Page 43 of From the Myths of Kings

Rook rubbed Tesia’s velvet-smooth muzzle, trying to imagine her as one of those ancient battle horses. For generations, Auran royalty had kept with tradition and bred the winged horses for both militaristic and trading purposes. Just like the dagger Rook had inherited from his mother, the winged horses kept in his family’s stables had an entire mythological history he’d not been aware of until recently. How many other hidden truths would come to light as war loomed closer?

20

SAOIRSE

For the second time that day, a hood was violently torn from Saoirse’s eyes, leaving her blinking in the light of a new chamber. Still reeling from the truth of Rymir’s identity, she couldn’t tell if her eyes burned from the harsh light or from the hot tears that threatened to spill over. With each moment that passed, she was reminded of Rymir’s connection to her mother’s death. Like a flooded tidepool, the pain threatened to drown her.

Pull yourself together, she chided. Now is not the time to lose yourself.

She pushed the churning waves of emotion behind a mental wall. She needed to focus on the present if she was to survive. It would do her no good to ruminate on Rymir’s betrayal and surrender to the rising panic that burning in her stomach. She forced herself to look around, ignoring her stinging eyes.

Instead of a murky prison block, she found herself standing in a luxurious antechamber lit by gleaming embossed sconces. Like the prison, this room was made of stone. But instead of ugly sedimentary rock, the chamber was hewn from white marble, its crystalline texture polished to a near-blinding shine. Ornate tapestries hung from the walls depicting various scenes of the Under Kingdom, including a panel portraying the silver lake that ran through the center of the city, framed by a garden of crystals woven from gem-bright threads. Standing in chains and wearing sweaty, weather-worn clothing, Saoirse felt incredibly out of place as she surveyed the lavish antechamber.

“Hel’s teeth,” muttered Neia as she took in the garish scenery. “We’re in the Hall of Kings. Prepare yourselves.”

“Silence,” barked a guard. He jabbed Neia with the blunt end of his spear, eliciting a grunt of pain from her lips. “Once we open these doors, you are to remain silent as the grave. Do not speak to the king unless you are spoken to first.”

Another figure emerged from an adjoining hallway, silver-bright hair catching as she stepped into the light. The guards straightened as the woman strode into the antechamber, the air shifting with something unknown. She wore a midnight-blue gown that sparkled with tiny star-like crystals around its low-cut bodice. Her face was gaunt and hollow, her cheekbones so sharp they could cut glass. Blue veins shimmered under the paper-thin skin at her temples.

“Ah, Sloane. I was wondering when we might see you,” Neia huffed.

“I said silence,” seethed the guard who’d just struck her.

The hollow-eyed woman cocked her head at Neia, a lock of moonbeam hair shifting over a bare shoulder. Her white irises were rimmed with a glacial blue, reminding Saoirse of a frozen lake.

“You should not have returned to Terradrin, Commander,” came a voice as cold as her frosty eyes. “You’ve made the worst mistake of your life in coming here.”

“So I’ve gathered,” Neia replied.

Sloane. Saoirse turned the name over in her head, trying to place her. She mentally rummaged through the index of names she’d created after years of studying the royal families of Revelore, suddenly placing the name. Sloane was Grivur’s elusive daughter, a woman whom anyone outside the Under Kingdom had rarely, if ever, laid eyes on. It was said that Grivur was so protective of his only child he’d forbidden her from ever leaving the walls of the palace, hiding her away like a dragon hoarding his jewels. Though she didn’t know much about the princess of Terradrin, Saoirse could tell Sloane was not a polished jewel, but rather a gleaming shard of ice.

“I have come to escort you into the Hall of Kings,” Sloane stated in a bored tone. “My father has been anticipating your arrival for some time.” With a flippant flick of her hand, the two guards obediently pushed open a pair of gilded doors.

Saoirse sucked in a breath as the room beyond the doorway unfurled. If she’d thought the receiving antechamber was lavish, this chamber was positively resplendent. An enormous gold chandelier hung from the vaulted marble ceiling like a captive star, dripping with shining crystals and a hundred gold-lustered candles. More ornate tapestries adorned the high walls, their designs oscillating as gold-flecked threads caught the flickering light. A long table cleaved through the dining hall with at least thirty upholstered chairs crammed around its polished length. At the opposite end of the room, a wall made entirely of glass overlooked the glowing city that sprawled far below the palace. The glittering lights of the Under Kingdom shone like veins of diamond through a quarry.

Saoirse’s eyes raked up the dining table, drinking in the opulent feast that spread before them like gems spilled from a treasure chest. Piles of caramelized meat gleamed in the candlelight, tendrils of steam curling upward from where crystal-encrusted knives impaled the tender meat. Innumerable platters of fine cheeses were scattered across the table. Gold-rimmed bowls were laden with glossy berries glistening like gemstones. Steam wafted off honeyed bread loaves, their crusts shining and golden underneath thick glazes of butter. Bronze decanters were filled to the brim with crimson wine, accompanied by fine chalices set at each seat. Elaborate candelabras glinted amid the overflowing platters and bowls, holding dripping beeswax candles that melted like icicles under the sun.

Saoirse couldn’t stop the grumble from her stomach. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. But her budding appetite all but shriveled up when she finally saw the figure standing at the back of the room, silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling window.

King Grivur surveyed them slowly, his colorless eyes glittering with a gleeful, unnatural shine. A massive crimson cape pooled around his feet like spilled blood. Thick animal fur lined the collar of his robes. His sallow skin appeared sickly in the candlelight, the blue veins at his temples bulging. Grivur’s white beard had been perfectly manicured the night Raven gathered them in her tent, but now his facial hair was wild and disheveled. His shoulder-length hair appeared stringy and unwashed, his waxen lips as pale as death.

“How wonderful it is to see you again, Commander,” came his grating voice, the timbre of it sounding like gravel under boots. He raised his arms in a mock gesture of welcome. Every one of his fingers was covered in golden rings, many of them gleaming with rubies and emeralds that likely cost more than entire neighborhoods of the Under Kingdom. Grivur’s gaze burned with palpable hatred as he surveyed his kingdom’s former military leader. Neia said nothing in return, merely curling her upper lip with disdain. He prowled forward, his crimson velvet cape dragging several feet behind him.

“You can imagine my shock when I was informed that one of my most loyal servants had been scheming with revolutionaries for Titans-know how long. When word reached my ears that the great Neia Landum had betrayed her kingdom and broke her oaths, I didn’t believe it at first.” Malice dripped from every word. “But that just goes to show how convincing your performance was. All this time, a snake slithered in my hall. You poisoned my court against me with your venom. And then you condoned an uprising that cost precious lives and wreaked insurmountable havoc on the economy of our land.”

With that accusation, Neia could hold her tongue no longer. “You don’t care about ‘precious lives’ or the good of our kingdom. If you cared about your subjects’ lives, you wouldn’t have sent countless tributes to their deaths in the Tournament. You wouldn’t have submitted to Aurandel and tithed away our precious stones and silk, materials your people mined and harvested with the sweat of their brows. If you cared about your people, you wouldn’t have obeyed the whims of a heartless queen like a dog on a chain. You wouldn’t?”

Her words broke off as Grivur struck her in the face. One of the sharply-cut gemstones from his rings sliced across her cheek. Saoirse flinched in her chains when Neia fell to her knees, clutching at her torn face. Neia’s blood stained Grivur’s bejeweled hands.

“Silence, snake!” The king’s pallid skin flushed with ruddy heat, his chalk-white eyes appearing bloodshot. His doughy cheeks quivered with rage. Saoirse wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d started foaming at the mouth. “I will not hear another word from your forked tongue. I am fortunate your prodigy, Captain Barrow, was not foolish enough to follow you into ruination. If not for his loyalty, you may have succeeded in storming my keep and destroying this city. I’m fortunate to have found a commander to replace you so quickly.”

Spittle flew from his mouth and splattered on the marble floor. Neia flinched at the mention of Rymir, the first real jab that seemed to truly affect her.

Saoirse saw a glimpse of the madness Ezra had spoken of as Grivur’s eyes went unfocused, milky pupils dilating. “Sit,” Grivur ordered abruptly. “I’m starving. Let’s enjoy this wonderful feast, shall we?”

His fur-trimmed cloak swirled around his feet as he spun away from Neia and made his way to the head of the table. Saoirse exchanged a glance with Hasana, bewildered by the outburst. The underguards shoved each of them over to the dining table without another word, appearing unphased by Grivur’s abrupt change in mood.

Sloane took a seat next to her father’s throne, her shoulders seeming to hunch as she settled beside him. In the antechamber, she’d appeared the very picture of a facetious monarch. Now, the princess almost looked afraid with her lowered gaze and wilted posture.

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