“Thank you, my lord,” she said.
He ran an absent hand over her shaved scalp. “But no one can know what you have seen. And you’ve been so forthcoming. I just know you’re going to tell someone else.”
“I won’t, my lord. Please. I’ll go to my grave with it.”
“That much is true,” he said. He touched her chin with a wistful expression. “I bet you were a beauty with your hair, weren’t you? In truth, you look much like the empress—” He stopped in mid-sentence. His brow furrowed, and his smile vanished. The Archon stepped away from her, stunned.
“Are you all right, my lord?” The Highblade asked, moving to the Archon’s side. The Highblade glanced at Adora suspiciously, as though she had cast a spell upon him.
“I’m fine,” the Archon said, shaking his head. He stared at her.
“What is it, my lord?” the Highblade asked.
“I’ve had a change of heart,” the Archon said at last.
“My lord?” the torturer said in a creaky voice, obviously disappointed.
“I want to kill her myself. Give me your dagger and leave us.”
“But my lord—” the stooped man protested.
The Archon held out his hand. “Wait outside.”
“Yes, my lord,” the old man said, handing his curved dagger over reluctantly. The Highblade opened the door and the two of them left.
When the door thumped shut and latched, the Archon came close to Adora again. His glittering gaze devoured her, moving from her eyes to her throat, down her body and back up again.
“Please, my lord,” she said. “I simply wish to go home.”
“Stop begging,” he whispered, his breath coming faster. “Royalty never begs.”
Chapter 31
Adora
The Archon didn’t listen to her protestations that she was just a bartender from Fairmist; he said nothing further. Instead, he left the room and his Highblade unshackled her and took her through quiet hallways to the Archon’s apartments. It had high marble walls, three open arches to the sea, and fluttering silk curtains. There was an immense, sumptuous bed to her left, lined with fat pillows. To her right was an archway that led to the baths. She had almost forgotten how spacious the palace was.
And the sunlight. As soon as the Highblade left, she went to the balcony and turned her face toward the sun’s warmth. It was a forgotten, beloved memory. Sunlight on her face. Sunlight every day, except when the storms rolled past Thiara.
She bowed her head, suddenly feeling the weight of her exile more than she had ever felt it before. Here she was, back in the palace, a demeaned, abused bartender in borrowed clothes. No longer a princess. No longer belonging to this grand place. A hundred times she had imagined herself staring down at the palace from a high point, seeing through the stone walls to where her father lay crumpled in shame for what he had done to her.
The double doors opened, and she drew a swift breath, tried to master her feelings. Where was the strong Adora now? Where was the woman who had learned everything the Order had to teach her with speed and determination, the woman who had consigned herself to death without cringing, the woman who had fought a slink to save Grei? Was she, at the heart of things, just a scared little girl?
A young woman entered and closed the double doors behind her, turned and dipped in a curtsey. She wore a short red skirt and a white tunic, open at the sides and cut low to her navel. Thiaran fashions changed constantly. This must be the latest.
A shapeless bag hung from a cord around her bronze shoulder, and she wore wooden shoes. Her shoulder-length hair had been oiled back in a swoop, curling outward at the very tips.
“A bath for you, my lady?” she asked, maintaining the deferent posture.
Adora didn’t say anything. The young woman remained at the doorway, her head bowed.
“Yes,” said Adora. She had to calm her thoughts. There was always a way. Even the darkest night had a ray of light somewhere. She had to find it, had to follow it until she found daylight once more.
The woman nodded and preceded Adora through the archway. The bath was sunk into the floor, red tiles bordering it in the wide expanse of white marble. There was already steaming water there. It looked divine.
Adora peeled away the bandage on her face. The cut had scabbed on her cheek, and she touched it gently.
She stripped off her borrowed tunic and the riding breeches Galius had procured for her at the first Highblade station in Felesh and stepped into the hot water, sinking slowly up to her neck as she closed her eyes and leaned back. The marble felt cool against her bare scalp. She had had baths almost every day while living at the Order House, but nothing like this. This was paradise. This was what she remembered.
It calmed her nerves, and when she opened her eyes she felt more like herself. All this—her capture, her near torture, her wound and disfigurement—they were just obstacles in her path. She could not abandon the teachings of the Order. If Grei was gone and the slinks could not be banished, then at least her father must be stopped. It was because of him that the Debt of the Blessed existed.
The Order said her father had killed a Faia, that the Dead Woods existed because her father had ripped that Faia away. Because of him, the empire was at the mercy of the slinks, and perhaps there was something that Adora could do about that.
She looked over at the young woman. The girl was Adora’s age. Adora wondered what thoughts went through her mind. She was young in a way Adora had never been. Was the girl thinking about whom she would wed soon? Perhaps she already had a husband, even children. Did she look forward to raising them, thankful for her position in the palace, thankful for the emperor who protected them from the slinks?
She thought of Grei and their too-brief moment on the Blacktale Bridge. It brought tears to her eyes, and she couldn’t have that right now.
The servant had pulled a washing cloth, a soft bristled brush, a cake of soap, a razor and a strop from her bag and laid them on the edge of the bath. Adora’s gaze lingered on the razor.
“I am to shave you, my lady.”
Adora touched the stubble on her head. “Of course.”
The woman washed her. She was efficient, with gentle hands. She neatly shaved Adora’s head without a nick, and then cleaned her wound, re-bandaged it.
“You are adept at your work,” Adora complimented her.
The young woman nodded. “I have left new clothes for you.” She indicated the marble bench by the door, where there lay a thin dress of red silk.
Adora’s gaze lingered on it, then she looked at the attendant. “Thank you. You may go.”
“Yes, my lady.” The girl rose to her feet with a graceful rocking motion and left through the archway, her wooden shoes clacking on the floor.
Adora rose from the bath, took the cotton towel from the edge and wrapped it around herself. She stood staring at the dress on the bench for a long moment, then picked it up and let it fall to full length.
It was a Venishan courtesan’s dress.
Chapter 32
Adora
The Archon arrived not long after Adora had donned the thin dress. It was floor-length with a modest neckline, but the sheer silk hugged her body and was slit all the way up the sides to her waist. She felt more exposed than she had in the brief shift Galius had given her in the Badlands.
The Archon closed the doors quietly behind him, gave her an appraising glance, and nodded.
“Good. It fits,” he said.
“It’s a courtesan’s dress,” she said.
“Shall I fetch your royal robes, highness? Two servants and a Highblade know you have come to my room. It is easy to believe I have taken you as a chattel. If I order royal clothes for you, what will they say?”
Adora paused, then nodded. “Of course.”
“Very well then. Now, what shall I call you? Mialene will not do. Neither will ‘your highness’.”
“Adora.”
“Lovely. Did you choose it yourself?”
>
“Does it matter?”
He smiled. “There are such stories to tell,” he said, crossing to the sumptuous bed and sitting down. He patted the spot next to him. “I don’t have much time.”
She hesitated. “Where is Biren?”
That made the Archon pause.
“He is the Lord of Felesh while I am in service at the palace. He is doing a fine job. Almost as though he was born to it.” The Archon gave a hard smile, as though that meant something. He patted the bed again.
She sat down next to him, crossed her legs and put her hands on her knees. The dress wanted to slide away; she held it in place.
“Why haven’t you told my father about me?”
“I don’t think you want me to go to your father. Otherwise, why cut your hair? Why not tell your amorous Highblade who you really are? You want your anonymity. I can ensure you keep it.”
She watched his face, but she couldn’t read him.
“I am curious about your story,” he said. “I can only imagine how you escaped your fate. Will you tell me?”
“No.”
“Why would you come back to Thiara?”
“Perhaps you didn’t notice. I was taken here against my will.”
“And what do you want now?”
“To leave, Uncle. I appreciate your rescue. Let me go.”
“And you would go search for your lover? This boy Grei who ran into the Dead Woods?”
Her heart ached. Was there a chance Grei had come out alive? He was the Whisper Prince, after all. But her heart felt that he was gone.
She wondered if love ever made any difference at all. She had loved her father, had loved Jorun Magnus. She had loved Grei. She had worked so hard to bring him to safety and the empire to freedom. Her love for him was forbidden by the Order, and now here she was again, broken and battered. For love? Grei would have made it to the Faia in time if she hadn’t stopped to kiss him. If she hadn’t loved him.
“He is a special lad,” the Archon continued when she did not speak. “The Highblades say he has one of the emperor’s artifacts. Perhaps he survived?”
“I don’t know.”
“Except he doesn’t have an artifact, does he?” the Archon said.
“I won’t betray him. If this is another attempt at interrogation, then take me back to your rack,” she said.
“My dear, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to make you a bargain.”
She waited, then said. “All right.”
“I will keep you safe for one month. I will hide you from the emperor. At the end of which, I will let you go, and you can go look for your beloved dead boy, or go wherever you wish.”
“You’ll let me go.”
The Archon nodded.
“And my part of the bargain?” She watched his eyes, feeling the weight of what was coming next.
“You will be mine. For one month.”
Her heart hammered. “So the courtesan’s dress was intentional, Uncle?” she said with emphasis. He merely watched her, unfazed by the stab.
“You can keep your secrets, Adora,” he said. “I just want your body.”
“Why?”
“I have my reasons.”
“I grew up with your son,” she stated. The plea sounded weaker than she meant it. She searched his eyes for a shred of humanity. “And if I refuse?” she asked.
He spread his hands.
She looked down at her knees. Become the Archon’s lover, or back to the torturer’s chamber. Or worse, be taken to her father.
And why not use sex to win her freedom? Create the answer, Lyndion would say. She had used sex with Galius to keep up her façade. For what else should she use her body except advantage? For love?
There is no love, she thought.
As with Galius, she could take the Archon in hand. One, maybe two nights. She could play the possession, even that she enjoyed it. He would relax, he would slip, then she could escape this place and return to the Order, find out what was to be done next.
She stood up and moved in front of him. Her throat was dry. She pressed her trembling hands against her legs and waited until she was sure her voice would come out steady.
“Now?” she asked.
“Do you know what to do?”
“I know what to do.” Her shaking fingers began working at the first button on the side of her dress, but she was proud to see that they were steady by the time she undid the last. The silk fluttered to the ground.
Create the answer, she thought as she undressed him. He laid her down on the bed.
There is no love.
Chapter 33
Lyndion
Lyndion watched Shemmel, the wrinkled lines on his face more pronounced than they had been last year. The price was coming due more often now. The first spell had lasted nearly a century. The latest had not even lasted two decades. They would need another, and soon.
Of course if the slink children caught them, they need not bother at all.
That was the entire point of the Whisper Prince. And now it was seven years wasted.
When Lyndion received news of the Whisper Prince’s capture, he continued to have hope. Grei had not opened a connection to the Faia, but the Prince was still going in the direction he needed to go. Mialene was still with him. The Order had agents in the palace. Things could be taken back in hand.
But then the Prince escaped his captors and fled into the Dead Woods. He cursed his great granddaughter for her weakness.
Shemmel sat silently, his craggy face unreadable. He had not said anything since Lyndion had related the foul news.
“So we have failed,” Lyndion said, feeling the words like acid on his tongue. “The Whisper Prince is lost. Mialene did not have him in hand at the needed moment.” He shook his head. “I told you we should have whored her out at sixteen, stripped her girlish notions away, and readied her for the job. She would have had Grei under her thumb the first night.”
Shemmel shook his head. “Grei was an intelligent boy. We needed her innocence.”
Lyndion snorted. “You needed it, maybe. You were soft on her. You liked that she loved you. I wonder what she would think of you if she knew what you have done with girls half her age.”
“Could he have survived the Dead Woods?” Shemmel asked, seemingly unaffected by Lyndion’s taunt.
Lyndion shook his head. “I know what lives there. The Dead Woods killed him the moment he entered. My great grandson saw to that when he slew the Vheysin Faia.”
“Our allies were knowledge, secrecy and speed,” Shemmel said. “We have lost all three.”
“The slink boys have not found us. That is something.”
“It is seven years now they have been searching. They will find us. Do we run?”
“Not yet,” Lyndion said.
“Then how?” Shemmel snorted. “We wait for another Whisper Prince? How many protégés does the beast of the forest take?”
“That was luck, and we have wasted the opportunity.” An idea dawned then. “But...” He thought through it quickly. “Mialene still lives. Her death will still open the rift.”
“And who will speak to the Faia’s temple when her blood joins the waters? Who will push the slinks through?”
“Perhaps it can be done without the Whisper Prince,” Lyndion persisted. “Someone could stand in his place.”
“Who else? Shall we dig up Baezin’s corpse, place it at the temple and hope to fool the Faia?”
“No. We use the magic of the Faia themselves,” Lyndion said.
“The Faia will never help you. They have refused you every time.” Shemmel bared his teeth, and Lyndion saw the blood-thirsty duke who had begun this journey with him, not the kindly-seeming old man he had become around the princess. “They’ll never take a life.”
Lyndion smiled. “But the emperor has made weapons of their deaths. No one knows what powers are locked in those artifacts. One of them might be able to duplicate what we need.”
“And our ag
ent within the palace can get these artifacts?” Shemmel asked.
“She is our only chance.”
“She will never use it to kill Mialene.”
“It need not be her. One of our brothers can wield it. Or you. Or me.”
“Yes.”
Chapter 34
Grei
Grei and Selicia returned to the site of the battle, but there was no wagon and no Highblades. Selicia hadn’t threatened him since they had left the Dead Woods, but he didn’t believe the act. Nobody switched loyalties that quickly. He didn’t care what oath she had sworn. People didn’t just do that.
Selicia touched the edge of the ground Grei had turned to water before he’d fled into the Dead Woods. It rippled outward like a dirt-colored pond.
“Amazing,” she murmured, her back to him.
He let his concentration relax and listened to the whispers that came from her, searching for her true purpose, seeking the betrayal she planned for him.
The images he received were confusing, not clear like they had been the first time he had looked into her: he saw himself through her eyes as she bowed to him, felt her solemn commitment. It was imperative she serve him. She was shamed at failing her emperor, but the code she followed demanded that she put herself under Grei’s command.
Other images swirled in a fog that he couldn’t penetrate. When he started to force his way past it, a dull feeling oozed over his mind, just like when he had escaped the wagon.
He stopped.
She glanced over her shoulder at him, and her eyes narrowed.
He kept his face neutral. The tree spirits had taken away her short sword and dagger, her ringblade and the gauntlet she wore to handle it. They had even taken her belt with its little pouches on it. The woman had nothing but her black clothes, but she was still dangerous. Standing next to her felt like being near a wild dog that could bite at any moment.
The Badlands were ghostly quiet. Only the dark stains of blood from Blevins’ victims remained, marking the ground.
“Time has passed,” Selicia said as she stood up.
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