Glimmer of Steel (The Books of Astrune Book 1)

by K. E. Blaski

  “Noble’s orders, Princess. We have to enter your room in pairs. Not even I can be alone with you anymore. Not after Madam Meilyn.” The soldier lowered his eyes.

  “Does your hand hurt?” Damen traced the rough scar on her hand with the tips of his fingers. She didn’t feel anything.

  “No. I think I’m drugged. Strong stuff, too. I don’t remember the last three days, and I completely don’t remember getting my skin burned off.”

  “He used acid, not fire.”

  “Great. I’ll have to remember acid is the preferred lip print removal method around here.”

  Damen looked at her blankly.

  “Not funny, right?” She cast another glance at the boots on her feet.

  He took her hand in his, a small and dainty package wrapped in his long, dark fingers. “I’m sorry he did this to you.”

  An apology? Well, that was progress, at least. And it had to be sincere, because of the whole truth-telling thing, right? Also, his eyes were a little bloodshot; maybe he wasn’t sleeping well after all. She knew it was mean to feel good about Damen’s sleepless night, but . . . well, he deserved it.

  “Noble Tortare was very angry when he found out Madam Meilyn marked you. He was angrier about her marking you than her trying to help you escape. He wanted to skin her alive himself.”

  “Yes. Too bad one of his soldiers shot her dead in front of me, so he didn’t get the pleasure.”

  The soldier against the door cleared his throat to speak, but fell silent.

  Damen went on. “Too bad for the soldier. Noble skinned him instead.”

  “Oh my God.” Though she didn’t think God even knew this place existed. A new hypothesis occurred to her: she’d hit her head so hard she’d died, and this place was her own personal hell.

  “He’s filled the dungeons with Madam’s relatives, friends, and acquaintances. There’s no reasoning with him when he gets like this.”

  “He’s going to kill them too?”

  “Eventually.”

  “And I’m supposed to marry this monster? A demon who murders people because he’s angry over a kiss on the back of my hand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get me out of here.” She struggled against her ties.

  “I can’t.”

  “Switch me back,” she pleaded.

  “It doesn’t work that way.”

  Jennica could feel the tears burning behind her eyes, insisting they be let free. She squeezed them back. Her feelings were the only thing she had control over now. God wasn’t intervening on her behalf, even though she’d tossed more than a few prayers his way since she’d gotten here. There’d be no knights in shining armor, coming to rescue her—just soldiers in shining skin, imprisoning her. And Damen? He wouldn’t release her from this nightmare. He might be sorry for the soldier and Madame Meilyn, sorry for the acid, sorry that she was tied to a chair, but this outcome was precisely what he’d wanted—he’d saved his princess, who was probably enjoying Sunday brunch with her grandparents.

  “Meatloaf.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nyima’s enjoying her first meatloaf.” Jennica practically spat the words.

  Damen closed his eyes for a moment, his lashes nearly dusting the tops of his cheeks. When he reopened them, he gazed at her with tired eyes and a flash of—sympathy? No, no, no—more sympathy from him was unacceptable. She turned on him. “I want answers. It’s the least you can do.”

  “Whatever you ask, I have to—”

  “Tell the truth. I know.” She cut him off. “What will happen to me after I’m married? And don’t spare the details.”

  Even though he crouched next to her, he turned away, like he couldn’t face her while he spoke. “Noble will take you into his chambers. He’ll consummate your marriage—and then he’ll bite you.”

  “Bite me? What, like a vampire?”

  He turned toward her again. “I don’t know what that is, but his bite will—damage you.”

  “You’re going to have to be more specific than ‘his bite will damage you.’”

  “Noble needs your power to add to his own. Moments before your skin fades, he’ll puncture it with his metal teeth. His teeth are coated in Urion, and your soul, the part of you that makes you unique, will detach from your body for Noble to consume. Your soul, the soul of a Rosen woman, is worth a thousand common souls. You’ll fuel his strength, his ability to heal himself, the protective shields he casts around his armies. He’ll get all of this from you.”

  The numbness in her body spread to her mind. “He’s going to eat my soul.”

  “Yes.”

  Jennica’s mind attempted to switch from numb into hysterical mode, like it had when she’d first seen Nyima’s face staring back at her in the wall mirror. If she weren’t so doped up, she suspected she’d be shaking. She took a deep breath and willed herself to stay rational. “Then what?”

  “Uh.” He seemed surprised she took the news so well. “Then you live with his other wives. And like them, you’ll be an empty shell that cannot take care of itself. Servants will feed, dress, and clean your body for the rest of its life.”

  “In the room with the zombies.” She paused for a minute, recalling a horror movie she’d seen the previous summer, Dead and Hungry. “What do they eat?”

  “What?”

  “Those creatures, the wives—what do they eat?”

  “Food. Uh, specifically? Langor bread, melonase, krants fruit, rose milk.”

  “No brains? No human flesh?”

  His eyes widened. “You mean people? No, of course they don’t eat people.”

  She exhaled. “At least that’s something I don’t have to look forward to.” But the room of corpse women still didn’t make sense. “Why doesn’t he just kill them after he takes their souls? Why keep them—me—like a trophy?”

  “I don’t know. He likes to visit them.”

  “What does he do when he visits them?” The words came out before she realized she didn’t want to know the answer.

  “He goes alone. And he doesn’t share information about his visits with me or with anyone else. So, I don’t know.”

  Jennica considered what to ask next, when she noticed Damen had been holding her hand the whole time they’d been talking. Even though she couldn’t feel it, there was his hand, neatly clasped around hers.

  “Why can you touch me when no one else can?”

  He dropped her hand and let out a little moan, as if he, too, recognized how long he’d held it. “I take an inhibitor before I come near you. It deadens my senses.” He shook out his hands; Jennica noticed a red X across one of his palms before he twisted his fingers into the fabric of his robe. “I’ve made a mistake.”

  “Really? Inhibitor? Does Noble Tortare know?”

  “Those who know include me, a woman named Argathe, Nyima, and now you and the soldier over there.” He started to pace. “A giant mistake.”

  The wheels spun in Jennica’s mind. “Does this inhibitor work for anyone who takes it?” What Damen described sounded like chemical castration. It sounded like a way out.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you get more?”

  “Yes. I have more. Hidden.”

  “Where?”

  “With me.” He seemed to struggle against some invisible force as he pulled out three small metal vials. They clinked together in the palm of his hand. He glanced at the soldier and stashed the vials back inside his robe.

  “Do only the brown robes come with pockets? Never mind.”

  She almost told him to save them—she might be able to use them—but she didn’t dare speak openly in front of the guard. Not after what had happened to Madam.

  Rapid pounding on the door startled them all. Even the stoic soldier jumped before sliding the panel open.

  “We’ve come to prepare the bride. The guests arrive in twenty minutes,” a girlish voice called out. The soldier opened the door to reveal two petite blond women. They rushed in, one carrying
a fresh wedding robe, the other’s arms laden with bags and cases. “You men will have to leave. It won’t do for you to see the princess getting dressed.”

  “We’ll be right outside if you need us,” Damen said on his way out. Again he had that look of tired sorrow in his dark eyes.

  The soldier closed the door behind them.

  As soon as they were gone, the two gloved women fell upon her. “You’re a mess.” One of them placed her parcels carefully on the floor.

  “We don’t have much time.” The other draped the robe on top of the parcels. “I’m not winding up like Prashir. We’re going to do this quickly.”

  “Just keep your gloves on. That’s where Prashir got into trouble. Don’t touch her skin to skin and we’ll be fine.”

  Each unbound a wrist, and then they pulled Jennica to her feet and pushed the chair away. They avoided eye contact with her, and in a flurry of activity, they replaced the tattered and soiled wedding robe she wore with a clean one. Her hair was sprayed, brushed, and pulled back in a loose bun. Her face scrubbed, pinched, powdered, and colored. Her lips plumped, lined, and glossed. The women were fast, they were efficient, and then they were . . . done.

  “Ah, you will make your village proud. A fine addition to Noble’s family. He takes any soul he wants, but he only marries the Rosen ones, you know.” The woman packed her cosmetic materials into a small case. Rouge stained the finger pads of her gloves.

  “Treats his wives like fragile dolls.” The other woman tucked the combs and brushes into a cloth roll that she tied up with a cord.

  “Feeds them the best. Dresses them in the finest robes and jewels. Aprica has blessed you.”

  After what Damen had described, Jennica wondered why Noble married at all.

  “Too bad about her feet.” One gripped her chin in her gloved hand and frowned.

  “Her robes will cover them.” The other fluffed the bottom hem until it skimmed the floor.

  “Can’t you take these metal boots off? I can barely move, they’re so heavy.” To prove her point, Jennica lifted one of her feet off the floor—with great effort—and set it back down with a clank.

  “Oh my. She doesn’t know.” They looked worried.

  “Hasn’t anyone told you, Princess?” The two women hovered around her like bees, never coming too close for longer than a few seconds at a time.

  “Told me what?”

  “Should we tell her?” One of them circled.

  “I don’t want to be the one to say. Do you?” The other pointed.

  “No, not really.”

  They both shuddered.

  “Tell me,” Jennica cried out, frustrated at the women’s silly dance.

  “I will tell her.” Damen came back in the room. “Your work here is done.” He grabbed their parcels from the floor and thrust them into their arms, pushing them from the room. The soldier closed the door on their high-pitched tittering and reclaimed his post.

  “Tell me, Damen. What’s with the metal boots?” Jennica tried to walk, but managed only a weak shuffle.

  “They aren’t boots.” He pushed the chair back behind her and gestured for her to sit.

  She sat, shoulders tense, back rigid. Fear began to crawl along her skin. If they weren’t boots . . .

  Damen bent down next to her and strained to raise her left foot. He cradled its weight in both of his hands. “They’re your new feet.”

  And she saw what at first she hadn’t wanted to see.

  “Noble Tortare didn’t want you to try to escape again,” she heard Damen say in a voice that was drifting farther away.

  She thought of Oz again, and how she’d prefer the ruby slippers.

  “It took three days to fuse the metal.” His voice kept shrinking.

  Silver, when I wanted red.

  “He was very angry,” the small voice tried to explain.

  Metal instead of rubies.

  “There’s no reasoning with him when he gets like that.”

  No reason why the Tin Man gave me his feet.

  DAMEN

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE WEDDING

  When Damen explained what had happened to her feet, he saw the light snuff right out of her eyes. It felt like he was watching Nyima get carried off by soldiers all over again. He did his best to provoke her, to try to get her to lash out at him like she had the night they’d met, but with no success. The most he could manage was to get her to stand as the wedding guests filed onto the balcony above.

  He didn’t want to leave her there, but they wouldn’t let him stay. The ceremony was about to start.

  In the corridor, the soldier broke the silence. “She didn’t react well to what Noble did to her feet.”

  “No. She didn’t.” Damen sighed. “She must’ve accepted her fate. That’s for the best.” He supposed if she’d screamed and fought, it would’ve only made things worse. He shook his head. No. He couldn’t even lie to himself. The girl had turned into a compliant doll, and somehow it felt worse than when she’d kicked him to the floor.

  “We should watch from the balcony. To make sure she doesn’t escape during the ceremony,” the soldier offered.

  “She’s not going anywhere. Not anymore.” He wanted to crawl into his room, hide under the covers, and sleep like a child. He wanted to forget the girl who stared from behind Nyima’s eyes, but he suspected she’d haunt his dreams.

  “To give her some support, then. Maybe it will matter to her to see you there. She did ask for you.”

  Damen knew she’d called for him only for his truth-telling abilities. Why else would anyone want him around? “You sound like you care.”

  The broad-shouldered man stared off, considering how to respond, and Damen sensed the truth of the soldier’s feelings. He cared very much.

  “What’s your name, soldier?”

  “Marcis Balázs.”

  “Well, Marcis Balázs, let’s make sure she sees us in the balcony.” Maybe it would do her some good. This soldier seemed to think so. Together, they climbed the staircase to the upper level, reentering the room from the top.

  As they joined the wedding guests, Damen saw that the girl, the new princess, still stood where he’d left her, head down, hands limp at her sides. Around the room’s perimeter, a river of robes and silks pressed against the railing, and painted lips babbled: Didn’t the princess look beautiful? Why was the wedding postponed? Where was the girl’s father? When would the ceremony get started? Wasn’t it hot today?

  Damen broke into an uncomfortable sweat as he surveyed the guests. They were a varied lot, primarily city and village leaders appointed by Noble himself and duty-bound to attend the wedding. Madam Amika and her consort came from the mountains of Telerune, a month-long journey, with a huge entourage in tow. All would spend the night in the castle, attending parties and gorging themselves on Noble’s ample supplies of food and wine. Then, nursing hangovers in the morning, they’d disappear as hastily as they’d appeared, not to be seen at the castle again until Noble took a new bride. Unless they needed something from Noble. Or he needed something from them.

  The Officiant from the Order of Cloisan arrived, his green robes embroidered with thick gold thread, a purple-dyed stole draped around his neck. The man positioned himself at the front of the balcony, facing the viewers and the princess below. He began his announcements; his voice had the lilt of a foreigner. The crowd stopped chattering to listen. All except Nyima’s aunt, who continued to whisper behind her fan until she caught the Officiant’s glower.

  “Welcome to the wedding of our great and powerful ruler, Noble Tortare, to Princess Nyima Bagulin of the Village of Elliot. As Aprica shines in the heavens, therefore will this marriage shine in the records of time. The merging of these two lives into one begins today.

  “I am your appointed Officiant, Princess Nyima. Do you have anything to say to your guests before I declare you Nobless?”

  The princess stood motionless below him, and Damen had to look away. He thought of Nyima
, the real Nyima. She was safe—probably scared and disoriented at first, like this other girl had been, but soon she’d accept her new life, like this girl did now. He twisted the front of his robes in his hands. What mattered most was that he’d saved Nyima’s soul. He’d invented a plan, stolen Urion right from under Noble’s nose, and rescued his best friend. He should be rejoicing. Instead, a hollowness ate at his insides.

  He wondered if Nyima liked—what was the word? Meatloaf. Yes, he wondered if she liked meatloaf. A pang shot through his chest. If only he could’ve gone with her. That would’ve been an even better plan. Oh Aprica, how he wished he wasn’t here. If only someone would snatch his soul and take it far from this farce of a wedding.

  A unified gasp from the balcony brought Damen back to the proceedings. He peered down from the balcony to find the new girl inside the princess’s body staring up at him—or at least in his general direction—and his chest tightened. She wouldn’t look right at him, would she? But it wasn’t her staring that had caused the crowd to murmur—it was the fluid running from her eyes, coating her cheeks with a bright sheen.

  The Officiant pronounced the marriage sanctioned and certified, signed the tattered binding of records, and rushed from the balcony. The visitors tumbled out, leaving Damen and Marcis staring down at the wet-faced girl.

  “Why does she keep looking at me? And why do her eyes leak?” Damen clutched at his robes, the sweat from his hands staining the front.

  “She calls them ‘tears.’ They come when she feels sad. Her emotions actually push the water out of her body through tiny holes around her eyes.” Marcis scanned Damen. “Like sweat. Her name isn’t Nyima, either. She has a different name.”

  Damen knew Marcis spoke the truth. Unspoken questions fought with each other in his mind. Marcis saved him from deciding which one to ask.

  “Jennica,” the soldier said. “Her name is Jennica, but I’ll call her Nobless until she invites me to call her by her real name.”

  “How do you know these things?”

  “I pay attention.”

  Damen considered the soldier’s statement. Would he have known about tears if he’d paid attention? “She told you her name?”