I fold my arms and turn away from him and the too-bright sunlight. “So now you want to act like my father. Too late, I’m afraid. And after the help you offered me last night, I’m definitely better off taking care of myself.”
“That’s unfair,” he says quietly, and the hurt in his voice stabs at me. “You know they have your mother. They have you. I can’t—”
“Can’t step out of line, can’t fight back, can’t do anything, I know.”
He’s silent for a few heartbeats. “What would you have me do?”
“I don’t know. Something!”
“Something isn’t always wise, Rovan,” he says. “You don’t understand—”
“I understand that you’re not the man who was taken from Mother and me years ago.” He stares at me in shock, but I hold his gaze as I add, “That man is dead. That little girl is dead, too, so it’s best we just get used to it.”
He flinches.
Finally, he says, “Maybe you’re right. In any case, you won’t like what I’ve come here to say, so I’ll just be out with it. You are expected to attend lessons, social engagements, that sort of thing. You’ve already missed an appointment this morning.”
My mouth drops open. “Goddess forbid I miss my social engagements. You know what, the crown prince can roll up the schedule he’s made for me and eat it. I hope he chokes.”
“Yes, you’ve made your preferences on that quite clear. But you should know that after last night the crown prince is no longer—”
“Crown prince this, crown prince that. Even if you’re not one of them, you do like to go on about them. I plan to ignore the lot as much as possible, like normal.” I haul myself upright, but instead of moving for the washroom or anything more useful, I fall back on the bed. “You know, sometimes doing nothing can be effective. I’m going back to sleep.”
“Rovan,” my father says a little desperately, “you can’t just stay in here.”
“What, are they going to torture me for skipping lessons? And if I can thwart even their smallest plan for me, or even make their day slightly less pleasant, then I will. It’s the least I can do,” I add, before dragging a pillow over my face to block out the light. “Close the curtains on the way out.”
A few moments later, I hear the swish of heavy fabric and the soft thud of the door. I don’t bother to check that he’s left.
* * *
I can swear my father hasn’t been gone longer than a few minutes before I hear the door open again and another voice in the room, startling me.
“Are you awake?” The source of the voice moves to part the curtains with a flourish.
“Japha?” I groan, sitting up so fast my head swims. I throw up a hand to shade my eyes.
Japha stands in a shaft of sunlight, wearing a lovely floor-length peplos of bright orange woven with red and white poppies, the same orange painting the lids of their eyes along with a dark line of kohl. They’ve belted the garment with a leather pteryges, like a male warrior would wear over a shorter chiton.
“Hello, my dear.” There’s a pause, and then Japha fans a hand in front of their face. “One thing’s for sure, you need a bath. It reeks of booze in here. Are you ready to wash and get on with your day yet?”
“No,” I say, dropping back onto the bed.
“Fine, I will entertain you in the meantime.” Japha sits in the chair near the rose desk. “Let’s see, what news do I have … Well, the old king, Neleus, is dead. My uncle, former crown prince Tyros, is the new king, so long live the king and all of that.”
“Hurrah,” I rasp, staring at the leafy canopy as my hands clench at my sides. That’s probably what my father was trying to tell me. In the wake of everything else, the death of one king doesn’t mean much to me, only that a man I hate is now even more powerful.
“My thoughts exactly. The old codger chose to fall on his sword instead of drink hemlock or let sickness take him. Hard as nails until the end—though only Uncle Tyros witnessed that in the necropolis, so maybe he’s putting a valiant spin on it. Can’t say as I’m sorry to see the old man go, other than it means my cousin Kineas is the new crown prince. The evil squid.”
I snort with enough force to jerk my shoulders against the bed. “Squid?” Although the sea ice is freezing along the coast from the blight, there’s still one channel out from the port and under the veil to the deeper ocean for traders and fishing boats. I’ve seen plenty of squid in the market: sad, pale, limp little creatures when out of their element. Imagining a squid with Kineas’s face makes me laugh despite myself.
Japha says, “He’s a slippery one, quick to strike with those tentacles of his, whether it’s to stab someone with a sword or snare some poor unsuspecting girl. Slimy might be the better word.” They give an audible shudder. “I’ve heard more than rumors. Accusations of violent treatment in his bed and even word of some commoner girls gone missing, all of which are quickly silenced with heavy purses and likely heavier threats.”
I sit up, squinting at them, or maybe wincing from the pain. “Do you really dislike your cousin, or is this all some sick game to win my trust?”
Japha meets my gaze. “I would like to win your trust … but with the truth, if I can. And what you need to understand now is that everyone here is playing some sort of game, sick or otherwise, and you want to be on the winning end as much as possible. I think we would make fine teammates.”
I scowl as my hands twist in the blankets alongside me. “This is my life, and it was just ruined, my mother has been taken captive, and … my father…”
I don’t know what to say about my father, really. I should be thrilled he’s alive, but it’s all so much more complicated than that. I still want my father, but the father who was taken from me nearly thirteen years ago.
“What do you think happened to me three years ago?” Japha rejoins. “My mother wasn’t spared, either. She was a princess, and yet she died all the same to give me this thing.” They lift their red-patterned arm. “I also lost my little sister in that particular game—Selene. She was supposed to inherit the bloodline at twenty.”
Here’s the story I wanted to hear last evening. Now I’m not so eager, but I make myself ask, “What happened?”
“She killed herself,” Japha says bluntly, “to avoid the bloodline, or because she felt she wasn’t a good enough bloodmage, or maybe she was just sad—we’ll never know. With no one else to inherit my mother’s bloodline, they turned to me. They’d ignored the potential in my blood because I trained as a warrior. I failed magnificently at that, so after my sister died, they tested me again and found I was actually a much stronger bloodmage than she had been. Suddenly I made sense, because they found a purpose for me, some way for me to fit into their plan … twisting who I am against me.” Japha scoffs.
I open my mouth, and then close it. “I’m sorry.” The words seem inadequate.
Japha plucks at their armored, flowery gown. “No matter. I’m still here, still me, despite what my skin looks like. Red.” They tsk, glancing at their arm in disdain. “It clashes with so much of what I wear.”
I wish I could just make the best of my situation, but I can’t just sit back and hope. “The crown prince—”
“You mean the king?”
“Him, yes. Tyros. He said he had plans for me, and mentioned something like broodmare in the same breath, the shit-eater.”
Japha chortles. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard a king referred to in quite such terms.” They hesitate. “I’ll help you, however I can.”
I hold their orange-and-kohl-lined eyes. “Why?”
Japha shrugs. “Because you need help. Your father, frankly, doesn’t have the strength to do it.”
I suppress a wince, even though I know it’s true. “Why you, though?”
“You’re a wildflower in a garden of rose-covered thorns. And maybe because I get daily reminders, even now, that I don’t belong, either.”
“That doesn’t mean I can trust you. You might just be out
for yourself. And you led me into that lions’ den.”
Japha cocks their head. “At the banquet, you mean? Delphia is harmless. Lydea less so, but she actually likes you.”
I can’t help my flush, and I wonder if Japha knows about the kissing.
They don’t seem to notice, continuing, “Kineas … just forget about Kineas for now. Forever, if you can.” They stand from the chair in a rustle of orange linen and leather skirting and busy themself straightening their attire in the rose desk’s mirror. “I hate him, but he’s now our crown prince, and there are some things we must suffer with grace. Or at least with excellent clothes and makeup and underhanded insults.” They spin back around, hands on their hips. “So get out of bed and help me suffer in the best way possible, and I will do whatever is in my power to help you do the same.”
“Ah,” I say with a short, bitter laugh. “You just want me to attend all my lessons and social engagements and whatever other horror awaits me, just like everyone else.”
Japha throws up their hands. “I can’t win with you, it seems. I truly want your company, but I’ll tell you a different truth: If you cooperate, your mother will be released after a time deemed suitable proof of your dedication and given a monthly stipend to support herself in peaceful retirement.”
I gape. “Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?”
Japha shrugs innocently. “Maybe I thought you would want a friendly face that came without bribes or threats.”
Cooperating may well be worth it if it means at least one of us—my mother—can be free. That will be worth sacrificing my own freedom.
At least until I find a way to escape.
Still, I shake my head slowly, not willing to give in so soon. To seem weak. “I have no friends here. My father has made that clear enough.”
“Are you sure?” Japha bats their lashes, and I can’t help but roll my eyes and smile. Their expression grows serious. “Your father has never trusted anyone in the palace enough to make a friend. Or maybe he felt too guilty.”
Guilt has been my closest companion, my father told me.
“But I want to be your friend, Rovan,” Japha continues. “Which means I won’t lie—whatever is coming for both of us isn’t going to be pleasant or easy. But I’d rather face it with someone than alone. Anything shy of a death sentence, we’ll deal with.”
They hold out their hand. Despite my reservations, I feel hope for the first time since getting dragged into the Hall of the Wards.
As I reach out, my eyes catch on Japha’s bloodline. I dare ask in the lowest possible voice, “Is there some way to … escape this? Maybe—”
Japha seizes my hand and hauls me up from the bed so hard I fall into them. They wrap their other arm around my waist to steady me and bend their head to my ear in the same motion, whispering, “Not out loud. They’re always listening. Write it.”
Great, I think. I can’t write.
Maybe some lessons are a good idea.
“Whatever comes, we’ll survive,” Japha says louder, clapping me on the back before releasing me. They add with a hard, little smile, “Well, until my bloodline kills me. At least you don’t have to worry about that. Yet.”
Which makes me remember: My father has said it’s not his bloodline that’s killing him. Bloodmages in Skyllea aren’t suffering the same fate. Something is wrong with Thanopolis, and it stinks of death. Maybe while I’m trying to survive life in the palace and find a way to escape both its walls and my guardian, I can also try to discover what’s happening, so my father can survive his bloodline, too.
And then perhaps we can all escape Thanopolis—my father, my mother, and even Bethea or Japha if they want.
First and foremost, I need to at least pretend I’m cooperating until I know my mother is safe and comfortable. And as much as I hate my guardian, I can’t entirely ignore him anymore, not if I want to learn as much about him as possible: where he comes from, how he’s bound to me, how he holds such power over his wards …
And then I need to lose him.
I also need to talk to Japha. They may know things I don’t, and what’s more, they may actually tell me.
“Is your guardian here?” I ask, my tone merely curious. “I’m still not used to mine.”
Japha tosses their head. “Damios is over there, sulking in the corner.”
I squint. I can’t see much more than heavy shadows that might already be there. “I’m not sure where mine went. Dead man?”
He appears in the opposite corner, arms folded. “I’m here.”
He looks wary. He also seems oddly aware of the other guardian’s presence without actually acknowledging it. Interesting. Maybe guardians are so used to working alone that they’re territorial and prickly in another’s presence, like cats.
“Just checking,” I say. “I knew it was too much to hope that you might have gone for good. Anyway, carry on being dead.”
Japha laughs merrily. “Do you know, I make mine help me pick out the day’s outfit? Damios hates it, which is half the reason I take so long. But if he doesn’t give me his opinions, then it never ends. I must make warding me an actual chore so he feels pride in doing his duty.”
“That’s an idea,” I say, smiling sweetly at the dead man as I head for the washroom. Japha’s right. I do stink of booze.
The dead man merely stares back at me over folded arms as I pass. But then I hear his low murmur behind me: “Rest assured, warding you is chore enough already.”
I spin around only to find his expression as smooth as glass. I toss a rude gesture at him.
“Ooh, you have a spicy one, do you?” Japha says, intrigued. “What’s his name?”
“You know, I never caught it,” I lie, turning back to the washroom. “And since I can’t be bothered to ask, I think I’ll just keep calling him ‘dead man.’”
“Is he handsome?” At my horrified look, Japha demands, “What?”
“He’s dead.”
“If we have to stare at them all the time, they might as well be good-looking. Think of him like a vase or tapestry or some other bit of decoration.” Japha waits precisely half a heartbeat. “So, is he?”
“I hadn’t noticed that, either,” I say, meeting the dead man’s dark eyes. He’s absurdly handsome, but I’m not about to admit that.
His brow climbs ever so slightly. The look isn’t arrogant, like I imagine Kineas’s would be, or flirtatiously teasing like Japha’s. He’s just politely doubting my claim.
Japha sighs. “Mine is somewhat tolerable. Very regal cheekbones.”
“Barely tolerable is the most that can be said of mine,” I declare. I march the rest of the way into the washroom, banishing the dead man’s utterly perfect cheekbones from my mind.
10
Only a few days later, I’m cursing the hope that got me out of bed and made me willing to suffer. Because that hope has led me here, to this room—the dining room—with this woman, my new etiquette instructor. The gleaming marble columns and tree-trunk table, the plush rugs and intricately entwined plants don’t make her company more tolerable. At least Penelope and Crisea are blissfully away at their martial training, and my father in his office.
I’m no closer to discovering anything about guardians or bloodlines, or a path of escape. The dead man is avoiding me, as if he knows what I’m up to. I can’t write Japha. My other source of reluctant knowledge is my father, and he and I have barely spoken since the banquet. Perhaps he’s trying to give me space, or perhaps I’ve driven him away. If only I could be as effective at that with other people.
I’ve already endured a parade of endless servants arriving to clean and serve me, as well as tailors sent to me without invitation and who don’t leave as demanded. They’re apparently plaguing me by order of the new king, to make sure I’m properly outfitted in my new environment.
Broodmare, I keep hearing in my mind. And then Tyros’s worse threat: Think of her mother.
I can’t stop thinking about her. If
I can’t make progress anywhere else, at least I’ve been pretending to cooperate, for her sake. Never mind that the woman sitting across from me makes me want to tear out my hair.
“In writing,” she declares, “you address the king’s second cousin with the third honorific I mentioned—”
“I told you, I can’t write.” There are gold-whorled plates and glass goblets shaped like opening blossoms laid out in front of us, but without food or drink. They’re for demonstration of proper usage only … except for my orange-streaked goblet shaped like a lily, which I don’t allow to go dry for long.
“That should soon be remedied,” the woman says, scribbling on a piece of paper in front of her. I don’t know her name. I’ve made a point of not remembering, since it’s bad etiquette and it piques her. It’s the same tactic I’m using with the dead man. “You’ve already been appointed tutors in reading and writing, have you not?”
Oh, I have, and they’re almost as insufferable as her.
“You should really stop drinking so much,” my etiquette instructor says. “It’s unbecoming.”
My mother. Think of my mother. It’s a chant that keeps me going. I drain my cup, and then barely stifle a burp with my hand. “Excuse me. You were saying?”
I can almost swear I hear a dry chuckle from among the columns behind me. Have I amused the dead man?
The woman’s lips pinch even tighter, which is a feat. “I am quite sure you heard me.”
Without even a twitch of a finger, I weave my favorite sigil, move, into a pattern that I force into reality. A stream of wine rises from the half-full pitcher, curls prettily through the air, and refills my goblet. I lift my cup.
“The one benefit to this whole mess is that I have an endless supply of wine, thanks to the royal cellars, and I’m not about to give that up. It’s the only thing that makes your presence bearable. So, cheers.”
“How dare you?” the woman says. “After all the king has done for you, this is how you respond to his favor? As much as I’d like to leave you to drown in ignorance and in your cup, it is my duty to fulfill the task assigned to me. You must be ready.”
In the Ravenous Dark Page 10