Page 46 of The Veil of Hollow Gods

I stand on the stage, staring at those bone-white flowers twisted around themselves. Two choices.

Take the crown. Or not.

Bend to their will. Or burn it all down from here.

Shadows collect at my fingertips, and the crowd notices, shifting in their seats, murmuring amongst themselves.

I have the crowd.

I could use that. Blanket the room in darkness and incite a riot. Tear everything down with blood and teeth.

Or…

I stare at the blue-robed woman—her face too young to be so hardened.

I could take their crown. Let this woman put it on my head and undo what they’ve made from the inside. Uncoil all their springs, all their systems slowly, permanently, so nothing can ever grow from its bones.

The woman steps closer, and I put a shadow-wreathed hand out, stopping her.

“If you put that crown on me, it’s the last thing you’ll ever do. ”

Shadows spin out from me, from the walls, ringing my limbs, flowing down my back in waves of silken softness.

I feel them against my forehead, in my hair, making me a crown of their own.

Varek, the war king, shoots off his ass. “What are you doing? Crown the ungrateful bitch!”

It’s barely a thought in my head before the shadows barrel toward him, covering the bloody, scarred king in darkness.

A noose of darkness loops under his chin.

And I feel more than see Tyr’s approval.

The other kings stay seated, watching carefully—the Withered King, especially. And while the new councilwoman shrieks, the other members rise, hiding behind their bench.

Bloodthirsty awe lights every face in the crowd, though they’re still mindful to stay out of the shadow’s path.

“Would you all like to wager on who survives this encounter?” I ask them as I string Varek up higher.

He fights the tendrils around his neck, pulling and rending at them with claws sprouted from his fingertips.

“Shadows don’t bleed, War King.”

Spittle flies from his lips as he curses me.

And I laugh.

“Amara!”

Lorien’s voice is sharp over the others. Sharper than fits his cultivated persona. I snap my attention to him.

“What is it, Maggot King?”

He smiles, and I don’t like the cut of it at all.

“Look,” he hisses, nodding toward the back of the room, and the word sends a chill down my back.

I oblige him .

Standing in the center aisle, hollow-gazed and pale, is Sinea, holding a dagger to her own throat.

“Let Varek go, or Sinea takes her own life.”

My heart stops.

The world stops.

Even the shadows stop undulating.

“Sinea! Put the blade down!”

She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look my way. Just stares, unseeing.

“Sinea!”

Lorien steps closer but still keeps his distance from my shadows.

“She can’t hear you, girl. Now, put the king down, take your bloodied crown, and stop being a petulant child.”

The blade trembles at her throat, drawing the smallest smear of blood.

I swallow.

Lower my arms.

And I let the king fall to the floor, the shadows re-spooling into the walls, into me.

Varek coughs, his purple face now only red as he rubs at his throat.

He doesn’t look at me.

Nor does Tyr.

“There. Now.” Lorien tugs on his brocade jacket and clears his throat. “Isn’t that so much better? Easier?”

A maggot falls from his cheek to the floor in front of me.

“Sinea, go back to your chambers,” Lorien says smoothly, and she lowers the knife and walks out of the ballroom.

“It’s much easier if you just follow the rules, girl.”

I hold back the snarl building behind my teeth.

“Now, Madam Councilwoman, please proceed. ”

She glances at the other council members, still crouched and hiding behind their bench.

“Now!” Lorien snaps, and I swear the word rushes by my skin like a spell.

The woman walks to me, too fast, too jerky, and puts the crown of flowers on my head.

I catch Tyr’s gaze, finally looking at me.

But all I see is horror.

Lorien grabs my hand, and when he does, a shudder crawls up my arm. Revulsion, yes, but something else too. “Gentlefolk, may I introduce this season’s Maiden. Amara DeTiri!”

The crowd has no reaction. They only whisper to each other, as before.

Lorien wrenches my hand upward once more. “Amara DeTiri!” he shrieks, and the audience finally gives him the applause he’s begging for.

I say as much.

Rather desperate for their approval, aren’t we?

I say it with my voice. My mouth moves, and I feel the vibrations in my throat.

But no sound comes from me.

Lorien smiles at me, rotten flesh sagging around his rotten teeth.

“And now you see, girl. You were never the prize. Only the lever.” He leans closer, stinking rancid breath hot on my face. “The shadows may have crowned you first. But now you’ve taken your rightful place as the true Maiden.”

He pauses and grips my jaw tight. “We don’t crown power. We bind it.”

Tyr rises, slowly.

Power radiates from him, and with a wave of his hand, I’m gone .

Shimmered back to?—

His bedchamber.

Not mine. Not somewhere neutral. But his bedchamber.

I’ll think about that later.

Because right now, the only thing that matters is that the shadows, like my voice, are entirely silent.

They don’t watch. Don’t coil at the edges of the room in wait.

I go to the aetherglass mirror at the far end of his large suite.

No shadows ring my limbs. Nothing sits atop my head except that unsightly twist of flowers.

I rip it off and scream at the reflection before me. But as before, no sound makes it out of my body.

What am I meant to do with no voice?

Lorien.

Lorien.

He stole my voice, my shadows, and possibly my attendant.

I pace the length of the large room, trying to figure out my next move. Tyr sent me here, presumably because he felt it was safest.

But that doesn’t mean I have to stay here.

I go to the door, praying to the Dama it’s not locked. The handle turns easily, and I let out a sigh and step onto the sigilweave.

Nothing happens, despite picturing who I wanted to see in my mind. I try again, focusing harder. I try my voice on last time.

Sinea!

And nothing .

No sound. And like the shadows, all of Shadowfell’s secrets are lost to me.

I squeeze my fists so hard my palms sting where my nails dig in.

And then I walk the halls I’ve learned so well over the weeks I’ve been here. It’ll take me very nearly an hour to reach Sinea’s room.

The halls are silent—but not like before.

This silence feels soulless. Like even Shadowfell is holding its breath.

It’s a foolish thought.

But I believe it anyway.

Tyr’s bedchamber is in the northernmost tower, which isn’t the highest tower in the keep. No—that honor belongs to the Maiden Council. But I still have to descend the entire tower, cross the main floor all the way to the west side tower where the attendants’ chambers are.

I take the steps two, sometimes three, at a time until I’ve worked up enough momentum that I’m nearly flying down the circular stone staircase.

About halfway down, I worry I won’t be able to stop once I hit the main floor.

I’m not even all the way through the thought— I’m going to break something —when I collide face-first into a demon’s chest.

I don’t see who, only feel the impact, and him grabbing me by the tops of my arms.

“Silly girl. Running from Tyr’s private quarters, I assume.”

I stiffen and push Lorien away from me.

I should have smelled you coming. How is it, of all the demon kings, you’re the only one that actually smells worse than he looks ?

He smiles, and it takes a considerable effort not to look away. “I see that acerbic brain of yours spinning its little wheels, but what’s that?” He taps his ear. “I can’t quite hear you.”

I curl my lip at him, and if I could have, I would have growled at him. Instead, I shrug and twist my shoulders, aiming to get myself free of his grip.

Lorien doesn’t budge. His fingers grip that much tighter.

I stare up at him, letting him see exactly what I would say in my gaze.

And then?—

His mask is back. The beautiful Golden King whose brilliance I once found so enchanting, so intoxicating.

I can no longer see through it.

So fast, the world around us blurs as he spins us, shoving me against the obsidian wall. I hiss as the sharp edges sink into my skull and shoulders.

“Stay in your cage, little Maiden,” he drawls slowly, smiling the way a wolf might mimic a man—knowing the shape, but not the meaning.

It makes the hairs on my neck stand, the muscles in my legs twitch, readying to flee.

I want to look away.

But I don’t. I stare right back into those cold blue eyes.

And spit on his lovely face.

Lorien stills.

And he doesn’t wipe the saliva away.

He only bores into my soul with those dead, hollow eyes.

“Get off of her, Lorien.”

I’ve never been so happy to hear the Withered King’s dry, papery voice.

But Lorien doesn’t budge .

And I don’t take my eyes off him for a second.

“You must abide the laws, Lorien,” the Withered King says with an air of finality that might have also been boredom.

Something in the demon king shifts. It’s tiny, hardly more than a change in light.

He pushes my shoulders into the wall again, as if he means to skewer me on the jagged stone, before finally releasing me.

“Tyr might think he’s won,” he says as he steps back. “But we all know how the cycle goes,” Lorien says before disappearing in a shaft of golden radiance.

I take a breath and finally meet the Withered King’s eyes.

Except…

He doesn’t look like the Withered King at all.

Only the voice and the silver eyes…but the regal gauntess? The sense that he might blow away in a plume of dust if the wind stirred too hard—gone.

Replaced entirely by…

Youth.

I can’t help reaching a hand toward his cheek. Smooth and chiseled. Deep tawny skin stretches over a sharp jaw and prominent cheekbones.

I furrow my brow, asking with my eyes.

The king clasps my hand in his, removing it from his face.

“You’ve always seen through our magic. All of ours except for Tyr’s, anyway.”

I wrinkle my brow further, indicating I’d very much like him to continue.

“Come, walk with me,” he says, offering me his arm.

I do, and I lead us toward the attendants’ chambers .

“I must tread carefully. There are things we are not permitted to say. But it was clear from the start you possessed some bit of magic—enough to see through my mask and all the other kings’ as well.”

All except for Tyr’s. Tell me about that!

“Lorien’s was harder. Tyr had to show you first before you could see your way through his.” The Withered King?—

Should I give him a new pet name now?

“But now that Lorien’s locked your power, your voice away, I suspect you’ll start seeing many things as they were meant to be perceived, not as they truly are anymore.”

I stop, pressing my mouth together tight. He’s not answering the question.

With a single finger, I draw a serpentine line down my face, starting at the corner of my eye.

The king looks at me.

I make the motion again.

“Oh, you want me to guess?”

I nod.

The king straightens. “Ah, cry?”

I shake my head.

“Sorrow?”

I shake it even harder.

“Tear, then?”

I smile and nod.

“As, I see. You want to know where Tyr is. After he shimmered you away, he had to remind Lorien of the rules of engagement. Using Sinea that way was a violation, and he had to deal with it.”

I suck in a deep breath.

That was not what I wanted to know, but I couldn’t think of a better way to ask without words.

And we continue to Sinea’s room .

About halfway there, the king says, “You know, if you tell me where you’re headed, I can shimmer us there.”

I pause, taking his hand, and draw a big letter S on his palm.

“Is that an S?” he asks.

I nod.

“Your attendant? Sinea?”

I nod harder.

“I can take you to her room.”

I nod so hard my head hurts.

And a moment later, I’m standing in front of her door.

I push it open and?—

It’s empty.

Identical to mine. To Selke’s. To Sevigny’s and Ashera’s.

I enter, looking for something that might tell me where she is, and I spy a scrap of paper on her night table.

Folded in half with intention, ripped at the edges like it was torn from a book.

The only thing on the page is a poorly drawn horse.

But as poor as the drawing is, I know exactly what it means.

Because I’ve only seen one black horse with a white-ghost face in my whole life.

I show it to the Withered King.

“The stables, then?”

I nod.