Page 62 of Rhapsody of Ruin
He inclined his head. “You have my word.”
I looked back toward the palace, its spires stabbing the Shroud like spears, its windows glowing faintly with glamour. Behind those walls waited Elowyn, my wife, my ally, my tether to a future I had not wanted but now could not ignore.
I clenched my fists, torn between two worlds, two duties, two hearts.
“I will speak with her first,” I said at last, voice rough.
Because whatever choice I made, it would not be mine alone.
Chapter 28
Elowyn
The Whitewood archive had always unsettled me. The walls breathed with silence, carved from pale timber bleached almost silver, veined faintly as if the wood still carried memory. Candles guttered along the alcoves, their light muted by spells so that flames never wavered enough to betray a reader’s expression. The scent of dust and resin filled the air, sharp as memory. Even the floor seemed to hush underfoot, every step softened by centuries of use.
I pressed deeper into the stacks, my palms clammy despite the chill. At my hip, a folded scrap of parchment burned like contraband. The coded route to Greneford, the lifeline that would carry Amara’s child away from Shadowspire, waited to be sealed, hidden, committed.
Nyssa lingered near the entrance, feigning interest in a shelf of herbals. Her basket dangled from her arm, filled with the familiar scent of sage, rue, and bitterwood. Her presence steadied me. But it also reminded me how thin this line was. If she faltered, if I faltered, if anyone looked too closely, everything would collapse.
I slipped between shelves until I reached the small desk tucked against the northern wall. No one favored this alcove; the wards hummed faintly out of tune, their silver script flaking in places where centuries of scholars had traced them. Perfect for secrets.
I pulled the folded parchment from my sleeve. My heart thudded, loud as a war drum. Carefully, I slid the scrap into the hidden slot carved beneath the desk’s surface, a hollow so narrow my nails scraped wood. The page slid home with a whisper.
Done.
A breath escaped me, shaky. My hand lingered on the wood as though pressing it flat would press fate itself.
When I turned, Nyssa had drifted closer, her eyes sharp. “Sealed?”
“Yes.” My voice was lower than I intended. I forced steadiness into it. “No one will find it unless they already know.”
“Good.” She adjusted her basket, the herbs’ fragrance shifting with the motion. “Then all that remains is your cover.”
The cover. The mask I must wear even as the truth threatened to split me in two.
I straightened, pulling the calm mask of Vaeloria’s daughter over my face. “Moonshrine rites,” I said. “The Veilturn is approaching. Three days in seclusion. No one questions a princess who honors the veil.”
Nyssa’s lips thinned. “And Rhydor?”
The question landed like a blade between my ribs. I swallowed hard. “He will believe it. He must.”
“You underestimate him,” she murmured.
“Or overestimate myself.” My laugh was brittle.
I turned from the desk, my skirts whispering against the pale floor, and led us out of the archive. Every step carried the weight of duplicity.
In my private rooms, the air shifted.
Here, the glamour of Shadowspire’s halls softened. Curtains of twilight silk filtered the ever-present glow of the Shroud outside, muting it into silver shadow. The hearth whispered with low flames, scented faintly of cedar. My writing table stood neat, scrolls aligned, quills trimmed to identical points, appearances mattered, even in solitude.
But tonight appearances must do more than soothe. They must deceive.
Nyssa set her basket on the table and immediately drew a warding line across my door with powdered salt and rue. The symbols glowed faintly, a shimmer like dragon’s breath, before fading invisible. “No caller will press past this without stalling. Long enough for you to hide what must be hidden.”
“Good,” I said softly, though my throat was tight.
I crossed to the wardrobe and drew out the gown I had prepared in secret, a simple traveling dress, pale gray, woven of sturdy wool that would not draw attention. No court silks. No embroidered crests. I laid it across my bed and slid my hand along the hem where I had stitched a hidden pocket. The cloth bulged faintly where a small blade could rest, or a coin purse, or both.
