Gleam (The Plated Prisoner Series Book 3)

by Raven Kennedy

  Something glimmers behind the depths of his muddied eyes. “I have him, Auren.”

  The gut-wrenching gasp that rips out of my chest leaves my heart to gape out in the open. My lip quivers, ribs squeeze, fingers dig into the table to keep myself standing. “What are you talking about?”

  He’s cool and calm again. Calculated. Just that look alone fills me with dread.

  “It was meant to be a gift, you see.”

  I squeeze my eyes closed for a moment, my head shaking as I try to comprehend through the shock. “Wait, wait. Are you...are you saying Digby is alive? He’s here?”

  “Like I said, he was going to be a gift for your return. I knew you were fond of the old man. Although, he had to be punished, of course.”

  Digby. Alive. He’s actually alive? I can’t—

  “Wait,” I rush to say, shaking my head. “What the hell do you mean punished?”

  Midas shoots me an annoyed look at my curse word. “He allowed the Red Raids to capture you, and then subsequently, Fourth’s army. I couldn’t let that go unanswered.”

  Horror crashes over me like a sudden flood to knock me into its violent path. “He’s alive and you’ve kept that from me this whole time? You’ve punished him?”

  His eyes flicker knowingly. “He didn’t do what he was ordered to.”

  My teeth gnash against the double meaning. The threat. That I’ll be punished if I don’t follow his orders too.

  I cross my arms in front of me. “I want to see him.”

  Midas clicks his tongue. “Therein lies the problem. I was going to let you do just that, but in your current state of mind and overemotional hysterics, I simply can’t allow it.”

  Can’t allow it?

  Fire flares in my chest and sears through my eyes. “Let me see him. Right. Now.”

  The dark warning in his face sharpens against an edge of satisfaction. “When you improve your behavior and your mood, I will.”

  My lips pull back in a sneer. “You son of a bitch.”

  Again, with his clicking tongue, a sweep of reprimand like I’m a child to be disciplined. “That’s certainly not the way to go about it, Auren.”

  Hot tears fill my eyes, but I hold them back. “You’re lying. You don’t have him.”

  Midas looks at me with pity. “I do. But even if you think I’m lying, are you really willing to bet his life on it?”

  I go still, like a fierce gale that suddenly died. Sucked away until every particle of air is depraved with stagnancy.

  “Don’t you dare hurt him.”

  Midas gives a shrug. “That’s entirely up to you.” He grips my hand and drops the pin into my palm.

  I stare down at it and see it for what it is. His best bargaining chip to make me complacent. How can something so small feel so damn heavy?

  When a tear drips into my cupped palm, Midas’s eyes soften. That gesture probably would’ve fooled me before, would’ve made me doubt myself and had my emotions braided with confusion and heartache.

  But the eyes of liars are tricky things. They can show you what you want to see without ever reflecting the truth. It’s best not to look a liar in the eye. They’re so good at their own compulsions that their gazes hold steady, and then you’re the one who loses sight.

  Midas pops a kiss on the top of my head, but I’m too numb in shock to jerk away. “I’m not trying to punish you, Auren,” he says softly as he pets my hair, once more the benevolent master. “You need something to focus on so you can get back to being yourself. I’m giving you that.”

  He’s betrayed me before, but this…

  “As soon as you’re better and behaving like yourself again, I’ll reinstate Digby, and then everything will be alright.” He gives me an encouraging smile. “I promise. Everything I do, I do for you. You see that now, don’t you?”

  My shaken eyes drag back up to his face. “Yes, Midas. I see.”

  I see.

  “I’ll have some food sent up. You’ll have a clearer head in the morning after you get some rest, and then we will get to work on turning some things gold, alright?”

  He’s already tugging on his leash, testing to see if I’ll heel.

  “Okay, Midas.”

  A pleased, placating look crosses his face. “There’s my precious girl. I knew this is what you needed. You’ll be better soon.” He taps my chin. “Don’t worry about a thing. I always make sure you have what you need, don’t I? I’ll keep you safe,” he says earnestly, hand once more stroking down my hair. “I’ll even compromise with you. I’ll allow you to wander in the castle after dusk with a guard. But during the day, when it’s not safe, you stay put. More guards will always be posted outside your door. No one will get to you.”

  “Just you.” The words slip out, unbidden.

  His touch pauses on my head before falling away. “That’s right. Just me,” he murmurs.

  It’s a promise.

  It’s a threat.

  It’s a line in the sand that keeps dripping through the hourglass.

  “Goodnight, Precious.”

  The moment he’s gone, with my bedroom door snugly shut, my skirts crumple with my knees, the fabric fanning out like a rippling lake as I land on the floor. Teardrops soak my lashes as I use my free hand to try and stifle the sobs that wrench out of me.

  How could he?

  How could he?

  He knows that I’ve always had a soft spot for Digby. Felt comfortable with the gruff man who always watched over me. And all this time, I’ve been grieving him like I’ve grieved for Sail.

  The thought of Digby being here at Ranhold this whole time and possibly hurt...

  I have no idea how or when he would’ve arrived. No idea where he might be kept or if he’s okay. But Midas could be lying too, and that’s what’s so agonizing about this. I don’t know what the truth is.

  My heart aches at the idea of him being punished, but I have to shove that thought away, or I’ll never stop crying. I should’ve expected a counter move from Midas, though I didn’t realize he’d stoop this low. It just solidifies everything for me. This is another barb in the collar that he wants wrapped around my neck.

  Because Midas is right. Even if he is lying, I’m not willing to take that chance. So long as there’s a possibility he has my guard, I will have to play nice. I will have to play smart. Digby is my guard. My only other constant I’ve ever had, and I want him back.

  After another ragged sob, I make myself take a fortifying breath to help push away the panic and hatred, because I need to think. The feathered anger beneath my skin helps to steel my spine, and my ribbons give me a comforting squeeze.

  The Golden King wants to pluck my strings and make me sing. So I’ll sing. I’ll do just enough to ensure that he doesn’t hurt Digby.

  Wiping my cheeks, I start to get to my feet, but pause when I feel the small book weighing down my pocket. I put the guard pin on the bedside table and then pull out the forbidden fae book. My eyes trace the elderwood, fingers running over the red leather that coats it, golden filigree and an ancient language meeting my touch.

  The sound it makes when I open the front cover is the crack of a jaw yawning awake. It’s the sigh of a breath kept inside for too long, closed beneath parchment ribs.

  There are no words in this book, no lengthy explanations of my heritage, my people. It wasn’t until this moment that I realized how desperate I was for that. Maybe I thought I was going to open this book and find all the answers to the questions I didn’t even know I had.

  Instead, there are only painstaking illustrations painted on each thick page, some cracked or dusted away, the paint given up in its battle with time. No words, no long-ago fae coming up through the pages to give me answers about who I am or about my home I’ve forgotten so much about.

  Somehow, the silence is made up for by the apology of paintings. As if the person who worked on this book couldn’t give me words but gave me something else.
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  Annwyn.

  My world looks up at me from forbidden pages of a forgotten land. Glittering rivers speckled with dawn light, flowers with smiles, and trees with grasping limbs. Hills that roll when you step on them, and sand made of glass.

  Tears burn in my eyes with every picture I flip past, fingers tingling as if they can feel the echoes of something familiar. I come to a stop on the very last page, finding an Orean woman with flaxen hair and autumn eyes leaned against a fae male wearing an onyx crown. He has pointed ears, a dark complexion, and gossamer wings hanging like shadows against his back. They’re tucked against a sunset sky, polka dot clouds brimming with oranges and pinks behind them.

  The way they’re looking at each other is as if nothing else exists. There’s a subtle haze clinging around their embrace, love shining in their eyes. At the bottom of the page, a single word in the old fae language is painted in elaborate calligraphy.

  Päyur

  I stare at the pictures for a long time.

  Flipping backwards and forwards, I use the light of the dying fire to feed my nostalgic craving. I look at the book until my eyes burn with tiredness while the thought of Digby drums in my veins.

  I can’t leave if Digby is here, so I’m going to find him. Even if that means I have to scour this castle from foundation to roof, I will find my guard. And then when I leave, because I am going to leave, I’m taking Digby with me.

  Please be okay, Digby.

  Please be alive.

  I fall asleep with the secret book buried in the pocket of my dress, dreaming of that fae couple standing in the eventide, wrapped in a shared aura and whispering at me to come home.

  If only I knew where home was.

  Chapter 13

  KING MIDAS

  Three levels below the ground floor of Ranhold Castle, and it’s like being in an icebox. Even wearing my robe and thick gloves doesn’t keep the cold from penetrating. I’m surprised I can’t see my breath every time I exhale.

  As I pass by cell after cell, some shadows behind the bars cringe away from me. I suppose the prisoners have been here too long in Fulke’s dungeon to try and speak. Even if they do realize there’s a new king ruling, they know better than to bother with pleas or to cry for mercy.

  Based on the smell wafting from a few of the chambers, I’d say there’s a good chance that some of them are already dead or have their foot in the door. Mercy won’t do anything for them, and neither will I.

  My steps echo down the gray stone passageway as I pass beneath centuries-old arches built too low for my liking, its height meant to make the inhabitants feel even more trapped.

  The ceiling drips with frosted condensation, a gift from the snow hundreds of feet above. The perpetually white-soaked ground seeps all the way down here, dripping with apathetic disdain for its inhabitants in the form of icy stalactites reaching down like frosted fingers pointing with accusation.

  The dungeon guards on patrol give me a bow as I pass, and my steps take me up the narrow staircase to the level above. There’s more light up here, given by double the amount of wall sconces, but the ceiling is still covered in frost.

  My feet take me straight to the room off to the left where a guard swings open the door without me having to break my stride.

  Warmth hits me as soon as I go into the antechamber, coming face-to-face with a thick canopy of leather hanging from the ceiling to split off the room from the outer door. I push past the heavy brown flap and duck inside the huge, steam-filled space.

  There are several people hard at work, some of them scrubbing down the walls. In this room, instead of frost or dripping icicles, the stones are slick with hot moisture beading between every crevice. The workers tend to every inch, trying to deter any mold from growing. Others are amidst the long, straight rows of plants, tending to every leaf and bloom.

  I look around, eyes bouncing from purple uniform to purple uniform, until I find the castle’s mender at the far end, bustling around at the counter space built against the wall.

  The gangly man doesn’t notice I’m here until I’m standing right beside him. He nearly drops the bottle he’s funneling when he does.

  “Your Majesty, forgive me,” he says with a quick bow. “I didn’t know you would be coming down here.”

  “I had another matter to see to,” I say, casting a glance at the row of blood-red bottles stacked and ready to go, complete with built-in droppers.

  A worker comes up, apron wrinkling as she drops into a quick curtsy. She grabs one of the filled bottles, uncorking it as she goes. I watch as she pours the contents into the soil of the nearest potted plant until it’s empty.

  There are hundreds of these plants growing in here. They’re fussy, apparently, since they wither in the sun but need moist heat to thrive.

  Their branches point straight up like rows of picket fences. Growing from every limb are blossoms leeched of color, the petals white and ashen. The buds are useless and take a long time to bloom, but the mature ones, the ones nearly ready to fall off their stems, those are what the gardeners carefully collect.

  If tended to correctly, those drooping petals bead with blood-red dewdrops. A powerful essence that, when ingested, causes you to relax and heightens pleasure. Dew makes quite a lot of coin in this kingdom.

  “What can I help you with, Your Majesty?”

  I turn back to the mender as he wipes his stained fingers on a rag before tossing it on the worktable. He has a fine sheen of sweat on his lined brow, ruddy cheeks from the warm humidity clogging the room.

  “I wanted to ensure that all of the saddles have been given their contraceptive tonics.”

  “Of course, my king. I have been distributing them myself.”

  Nodding, I swipe at the back of my neck to get rid of the moisture beading there. “And the pregnant saddle?” I ask. “Has she been sequestered?”

  “Yes, and I examined her this morning. I have her well in hand.”

  “I want reports for every checkup.”

  The man tilts his head in compliance and wipes his upper lip with a handkerchief. “It will be done, Sire.”

  “Good.”

  On my way out, I cast another appreciative gaze across the steam-filled room. Everyone is doing what they should be, everything inside precise and organized. This entire operation is put together like a perfectly tailored outfit.

  Fulke might have been a fool, but when it comes to growing and supplying dew, he had enough sense to put the right people in charge.

  Leaving the lower levels of the castle, my slicked skin goes uncomfortably cold within seconds, worsened by the moist sweat that’s accumulated. The grime of the dungeon and the dampness of the grow room clings to my clothes enough to make my skin itch. A change of clothes is in order. Perhaps a bath too.

  As soon as I make it to the upper levels and back into the public part of the castle, my guards peel away from the walls to follow me. Yet I’ve barely taken three steps when my head guard comes forward, holding out a missive. “A hawk just arrived for you, Sire.”

  I take it and keep walking, already planning which outfit to change into, but I pause on the stairs when I notice the white wax seal in the shape of a bell.

  I tear it open, eyes quickly skimming left to right.

  That cold, useless bitch.

  I read through it again, and then a third time, while my teeth grind together to chew on my fury. When I get through it a fourth time, I already have a plan in mind.

  Malina doesn’t want to be useful anymore? Wants to deny her husband and king?

  So be it.

  I turn sharply, abandoning the route to my rooms completely.

  The guards shadow my steps as I make my way out of the castle. Past the courtyard, past the ice sculptures, past the stables, my boots crunch on the powdery walkways until I come to an outdoor training ring.

  Some soldiers are gathered around and running drills. From my peripheral, I see them stop t
o bow, but I ignore them and continue to stride forward to the building attached.

  “Wait here and close the door,” I order the guards.

  Inside, the building is bare bones. Nothing but a small armory for training purposes. Wooden swords lie in piles, and there are stacks of padded chest armor for sword practice, as well as a litter of arrows and unstrung bows. It’s messy and reeks of sweat, the floor made of nothing but dirt and straw to go with the rough stone walls.

  Several soldiers look up in surprise at the sound of the door closing, but when they see me, they drop into stiff bows.

  “Everyone out,” I order sternly, sending the soldiers scattering before my eyes fall onto the older man. He’s not a soldier anymore, not at his age, but he’s been charged with keeping this place equipped and organized, though I see he’s sorely lacking on the latter.

  “Fetch Hood.”

  The man’s brows lift in surprise, but he quickly leaves to do as I bid. I pace around the building while I wait, lip turning up in a grimace at the state of my shoes from the disgusting floor. I should have that man whipped for his severe lack of care at his duty.

  Several minutes later, the door opens again and Hood steps into the room. I don’t need to see his face to know it’s him—the thick cloak and hood he always wears is telling enough. He never goes without it, face always shadowed beneath the cowl of material.

  Even so, I can see the two-toned skin, both brown and pale, showing on his chin and neck. Vitiligo, they call it, a condition of the skin that leaches color in patches.

  Some of the soldiers mock him, call him Cowhide, but the man never speaks, never snaps. He was wasted as a soldier for Fulke. It was lucky that I read some of the soldiers’ reports and realized his potential.

  I’m going to put that potential to the test.

  “Hood,” I say in greeting as he stops a few feet away, hand clasped around his wrist in a soldier’s stance.

  While his skin abnormalities may have made him a mocked outsider, his muteness ensured it. It took years for Fulke to realize that the man had magic.

  I look at his cloaked form, eyes running over the patches on his hands as if I can somehow see why power chose to run through his veins.