Page 90 of Rhapsody of Ruin
Chapter 43
Rhydor
The council floor was still echoing with the whispers of my defiance when Torian closed the gallery doors behind us. The slam reverberated through the Shadowspire’s ribcage of black stone, sealing the chaos on the other side. I did not pause. I couldn’t. Every nerve in me burned with the knowledge that the Masks would not stop until they had Elowyn on her knees. And yet, somehow, I had managed to hold them off, for now.
We spilled into the maze of upper galleries, my veterans fanning into their practiced positions. Brenn darted down the marble stairs with his easy grin, already slipping into the role of distraction. He would drop teasing lines into courtier ears, feed them rumors designed to misdirect. Draven was all swagger, gold hair loose around his shoulders, a priest’s token glinting against his bare throat as he drifted toward the arcades to charm masks and ladies alike. Thariac and Korrath remained close, their shields ready, their eyes as sharp as whetted blades.
I had ordered them like chess pieces, each knowing the consequence of a single misstep: my queen unmasked, dishonored, destroyed.
Torian matched my stride as we cut through the shadowed gallery toward the high balconies. His hand brushed the hilt of his sword, a silent question. Did I mean to fight again tonight?
“Not steel,” I murmured, low enough for only him. “Law. For now.”
He grunted, but the taut line of his jaw told me he didn’t trust it. Neither did I.
The Shadowspire smelled of wet iron and ward-flame, that faint copper tang that clung to the halls after rites. The wards alongthe walls flickered as we passed, silver tongues licking against the obsidian. I felt them test me, pressing against the dragonfire in my blood. They would have gladly snuffed me out if they could. Only the binding of my marriage kept them at bay.
At the far end of the gallery, I paused. One of the lesser couriers scuttled toward me, mask gleaming bone-white in the lamplight. I held up a hand.
“Take this to Maelith,” I said, sliding a folded note into his palm. My voice was steel wrapped in silk. “Tell him he’ll have his answer, tomorrow.”
The boy nodded quickly, bowing low before scurrying off. A single day. That was all I had bought us.
My fingers slipped into the inner pocket of my cloak, finding the small weight of the favor token I had traded away, our second and last. It was gone now, bartered to secure neutral ground for tomorrow’s hearing. I hated bargaining with scraps, but scraps were all that remained.
Behind me, Korrath tapped his cane once against the stone. Our signal: Masks watching.
I glanced over my shoulder and caught them, two figures in lacquered masks of onyx and silver, half-hidden in an archway. Their gazes gleamed like the edges of knives. Let them watch. Let them see me refuse to slink away.
“Keep them visible,” I ordered Thariac quietly. “But silent. Let Wonder believe we bend.”
He inclined his head, jaw set like carved granite.
The veterans peeled off to their routes, shields and blades concealed under formal cloaks but close enough to draw in a heartbeat. We had rehearsed these moves in the Emberhold yards, never imagining we’d need them in the heart of the Fae court.
The gallery split into three passageways. I sent Draven down the broadest, his laughter already spilling into the air like wine. Korrath took the narrow stair toward the vaults. Torian remained with me. We wove through the middle path, past a series of high windows veined with silver wards. Outside, the twilight mists churned endlessly, veiling the city in their false dusk.
My chest ached at the sight of it. Dragons belonged beneath open skies. Here, I could not see the stars. Only the shimmering veil, and the reflection of my own face in glass.
At last, we reached the high door of my assigned solar. Torian pushed it open with a shoulder. The room smelled faintly of scorched parchment and ward-wax, remnants of my late-night hours spent plotting ways to hold back an empire with ink and fury.
“Do you trust her?” Torian asked, finally breaking the silence. His voice was low, but the question cut sharper than any blade.
I closed the door, leaning against it for a moment, my palms flat on the carved wood. Did I trust Elowyn?
I could still feel her hand in mine from the council floor, the way our eyes had locked even as the Masks pressed closer. A vow without words. And yet, I also saw the shadow of her lies, the veil she draped around herself like a second skin. She had hidden something from me, something that could unravel everything we fought for.
“I trust her enough to stand,” I said finally, my throat raw. “But not enough to sleep.”
Torian’s gaze sharpened, but he didn’t argue. He knew better.
When he left me, I crossed to the small table by the window. The forge token lay there, a gift from Elowyn, pressed into my palm weeks ago in the stillness of one of our rare nights of peace. I hadcarried it into battle and back, the mark of a bond I had dared to believe unbreakable.
Now, it sat cold, abandoned where she had left it. Returned to me without word, without explanation.
I picked it up, let its weight rest in my palm. Heat prickled behind my eyes, but I forced it down. Dragons did not weep.
Instead, I set the token back onto the table, slow and deliberate, the sound of its contact with wood like the closing of a tomb.
