Page 10 of The Bone King and the Starling
THE DOOMED
T he chief’s speaker may have been speaking through his arse when he told tales of the bounty of this place last night over King Calai’s feast, but one thing he did not lie about was the beauty of its women. In all the years I’ve known Calai — since we were boys, all rough and tumble, before we trained with blades made of steel and were content to prod one another with wooden sticks, thinking we were brave — I’ve never seen him react in such a way to a female.
Granted, I’ve never seen a female who looked quite like she does, either. My first thought was that she’d been stolen from some land in a raid, brought here by a boat, but not one of ours. If she had been, Calai would have seen her then and I would have remembered. So, I asked around and learned that it was the girl’s mother who was brought over by King Calai’s father on Calai’s very first raid as a boy.
Having glimpsed her in the crowd, one female among many, I’d been surprised that this was the female who’d so enchanted the king the previous night. Calai had hardly spared her a look in the light of day. I thought perhaps, he’d changed his mind. Then, dismounting his horse in the barns after completing his tour of the city, he’d turned to me and said, “She is even more stunning in the light of day.”
“Who?” I’d asked.
He’d given me an incredulous look. “My wife.”
I have learned as much as I can about her in the past day — knowing that females can bring males all kinds of trouble and I have no desire to see my king and friend betrayed or broken by one — only to discover a rather sad, short story about a young girl orphaned with no home. Waiting for her reward.
Ghabari is good.
He brought her a prize most sacred. For none will treat her better or protect her more fiercely than our king — that is, if he doesn’t frighten her away first. His intensity and violence are devils to be bargained with and one as soft as she could fall to them if she isn’t careful. If she isn’t clever. I know naught of her mind and have little faith that I’ll be given much occasion to speak with her privately to learn more about her thoughts than this opportunity I’m afforded now. I intend to use the moment to my advantage.
I ask several villagers for directions, and this morning, all know of whom I speak when I ask them for the female the king selected. Even those who were not in attendance at last night’s feast no doubt have heard the rumors already.
I am pointed in the direction of the kitchens. Preparations for first meal are well underway, with thralls and cooks streaming in and out of the structure built opposite the great hall on the town square. It is a squat, wooden structure with a patchy thatch roof and only two chimneys.
It looks far too small to accommodate the dozens of people bustling in and out of it — quite a few more than one would expect for a village this small. But I imagine that the feast the king supplied for the full three-day period would excite many. I don’t doubt there’s quite a bit of thievery going on as well.
The smell of baking bread entices me forward. I duck beneath the thick curtain as a portly man exits the building with staggering steps, hefting a large steel pot on his shoulder. Once inside, it doesn’t take me long to find her.
The two chimneys belong to ovens located on opposite ends of the space. I veer right and see her working diligently on her task, her long, dark hair shifting against her back in loops and curls with each thrust of her arms. Her hair looks more vibrant today than it did yesterday, oiled and glossy where yesterday her curls appeared limp and frayed. That pleases me. At least, in this small way, the king has demonstrated his commitment to caring for her.
I ignore the other people in the room and approach my queen from behind as she pulls a heavy wooden spatula from the depths of a stone oven and deftly maneuvers the much too heavy bread loaf onto the short table beside the oven.
I was seated beside the king at yesterday’s evening feast and, while she was on his lap facing away from me, I wonder if she caught a glimpse of my profile and might recognize me. I do not wish to frighten her.
She twists to the side, giving me a view of her profile, and I frown. The skin of her hands and feet glistens a lovely and robust shade of brown, but…why are her feet bare? I can see how her toes curl into the packed earthen floor, unshielded and filthy. Her hair may be adorned, but the rest of her is covered in dirt, soot and grease from her labors. She has sweat staining her shift around the collar and…gods.
My gaze drops down to her midback and, when her hair shifts to the side, my heart seizes in my chest. Dear Ghabari save us all. Is that…blood?
Standing four paces from her now, far too close, I struggle not to unleash a barrage of accusations — what the fuck is on her back and please, please for the sake of my own life and the survival of this entire village tell me that the blood droplets staining the back of her shift are not hers, but belong to someone else — but I don’t know what to call her. Your Highness? My lady? And confuse her likely more than she already is? I could call her by her name, but that feels blasphemous.
Instead, I settle for clearing my throat loudly once she’s successfully maneuvered the loaf off of the large wooden handle, and then once more for good measure. When she still doesn’t seem to realize I’m standing almost near enough to her to touch, I call out, “MISS.” I sound like an imbecile.
She turns, sees me and glances around, as if seeking help though truly, she has no idea. I should be the one seeking help. Because the left side of her face is purpling and there’s blood splitting her bottom lip. My gut drops through the ground directly into the depths of the underworld. Which is where I’m like to end before this day is through.
“Davral,” I whisper, hating and fearing this god more than most. The rumors say that the king carries Davral’s spirit and I know firsthand that those rumors are true. “Damn you.”