Castle of Lies

by Kiersi Burkhart

  “I know it’s hard for you to understand concepts like duty or devotion,” I find myself saying. I’m angrier than I realized. “My duty and devotion are all I have left.”

  Thelia sneers. “I’m the one who doesn’t understand devotion, when you won’t fight for the girl you love? You’ll just watch as she’s dragged off to that wild hill country, never to return.” Thelia nudges Parlor Trick and ambles off down the road ahead.

  What right does she have to act like this? She’s been a snot to all of us, including Corene, ever since the spring. When the Baron gave up their courtship and went home . . .

  I stop myself. Baron Durnhal. Her mother. Two people who’ve abandoned Thelia—and now Corene’s about to do the same thing. No wonder.

  “Wait!” I tap Halrendar’s sides with my heels, and he jumps to a trot. “Wait, Thelia. I’m just . . . sad about all this.”

  “And I’m not?” she retorts. Parlor Trick is slighter and faster, and Thelia surges on ahead. “After they get married, my best friend will be gone forever.”

  “I know!” I urge Halrendar on and finally overtake Parlor Trick. “But there’s nothing we can do about it!”

  Thelia slows her horse and Parlor Trick tosses her head, annoyed that she can’t keep running. Thelia’s gaze searches mine. “We have one moon until the wedding,” she says. “One moon to change Corene’s mind.”

  “But how—”

  “Corene just doesn’t realize what she has.” I didn’t realize she had such a high opinion of me—which turns me suspicious of this whole conversation. She rode out today for her own reasons, and I won’t learn what those are unless I step into her trap.

  “What do you suggest?” I ask.

  Her deep red lips, like a rose crushed and pulped, twist into a smile. “Make her jealous.”

  “I’ve never wanted anyone except Corene. I can’t just move on.”

  She sighs, as impatient with me as always. “Don’t think of it like that. Think of it as . . . finding comfort in someone else in a time of hardship.”

  There’s only one person she could mean. “You?”

  “Don’t look so shocked.”

  “I’m flattered, but—”

  “For Melidia’s sake, Bayled, it’s not like that.” Thelia brings Parlor Trick to a complete stop. Without my asking, Halrendar stops beside her. I think he has a crush on the palfrey. “If I tell you this . . .” she begins, staring down at the path to avoid looking at me. “Promise not to tell anyone else.”

  “Tell me what?”

  Her voice drops. “I’ve already given my heart away. Remember Baron Durnhal’s visit?”

  I nod. Another bored nobleman visiting Four Halls to amuse himself. But the Baron was an interesting, thoughtful sort of man. He brought Corene strange gifts of ostrich eggs and wyvern-skin boots, told me fascinating stories from his time on the war front, and spent an inordinate amount of time with Thelia.

  It wasn’t improper, but they had a way of making conversation so that everything else around them disappeared. The Baron understood her harsh, unrepentant humor. He fielded her barbs and lobbed them back. I figured Thelia wanted his connections, with her father’s dukedom being bankrupt.

  Her eyes shine with tears. “He stole my heart like an outlaw. Then he had to go home for business.”

  That’s not what Corene said. He’d found himself a more suitable wife elsewhere—someone with fewer masculine pursuits, and not so well-muscled from her secret nighttime kroga lessons. I’d thought the Baron was different from the rest of these shallow Holy Kingdom nobles, but I guess not.

  I study Thelia. I’ve seen her fake distress for attention, for pity—but the way she folds in on herself now is different. I reach out to pat her shoulder, and she jerks away. I forgot how much she dislikes being touched. I fall back on words, saying, “I’m sorry. That must be difficult.”

  “I miss Red every day.” She inhales. “The sting hasn’t left. So don’t worry about me falling in love with you. I have no space in my heart for someone else.”

  I nod. “I get it. And if you think your plan will work . . .”

  “Of course it will,” Thelia chirps. “I’m Corene’s best friend, and best friends know these things. When she sees you moving on, she won’t be able to stop herself from doing something rash.” She winks. “Like asking the King not to make her marry Nul se Lan.”

  “But how will she ever forgive me for flirting with someone else? And with her cousin—her best friend?”

  Thelia waves a hand like she’s clearing out a bad smell. “That’s something to worry about later.”

  Parsifal

  I don’t even knock before entering Corene’s room in North Hall—an entire quarter of the castle, just for royals. She jolts upright on her bed, scattering the fabric swatches piled in front of her.

  “Hello, Percy.”

  I don’t bother with the formalities. “I saw you with him,” I say, pouring myself a glass of wine from the decanter on the table. “Last night. After the banquet.” I lean against the bedpost, the stem of the glass balanced between my ring and pinky fingers.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I let loose a catlike smile—or my version of one. “You don’t need to play games with me,” I say. “Bayled and I aren’t friends. I won’t judge you for doing what’s best for you. Though I have to ask: does Nul se Lan know about your secret engagement?”

  She crosses her arms. “How stupid do you think I am?”

  “Hmm. How’s Bayled bearing up?”

  “He understands that I have a duty to my country. I love him, but everything was conditional. He had to know this could happen.”

  I’m sickened to think she’s right. The temperate Bayled Vasha probably does understand—which doesn’t bode well for Thelia’s plans. He could carry a torch for Corene forever, idealizing her sacrifice, instead of looking for a rebound like any sensible man who’s just been jilted.

  “Do either of these poor bastards know that you’re playing a game of pa-chi-chi with them?” I ask.

  “I am not!” Corene snatches my wine glass and downs it. “I’m just trying to make Dad happy, Percy. If he thinks I love Nul, then he won’t feel bad sending me away.”

  I cross my arms. “So he’s Nul now?”

  “Ugh! It doesn’t mean anything.” She gets her own glass and fills it. It’s barely noon.

  I arch an eyebrow. “Sure.”

  Unlike Thelia, Corene’s never been a good liar. She lies best when she believes she’s telling the truth. I’m sure that’s how she convinced the Baron to leave Four Halls—and Thelia.

  She stares into the red depths of her wine. “I love Bayled, Percy. I’ve always loved him.”

  I pat her back. “I know.” And yet . . . you don’t make out on the stairs with a foreigner who can’t keep his shirt closed if you love someone else.

  It’s nothing new for her feelings to oscillate like the tides. When she was eleven, she loved horses with her whole heart. The next moon she begged her father for a hunting dog. She’s always loved Bayled, though. And for all the other young nobles who have come and gone from Four Halls, Thelia remains her best and closest friend.

  But like the horse and the hunting dog, Corene prefers when things belong fully to her and no one else. And who wouldn’t, living a life of public performance and spectacle? Even she doesn’t truly belong to herself. Perhaps what I saw the other night is as simple as that. Nul se Lan is strange and new, someone she can have completely. Someone who’s all hers.

  “So what’s the hurry to marry Prince Sheep?” I ask. “Why does duty to the Kingdom have to come at the expense of your happiness?”

  Her eyes drop to her lap. “It’s my role, Percy. I got to have my happiness for eighteen whole cycles. I played with you and Thelia and Bayled all I wanted. And now the time”—she swallows—“has finally come to be a Princess.”

  “But why now?” I ask, refilling my glass. Corene’s not clever,
but her father tells her things the rest of us don’t get to hear. “Surely this wedding isn’t happening in such a rush because the Southerners suddenly think annexation is a great idea.”

  Corene purses her lips. “We hear the same rumors.”

  “Rumors about the long ears?”

  “See, you know as much as I do.” She crosses her arms. “And you’re drinking all my wine.”

  I take an epically long swallow, hand her the empty glass, and head out into the hall.

  “Good-bye!” she calls after me, annoyed. “I had to start getting ready anyway!” I laugh as she slams the door behind me.

  Our petty little plans probably won’t matter. If the elves are already on the move, it’s too late. I pay more attention to our history lessons than anyone else. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that humans are stupid, small, and insignificant. Merely a temporary blip on the face of this continent, and no marriages or alliances or political posturing will save us.

  Thelia

  Everything is in motion.

  I put on an inspired performance for Bayled the other day, pumped full of just enough real heartbreak to get through to him—a shadow of what I’d felt this spring when I found the Baron’s farewell letter.

  The silly trit ate it right up.

  I thought he’d learned a little skepticism since Parsifal and I, at a banquet many years ago, convinced him that the Countess of Westhaven’s corset was untied. We suggested he be a good lad and go stitch it back up for her. He got a full slap to the face for that one. But as usual, Corene came to his rescue. He’s from the North, she told the Countess. They do things differently there.

  A lifetime of coddling doesn’t prepare someone to lead. You must be assertive, Mother always said—but not by barking orders. You must find the slim place where your desires and theirs align.

  I’ve seen a lot more of Bayled since our talk. He finds ways to sit near me in every group lesson. We have meaningless conversations so Corene can overhear. We search for any excuse to be close, laugh, and exchange conspiratorial whispers—even if all we’re saying is, “Now giggle like I’ve said something very cute. Good.”

  Parsifal smirks when he catches us. We all have lessons together—and not just because Parsifal’s father was a prince before Frefois fell. The King insists everyone in his daughter’s periphery be refined and educated.

  There’s one hitch: Corene’s paid us no attention at all. Half the time she doesn’t even come to lessons, since she’s too busy getting fitted for wedding dresses or picking out centerpieces. That suits me fine. The longer she ignores my play for Bayled, the better my chance of wrapping him up for myself. When it’s too late, she’ll look up and see what I’ve done right under her nose. What I’ve taken from her, just like she took Red Durnhal from me.

  I’m jittery this morning as the castle roars to life. Servants rush about, preparing for this gobble of a wedding. Everyone is infuriatingly thrilled, believing this unification could change the course of the Kingdom for the better.

  There are more important things on my mind. If Bayled doesn’t think our plan is working, he’ll be done with it—and I can’t have that.

  My harp tutor’s lesson is utterly dull, sending my mind floating far above my body. She says I have the coordination for the harp, but no passion. Maybe I’m saving it for something else.

  I try not to frustrate my tutors so much that the King decides my lessons are too burdensome to fund. One cannot become a queen without an education.

  My tutor has barely left when the door flies open and Parsifal strides into my suite. “I think you’ll be curious about a particular buzz I heard when I arrived at the castle this morning. It’s pertinent to your plan.”

  “What’s that?”

  Parsifal drapes himself over a chair and pushes a shiny black curl away from his face. He gives me a calculating look I recognize: how much is he willing to tell me now, and how much should he keep for future use as leverage? Morgaun says his expressions are impossible to read because of his disfigurement, but that’s not true if one knows him at all.

  “Corene’s engagement to Chief Sheep isn’t necessarily involuntary.”

  “She likes the cratertooth?” I can’t help a shocked laugh. Parsifal shrugs. “Corene can’t have spent a decade kissing Bayled in dark hallways to change horses this quickly.”

  “You’ve seen Nul se Lan. Don’t act like you wouldn’t teeter into those arms.”

  “No, I wouldn’t.” As if I’ve ever wanted to hurl myself into anyone’s arms. Even when I spent candle-hour upon candle-hour with Red Durnhal, learning the shape of his jaw, the silver of the hair at his temple, it took me ages just to want to hold his hand.

  “Anyway,” Parsifal says. “This could help. If Bayled finds out she’s not being forced into this—that she likes the Southerner—he’ll be incensed, for once. And more than ready to console himself with someone else.”

  I’m too struck to reply. There’s just no way. Of course it would be huge for my plan—if it were true. The rumor mill must be malfunctioning. I have to be absolutely sure before I try to use it to my advantage, or I’ll stick myself with my own sword.

  I rise from my chair and set that awful harp on the floor. I’d like to stomp it into splinters, but then I’d have to somehow furnish another. “I have to go see Corene.” I head to the door, but Parsifal clears his throat. I sigh. “What is it, pliggan?”

  “Don’t I get anything for bringing you this tasty information?” he asks with a grin.

  I scoff. He wants a treat for bringing me lies? “My undying friendship,” I say, and head out the door.

  “Worst reward ever!” he calls after me.

  Bayled

  I rush to the King’s private suite, holding a note that says: Urgent. Meet me in the war room.

  The war room is an unpleasant place that smells like spilled wine, old man, and urine. No one’s used it for war since the King tried—and failed—to take over the world.

  Inside, King Hindermark sits at the war table with Nul se Lan and the court wizard, Forgren. A draping black robe completely shrouds Forgren’s arms and legs. He must be ancient and raw under there, skin dangling from bones. The jewels hanging from his turkey neck that let him channel Magic probably weigh more than he does.

  Nul se Lan is already here—as are the plates that have yet to be cleared away. They were having a private breakfast. I can’t help feeling wounded.

  “Bayled! Just the man I needed.” The King half rises from his chair, ready to slap me on the back like he always does, but stops himself. I get a whiff of wine on his breath. “Sit.”

  I take an empty seat. “How can I be of service, Your Majesty?”

  He lets out a great sigh as he returns to his chair, the cushions stained with purple. “Priestess. Tell him what you told me.”

  That’s when I notice Priestess Ilisa in shapeless white robes standing in the corner, blending in with the whitewashed stone. Her body’s young—she must be even younger than Thelia—but her eyes are ageless. Melidia chooses each of her priestesses with her own hand, and this one emanates the Goddess’s immortal light.

  “Welcome, young Master Vasha,” she says, as if she’s years older than I am. She doesn’t bow or curtsy. No king is higher than a priestess. In Melidia’s eyes, they are peers.

  But not in the King’s eyes. He rants about the Temple at every opportunity—“The priestesses and their ineptitude are the only reason I lost that war!” Along with the night liquor I usually bring him, it helps him sleep.

  “Hurry up and tell him,” the King grunts.

  She doesn’t look ruffled. “Melidia’s Eye along the Southern Pass has seen something,” Ilisa begins. One of my earliest lessons in the Holy Kingdom—how the ancient priestesses traveled around the continent to build Melidia’s delicate stone Eyes, each blessed with distant sight, granting the priestesses a glimpse into goings-on all over Helyanda.

  “A massive elven attack force—si
ege elephants, orkuks loaded down with tents and gear, mages, thousands of infantry—have crossed the Great Mountains and into our lands.”

  I feel as if someone’s hit me in the stomach with a blunt object. “Why? What have we done to piss them off?”

  She opens her mouth to reply, but Forgren cuts her off. “Who knows why elves do anything? Doesn’t matter. They are creatures of Magic, not logic.”

  Priestess Ilisa continues as if he hasn’t spoken. “We must respond immediately. Send out a call to the sworn lords—”

  Forgren interrupts her. “If the long ears travel the Low Road, they must cross the hills of the Klissen. They’ll meet resistance there, long before they reach our border.”

  Ilisa’s voice is placid. “The Eye of Melidia saw a force that will easily crush the Southerners.”

  “Why should we believe Melidia?” Forgren asks. His hood slides as he leans forward, but somehow, it still obscures his face. I’ve always found it odd that a Kingdom that loathes Magic employs wizards—but this place is full of hypocrisies. Unlike the Magic users of the Northern Republic, who work together to find the best path forward, the wizard and the priestesses are constantly at odds. “The goddess’s guidance didn’t serve us all that well in the past.”

  As the King tells it, Melidia came to him in a dream saying, “It is your destiny, and yours alone, to rule the human world.” With her help, his army took Frefois in a single night, and took the Bellisares as hostages.

  Drunk on victory and fueled by Melidia’s encouragement, the King sent his fatigued force north to conquer the Northern Republic—and then south, into the Klissen. Once he was spread thin as paper across two fronts, Melidia . . . fell silent and vanished. The Northern Republic crushed the Holy Kingdom with their superior weapons, and the tribes of the Klissen tore the rest to pieces.

  The Northern Republic sent my mother, a seasoned diplomat, to negotiate a permanent peace. My family remained here to ensure the Kingdom never again stepped outside its borders—that is, until the fire. For as long as I’ve known him, the King has blamed it all on Melidia.