by Elise Kova
Vi sat with her father, silent once more. They were both keenly aware of the fact that any movement or noise could, and likely would, be used against them in some way. Ulvarth’s efforts to lull them into a sense of security had come to an end. Vi turned into the salt spray splashing up against the side of the boat, allowing it to mist her face. She’d taken the time to rake her fingers through her hair and braid it. Her father had helped, knowing some of the more intricate plaits her mother usually wore. He had used a splash of water to slick his own hair back in the style he’d always worn.
They were a far cry from their regal personas, but it made Vi feel more put together and more like a princess. It made her feel less like some horrible sea goblin rising up from the muck to stumble through a gilded city.
The boat came alongside a dock that had a small army waiting. Ulvarth’s Swords were a group larger than Vi had previously given them credit for. She counted at least fifty, and that was excluding all the men and women who had been aboard Light’s Victory. She wondered how much of the whole militia of Meru was composed of the holy order—how many men and women were positioned in and out of Risen who reported to Ulvarth instead of the queen.
“My Lord.” A man sank to his knees. He wore a bright purple sash around his shoulders pinned with a medal that Vi had never seen before. Ulvarth held out his bejeweled fingers and the man reverently scooped them in his hands, kissing his knuckles for an uncomfortably long time. “We have made all the necessary preparations.”
Vi spared a glance for her father. Aldrik seemed calm and composed, but an uneasy panic was rising in her. But she knew everything Taavin had said about Ulvarth, who was not the calm, collected, respectful individual they’d been dealing with to date.
He was a monster.
“Good,” Ulvarth almost purred. Without so much of a glance back toward them, he started down the dock, a wave of knights dropping to their knees as he passed—as if he were a god. “Get them in irons for the parade.”
“Irons?” Vi blurted. Ulvarth paused. She didn’t know if she was glad or not he’d heard. But she had his attention now. “My lord,” she ground out the honorific, hating herself for every syllable. “We have complied with you without struggle. You said there would be no irons or gags.”
Slowly, Ulvarth crossed back to her. The assembled soldiers seemed to hold their collective breath. What set her heart to racing was their curious anticipation—as though they were about to witness a show.
“You did, didn’t you?” he said softly. “And I do thank you for making it very easy for me to get you here.” Vi narrowed her eyes as a satisfied smile crept across his lips. Ulvarth leaned forward, whispering in her ear. Vi barely resisted the urge to shove him away. “Now continue to be a good pet and I’ll let you keep your skin. I have hides of far more fearsome creatures than you hanging on my walls.”
He straightened away, leaving the strong smell of peppermint clouding the air in his wake. Ulvarth turned and Vi took a half step forward, fantasizing about shoving a blade right between the vertebrae of his neck. But the only blades drawn were pointed at her.
Four knights had closed in on her in a moment. Their weapons rested right under her chin. Ulvarth looked back with an amused smile.
“Muzzle that dog. She may bite the hand that’s feeding her.”
“Do not—” her father stepped forward as knights with irons approached. Vi grabbed his forearm, stopping him.
“I’ve endured worse, Father,” she said loudly. “I’ve endured worse and thrived while the people who forced me to endure it suffered.”
If Ulvarth heard, he gave no indication.
Outnumbered and out-manned, the knights were met with no resistance when it came to shackling them. A gag was pressed between Vi’s teeth. At least this one isn’t cold, she thought darkly. Two gags were too many, Vi decided; she was developing a preference.
As the knights pushed them down the dock, another vessel came up to a pier one slip over from theirs. A litter was situated on it—so heavy with gold that Vi was shocked it didn’t sink the boat. Twelve men strained to hoist it, carrying it off the boat and onto the docks so that the man within was never forced to have his feet touch the ground.
Taavin.
Drawn by an invisible tether, Vi stepped toward him. Arms restrained her. She struggled against them. Incoherent noises slipped around the gag in her mouth.
Taavin didn’t so much as look her way.
He was dressed in golden plate, a long cape draped behind him. A legion of knights maneuvered to surround him. Pennons flew at the front and back of his detail. Taavin kept his eyes forward, face passive. Were it not for the breeze ruffling his hair, Vi would’ve thought he was sculpted from clay, not flesh and blood.
“Move!” A knight shoved her hard and Vi stumbled, barely keeping her feet beneath her. “If you stop, or try to run, or fight, we will cleave you straight in two.”
Vi glanced over her shoulder at the man. He had golden hair and light brown eyes. He’d be plain, if not for the malice that permeated his very aura. She looked to her father, who stared back helplessly. He’d told her he’d endured much in his ascension to the throne, but Vi was left wondering if this could top it all.
Taavin was back in Ulvarth’s hands. She and her father were captive. Her mother and brother were still back on the Dark Isle, left very much in the dark as to their predicament.
What had she accomplished? What had every step of struggle and effort until now been for?
Horns blared, echoing a short, lively tune off the tall buildings. The knights arranged themselves into a single line, falling into place. At the front of the procession was Ulvarth on a white steed—easily the largest warstrider Vi had ever seen. Behind him was a stretch of soldiers, then Taavin—the Voice that gave Ulvarth the power to lead, the foundation of his unjust rule. Then another long stretch of knights, a gap, and Vi and Aldrik.
Behind them was another gap before more knights, who kept their distance as though they were tainted.
“Lord Ulvarth has returned. Rejoice!” A voice boomed from the front, magnified by some kind of magical or mechanical device. Vi couldn’t see which. “Lord Ulvarth has returned. Rejoice! The Goddess has smiled this day! Yargen’s children celebrate, for his mighty campaign has been successful! Thanks to Ulvarth, the Voice has returned to Risen!”
The proclamations echoed off every wall as they entered the city proper. The knights must have been keeping the populous at bay. Because suddenly they were inundated with people. Citizens stood in line, pushing against each other to get a better look at the parade.
“Lord Ulvarth has returned. Rejoice!” the crier at the front of the line continued. Vi would’ve guessed Ulvarth, not Taavin, was Yargen’s Voice, the way he was carrying on. “He has brought evil to justice. He has liberated the Voice from evil. He has recovered the Voice from the hands of those who would do him harm.”
It was then Vi realized they were talking about her. She saw the people surrounding her for the first time, their skeptical and angry faces glowering from the shadows of their marbled buildings.
“Those who have brought the plague? Justice! Those who turned our fields barren? Justice! Those who unleashed the Dark God Raspian? Justice!”
Vi looked over to her father. His jaw was set so tightly that Vi wondered how his teeth didn’t crack. His hands were balled in his shackles and fire crackled around them. But he kept his rage checked—for both of their sakes.
“She who took our Voice? Justice!” Cheers increased, the crowd chanting along, all crying for “justice.”
Vi kept her eyes forward, no longer looking at the people and their lavish clothes or buildings. She could hear their jeers without needing to see their angry eyes. She would let their vitriol slide off of her, just as her father was. She would follow his example.
Something wet and rotten-smelling crashed into her temple. Vi stumbled, more from surprise than pain. She felt the slime from whatever it was—food,
rotten food? Let it be rotten food—dribbling down the side of her face.
“Lord Ulvarth has returned. Rejoice!” the crier began anew, methodically repeating himself to the crowd.
It seemed all of Risen lined this wide road. All of Risen had come prepared with their best insults to levy and trash to throw. Vi and her father were pelted. The slimy, sticking, stinking things hurt less than the bottles and rocks—those Vi actively attempted to dodge. But the former coated her in yet another layer of grime.
Something particularly large smacked into her shoulder. This time she did stumble and falter. A knight grabbed her roughly, righting her.
“Keep going or lose your head,” he snarled.
Vi found her feet once more, looking to her father. His dark eyes were filled with all the sorrow of the world. Sheer agony covered his face, agony that compounded the longer he looked at her. But when he spoke, his words were strong and even.
“Keep that head high,” he dared to utter. “Even if you wear a crown of filth, you are still a princess of Solaris.”
They can’t take that away from you. The words were left unsaid, but Vi heard them with her heart more than her ears. She felt them—saw them, in every one of her father’s movements.
Vi straightened, holding her head high, and continued their slow march to the Archives of Yargen.
At long last, they crested the top of the final set of stairs, reaching a large square. The heavy irons had cut into her wrists, blood dripping down her fingertips. But Vi continued to hold her head high. The small act of defiance was all she could manage now.
The Archives of Yargen towered over her in a single spire. At its base, triangular buildings stretched out like points on a sun, connected by glass-topped, floating archways and walkways. Every building was nearly five stories tall—taller than anything else surrounding it. But even they were only half the height of the main column.
Vi craned her neck awkwardly, jaw aching. Smoke billowed from a ring of windows near the top of the spire. The Flame of Yargen. Which meant Taavin’s home—his prison—was just above that.
“Take him to the dungeons.” Ulvarth’s voice drifted back to her. The public had been pushed away from this square, leaving just Ulvarth and his small army.
Taavin was gone as well, but Vi hadn’t seen where they’d taken him.
“And bring the girl to me.”
The words took a second to register. It wasn’t until her father was being forcibly ripped from her side that Vi understood. She turned for her father. Vi screamed against her gag—more incoherent sounds.
In truth, she didn’t know if she had words at all. Her mind was pure rage, and the daze of such a new and overwhelming place, peppered with the sheer confusion of exactly how all this had happened.
Two strong arms closed around her, pulling her backward, hoisting her off the ground. Vi kicked her feet and thrashed. She was done being the polite princess. The masses were gone; there was no longer the need to represent the Dark Isle with regal pride, and Ulvarth’s Swords already thought her a monster. She would prove them right to defend her father.
Aldrik looked back to her, worry in his eyes. He still said nothing. How could he say nothing? She was the one wearing the gag, but he was the silent one. It was a level of self-control Vi had yet to gain.
“You have fight in you, don’t you?” Ulvarth stepped into her field of vision, blocking her view of her father. Vi twisted and struggled against the arms holding her, trying to catch sight of him again. But he’d been lost in the sea of golden armor, purple sashes, and cruel eyes.
She’d lost him again.
She’d lost her father.
Vi glared at Ulvarth. She’d show him how much fight she had in her. Fire crackled around her knuckles, popping underneath the iron biting into her flesh at her wrists. It didn’t take much for the iron to heat to a red glow under her white-hot flames.
Ulvarth covered the flames with his hand. She didn’t know if he had somehow smothered her fire—or if it was the sheer surprise of the motion that extinguished her spark. He leaned in, the thick scent of peppermint making her dizzy.
“Now, now, you’ve done so well. No need to fight.”
Vi would spit in his face if she could.
“Especially not since I’m willing to make a deal with you.”
Her body went still. Warning bells tolled violently in her mind. His mere proximity had her whole body aflame with caution.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A deal to save yours and your father’s skins?” Ulvarth waited long enough that it became clear he was waiting on her. His mouth twitched into a brief grimace, but he kept his composure. “Well?”
Vi nodded begrudgingly, and the sinister smile returned.
“Good, I thought so.” Ulvarth leaned away. “Take her to my throne,” he commanded the knights holding her before starting off ahead.
Vi was all but dragged behind him, ushered into the shadow of the Archives of Yargen, through the lofty stone archway, framed by two open doors.
And into the Light of Yargen for the first time.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Archives of Yargen were barely comprehensible. They should be an impossibility. Surely a place like this couldn’t exist.
Vi forgot her body for several blissful minutes as she was half-carried, half-dragged through the ground floor of the Archives. She was too distracted by the shelves on shelves on shelves of books. Surely, every piece of knowledge that ever existed was compiled and packed into the overflowing bookcases that lined the spire all the way to the top.
Rings of walkways—connected by stairways and ladders—spread out at varying intervals all the way to the top. At the summit, a brazier hung over the center of the room, larger and more opulent than any Vi had ever seen. Several archways extended from the bookcases to support it, with chains hanging from points on the ceiling to further secure its suspension above the center of the tall, hollow room.
She squinted at the flame. It was so bright that it lit the whole of the Archives like daylight, even though there were no other light sources positioned among the bookcases.
Underneath her feet was a tiled floor of mother-of-pearl mosaic grouted with gold. At the center, directly under the flame, was a large golden sun. At the sun’s center was an intricate engraving of a glyph Vi recognized from the coin Charlie the pirate had used to pay at the tavern. It was the same glyph she’d seen carved in the trees in Soricium—three interconnected circles, stacked vertically with a line through their center.
“Keep moving.” One of the knights shoved her and Vi stumbled forward.
They led her across the room, directly under the flame. From where Vi stood, it seemed massive—and she was at least ten stories beneath it. Vi couldn’t fathom its size up close. Even from here, she could see sculpted women fanning outward and linking arms to hold the main basin with their frozen, reverent faces.
Above the flame was a stone ceiling—likely the floor of Taavin’s room. His prison.
She had no further opportunity to study the Archives as the knights led her through a side door tucked between bookcases. They wound up a narrow stair sandwiched behind the bookshelves, illuminated by glowing stones—not unlike those in the Twilight Kingdom—and emerged in a hallway through one of the soaring arches she’d seen connecting the main archives to the pointed buildings fanning around it like sun rays. Through another carved and gilded door they went, into what Ulvarth had aptly described as a throne room.
He sat on a chair of gold, plush with purple velvet. A sun rose up from the back of his chair, its points giving the illusion of a crown on his raven hair. A sash was draped over his shoulder and he wielded the crystal scythe in his right hand. Just the sight of him holding the glittering weapon made her feel ill.
“Kneel.” The brown-eyed knight who’d been manhandling her kicked the back of her knees. Vi fell hard, biting against her gag to keep back a shout of pain. “You’re in the presence of High Lord U
lvarth, Lord of the Swords of Light, Destined Savior of Meru and Champion of Yargen.”
Ulvarth’s hateful eyes glimmered as he looked down on her. Vi had no doubt that while he didn’t respect her land or people, he still delighted in seeing a princess brought to her knees before him. And a man that delighted in debasing others was a man who could never be trusted.
“If I remove your gag, do you promise not to try to use magic against me?”
Vi thought about it for a long moment and eventually nodded. He’d said something about offering her a deal, and she wanted to hear him out. Taavin was still at play in all of this. He wouldn’t betray her, Vi’s heart insisted for a countless time.
“Remove her gag, leave the shackles, and get out,” Ulvarth commanded his knights.
“My Lord—”
“I did not ask for your opinion,” Ulvarth said smoothly, almost lightly, as though he was making a passing suggestion and not levying a very obvious threat.
The knight removed her gag and left, closing the door behind them. Vi listened for their footsteps—they promptly stopped just beyond the door. Maybe she could kill Ulvarth, but she wouldn’t make it out alive.
“Are you thinking of killing me?” he asked with a surprisingly smug grin.
“It’s tempting.” Vi rose to her feet.
“You won’t make it out alive.”
“So I gathered. It’s still tempting.” Vi gave him a mad grin. Perhaps she was mad for talking to him the way she was. But Vi had seen the death that was coming for her, and knew she wouldn’t die here.
“Do you wonder why you’re not dead yet?”
She doubted he’d believe her if she said she knew it was because she was currently fated to die fighting Raspian with the scythe he had his filthy hands all over. “I have the distinct feeling you’re about to tell me.”
Ulvarth lifted the scythe before slamming it down on the dais. The low thud was a cue and, on command, Taavin emerged from behind the throne. He wore the same finery she’d seen him in on the litter—gold and white. They were the Solaris Imperial colors as well, and for half of a second her treacherous mind wondered what he would look like as a Solaris Emperor, ruling at her side.