Page 61 of The Rebel and the Rose (The City of Fantome #2)
The grand ballroom at the Summer Palace was alive with colour and crowds and music.
And Sera was the guest of honour. High on the dais that occupied one end of the room, she sat in a velvet chair on the right-hand side of the king’s throne, which was empty.
Lark occupied the chair on the other side, dressed in his long crimson robe and that eerie golden mask.
Sera herself wore no mask. At Andreas’s instruction, she had been separated from Bibi and Val not long after they were ushered from their cells, then scrubbed until her skin was raw and dressed in a gown fit for a queen.
A gown that probably did belong to the queen.
Dyed the deep crimson of a winter rose, it hugged her corseted waist, before tumbling to the floor in delicate tiers resembling petals.
Her hair fell in loose ringlets down her back, swept away from her face with fine golden pins that better revealed the dark red of her lips and the kohl smudged around her eyes.
Yes, here was the beginning of the prince’s grand spectacle, and she was to be a part of it. The others milling about the ballroom might have looked upon her with envy if it wasn’t for the ruinous scowl on her face and the chafing ropes binding her wrists to the armrests of her chair.
‘Don’t dare try anything funny tonight,’ the stern-faced soldier had warned her before prodding her up the stairwell. ‘If you ruin this moment for Andreas, he’ll see to it that you suffer, Saint-maker or not.’
That she could well believe. But she’d made no promises to the soldier. She might be dressed like a dream, but tonight she had every intention of becoming the prince’s worst nightmare.
Seated and quietly seething, Sere scanned the room for her friends.
Minstrels were playing on the upper balcony, which ringed the sprawling ballroom.
The chequered floors were gleaming, the domed ceiling hung with glittering chandeliers, which were, in turn, decorated with bunting – cornflower blue and sunflower yellow of Valterre to celebrate King’s Day.
Banners adorned the cream filigreed wallpaper, glimmering faintly under the moonlight that streamed in through the tall arched windows.
At the other end of the ballroom, a pair of wide double doors sealed off a generous white-stone balcony that overlooked the South Sea.
The more she gleaned, the deeper her unease burrowed.
Though the ballroom was bedecked for celebration, unease hung thick in the air.
Judging by their gowns and finery, the guests here were clearly noble folk.
The king’s people – courtiers and confidants, wealthy merchants and traders, and favoured guests, come to celebrate his birthday – but they were plainly confused at his absence, and becoming anxious at the sheer number of guards that surrounded them.
The room was thick with soldiers. They paced by the dais and lined the walls, scanning the crowd with military attention.
Although they wore the colours of Valterre, the crest on their uniforms had been replaced by that of a single golden rose.
The prince’s symbol. An omen of what tonight would bring.
When she finally spotted Bibi and Val in the fray, Sera hardly recognized them.
They had been primped and preened to an absurd degree, their hair curled in tight ringlets and pinned high on their heads.
Bibi was wearing a satin emerald dress with a high, beaded neckline, while Val wore a deep purple sheath dress that expertly brought out the violet sheen of her hair and the dark fuchsia of her lips.
They were loitering to the right of the dais, trying to blend in with the other nobles – but it was Bibi, with her clear eyes and wringing hands – who stood out to Sera.
Pressing a hand to the secret bead of Lightfire she wore beneath her collar, she looked up at the empty throne and then back at Sera, a question rippling across her brow. What on earth is going on?
Suddenly, a horn sounded, casting a rippling hush over the ballroom.
As if summoned by the force of her curiosity, Prince Andreas arrived, arm in arm with his uncle.
The king was dressed finely, even wearing his ceremonial sash and crown.
Never one to resist a flair of theatre, Andreas had styled himself like a king too, wearing a high-collared golden frock coat inlaid with crimson filigree.
His thick hair fell in loose waves around his face, as bright and shiny as the high gold boots that covered his black trousers.
His grin was as wide as Sera had ever seen it, and there was a subtle malevolence in his expression he didn’t bother to conceal.
With a wave of his wrist, he ushered the king onwards.
King Bertrand IV lumbered onto the dais with slow unsteady footsteps, eventually seating himself with a laboured grunt.
He didn’t acknowledge Lark or Sera sitting on either side of him, nor did he seem remotely perturbed by their presence on the dais.
In fact, he didn’t notice them at all. Not that it bothered Sera.
He was plainly under the prince’s compulsion.
This was Andreas’s stage, after all, and these were his players.
As still as a statue on his throne, the king looked towards the balcony doors at the other end of the room, that blank gaze passing over his roomful of guests as though they weren’t there at all.
They began to murmur among themselves. Some even tried to approach the king but were shooed away by the soldiers stationed there.
Tucking his hands behind his back, Andreas made his way into the middle of the room. With mounting unease, the noble houses of Valterre parted to let him through.
The music ground to a sudden halt.
Eyes blazing gold, Andreas turned on the heel of his boot, looking over the gathered crowd. ‘Esteemed noble folk of Valterre and guests of the king, you will kneel on the ground until I say otherwise,’ he announced.
There was a fleeting breath of confusion, a simmering of outrage and then—
All across the room, guests fell to their knees like dominoes.
Only Bibi knelt a half-second too late, but mercifully the prince didn’t notice.
He was too busy enjoying the tide of frantic whispers, salivating over the unique terror he was sowing among the most powerful families in the kingdom.
A shudder passed through Sera as she read the anguish on the guests’ faces, how their spines stiffened and their fists clenched as they fought in vain against the prince’s thrall.
Licking his teeth, enjoying the view. ‘As it goes, I prefer my subjects on their knees in supplication.’
Monster .
Sera’s temper flared, stoking the well of her magic.
There is a wrongness in fate’s tapestry. A thread that does not belong , it whispered Saint Oriel’s words to her. You must pull it out .
Heart thundering, she strained against the ropes binding her wrists. They bit into her skin, leaving deep red welts.
His voice arcing, Andreas turned towards the dais.
‘Tonight, in celebration of my uncle’s birthday, we will welcome him into retirement and celebrate a new golden era in our kingdom.
Here sit the first members of my royal court.
My fiery Valterran rose, Seraphine Marchant, and the Hand of Death itself, Lark Delano.
My maker and her saint. The first of many more to come. ’
Murmurs of unease rippled through the crowd as the meaning of his words sank in.
‘Rot in hell, Andreas!’ The cry tripped off her tongue before she could help it. ‘Your silky words won’t work on me.’
‘We’ll see about that.’ Andreas moved to stand in front of his uncle. ‘Are you enjoying your farewell party, Uncle?’ he asked the stone-faced king. ‘It’s growing quite stuffy in here, is it not?’
The king gave no answer.
The prince snapped his fingers at a nearby soldier. ‘Open the balcony doors. Let some fresh sea air in.’
A moment later, the doors groaned open, revealing a breathtaking view of the moonlit South Sea. Marred by four hanging bodies.
Cries of horror filled the ballroom.
‘SILENCE!’ shouted the prince.
The nobles choked on their whimpers, at once wrangled into unnerving quiet. Sera recognized those hanging bodies, even from a distance. The king’s royal advisers. His silent quartet . How true that was now. The kills appeared fresh, the men dangling from the ledge above the doors by their necks.
Sera glanced at the king. His eyes had turned glassy, his skin so pale he looked bloodless.
‘Do you regret your callous treatment of me yet, Uncle?’ Andreas called out.
‘Your selfish disregard for your only nephew? Your barely contained disdain for my dear mother? All these years, you’ve held Valterre in the palm of your greasy hand, leaving the capital at the mercy of the twisted festering magic of Shade.
Content to sit in your palace and gorge yourself on your own people’s fear.
The tides of fate have changed. Valterre no longer bends its knee to greedy, cowardly kings but to blessed saints.
’ He canted his head. ‘Today, I will take what is mine.’
The king said nothing, only watched in passive silence as the prince crooked his finger. ‘Come. Give me your crown.’
Rising on trembling legs, the king stood like a puppet yanked on a string. He drifted down the steps towards his nephew. In one fluid movement, he ripped the crown from his own head and placed it on his nephew’s. It shone as golden as his eyes.
Andreas removed the sword from his belt and handed it to his uncle. Looking directly at Sera now, he crooned, ‘And now, your heart.’
There was a collective intake of breath.
The king hesitated, confused.
‘ Andreas ,’ hissed Sera. ‘If you do this, there’s no going back.’
Through his teeth, Andreas said, ‘Cut. It. Out.’