“As Lord Emyr's Diviner, I demand you open these gates, retainer.”
Ran snorts. Crosses his arms and looks down into Calanthe's snarling face. “Like I said, he's dead. You no longer have authority here, diviner. So you can turn around—,”
I stand when Calanthe shoves him towards the gates, but the man refuses to move. He is stalwart—stubborn. “With the death of the father, comes the son. Sargon would not put me out of service simply because his father has passed. Let me in, retainer, or I swear I—,”
A watchman crosses himself. Moves his spear from his right hand to his left as he wards against curses with an agile flick of silver fingers.
Ran sighs. Moves to press his hand upon the gate. It opens with a moan. “Alright, diviner, alright.” When the gate's open completely, Calanthe grabs my forearm and pulls me along with her.
I look up to a towering wall the color of sand when we're through. High towers of yellow stone reach for a vacant blue sky, the tops of their columns smooth as they mix with the blue. Stretching high enough to be content with their place in the sky as they stand strong. I count three towers as Calanthe pulls me towards towering doors of dull bronze. High walls stand between each tower, connecting them like arching bridges. Like arms that stretch out only to grab and connect, forming a protective circle around whatever was inside. The grass is green here, encircling the large fortress like a gleaming emerald sea and Calanthe steps over it. Leaving the trail of pale flagstones that line the walkway as she cuts through a lively green field. I catch a glimpse of flowers creeping up the yellow walls—they're white, pure like thin clouds.
When the towering bronze entrance of the fortress looms above us, Calanthe twists violently around. Lets go of my arm, and screams. “WHAT?”
Ran's there. Speechless. Somewhat smirking as his hands twitch at his sides. “You'll need to leave the marshal's…gift,” sleepy eyes slide to me. They narrow before his gaze falls back to Calanthe—who hisses with every breath. “out here.”
“I swear, retainer—,”
“Your pet's out here too—you know how Lord Emyr felt about the undead, diviner.” he says, crossing his arms. “It's like your kind just play with how far you can take things the minute your master dies.”
The last word is spat. It burns Calanthe, makes her white in the face as her shoulders slacken. As her head falls and her voice becomes tender. “I've missed the passing of a very dear friend, and you—you taunt me for it? Will you not leave me, retainer? Leave me to mourn with my friend's poor son?”
I watch Ran avert his eyes. They're dark, like a midnight river absent moonlight. “…I'll, uh—escort you…I guess.”
Calanthe's attitude changes. Sours as she lifts her face. “Fine, then.”
And she grabs me. Pulls me off as the monstrous bronze doors open with a metallic wheeze.
We are met by marble floors cast blue in the bright light of the day as sunlight crawls through tall windows. A light fixture hangs from the rounded ceiling up above, strong silver arms entwine around elaborate candles that have been snuffed out. They remind me of tree branches heavy with ripe fruit as Calanthe pulls me through the blue tinged corridor. We pass a multitude of bronze doors clasped shut. The corridor is spacious—empty. It has a ghostly feel to it—as if people should be filling up this passageway, but cannot. As if we should be pressing our way through bodies as they flutter about the corridor, but the people who should occupy this space cannot be here.
They're in mourning—in mourning for the dead Lord Emyr.
I press the heel of my palm to my chest as Calanthe follows Ran up white-gold steps. We go up a level. Up two more, and I'm wheezing when Ran finally walks along a white washed marble corridor that is absent steps. At the end of this hallway murmurs a gallery of people swathed in black. They are like spirits moaning in the dark. Whispering and murmuring amongst themselves as they stare at a tall door cut with elaborate bronze carvings. The voices come crashing down around me as we get closer. The dull murmur growing into a buzzing roar when I'm able to make out faces and genders.
Ran stops, then. Turns and crosses his arms. “She stays out here.”
Calanthe's grip on my forearm tightens. I wince. “She is my gift—,”
“Yeah? Well your gift—,” his voice lowers. Becomes a sharp hiss meant for both our ears. “stays here.”
I swipe my arm from Calanthe's grasp. I'm tired of being a puppet. Tired of not having a say of where I go. “I have no weapons.” I tell him as his gaze slides to me. “I'm defenseless—,”
“And you aren't a witch, like her?” Ran raises an eyebrow, tilts his head and frowns. “Excuse me if I'm reluctant to trust a pretty face.”
I narrow my eyes before Calanthe stretches her arm out before me. Effectively silencing me before I can argue any further. “She's a singer, retainer.” but she sighs. Lowers her head and shakes it. “Yet, I understand your apprehension. I will go, but she must remain outside the door. Will you accept these terms?”
Ran's lips become a grim line before he uncrosses his arms, “Alright then, diviner.” and he moves away. Begins to part the crowd.
But Calanthe's arm still silences me. Forces me to stay where I am. She throws a sharp glare over her shoulder. Narrows her eyes before she hisses: “Speak when I tell you to. These are my people, girl. Strangers aren't met with kindness here. Do you understand this?”
I nod curtly before her arm slaps down to her side. Calanthe returns my nod before pushing her way through the gathered mourners. Her mere presence makes them part. Makes them turn their heads and stare. When we're at the door, the mourners move farther down the hall. Giving us space as Calanthe gives them a disapproving glance before knocking on the bronze door and throwing it open. When I move to follow, Ran leans upon the door frame. Sleepy eyes turn lively, dark irises flash when I move towards the door. They dare me to enter—dare me to follow.
“Wait here.” Calanthe hisses. Turns to meet my gaze. “Whatever happens—be here when I come out.” her gaze flickers towards Ran before I nod. She returns the gesture and glares once more at the sleepy-eyed retainer before entering the room and slamming the door behind herself.
I wait patiently, clasping my hands before my stomach. Twiddling my thumbs as I stare at the door and ignore the harsh murmurs echoing down the hall.
But the retainer stares at me.
I lower my gaze to the floor. I'm mirrored in the marble. We both are. “Yes?” I say to him.
He seems taken aback when I acknowledge him. The marble mirrors his movements, him crossing his legs only to uncross them again as he leans against the door frame. “Just trying to figure out if you have wings.”
It is my turn to seem taken aback as my gaze moves from the marble to his eyes. “Is something wrong?”
“You're his sparrow.” Ran spits. Dark eyes narrow as he glares. “A spy—she's brought you here to try and change his mind—to send reports back to Felicity on what he's doing out here. Ain't that right?”
I blink once. Twice. “Excuse me?”
Ran stomps. Moves from laying against the door frame, to standing tall before he leans towards me. Dark eyes are slits as he glares. “Yeah, you can always smell a spy. It's like your type doesn't bathe or something. Maybe ya'll all use the same perfume, huh?” and he backs away. Leans himself against the door frame again, but with his whole body pointed towards me. “What d'you say, Sparrow? Think you'll last a week here? A day?”
I avert my gaze as my brow furrows. As I frown sharply and clench my fists. “I have a name,” I tell him, meeting his gaze. Challenging him. “Naia.” I hiss, biting my lip. “In civilized places, we ask for introductions—,”
“I'm Ran,” the retainer grunts, shoving a hand towards me. “the guy whose kicking you out as soon as your buddy gets thrown out of there.” and he shoves a thumb towards the door at his back as I take his hand. As we shake.
“Ran—,” I nod, attempting a smile that warps into a grimace. “—I'll be sure to r
emember that.”
“Don't bother.” Ran smirks, his eyes becoming sleepy again as he stands. The bronze door is shoved open and he winks before he gives me his back. “Diviner—,”
“Shut up, retainer. Lord Emyr bids you go back to your quarters—,” Calanthe's eyes glow as she offers a hand to me. I grasp it, smirking up into Ran's surprised face as his eyes widen.
“Lord Emyr?”
“The new Lord Emyr.” Calanthe sneers. Her gaze turns to me, then. She clears her throat before bringing her lips to my ear. She cups her hand over my cheek. Whispers: “He wants you—alone for the night.” When I attempt to jump back, she digs her talons into my skin—holding me there. Drawing blood. “Do this and I will free Akane. I swear it.”
35. Dancing in the Moon
I press my lips into a line. I breathe as Ran hovers behind me—frozen. “You'll—you'll free her?”
Calanthe does not smile when she speaks. “I swear to you, Naia. I swear it.”
I sigh. I nod and she presses her dark nails into the flesh of my forearm before she pulls me into the room. The door wheezes behind me as it closes, clicking when it's closed completely with a sour blast of air. Silence pervades. The room is awash in dull auburn and lightly flickering candlelight as a humid smell assaults me. Makes me choke as I bring my free hand to my nose. Calanthe throws me a glare as the room comes into view. A heavy bed of dark oak holds a still body beneath cream colored bedding. To the right of the body sits a man hunched in a thick oaken chair. Straight black hair slithers down a broad back as the man moves to place a careful hand onto the face of the bed-ridden sleeper. Gracefully whittled patterns entwine in a complex dance of wooden symbols upon the end of the large bed frame, and Calanthe brings me there to stand. When she harshly clears her throat, the hunching man makes no move to acknowledge us. The sleeper's eyes are milky. Gray eyes bore a hole through my head and I watch as the man places a heavy palm upon the sleeper's open eyes. I watch him close them.
“Let us help you through your mourning, Lord Emyr—,”
His gaze snaps towards Calanthe's husky voice. Harsh eyes are sharp. Biting as they take me in. As they move to glare at Calanthe. “This!—This is Lord Emyr!” and he splays his hands towards the sleeping man beneath the covers—spittle flying from his lips. “Stop referring to me as if I were a dead man! What—what have you brought me?”
“I promised you a night—,”
I step back—I jump when he shoots from his chair. “My father's corpse is barely warm—I want nothing that was meant for him.”
Calanthe moves from behind me now. She crosses her arms as she approaches him. His height is emphasized when she leans against the large wooden column of the bed in front of me, her head barely coming to his chest and she's forced to look up. “This gift was meant for Lord Emyr—any Lord Emyr.”
The man sits with a huff. Lays his head upon the back of the curved chair as he stretches out his legs. “If this marshal trades in people, then he is not a man my father would accept anything from.”
“I—I've willingly come.” I blurt, my voice barely above a whisper.
I watch Calanthe's shoulders rise. “You are not your father, Sargon.”
Sargon laughs. It is an uncertain sound. An unhappy one. “No, no. I'm not. So you can stop calling me, 'Lord Emyr.'”
“The title rightly falls to you!”
I watch him turn his face away. I watch him breathe deeply, shoulders rising and falling. I bring my fingers to the stout lip of the bed frame as Calanthe brings her gaze over her shoulder. Serpentine eyes glare at me. She moves to uncross her arms and takes a couple of steps back. She comes behind me, fingers gripping my shoulders as she brings her lips to my ear. “This is for Akane.” she hisses. “My little pet. Bring your thoughts to Akane.”
I attempt to turn towards her—to swat her fingers away from me—but instead I fall. White hot pain rockets through my lower back as her heel slams into my spine and I'm falling. My palms slap the floor as Sargon's chair screeches. As I'm kneeling and fingers prod at my back. Fingers prod and pull and slime their way down my skin as I freeze—as I hold my breath and let Calanthe do her work.
As my gown slips. Precious silk slithers down my shoulders in a cooling wave and I let it. I let it as my breath forces its way down my throat and I breathe unsteadily. Fingers work at my bra band—they rip at my underclothes and leave a trail of slime upon my skin. Air leaves me in explosive bursts and I'm naked. The silk gone—my undergarments a pile of knotted cloth upon the floor. The gown a puddle of purple silks as it surrounds me. As it protects me the best that it can.
Calanthe takes my neck as her voice explodes into my ears. “You could have this—,”
She makes me stand as I hang my head—as my hands tremble at my sides. Slapping my skin—my knees weak and useless as they knock together. And I'm trying. I'm trying to bring my mind to Akane—an undead thing that's lurking at the fortress's gates. But I can't. I'm thinking of Hana and how I wish I would have spoken to her before I left. Make her remember me—see if Lore's words were simply lies. I wish I could have told her that she's forgiven—absolved of everything.
She tried—she tried to protect me.
Calanthe grasps my naked shoulder. Pulls at my hair and guides a strand down my shoulder and onto my chest. Her words are like ice: “She is healthy.” I gasp—I shudder when Calanthe's nails graze my side. Black talons gently walk down my shoulder. They slither down my waist—my hip. “Young. A virgin by all means.”
I cross my legs—willing this to be over. I shut my eyes tight.
“Calanthe—,” I hear the man hiss.
She chuckles—her voice smooth and deep. Her breath licking my ear as her hands travel farther downwards. As fingers pry at my naked thigh and I shiver—my face twists. My whimper is soundless—a breath.
You must do this.
For Akane. For Hana and Castle Tsubame.
You must do this.
Talons encroach upon my secret area. They pet me. I want to cry. I want to—
“There are no stipulations. Nothing additional. She is simply a gift.” Her fingers play and they're too close—too close to my privates and I do everything I can to avoid crying out. I avoid looking at my shame as I hang my head—as I focus on my breathing and my heart. But my heart's gone—it no longer beats and my breath catches in my throat. Makes a lump that chokes me and I whimper like a damned dog. Like a useless, pleading, thing.
In my ear, Calanthe's laughter is like the slender edge of a knife.
“Will you take her?”
Silence. I squeeze my eyes closed tighter. I move my head to the side.
“I don't like songstresses.” comes his reply. A deep voice that rings with an edge of warning.
“She could be anything for you—a concubine, a slave—,”
My eyes snap open when Calanthe pulls her hand up my body. It rests on my shoulder and I catch Sargon's gaze.
His face is a hard one. It is a mask of stone molded around eyes that don't quite fit. Eyes that spew emotion. That shine with pity.
Hana—Hana breaches my thoughts. Her tenderness blinding me. Her swear uttered in tears—I will never let anyone take you away from me. And she tried. She tried to protect me—to teach me. To save me from the hands of Lord Hinata and his nightingale. She tried.
Hana tried to protect me.
And I turn my gaze over my shoulder.
But I'm learning.
I shrug myself from Calanthe's biting grip on my shoulders. Sargon shields his eyes. Looks away as he roars at Calanthe. But I'm bending to pick up my gown—I blink away tears. I blink away thoughts of how useless I am—as a tool. As Lore's plaything. I can't follow instructions—I can't do this—and I'm hugging the gown around myself as Calanthe screams into my ears. As she demands that I throw the gown to the ground—but I turn. I glare into her eyes before I rush towards the door. Panting. Hating myself because I couldn't do it. Because I couldn't follow instructions and be her t
ool.
But I'm learning.
I throw open the door and slam it behind myself. I press my back to it—panting—the gown barely covering me as I listen to their screams. To roaring voices screaming back and forth.
I sigh. The hallway is quiet. Spacious. Dark and full of ghosts.
I sprint.
The gown trails behind me as doors pass. As my slippers slap shiny floors and blues rush by me. When I make it to the stairwell, my face is wet and I'm drowning. Drowning in self hate as my run becomes a walk—becomes a standstill. I'm halfway down the stairs when I fall. When I sit. When I hug my knees to myself and let the tears come.
But I'm learning. I think—I scream to myself as I bring my knees in closer. As I lay my forehead upon them and my gown slithers. Sliding down my shoulders—only to stop at my armpits. My back is naked—the ties broken. I feel sweat. My skin is clammy—cold.
My heart does not beat.
I heave then—the tears coming in full force. My sobs no longer quiet.
I let the tears truly come, then, because I'm learning—
I'm learning that I must protect myself.
36. Companion
I've almost fallen asleep when kind hands jerk me awake. They find my back.
“What have they done to you?” I tense when I recognize the voice.
But I can't bring myself to open my eyes. I press my lips together—not trusting myself to speak.
“It's—it's a shame.” soft fingers brush along my spine as the ties at my back are clumsily knotted. “Whenever that—witch—comes back, she's always got some poor girl with her. I swear—the next time I see her—,”
“Nyx,” I murmur—her breath catches in her throat as I whimper. “they're all dead, Nyx. All of them.”
I hear her cough. I gasp when she pulls hard at the ties—almost ripping them from the dress. “I knew what would happen. I told her to come with me—but she wanted to stay. Wanted to stay for some dumb reason.”
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