Page 16 of King of Storms and Feathers

For four whole days, I had played the role of an obedient servant, but I was growing increasingly frustrated. My movements were limited to the kitchen complex and the servants’ hallway, which made it difficult to learn about the city's layout and security.

To compensate, I made sure every conversation, no matter how brief, with any palace worker who crossed my path, was a productive one. I collected every snippet, every tiny detail that might help me piece together a picture of the City of Coridon and the fae who lived here.

The arm cuff’s effect on Grendal and the other servants—a mix of species where humans outnumbered fae ten to one—fascinated me. At regular intervals, their eyes glazed over, their movements slowing as they laughed at nothing in particular.

But the serum had absolutely no effect on me, and I assumed I was immune to it. So feeling mildly foolish, I slowed my limbs and softened my gaze at random times throughout the day, emulating what the drug did to my companions.

I wondered if any other servants were immune and if this was a key to my identity. I would watch closely. Ask subtle questions. And if there were others like me at Coridon, I would find them.

Either way, I was certain my life depended upon keeping my immunity a secret, especially from the palace guards. They roamed the corridors dressed in black and gold armor, the enormous golden feathers on their helmets making them easy to pick out in a crowd of servants.

Every waking moment, I paid close attention to my surroundings. In the hallway, I frequently passed guards discussing the schedules of the trucks that went back and forth between Coridon and the mountains, transporting slaves and bags of auron kanara feathers to the mines. What the miners needed the feathers for, I couldn’t guess. But I planned to find out soon.

As long as we obeyed the emotionless Sayeeda, the guards didn’t bother us, and since I aimed to be the best behaved, most trustworthy servant she’d ever had, I followed her orders without question. Until the day came when I wouldn’t.

For four days, I’d done nothing but sleep and work hard, and take any opportunity to study the auron kanara. Because I was certain there was power in understanding them.

Watching the lightning weavers feed the birds was an addictive torture. I found any excuse to linger in the servants’ hallway while they worked, my skin prickling as magical breezes swept the corridor, raking through my hair.

I closed my eyes and pretended I was traveling on horseback or running through the forest on a windy day, and for a few stolen moments, forgot that I was as much a prisoner as those poor, stupid birds were.

Other than the kanara feedings, my only escapes from kitchen drudgery were the intermittent visions that struck me from out of nowhere. Flashes of white, followed by flickering colors that morphed into scenes of the forest and the boy’s vibrant green eyes. Eyes that were so similar to mine.

Tonight, as I scrubbed the dinner pots, I tried to recall everything I’d learned about the boy and the forest, committing each detail to memory. I pondered where we might have slept, what we ate, and attempted to recreate pictures of the happy life we’d led together.

I prayed to the gods the visions were real and not just something my damaged mind had fabricated to help me cope with my new life as a prisoner.

Indulging in these fantasies hurt my heart, but it made the time go faster and distracted me from my sore joints and muscles as I worked.

“Girl,” said the Sayeeda, jolting me out of my thoughts.

She sat on a high stool between a line of stoves and the door that led down to the cellars, repairing a garment. Between graceful arcs of her needle, she stroked the black and gold cloak on her lap as if it was a favorite pet, not an item of clothing.

“Get a move on. We haven’t got all night.”

“Yes, Sayeeda,” I said, scouring the pan faster.

I gave no excuse for my lethargy, since I’d learned that none were necessary. The serum caused regular lapses in attention, and the Sayeeda had to frequently wake servants from wide-eyed bewildered dazes.

Loud laughter boomed from the stairwell that the servers used during dinner to carry food between the kitchen and the Grand Hall. A moment later, a servant shrieked, and pottery rolled down the stairs. More laughter followed, and drunken male voices echoed into the kitchen.

Cloths and broom handles froze in mid-air as the king and Raiden appeared at the bottom of the stairs, brushing liquid from their clothes and grinning like wine-addled fools. Try as I might, I couldn’t tear my gaze from them. Or rather from him. The arrogant king.

Since the night I went Underfloor, my only company consisted of servants and guards, so the arrival of Arrow and his friend was a startling event, and I wasn’t the only one staring.

As if shaken from a dream, two servants rushed forward to sweep up the broken ceramic, and Arrow and Raiden stepped around them, as though they were invisible.

For no good reason, my heart pounded as they swaggered down the length of the room, ignoring me laboring over a sink as they passed, and stopping in front of the Sayeeda.

“Greetings, Ari,” said the king in his deep, spine-tingling voice. “Is my cloak ready?”

Interesting. He’d called her Ari, not the Sayeeda as everyone else did. Perhaps it was her birth name.

With a rare smile, she raised the needle and gold thread, showing him her work. “Almost, King Arrowyn, only a few more tears to fix. I told you I would bring it to your chambers this evening. Do you require it sooner?”

Arrow leaned a shoulder against the wall beside her. “There’s no hurry. I’m pleased it survived the mineral baths. I came to congratulate you on tonight’s meal. Raiden here thought the stew was particularly tasty, and I agreed.”

The Sayeeda gave him an odd look, as if he didn’t often visit the kitchen to compliment the dishes she oversaw.

---