In the Ravenous Dark

by A. M. Strickland

  “Ready for what?” I ask, nervousness churning in my belly with perhaps too much wine.

  “About that,” Japha answers, sweeping into the dining room unannounced—a common occurrence of late, but one I appreciate. At their arrival, in a bright yellow peplos patterned in golden sunbursts and paired with a wide belt of bronze disks and matching bracers, I think, Thank the goddess, until they continue, “There is a grand ball tonight that everyone but me and my royal cousins were made aware of ages ago. It’s a surprise party for us, apparently. I’ve only just received word.” They sound none too pleased.

  “It’s not the good kind of surprise?” I guess, my stomach dipping further.

  Japha plants hands on hips as they come to a halt before me, utterly ignoring my etiquette tutor. “Not only do I have no time to plan my outfit, but no, I can’t imagine it’s the good kind of surprise. I’d guess, given my age and the lack of warning, it’s the sort that ends up with me betrothed to someone I detest. The same fate likely awaits Kineas and Lydea, since they’ve been equally kept in the dark.”

  “Betrothed? All of you? Now?” It’s hard to imagine Japha and Lydea married off, just like that, especially against their will. I couldn’t care less about Kineas, but if I’m about to be deprived of Japha’s company, I’m not sure how I’ll manage. And Lydea … I want to think less about why I’d rather she remain unengaged.

  “I don’t know for certain,” Japha says, “but my hunches are usually right. Lydea suspects the same. I haven’t bothered to ask Kineas what he thinks.”

  It strikes me as odd to be so secretive about an arranged marriage. “If you don’t have any say in the matter, why do they care if you have warning?”

  Japha waves a hand. “Oh, there have been dramatic protests in the past. Locking oneself in one’s room, swallowing hemlock, running away in the dead of night with a lover, that sort of thing. The latter would only work in dear Kineas’s case, since he’s the only one of us without a guardian shadowing him. If our guardians didn’t report our whereabouts at a time like that, then they would be in trouble with whatever underworld authority they answer to.”

  I should be focused on the horror of their imminent betrothal, but I can’t help asking, “Who do they answer to?”

  Japha shrugs. “I’m not sure. I would guess a king or something like we have. I don’t see why the pattern would change just because they’re dead.”

  The dead man did say he lived in something like a palace in the underworld, so that would make sense. Especially if this king of his was once a living king …

  I remember my father mentioning that the royal gallery is forbidden, and that the question as to why was a good one. Maybe there’s some clue there to how the whole guardian system works. I make a mental note to investigate.

  Maybe even try to break in.

  “I see,” I say, pondering. “But why announce your betrothals now, of all times? Seems like a rush after Old King Neleus was only just interred in the necropolis.”

  Japha shrugs. “The time is right for Kineas and Lydea and overdue for me. They’re twenty. I likely would have been betrothed by twenty under normal circumstances, but no one thought I was worth marrying off until I received the bloodline. And then, since my sister’s death, I’ve been stalling. We’re allowed a few years to mourn in extreme cases, but I think King Tyros has decided my time is up. I hear it’s common with new leadership for a few things to change in a hurry.”

  I don’t like the sound of that, especially considering the type of man the king is. But at least the focus isn’t on me for once. Not that I want Japha to be in that position.

  They frown. “It is odd, though. Tyros did seem to tolerate my … status … as neither niece nor nephew when he was the crown prince, whereas it was his father, Neleus, who disapproved of both me and the unusual situation with his two daughters and my father.” It’s the first time Japha has come close to admitting the affair aloud, and yet they say the words without hesitation. “I thought the only thing standing between me and a sudden betrothal, or a worse decree from my grandfather, was my uncle. But maybe this is a prime example of a new king trying to appease the old.”

  “Or maybe tonight has nothing to do with you?” I say.

  “One can hope,” Japha says, sighing, though they don’t sound convinced.

  “Do you have any ideas who you might be matched with, if your betrothal is to be announced?”

  My etiquette instructor, nearly forgotten at the table, nods sharply. “Is to be. Now that was proper grammar for that situation. You’re already improving.”

  Both Japha and I turn on her. She seems to shrink.

  “Do please get out,” Japha says cheerily. The woman leaves in a hurry, and Japha settles into the vacant seat. “I’m not sure who they’ll stick me with in marriage. Poor woman, whomever she is.” I open my mouth to object, but Japha continues, pouring some wine and meeting my eyes with their dark, kohl-lined gaze, “Not because I’m not excellent. I know I am. But the chances that a woman will be happy with someone like me are … slight, I imagine.”

  “Why a woman?” I ask.

  Japha rolls their eyes. “The same reason Lydea will no doubt be matched with a man even though she’s uninterested in them—tradition, heirs, blah blah.” They raise their glass.

  I smile, and then admit, somewhat sheepishly, “I’ve begun to wonder if they’ll stick you with me.”

  Japha chokes on a mouthful of wine, sputtering.

  “Would I be that bad?” I demand. “It’s just that I’m supposed to be a ‘broodmare’ for someone, and they married my father to the princess because of his bloodline, but maybe that’s not enough for me, the peasant…”

  Japha shakes their head quickly, wiping their mouth. “I’ve already been assured that this night holds nothing unfortunate for you. Besides the fact that we’re two loose ends who’d be conveniently tied up in such a pairing, we don’t make sense together because I have a bloodline and you will have one.” They smile slightly. “Anyone would be lucky to get you, but, alas, it’s not to be me.”

  I’m touched, but at the same time I feel an odd pang. I don’t want to be married to Japha against either of our wishes, but of all the combinations, it’s the least horrible. “I know two bloodlines can’t combine, but couldn’t we pass on both separately? Not that I’d want to pass one on to anyone, let alone my child. Or to even receive one myself.”

  “Me either, which is yet another reason they won’t put two rebels like us together. Especially after what happened with your father and my aunt—or rather, what didn’t happen. The main reason is that there’s generally only one child whose blood is worth anything, magically speaking. Two paired bloodlines mean one might die out, unless you’re interested in dalliances outside of marriage.” They shrug. “No one is willing to bet on that and risk losing a bloodline. Besides, bastards are harder to use, politically speaking,” Japha adds, taking another sip of wine and eyeing the table.

  I hear a strange noise over my shoulder and can’t help turning. The dead man stands there, leaning against a column, an odd look on his face before he wipes it clean.

  “Why is there no food?” Japha demands. They haven’t heard the dead man, of course.

  “The plates are for demonstration only, though I rebelled when it came to wine,” I say, facing forward. “Do you know who the match might be for Lydea … and for Kineas?” I mention him only so I don’t sound overly interested in his twin sister.

  Japha is busy glaring at the empty plates. “Lydea, no, though she’s as important and precisely placed as my mother, as both a bloodline and sister to the crown prince, and my mother married a famous warrior and heir to a kingdom. It was admittedly an abandoned kingdom, thanks to the blight, but one that still had plenty of displaced people who needed ruling. So whoever is chosen for Lydea will be equally grand, though I have no idea who it will be. Kineas, though … there might be someone more obvious for him.”

  It’s their tone that
makes me ask, “Who?”

  Japha toys with their glass. “It’s only speculation, of course. Helena is her name. Her line was once the ruling family’s, spun away a few generations ago. She’s still royalty, but distant enough that a match could be made. Well positioned, well bred, due to inherit a decently long bloodline in two years, and…”

  So she’s eighteen, a year younger than me. Poor girl. I wait. “And what?”

  Japha has an odd expression on their face as they stare over the long table, into the distance. “Helena’s beautiful. Even Kineas talks about how they would be suitably matched.” They frown. “Though he doesn’t deserve her.”

  I grimace. “And you like her? Or at least you respect her?”

  “She’s … innocent,” Japha says softly, “but there isn’t much to be done for her if she’s chosen for Kineas.”

  Poor girl, indeed. This has all reminded me that as much as Japha wants to help me, they only have so much power. Whatever comes, Japha had said, except we don’t have any choice about what that is, only how we can deal with the aftermath.

  As long as my mother is safe, I can survive anything, I hope. At least there’s always wine. I take another drink.

  Japha’s eyes follow me. “There’s no food, but there’s paper.” They slide the sheet my instructor was using closer, along with an inkwell and pen. “I’ve helped you with a couple sigils, so I can help you practice writing, too. Here, we can send each other notes about the worst outfits we see in a given day.”

  They scratch at the paper for a moment and then quickly wave it in the air to dry—much harder to read that way, if anyone is spying. They fold it and pass it to me.

  “Thanks,” I say, and tuck the paper against a plate. “Though I can’t write much yet.”

  Japha winks. “I’m patient.”

  I’m not. I need to learn how to read better and write quickly, or else figure out another way to communicate with Japha.

  “Anyway, what do you plan to wear?” they ask.

  “Hmm?” I say, tearing myself away from my conspiratorial thoughts.

  “You’re of course invited to the ball. And if not, I invite you.” Japha stands, straightening their sunny yellow peplos. “I, myself, am going to go get into something more fitting for the occasion. Darker.”

  “Good idea,” I say.

  I’m not going to hide. I am going to ensure my mother is safe, but I’m also going to look people in the eye as I plot to escape them.

  Japha moves for the door, but as they reach for the gilded handle, it suddenly opens. My father steps in. He lurches to the side after he nearly bumps into Japha, giving them a wide berth and a suspicious nod. Japha merely rolls their eyes and leaves.

  “What was Japha doing here?” he demands as soon as the door closes.

  “I’m not allowed to have visitors?” I ask. “Our mutual shadow didn’t prevent it, so I figured it was safe.”

  “Safe? This isn’t about what Ivrilos thinks is good for you, it’s…”

  When he trails off, I arch an eyebrow. “It’s about what you think?” I stand from the table. “Japha is doing more to help me than you are, so think again.”

  “They’re not your friend, Rovan—”

  “Excuse me,” I say, brushing by him to head for my rooms. “I apparently have a ball to get ready for.”

  “I—you’re going?” He sounds genuinely surprised.

  “Why not?”

  “My presence specifically wasn’t requested. I’m to stay here. To rest, apparently.”

  I glance back at him. He does seem tired. Or, hell, maybe Penelope just wants to enjoy General Tumarq’s company without her husband around, and so she pulled some strings.

  And maybe without my father hovering, warning me to keep my head down, I can discover more answers. I hoped he would be the source of some, but other than his cryptic advice to follow in his footsteps, he’s nearly been as tight-lipped as the dead man.

  “Good,” I say, making my voice hard. “You won’t even have to go anywhere to do nothing, this time.”

  I leave him standing over the table, looking somewhat lost even though he’s supposedly home.

  Home. This will never be my home. Because I’ll never let it become that.

  11

  The ball is taking place in a different room from the banquet that honored the old king. The space I step into now, arm in arm with Japha, is less like a traditional ballroom and more like the Hall of the Wards, except attendees arrive as if in a proper amphitheater, entering onto marble tiers that drop down to a central dais where some of the royal family stands for all to see, with huge windows as a backdrop. The white-wood window framing isn’t regular but like the branches of a tree against the sky, clear glass invisible in between. The ceiling is made of branching windows, as well. But since it’s an overcast night outside, the white wood and marble expanse feel cavernlike in the surrounding darkness.

  Unlike much of the palace, there isn’t any living greenery here. I shiver. It’s like a tomb. The only color is in the white marble under my feet, blue veined like exposed, pale wrists.

  “A bit much, isn’t it?” Japha murmurs.

  The two of us have arrived with Penelope and Crisea, but I’ve exchanged next to no words with anyone but Japha. Penelope and Crisea immediately seek out General Tumarq. I’m grateful that Japha sticks by me, otherwise I would have no one. And Japha seems grateful to have me. I can tell they’re on edge by how tight their fingers are on my arm.

  At least I have my own dress this time: black silk, twined in a blood-red strophion dripping with strands of rubies. A ruby-studded net catches up my blue-gleaming hair, all of it draped in black and red poppies. I’m still appreciating the blank look the dead man gave me as I was leaving my quarters. It spoke of disbelief. Now he’s being especially discreet, perhaps not wanting to set off my temper. I can’t decide if I’m relieved or frustrated, and then I settle on frustrated. He’ll no doubt appear in a hurry if I decide to toss someone across the ballroom.

  Japha stops, drawing me to a halt as well. “Brace yourself, but we should go pay our respects to King Tyros. It’s expected.”

  I follow Japha’s gaze down along the thronging tiers to the lowest level, where the new king stands on a raised marble dais carved like an open clamshell, and at his side, Kineas, the new crown prince. Both are dressed in extravagant blue himations, golden laurel wreaths on their heads—triumphant instead of mourning now. Lydea and poor Delphia are nowhere to be seen. The younger girl is probably hiding. As for Lydea, she’s probably off sharpening her daggers.

  I snatch the first goblet of wine I see from a passing silver tray and down it. I’ve frankly tried to forget about the princess and our kiss. I still can’t help but wonder how she’s dealing with the likely possibility of her betrothal … and then tell myself I shouldn’t care. I have enough on my plate.

  Handing off my empty glass to someone I’m not even entirely sure is a servant, I turn away from the dais. “Damn expectations and damn the king. I don’t care.”

  “I agree.”

  I nearly choke in surprise as Lydea slides up alongside me as silently as a shade, mirth and something more dangerous glittering in her dark eyes. Real-looking raven’s wings and thorny branches wrought in silver crown her black hair. A stole of black feathers lines her shoulders, from which falls a dress made of silver links, woven loosely enough that I can catch glimpses of the bloodline and pale skin underneath. Not that I’m looking—much. Lydea’s own gaze travels the length of my body, tracing black silk and ruby strands and leaving heat in its wake.

  “Mm, so you have a dark side as well, do you?” she asks.

  I struggle to recover from the sight of her, never mind the suddenly irresistible memory of our kissing. Lydea is flawless. Beautiful and deadly, she reminds me of the perfect, shining coils of a waiting snake. As with the dead man, I want to disturb her perfection. I summon a sardonic tone. “My life did just get upended.”

  Lydea�
��s smirk fades. “Indeed. I’m sorry about that.”

  “Are you?”

  She shrugs, uninterested in meeting my challenge. “As far as I’m capable.”

  My fists tighten involuntarily.

  Japha edges closer, between me and the princess, smiling brightly—an obvious diversion. “If you refuse to pay your respects to the king, Rovan, shall we dance?”

  Lydea squeezes Japha’s arm lightly. “I believe my rank surpasses yours, and so it is my right to ask Rovan for a dance.”

  My eyes widen in alarm.

  Japha laughs, but there’s an edge of nervousness in it. “You, dancing with a woman tonight, of all nights? People will talk, dear cousin.”

  “As if you were one to care about that,” she says, running admiring fingertips over Japha’s latest inspiration in formal attire: a dark teal strophion meant to define the female figure, crisscrossing over a copper breastplate shaped for a man, with a long wine-colored chiton underneath. A crown of teal flowers slowly blooms and refolds, over and over, atop their close-cropped hair—magic, of course, literally and figuratively. Lydea smiles wickedly. “Anyway, let them talk. If it is a question of who will lead … I will.”

  My heart speeds up. I don’t trust Lydea … and maybe I don’t trust myself.

  “Please, Rovan,” Lydea says, her voice low and husky. “It is likely my last night to be free. Fly with me.” She holds out a pale, slender hand, traced in red sigils.

  Is this flying? I remember asking her in a drunken haze.

  Like Japha, Lydea must feel the bars of a cage about to come down around her this evening. I see the princess’s headpiece—the branches tangling the raven’s wings, thorns pinning them down—in a new light.

  I take Lydea’s hand. As the princess leads me down along the tiers toward the ebb and flow of dancing couples in the low center of the room, I shoot a panicked glance back at Japha. They merely shrug, as if to say, You got yourself into this mess.