Page 66 of Wrath of a King

A stone stoup with the fire sorcerer symbol burned bright at the entrance to mother’s salon. The smell of dried herbs and sandalwood lingered in the air, cloying and sticky in the heat. Mama snuffed out the flame with a flick of her fingers and reached into the curved carving. Thick with spiced ash, she raised her thumb to my forehead, smudging it with a short prayer.

“You need holy protection,” she insisted, interpreting my frown correctly.

“I needed it more this morning,” I interjected, sliding the iron lock from its mooring and holding the heavy door open.

She waited near the entryway as her guards preceded her, doing a sweep of the room before taking their stations just outside the door.

It had been a few long years since I had set foot in Mama’s salon—not since Father had taken me under his wing before his untimely death.

Little had changed, it seemed. The walls towered over us, their brick-red monotony broken up by massive arching windows. As a child, I’d held the fanciful notion that the domed arches resembled the wings of large birds ready for flight. Now, as I glanced up at the windows, I could only shake my head at the imaginative child I’d once been.

Lace curtains tumbled to the floor in artful, carefree waves, reminding me of how Mama used to look before Netto and Pyke had been born. Vivacious and youthful, her smile had rivaled the glow of the sun.

Sometimes I believed I could see glimpses of the young Hera Highblade, with her curls unbound and laughter trilling in the air. She was always heard before she was seen, or so the people of court used to whisper all those years ago.

I had no doubt that the mother I once knew was buried beneath memories of deep sorrow—I wondered if she would ever emerge again.

In the center of the room was an ancient pipe organ, an ancestral gift from Mama’s grandparents from the Ruby Lagoon. It stood tall, formidable, and dramatically splendid, seemingly older than time itself.

The design of the organ was reminiscent of the lagoon, the placement of the pipes resembling the ups and downs of blue waves. The pipe shades in the background were dotted with gilded stars, giving the impression of the beach under the night sky. The case itself was carved from black cherrywood, minimally stained to preserve the purity of the material.

Mama played when she was happy. The sonorous tones of the organ were a telltale sign of her joyous state.

Sire had despised its dull notes, often comparing the blare of the organ to a noxious backdoor breeze.

It was no surprise that Mama hadn’t played in years, but she brought in maestros now and again to ensure it was tuned.

The flames lay banked in the fireplace. Not a single trace of ash lingered on the gilded surface.

One of my earliest memories was waking up to my little sister Netto’s gentle snores as Mama held us in the nook of her arms. I remembered the warmth of the fireplace at my back, and Netto’s breath on my neck. We’d often spend nights like those in Mama’s salon, building forts out of multi-colored throws and using her extensive collection of hats to create eccentric characters.

I watched as Mama crossed the room to the careful arrangement of glass bottles, her slippered feet quiet on the carpet. She selected an old bottle from the shelf and placed it on the mantel. The amphora-shaped vessel had small dolphin handles that would barely fit the tip of my index finger. Mama maneuvered it expertly, removing the cork and sloshing a generous amount into the waiting crystal.

“Wine?” she asked. “This one is from Nestia. A gift, I think, from the Brimwoods.”

I shook my head, declining her offer, choosing instead to recline on the settee across from the fireplace. Towers of books sat in haphazard piles around us—personal journals, prolific fiction, and political articles coming together in a jumble that only Mama’s mind could process.

Newspapers and tabloids littered the carpet, some crumpled into little balls and others shredded into uneven pieces. An ashtray was filled to overflowing, dark smears creasing the thick white carpet beneath.

“Mountain wine is too sweet for my tastes,” I explained when she glanced back at me. “And I have a long night ahead.”

She nodded, taking a deep sip of the red liquid. In the solar lamplight, her lips held a faint blue hue. This certainly wasn’t Mama’s first drink of the evening. And it wouldn’t be her last.

“Tell me,” she said, clearing her throat. “What proof do you have that it was the Summerstream clan?”

I recounted the details from this morning, and Mama listened quietly.

“And you believe it was Olympia Summerstream behind this?” she queried, gathering her satin skirts aside before resting on an upholstered armchair that had seen better days. The stuffed chair seemed to envelope her in its folds, making her appear frail and breakable.

“I believe so, yes,” I agreed, leaning forward to balance my elbows on my knees.

“Your father has poisoned your mind, hasn’t he?” she murmured under her breath, staring into the crystal glass. “He’s poisoned you all against the Summerstreams.”

She tipped the remainder of the wine past her lips, sighing aloud. The crystal sat empty, dredges of wine pooling at the base.

“I don’t understand,” I said, tamping down the impatient voice in my head that reminded me of the important duties I was forgoing to have this conversation. “Poisoned—how, exactly?”

She crossed her legs with practiced elegance, meeting my gaze. “He hated the Summerstreams, and he wanted to make sure you did as well.”

---