by Jill Myles
She gazed up at the portrait—the prince, perhaps?—then moved back to the desk. Spread across it was a picture. No, she realized a moment later, a map. She couldn’t read, but she could decipher the symbols well enough. There was a tiny image of Vidara Castle, and wavy lines indicated the rolling hills of the surrounding farmland. A white mass covered a stretch of land to the north, and dotted throughout the region were angry red slashes. She leaned closer, trying to understand what the marks meant, when she heard footsteps in the hallway. Immediately, Seri blew out her candle and froze.
There was a sound at the door, and then it opened.
Seri trembled, searching frantically for a hiding place, but there was nowhere to go. She stepped away from the map. Her shoe scuffed against the edge of one of the rugs, and the person in the doorway paused. “Is someone there?”
Her throat knotted as a light flickered and flared, revealing dark eyes and a pale face. Oh Gods, it was the man from the carriage. She watched, stricken, as he lit a lantern and then held it up, glancing around the room. His gaze fell on her, a cold look settling over his face.
“Excuse me.” His voice was low and cultured.
“I—I—” Her courage died.
“This is a private chamber. What are you doing here?” he asked, moving forward. His steps were quiet as he moved across the room, heading toward her. Dread washed through her. Would he send her home? Or worse? She thought of Kasmar’s mangled body once more and shuddered.
Gathering her wits, she lifted her chin. “I was lost.”
He took another step toward her, and she noticed that his hair was black and just a shade too long. It curled against the collar of his leather jerkin, which had probably cost more than she would ever see in her lifetime.
“I heard a rumor that Lady Mila had taken a Vidari into her employ,” he said. “I take it that you are she?”
“I am,” she replied, trying to force her voice into the same dreadful neutrality.
His eyes flicked over her as if she were nothing. “In the future, I would suggest that you learn our manners if you wish to be successful at your new position. You are to bow in acknowledgment of any nobility that passes you and address him with the proper title. Do you understand?” He did not waver in his succinct politeness.
“I do.” She lifted her chin higher, then added, “My lord.” As if she’d ever bow to him. Never, even if she lived to be a hundred.
He studied her with dark eyes, as if looking for something below the surface and finding nothing. After a long, silent moment, he spoke again. “Your ill temper can be attributed to your cultural ignorance. You are free to go.”
Her jaw clenched with anger. Typical Athonite noble. Ice-cold heart for an ice-cold dictator in the middle of her warm, wonderful country. She scowled at his back, hating him with every fiber of her being.
“Oh, and girl,” he said.
She paused in the doorway, and turned to face him once more.
He studied her for a moment longer. “Do not take to wandering the castle alone. Next time I catch you in a private chamber, I will not be so forgiving.”
“I understand,” she said, keeping the hate from her voice. Humiliated and terrified, Seri picked up her tea tray and rushed out of the room, cups rattling. She hurried back down the hall, racing for the kitchens. She prayed that horrid man would not report her to Lady Mila or any of the other nobles. She let out a frustrated sigh. How was she supposed to explore the castle now that that man was on the watch for her?
She’d nearly made it to the kitchens when a hand grabbed her arm.
Seri gasped, spinning in place as she saw the uniform of a guardsman and the unforgettable swirl of a red cape.
“You,” he said gruffly. “Come with me.”
Seri drew back, frightened, as the soldier grabbed her and pulled her down the hall, past the kitchens, and toward the pantry. A scream rose in her throat, but a rough hand clamped over her mouth. Panic rising in her chest, she whirled around to face her captor . . . and was met with a pair of familiar, laughing green eyes. Rilen.
Astonished, she let him drag her away into the next room without a word of protest. Once they were inside, he let the tapestry fall over the door and pulled her against a shelf of stored root vegetables. “Surprise,” he whispered into her ear. “Happy to see me?”
She smacked him on the shoulder. “You frightened me!” Then she grabbed him by the neck and pressed a frantic kiss to his mouth. “So very glad! What are you doing here, Rilen?” She smoothed out his uniform. It was exactly the same as the Athonite guards’. “Wherever did you get this?”
“It’s not important,” he said.
“But Rilen—”
He made an exasperated sound and clasped her hand in his. “A few of the men ambushed a soldier and robbed him, if you must know.”
“Rilen, why take that risk when you already have me here in the castle? You could have been killed,” Seri admonished. “How did you even get in here?”
“We must take risks at war.” He showed her a door at the back of the root cellar, made of old, warped wood that stuck against the hinges. “There’s an entrance here. I think it’s for vegetable deliveries from the farms. You are not the only one in the castle. We have eyes everywhere, though none as well placed as you. How are you faring?”
Seri’s mind swam with questions. But questioning Rilen would only make him more irritable so she swallowed her concerns. “I’m well enough. Lady Mila’s a spoiled wretch, but some of the servants have been kind.”
Kiane especially had been kind. She had the bed next to Seri’s in the sleeping room, and she sometimes chatted with Seri while they lay in their cots. She helped Seri with unfamiliar chores and never made her feel like an outsider. It was like having a sister close by once more. And the other day, when Seri had returned to the room to find that someone had knocked over her personal altar, Kiane had helped her restore it and even retrieved a few fresh biscuits from the kitchen so Seri could make an offering to appease the gods.
Rilen rolled his eyes. “Kind? Please. They’d kick you in the teeth as soon as smile at you.”
“No, really—”
“You sound like one of them,” he said with a chiding look. “Seri, I didn’t risk myself so you could come tell me about your friends. I came to check on you and see if you’d learned anything.”
“I’ve learned some.” Her fingers moved nervously over his borrowed cloak, finer than the fabric of her gray servant’s dress. “You look handsome.”
“I look a fool,” he said, then leaned in and touched his nose against hers. “You’re just lonely for a real man while surrounded by these pale fishbelly fops.”
Her smile widened and she tilted her face up so he could kiss her, but he held up a hand. “We haven’t much time, Seri. I need to know what you’ve learned.”
It stung that he was more interested in her information than her safety, but she knew their time was short. Swallowing her resentment, she spoke. “Well, for starters, the prince is here, and it sounds like he plans to stay.”
His eyes went wide. “What? Tell me everything.” He gripped her shoulders tightly.
She whispered what she’d learned. She described everything she could think of: paths through the castle, troops and the number of captains, shipments incoming from Athon, and the prince. The upcoming Betrothal Ball, and the map she’d found in the study. The three different kitchens in the keep, and the bizarre sleeping patterns and endless candles.
“It’s so strange, Rilen,” she told him. “They light candle after candle and spend so much money on tallow and wax. Not a bit of sunlight is allowed inside.”
“It’s like the old legends say,” Rilen teased, mimicking claws with his fingers. “The Athonites are fearsome beasts that attack only at night and devour the living.”
She batted him away. “Do be serio
us.”
“What, have they not tried to eat your sweet Vidari flesh?” He nibbled at her jaw and tugged at her high collar. “Or can they not find it under all this fabric?”
Seri chuckled. “All the ladies here are covered from head to toe. It seems showing anything other than one’s face is quite scandalous, especially the neck.”
“Why the neck?”
“Who can say?” She shrugged. “More strange Athonite customs.”
“Tell me more about the prince,” Rilen glanced over her shoulder when someone passed by in the next room. He lowered his voice and met her gaze. “Does he have many nobles here? Many ranking guardsmen?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “He keeps to his quarters; I haven’t met him.”
“No parties? No feasts?”
Seri frowned. “Nothing that I’ve seen. Perhaps they’re waiting for the Betrothal Ceremony?”
“You do have to admit they’re an odd people,” Rilen said, his hands going to Seri’s waist.
“Oh, I freely admit it.” She put her cheek on his chest, listening to the sound of his heartbeat. “How are Josdi and Father? I miss them. Are they well?”
He hesitated, then patted her shoulder. “They miss you, too.”
Just then, the clock chimed out the hour. Rilen took her by the shoulders, all business. “I must go. Keep listening, Seri. The work you’re doing here is invaluable. And remember you will get three dru for your troubles. When you leave here, you will be a rich woman, and in just a few short months we will be handfasted.”
“Oh, but—”
“I must go.” He kissed her quickly, then glanced out the pantry doors. With another quick grin and a flash of green eyes, Rilen was gone.
And she had to swallow her unhappiness once more, put on a brave face, and return to the kitchens. Four more days, she reminded herself fiercely. Four more days and she would be free of all of this.
Seri was starting to think that three dru would not be enough money. The afternoon of the ceremony, she sat in the wooden tub in the servants’ room as two women scoured her skin and scrubbed away at her long blond hair. Winna stood just off to the side, holding up Seri’s betrothal costume. Seri tilted her head at the wisps of material.
“Where is the rest of it?” Seri rubbed soap out of her eyes.
“Where is the rest of what?” Winna asked.
“The dress,” Seri said. “You’re missing half the gown. Where is the skirt? The sleeves?”
“There are no sleeves, and this is the skirt,” Winna said sternly. Kiane stood in the corner, looking at her feet.
“There’s hardly any fabric there,” Seri said, unease clenching in her stomach.
“How is this any different from the rags you came here in?” Winna demanded, her eyes narrowing.
Seri stared at the woman in disbelief. The costume was a ridiculous mockery of her people’s garb. In a Vidari village, it was not frowned upon for girls to bare their arms or their legs up to the knee for work, but the costume provided to her was scanty in comparison. The top was little more than a loose triangle of white fabric tied behind the neck with no back. The skirt was composed of two long strips of the same white material held together by a woven wreath of dyed golden feathers.
“I cannot wear that in public,” she said with a pleading timbre. Because she was Vidari, the men in the castle already eyed her like she was a loose woman. At the slightest breeze, her breasts would practically be exposed to the Athonite crowd.
“You will wear it,” Winna said with a thin smile on her face. “Lady Mila put great thought into your costume.”
I’m sure she did, Seri thought darkly, and swatted the two washerwomen away. “Give me my old clothes. I’m leaving. You can pay me for the time I’ve already spent here and give my regrets to Lady Mila.” There would be no cow, but at least they’d have enough to eat comfortably for a time.
“I’m afraid the rest of your clothing has been burned,” Winna said with a haughty sniff. “We did not know what sort of vermin they carried.”
Seri slapped a fist against the surface of the water. “So you’re going to keep me here as a captive?”
Winna sniffed again. “Of course not. You’re free to go at any time.”
Go without the money and without a stitch of clothing, judging from the superior smile on Winna’s face. “I see,” Seri said. She stood up from the tepid bath. Immediately the two washerwomen rubbed her down with a rough towel. “You have me well and caught, don’t you?” she asked.
Winna gave her a pleased smile. “Lady Mila has left orders and I am simply following them. She wishes to have a savage carrying her train tonight and she shall.”
Scowling, Seri stepped out of the tub and took the feathered gown from the woman.
“You’ve practiced your proper address and carrying Lady Mila’s train, I take it?” Winna said, giving her the fabric.
“All morning and afternoon,” Seri confirmed wearily, settling the feathered belt low on her hips. The skirt left her legs very bare, and they stood out, brown and long against the thin fabric of the dress. “Why the feathers?”
“I beg your pardon?” Winna turned to her.
“The feathers,” Seri repeated, gesturing at the belt. “I don’t understand what they are for.” The attendants steered her toward a nearby stool. One grabbed a wide-toothed comb and began to rip it through Seri’s damp hair. Seri sucked in a breath at the pain.
“Here, let me do it,” Kiane said, nudging the servant aside and working the comb more gently.
Winna touched her neat bun. “It’s tribal for your people, isn’t it? One of your ceremonies?”
Tribal? Was the woman crazed? “My people haven’t lived in tribes for a hundred years,” Seri said. “The only ceremony we have is one to celebrate the spring, and we wear wreaths of flowers for that.”
“Well, there are no flowers available in the dying season, so feathers will have to do,” Winna said, dismissing Seri’s complaint. She handed a wreath of gold feathers to one of the attendants. “Comb her hair but leave it loose—we want to emphasize her savagery. And weave this in.” She turned on her heel. “If you want to see your money, girl, I expect to see you in Lady Mila’s chamber in half an hour.”
Seri scowled at Winna’s back, debating her options as the women tugged at her hair. She could leave now and walk home, but to come so close to the coin and not walk away with it? And what would Rilen say?
“Shall I put the wreath in your hair?” Kiane asked timidly, holding it up.
She clenched her jaw, staring at the feathered monstrosity. Her pride said no. But . . . she needed that money. Her father needed medicine. They needed to fix up their farm and prepare for whatever the future might bring with the simmering unrest.
Seri exhaled sharply, steeling herself for the evening. “Yes.”
If she was risking her life, she was damn well going to walk out with that money or her head on a pike.
Lady Mila was a vision in her gold dress. A high collar fanned around her neck but left a generous amount of décolletage exposed. Her neck was covered with a wide golden necklace, from chin to collarbone. Her dark hair had been twisted and curled into an elaborate bun shot through a few golden plumes. Her eyelashes had been dyed black, her lips red.
She eyed Seri critically. “Her skin doesn’t stand out enough,” she complained to Winna, then pouted. “Dust her with the gold powder. Perhaps that will improve her tone.”
“Powder?” Seri asked, just as someone rubbed a feathery puff in her face. She coughed as the women slathered her entire body with metallic dust. Once done, they stepped back, and Seri held out her gleaming arms. The powder itched and made her skin sticky, and she knew she looked ridiculous.
“Very nice,” Lady Mila approved. “Very savage and wild. I shall be the talk of the ceremony.”
; And then I shall be free, Seri thought with relief. She wriggled her feet on the cold stone floor. At least she was barefoot. It was a small freedom, but she’d take it.
Lady Mila snapped her fan open. “Let us go.”
Winna wrapped the golden cords of Mila’s skirts about Seri’s fingers, the wire digging into her flesh, and she took her spot behind Lady Mila. Their small party made its way through the deserted palace halls. “Lady Mila wishes to make a fashionable entrance,” Winna explained at Seri’s questioning look. “We are arriving late, but just in time for the ceremony.”
Seri nodded, concentrating on keeping her hands steady and the skirts flowing. “Is there anything else I need to do?”
Lady Mila waved a feathered fan. “Just continue to hold my skirts, stay out of the way, and look as wild and uncouth as possible.” She swept down the grand staircase on quick feet, leaving Seri racing to keep up with her.
“Shall I snarl at them, my lady?” Seri wanted to laugh at the ludicrousness of the entire evening.
“If you feel it appropriate,” Lady Mila said offhandedly, distracted as they exited the staircase and turned down the hallway leading to the ballroom. The floors were covered with delicate blue tiles, though they could hardly be seen beyond the crush of people. The sea of faces turned toward them, and she found herself the focus of attention.
She longed to draw in her shoulders, to hunch down behind Lady Mila’s voluminous skirts and cover her flimsy, skin-baring outfit, but she forced herself to stand tall, a thin sneer pinned to her lips.
She’d show them that she was proud, no matter how they tried to humiliate her.
The whispers began as soon as Lady Mila crossed the threshold of the ballroom. Savage, she could hear them whisper. Wild girl. Vidari.
Sconces lined the walls, and the stained glass windows had been opened and the tapestries moved aside to rid the room of smoke. Still the space felt muggy from the press of bodies. Women in full-skirted gowns danced with men in tunics stitched through with metallic threads, and high above the dance floor, candles blazed in golden candelabras.