Page 50 of Once the Skies Fade

“No, that won’t be necessary. I can find my way.”

“Very well, sir. Try not to be late.”

Somehow my suite—which was quite a bit smaller than those back in the Emeryn palace—was just as cold and uninviting as the hallway, despite the fire blazing in the small hearth. Beside it sat a lavish four-poster bed of rich wood and luxurious linens—perhaps a bit too elegant for the otherwise modest room. At its foot my bag rested on top of a tufted leather bench. It was there I moved first, lifting the flap of the bag and pulling items out. Holding my breath, tension roiling through my shoulders, I searched the bottom of the pack until I found the hidden pocket and pulled out the bundle of cloth, but I didn’t relax until I had verified the blade was still there.

Quickly, I moved around the bed. Lifting the quilts and linens out of the way, I pulled my personal knife from my belt and—with a swift glance at the door—sliced a gash into the mattress just big enough to hide the poisoned weapon. It wouldn’t fit while bundled, unfortunately, so once I had it wedged inside, I folded the cloth—careful to avoid the part that had touched the blade—and tucked it back into my pack.

For the first time since I’d arrived, I could breathe easily.

Well, easier, at least.

I probably wouldn’t truly relax until this ordeal was over and behind me.

Stretching out my shoulders and back, I straightened up and appraised the rest of my suite. Across from the door a single window, reaching nearly to the ceiling and framed with heavy green curtains, divided the wall in half with a gilded mirror on one side and a large clock on the other. I half-laughed, wondering if all the rooms had such time pieces, or if they had purposely placed that here just for me. Sucking in a deep breath, I slowly sighed and shook my head. It would take more than that to offend me, but still, I hadn’t actually been late. Nearly, perhaps, but not truly.

Nearly won’t cut it here, though.

Nearly is the difference between success and death.

Below the clock sat a modest desk complete with a small bottle of ink, pen, and paper—not that I would use those much, as Connor and I agreed it best not to risk corresponding.Opposite the fireplace, the wall had been cut back to create an alcove with a clawfoot tub placed in the center and an enclosed privy to one side. An ornate tapestry depicting the signing of the War of Hearts Treaty adorned the back wall of the bathing space, reaching from floor to ceiling and spanning most of the width.

A quick perusal of the garments inside the wardrobe beside the door revealed a variety of items from formal suits to riding gear to combat leathers. By some small miracle they all seemed close enough to my size, so I wouldn’t need to bother the tailor. At least that allowed me the next few hours to rest before I needed to make my way downstairs to the ballroom, but first I needed to wash away the grime from traveling.

In my effort to not be the last one to dinner, I ended up arriving first to find the staff still buzzing about the massive ballroom, setting up for the meal. Several individuals flitted about the long buffet table that lay against one wall. Once a dozen or more covered silver platters had been crowded onto it, other staff needled their way up to squeeze ornately carved fruit and fresh flowers between each elegant dome. At one end of the table two others arranged an assortment of chocolate tortes, cream puffs, and various pastries I didn’t recognize onto a silver and gold tower.

My stomach rumbled just as a young female passed by with a small stack of plates in her hands. She smiled sheepishly at me as she headed toward the table. At least she hadn’t been carrying a platter of food, or I might have snatched up a bite. While Isa and the queen hadn’t arrived yet, I couldn’t be sure they weren’t somehow monitoring my actions. With Her Majesty alreadywanting me gone, it would be foolish to risk her wrath for a small morsel to tide me over.

As if in protest, my stomach growled again.

I had gone longer without food in the past. I could do so again. Even with a feast taunting me.

Ignoring the hearty aroma that enveloped me and the sharp pang in my gut, I forced my attention to the peculiar layout of the room. Unlike most royal dinners I had attended where a table of honor was set apart, distanced from the guest tables and often raised on a dais of sorts, here a single round table—large enough to host double the number of competitors—had been prepared on one end of the space. The other remained empty and open, and my heart sank into my gut as a door opened in the far corner and four fae filed in, each carrying a stringed instrument.

As long as dancing wasn’t one of the trials and didn’t factor into our final scores, I’d be fine. It wasn’t that I didn’t know how to dance—my mother had insisted I learn when I was much younger, claiming the rhythm and control necessary on the dance floor would only aid my fighting abilities. But even if my sword skills were improved by twirling and swirling and dipping and prancing in time to some melody, I detested the practice. If I was going to work up a sweat with a female in my arms, I preferred to be much closer, with fewer clothes on, and without an audience.

The musicians noisily settled into their seats and began plucking at their strings, making small adjustments to the instruments. While not a melody in itself, the collective sound as they tuned whisked me back to a simpler time of seasonal parties at the Emeryn palace, where I wasn’t expected to dance but could seek out entertainment of my own choosing, usually with one or two of the female guests.

Behind me someone groaned irritably, and I glanced over my shoulder to see Oryn entering.

“I thought this was merely dinner,” he muttered, coming up beside me.

“Not a dancer?” I asked.

“Only when forced, which thankfully isn’t often.” He briefly scanned the room before leaning toward me. “I heard the entire Assembly is to attend tonight.”

“That would explain the extra chairs around the table,” I noted. “What role will they have in these games, do you know?”

“The others suspect they’re here to observe only, but…”

“When have you ever known politicians to not meddle?”

Oryn chuckled quietly. “Exactly.”

A hum of quiet voices began to buzz in the room. The others had arrived. All of them, in fact.

Or nearly all.

Nowhere in the throng of new arrivals could I find the queen’s dark hair or her intense brown eyes. None of the other competitors greeted me as they swarmed in, though only one—Graham—went out of his way to scowl as he brushed past me. He was definitely one to keep an eye on, especially since he seemed to have singled me out, not giving any of our fellow contenders the same treatment.

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