Page 63 of Light Locked
Instead of grabbing for her, in the presence of the guards, they offered the small glass.
It was more of the sleeping tonic, and Clea stared as it lingered between them, unnerved by the timeliness of its arrival.
They knew she might have neglected her food, and they knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep without it, because no Veilin would be able to achieve real rest in a place like this. This was a small sign, perhaps one of many, that this room had been inhabited by several Veilin before her. Maybe one or two of them had worn the exact same red dress she’d had on earlier that day.
Clea was sickened by everything all over again, and wanted to flip the silver tray in front of her audience. Her mind raced for ways to avoid taking it as she glanced at the guards and resisted looking at the door.
They nudged the glass toward her and she refused to take it.
She knew compliance was in her best interest, but she couldn’t do this.
Survival or truth.She knew Ryson hadn’t suggested those choices with this in mind, but she couldn’t help but think of them here.
The maids nudged again as the guards encroached on her.
She took the glass in her fingers, dropping it on the floor in hopes that they’d perceive it as an accident. The guards lunged for her as it spilled across the marble. The maids leapt upon her next. Clea prepared a blessing, but there it was, that stiflingcloth, pressed into her face. As she struggled, she held her breath, casting them back with a shield of light. She tore the cloth from her face, collapsing against the bedpost as she tried to breathe clean air.
Her head already swam and she struggled to get back up, but they were on her again. Hands without faces grabbed and wrestled, ruthless, unforgiving, reaching hands.
A surge of powerlessness washed over her.
It was the first feeling she woke up with the following day.
She didn’t move when her eyes opened, positioned in the bed, tucked in like she’d chosen to sleep there. There was despair and fire in her blood, her mind arrested by the struggles of the previous night, but her ansra more restored than it had been in years.
She focused on that, gripping the idea like a weapon.
The castle pulsed with powerful, resounding energies and intentions. She could sense them all mingling as she sat up in bed, captured in a community of darkness.
She slipped from the bed in a long, silk nightgown the maids had put her in, approaching a small stone window in the corner and looking out. It was already noon, and the forests vibrated with darkness. Whispers of it resounded through the hallways, stronger than anything she’d felt before, and glancing into a mirror, she saw a version of herself she had forgotten could exist.
Her eyes and skin had a brightness to them she hadn’t seen in months, for not only was she recovering power that she’dhardly had the chance to use, but it seemed that she’d also grown stronger.
Looking into the mirror, with long, curly hair casting down over her shoulders, she was struck with an image of her mother. Clea was reminded then of how much she’d changed in the last three years. She could escape castles, she could placate kings, she could overcome profound grief and isolation. In the past, she’d recalled all these events because of how much they’d cost her, but now she saw her own resilience in them.
A powerful surge of revived determination flooded her body, and she rose to the challenge as she heard the maids’ feet scuffling toward her from outside. The servants were back with their tight, sallow faces and their ruddy, burgundy clothes. They circled her as they entered and closed the door behind them. The first had a series of devices used to mark and measure the radiance of her skin, and then two more wheeled in a cart full of cloth strips and layers of clothes. They seemed content with the extent of her power, impressed even. It was confirmed. They were going to sell her.
Clea allowed them to move her like a doll, her mind locked onto a new future she was determined to create for herself. She wasn’t just powerful now. She was more powerful than she had ever been.
She thanked the sleeping tonic as they took measurements of her body. She thanked the medallion for how its challenges had strengthened her as they matched jewels and pieces of clothing with her skin. She thanked the humiliation, watching her eyes in the mirror as they painted her to tan the rest of her skin, and violently cinched a corset tight around her ribs.
She thanked all the adversity for the renewed strength in her blood.
She planned her escape.
Clea’s broken understanding of Kaletik told her that the maids were experimenting with her clothing for the auction tomorrow night. She was the prize of the auction, but that didn’t matter.
Tonight was her night. She would find the medallion. She would find Ryson. She would escape.
Clea patiently bided her time as the maids compared and exchanged materials, dressing her, doing her hair, and painting her face. After several hours, the look that materialized made their intentions clear.
The attire was still in pieces, but they were all white and gold, and tomorrow they would look something like a mockery of a Lodain royal gown. The top was white silk, but deeply cut with a layer of golden lace that wrapped along her breasts in false modesty. The skirt was the same, made of long, white silk that reflected the dimmest light with a pearly sheen. It too, would hide her if not for the long slits of golden lace that reached along her thighs, attire meant to provide brief glimpses of bare skin through the gold, for moments only as long as her steps. With their eyes trained on such fleeting glimpses, they would not notice the paint or the disease it hid.
The only thing that covered her wholly was the corset, beaded with pearl and gold. It choked her protectively, covering the worst of her illness while tightening in her ribs and highlighting the flare of her hips.
Her own people had poised her as a sign of hope, and now she was meant to be a rare and coveted object. Perhaps the two weren’t so different after all.
The similarities of the feeling struck her. Clea restrained the surge of isolation as the maids worked her hair into strings of pearls and golden pins. In Loda, she’d worn robes that hid any semblance of a human figure. Her body was a mystery if not a myth, but the use of white and gold and light had all been the same.
