even in his younger years, the male had been cold towards him for no apparent reason.

Castil had formed a wall around it all, protecting his emotions because there was no point to letting them out in full force. Not when it could break him, get him killed. He’d learned the hard way that there was no place for emotions in a cold, cruel place like Carylim.

“Take care of yourself for me, Orla.” He said out of nowhere, pushing off the canopy side and adjusting the strap of his packed bag over his shoulder. “And when someone finally kills Father, make sure they don’t run you over. Make sure that you’re allowed out, the proper things you deserve. Make sure that you have a life, a love”.

“I refuse to die in this room.” She proudly declared, rising off the bed and coming to his side as he made for the door. Orla rose up on her toes to reach his cheek and he might have bent towards her to save her some trouble.

She placed a kiss on his right one and said, “You are good,” Then she moved to his left to add another one there, her fingers grazing his chin, “You are light.” He thought she might have been done but she tilted his chin down so that she could reach his forehead and placed a gentle kiss there, too. “You are the White Knight, even if you think it means the opposite.”

Her words stuck him deeper than a mighty lance, plunged directly through his heart. He knew she meant no harm by them, the exact opposite as she stated and yet they still hurt.

His sister saw it, the flash of anguish that paired with that title. “Don’t let him beat you into something you’re not, Cas.” She said tenderly, stroking his arm in comfort.

Castil offered her a weak smile as he pulled the handle towards him, revealing the empty hallway as he peered out, glancing left and right as he checked for passing sentries or servants. “I always find a way to fight back, don’t I?”

“No,” Orla blurted out with a sad frown that made her look too depressed, too bleak, “You don’t.”

It chilled him that the sibling that he saw less than the others saw straight through everything.