Page 91 of Crown of Iron
Laughter erupts around me, and I brush the hair away from my face. Rows of people line the aisle I lay in. They wear extravagant clothes of feathers, lace, and silks, with their hair in elaborate braids or stiffly coiffed. Vibrant colors and outrageously long lashes accentuate their eyes, and theirlips are overembellished in every imaginable shade. I squint against the sparkle of their jewels and stagger to my feet.
Before me stands a wide staircase that breaks off in two. The steps curve upward around a dais and in the middle sits an enormous jewel encrusted throne with a chained man perched next to it.
“Papa,” I say, rushing forward.
Several burly Stigian warriors block my path, glaring at me with dark, menacing eyes. I have little fear for them, just an all-consuming hatred. I beat my fists against the metal plates over their chests as tears and snot trail down my face. It doesn't matter what it takes. I will fight each of them to get to the throne.
Chains rattle and a gritty low voice says, “Stop, Raelle.”
My arms pause mid-punch, and I glance at my father.
With his head bowed and shoulders slumped, he lifts his gaze, but the expression on his bearded face remains lifeless. He sits on a wooden stool too small for his long frame, dressed in his old formal military garb. The uniform has seen better days, frayed at the bottom and around the sleeve. It’s accessorized with an iron shackle encircling his neck. It tethers him to the bottom of the throne with a thick chain connected to his collar. Esmeray has beaten him into a mere fragment of the man he used to be.
“Now Raelle, you have already caused quite a stir in my kingdom. You will act civilized within my court, or I'll have no choice but to send you to the cells until Micah can retrieve you.”
I lift my gaze to the second landing above the dais. Esmeray stands before a waterfall flowing down from the arched ceiling. Under the stream is a marble statue of herself scantily clad, guarding over the entire room like she alone can grant everyone here their deepest desires. They may believe that, but I know better.
I narrow my eyes and square my shoulders. “My newly weaponized army has already infiltrated your walls. You will let me and my father go or the casualties you'll face will be great. And Statera forbid that you look like the weaker ruler to your pretty puppets.”
“Your army fled almost as soon as you were captured.”
My heart falls to the deep recesses of my stomach. They drew back and left me to fend for myself. Why would they do that when they had a choice? They vowed to rescue Papa, and without them, I'm powerless against the Stigian queen.
She cocks her hip and places her hand over it. “And just a friendly reminder before you get any more violent thoughts in that pretty head, you are on sacred ground inside this place. Harm me while in the sanctuary and your crown is as good as gone. Along with the wards protecting your people from my warriors dragging them out of their land. The Statera doesn't look kindly upon bloodshed on its floor.”
“I know,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Good.”
The queen removes the necklace from around her neck. The orange and red stone hangs from the chain and glints with the rays of sun beaming through the enormous arched windows on either side of the waterfall. She saunters to the statue, the ruffled skirt of her emerald silk and lace dress swaying with her hips. Her lips move as if in quiet prayer before she dips the stone in a pool of water at the statues feet. She rises and with the utmost care, she places the Posseda in her statue's cupped palms, and nods to the warrior standing at the base. They pull a lever on the wall and the sculpture raises its hands above its head and into the rushing water.
“You awoke just in time, princess. My court was about to amplify their gifts.” Esmeray descends the steps and takes her seat on the throne. She looks out over the crowd and gestures for her people to come forward.
Like a choreographed dance, the Stigians form two lines, and in pairs, they bow at the bottom of the dais before ascending the steps and climbing the staircase before them. The person to the right extends their hands under the water flowing over the Posseda and places their drenched palms to the cheeks of their partner on the left.
Even if I had not read Micah's journal and understood how to siphon another's gift, the faces of the two parties explain it all. At the moment, a Khiros' hand touches their Cyffred's chest, their eyes roll back in their head and lips part with a blissful grin. The addition of power is clearly euphoric for those siphoning. The same can't be said for the Cyffreds. They go limp. Their heads drop to the side and some fall to their knees, too weak to stand any longer.
My stomach churns, and my tongue thickens as I take deep breaths to ward away the sickness creeping up my throat. Although the Statera sent the Pliris ruler this power, it’s unnatural. The Cyffreds may give their gift freely, but it’s under false pretenses. How many of them already realize this isn't right, but they’re too terrified to refuse this ritual?
I return my attention to Esmeray. But the sight of her doesn't help. She strokes my father's hair like he’s a well-behaved pet while watching my disgust. Her repulsive actions remind me of the reason I'm here.
I clear my throat to fight past my nausea and say, “I have what you want, and I'm willing to exchange it for my father.”
The chain hanging from around his neck rattles as he jerks his head up, flinging away the greasy strands of salt and pepper hair from his face. Finally, there’s a hint of emotion in his eyes. A part of me thought no matter the outcome of today, I'd never see that spark in him again. I feared the compassionate and lively man who loved me unconditionally had vanished.
His fingers move between his knees, saying in sign language:let me go.
I sign backno.
The respect and love I have for Papa is endless, but I won’t be the obedient daughter. Not at this moment, not until he is safely home.
Esmeray leans forward on her throne, her lush black hair swaying with the movement. The lids of her sharp eyes drop, and her burgundy lips lift at the corners into a wicked grin. “And what is it you think I want, Princess?”
“The Eporri.”
The queen snaps her fingers, and her warriors move away from me, leaving nothing between us but a few steps. She examines me with a critical eye and stoic expression. A dull ache spreads throughout my head like fingers probing at my mind. They flip through each emotion and memory, searching for the truth. The invasiveness of her gift makes me feel sick again.
“I heard you tell Micah you want back what he stole, and I know when he left Stigian he took the other Sacred Gift,” I say louder than I intended, wanting her to retreat from my mind.
