He walked past me into the bedroom, and then into the washroom, returning a moment later with a pale gold bodysuit—one that must have fallen out from the folds of the dress. He knelt before me again, guiding my feet through the holes and sliding it up my legs. He tugged it over my ass, and then found himself caught, unable to fit it under the metal bodice of the dress.
“Hold this shit,” he ordered, gathering the mess of silk pieces that constituted the skirt. I wrapped my arms around them.
“I feel weird.” I spoke to the top of his head. “Headachy.”
He pulled a knife from somewhere on his person, using it to cut off the top of the bodysuit.
“Your drug might be wearing off. I guess you didn’t take too much after all.”
“How long has it been?” I twisted around to try and see out of the windows in the bedroom, but his hands stilled me, cutting the new top of the bodysuit into two long strips, the ends still attached to the back. He wrapped those around my hips, tying them off to keep the material in place. Now it looked more like the steward underwear.
He stepped back, checking me over before digging a timepiece from his pocket, simultaneously slipping his knife away.
“Hours” was his only reply. “Naturally, they only gave you enough of the drug to last until the start of the festival. They want you to bargain for more.”
I followed him out of the room, and we hurried through the Keep, taking a route that he had somehow memorised while he had been collecting information earlier that day. We left the Keep behind, though there were plenty of people milling about the outer court around tables piled high with food, and fountains of wine, small crystal cups sitting on narrow crystal platforms stuck into the fountain’s basin. There were strings of lanterns and banners hanging everywhere, all decorated with both the King’s sigil and the Legionnaires brand. I stared at the King’s sigil. The nott flower drooped at the top, perfectly shaped petals reminding me of cold nights and bright stars … and then I glanced to the Legionnaires symbol, the rigid eagle’s wings, bold and bright like a golden beacon. Monarchy and freedom, hand in hand.
“What a load of crap,” I muttered, drawing a strange look from Calder as we hurried through the gathered people, who all turned to call out to me like we were old friends.
We followed the lit-up cobbled path through orchards strung with lights, people grouped together beneath dark branches, laughing over stories or swaying to the music produced on a small wooden platform set up along the side of the stream racing towards the cliff. It was so unformal, so unpolished. So unlike the King of Fyrio.
So …
Like me.
I stalled, staring at the musicians, at the rows of driftwood candleholders that draped them in a hazy glow, their sweet, slow melody harmonising with the trickle of water.
“Evening, Captain. Tempest.” A woman stepped into my line of vision, her long ebony hair braided over her shoulder, a golden chain threaded through the strands. I blinked at the little golden tag hanging from the end of her braid. It was embossed with the Legionnaires brand.
Calder nodded at her. “Mistress Laerke.”
She smiled at him, an edge to the curve of her lips, her eyes lingering on him just a moment too long before turning to me. “You may not remember me, but—”
“You were at my trial,” I blurted. She had sat next to Calder. She was a member of the small council. “And at the sorting of the Sentinel recruits.”
“Indeed.” She nodded slightly. “You have proven to be a very hard person to find.”
“I was … resting.”
She smiled again, genuine but expectant. A woman used to getting her way. “I have no doubt of that. I attended the battle of shivering mountain. We will not soon forget such a spectacle—but you are healed now, are you not?”
“I am.” The battle of shivering mountain?
“Then you must both permit us an audience.” She turned her light blue eyes to Calder. “We have been patient these past few days, as you asked, Captain, but there are whispers of death on the horizon again. We must now speak as a matter of urgency.”
“We have another matter of urgency right now,” Calder replied, and I knew he was right when he set his hand on my shoulder and I couldn’t feel the roughness of his palm as intensely as I had earlier. “If you can secure a private room in the Keep, we will meet you there in an hour.”
“How will you find us?” She arched a dark, winged brow.
“Don’t worry about that. Until later.” He steered me back onto the pathway, and we traversed further down the mountain, past steward performers doused in candlelight surrounded by groupings of delighted sectorians. They were re-enacting the “battle of shivering mountain.” The steward man dressed as Calder had stuffed his shirt and pants to give him the appearance of larger muscles, and was even walking on short stilts. Calder snorted, following my line of sight. Halfway down the mountain—where the stream turned suddenly to the left, running off the edge of the cliff to escape into the bay beneath—there was an enormous tent supported by the trunks of three towering trees. It was levelled onto another wooden platform, the sides pulled back, twisted driftwood chandeliers built around each of the supporting trees. Chairs and tables were set up in the corners and along two of the sides, long benches burdened by the weight of more food than seemed possible to exist all in the one place.
I stared at the food as Calder pulled me onto the platform, the pain in my head intensifying. Since falling into the hands of the great masters, I had starved myself through each day, falling to sleep each night battered and bruised. Now I was swathed in gold, an entire festival playing out around me in my honour.
All because I had won a battle.
The people of Fyrio had forgiven me simply because the law instructed them to. To become a Legionnaire is to be forgiven.
“There you are, twig.” The growled-out insult was the only hint I needed that Helki had spotted me, even as his words boomed over the platform and dancers scattered out of his way. He had walked right through the middle of the dance floor, not bothering to go around it. He grabbed my wrist when he reached me, ignoring Calder. “Did you come for your dance or for something else?” There was a hint of smugness in his question that I immediately hated.
“Why are you so obsessed with making deals?” I questioned, as he dragged me right back through the centre of the dance floor.
People scattered from him again and were even more hesitant to come back together this time, watching us pass with wary expressions. I supposed the battle of shivering mountain didn’t exactly paint us as particularly great friends of Helki, considering we had tried our hardest to kill him, and him us.
“Being so powerful gets boring,” he replied, releasing me as we neared the cushions by the side of the dance floor, where the other great masters were lounging, Vidrol’s throne raised just behind them. “You soon learn that finding ways to force people to give you what you want willingly—even though it goes against every little preserving bone in their body—is so much more fun.”
It sounded absurd and sadistic, but I believed him without hesitation. Vale was well-known for making deals, sealing people with his mark and forcing them to pay the ultimate price—but did he ever really need anything from those people, or did he just like the power it gave him over them?