Page 83 of Rhapsody of Ruin
Chapter 38
Elowyn
The funeral hall breathed with silence, heavy and perfumed, as though the walls themselves mourned. The bier carrying my mother’s body, our queen, our cage, floated down the central aisle on a cushion of glamour, pale veils of moonlight woven so tightly they glistened like spun glass. Incense hung thick in the air, sharp with resin, sweet with roses left to wilt. Each breath scraped my throat raw, as though grief itself had teeth.
I walked three paces behind the bier, mask perfectly in place, step matched to the slow rhythm of the procession drums. Every beat vibrated in my bones, steady as a heartbeat too large to be my own. The courtiers lined the hall in tiers, masks gleaming, whispers hushed but alive like moths brushing against the dark. They watched me as much as her. More, perhaps. My mother was gone, but I was still here, an opportunity waiting to be seized or strangled.
The scent of lilies and charred cedar mingled, cloying, and beneath it I smelled the iron tang of warded chains. They were hidden, of course, wound into the floor beneath our feet, but I knew the taste. I had grown up in this palace, every stone pressing its warnings into me. The wards thrummed like a taut bowstring, their shimmer prickling the back of my neck.
I kept my eyes forward. My mask’s edges dug into my cheekbones, familiar now, armor sharp enough to keep my expression unreadable. My fingers curled briefly into my skirts, a small rebellion against the stillness.
The bier passed beneath the silver arches toward the processional corridor, the air cooler there, shadows deeper. Thatwas when the rhythm of the drums faltered, just slightly, like a breath caught.
I felt it before I saw it.
Men stepped from the side passage, three of them, masks blacker than mourning cloth, their shoulders too stiff to be true mourners. Their formation was deliberate, narrowing the passage just enough to funnel me. The nearest’s gloved hand rose, not to strike, not yet, but to claim. To seize.
My stomach tightened, though my step did not falter.
“Princess,” he murmured, voice smooth, almost courteous. “This way.”
His fingers brushed for my arm.
I jerked back, the movement sharp enough that silk whispered against the stone. My heart thudded once, hard, but my chin did not drop. My gaze flicked toward the nearest guard. A tilt of my mask was all the command I gave.
The guard moved at once, steel whispering free, but hesitation rippled through the crowd. Confusion. Some thought this part of the rite, a sudden test of poise, a cruel tradition dressed as honor. The courtiers’ whispers rose like rustling leaves, louder now, feeding on themselves.
The man reached again.
And then a figure slipped between us.
It was one of my servants, a boy really, not more than seventeen, his mask plain wood. He moved as though born to it, interposing his body between mine and the masked noble’s hand. The blow landed against him, an elbow driven into his ribs, a flash of metal at his temple. He staggered, fell.
The sound of his body striking stone cut through the funeral silence like a bell.
The world narrowed. For a heartbeat, I saw nothing but the boy sprawled at my feet, his breath shallow, his mask cracked. Loyalty had spilled itself into the aisle like blood.
I turned back to the men blocking the passage.
“You will move,” I said. My voice was not loud, but it carried, sharpened by fury.
The nearest hesitated. Only for a breath, but it was enough. I seized it, because hesitation is the only weakness the Fae ever show.
“Retreat to the council floor,” I ordered, my voice cold as winter glass. “Now.”
The guard I had signaled stepped closer, and more followed, reforming around me with steel drawn, their masks grim. A ripple of surprise traveled through the courtiers. Retreat in the middle of a funeral? It was heresy. It was scandal. It was survival.
I did not run.
I lifted my chin, adjusted my skirts with one hand, and walked through the aisle as though I commanded it. My heart beat like a trapped bird, but I caged it with every step, forcing its frantic wings into stillness.
The bier drifted onward without pause. My mother’s body floated, untouched, unsullied by this squabble among the living. Perhaps that was the cruelest part. Even in death, she remained inviolate, while I walked in danger’s mouth.
The processional corridor stretched ahead, and at its end the doors of the council floor loomed. Masks re-formed ranks there, their lacquered faces turned toward me. The gleam of their eyes behind slits was unfriendly, their stance too ready. A line drawn, daring me to cross.
The murmurs of the court swelled, a tide of suspicion and hunger. They smelled blood. Mine.
The loyal servant groaned faintly where he lay. I could not turn back for him, not yet. My hand trembled once at my side, then stilled. He had bought me the moment. I would not waste it.
