I nodded, growing silent as the attendants washed me. Frey helped me formulate a plan as I finished my bath and then disappeared as the attendants were drying my hair. They braided a few of the strands, winding them through my curls to secure behind my head with little bronze rings. Frey returned as they finished, Herra in tow.
Herra walked immediately to the dress still hanging, her hands extracting the bodysuit. She stared at it for a few moments before handing it to me and turning her attention to the dress. I slipped it on, realising she was checking for any incantations hidden within the folds of fabric. She nodded when she was finished, the skirt of the dress slipping from her fingers like water. It was the lightest peach colour, almost white.
“It’s safe,” she announced.
I stepped into it and the attendants moved around me to secure the back. The bodysuit didn’t have any shoulder straps, as they usually did, so I wasn’t surprised when the dress ended at my chest. It hugged to my skin in a corset shape, lined in lace of that mesmerising, light pinkish-orange colour. The corset ended at my waistline, and the fabric changed to chiffon. It fluttered around me, soft as butter and light as air. The sleeves were attached to the bodice—a thin ribbon looping around my biceps, a flow of chiffon drifting from the ribbons down to my hands.
“It’s … nice,” I decided lamely, blinking down at it.
“It’s weird.” Frey frowned. “Beautiful, but weird. Usually, you’re wearing some kind of statement dress.”
I shrugged, picking up the beetle and placing it on my chest. It dug into my skin, and we all turned to the mirror in the washroom.
A sudden flash of something raced across Frey’s expression and she quickly moved to me, grabbing me by the shoulders and positioning me in front of the mirror. I could see half of the terracotta-tiled wall in the mirror, along with the mirror itself, and then me. Or … a version of me, at least. The peach tint in the material of the dress made my hair seem more pink than red, bringing a blush to the colour of my lips. The Legionnaires brand almost blended with my skin, the thin lines a lighter gold than my complexion. The lines were beautiful in their angled rigidity, each line so delicate, though they screamed with the strength of their legend. Frey said nothing, and neither did I.
It was a simple acknowledgement, as anyone looking at me would know exactly who I was.
Dressed like a princess, with the eyes of a ghost. My face was marked, my chest branded, my gaze haunted. I was a criminal and a champion. The lesser evil to defeat the greater evil. The sacrifice to a sinister night; a dying sun bleeding into the horizon, wondering if it would ever rise again. Wondering if it would ever be enough.
I looked away, breaking the spell, and moved silently from the room. Frey and Herra followed, leaving the attendants to gather around the mirror, wide-eyed. I glanced over my shoulder at them before I exited.
“Is it a dinner again?”
They jumped, seeing themselves in the mirror. Nette nodded at me, her voice faint.
“The King … sent the dress … again … for dinner.”
I twisted my ring, putting her out of her misery.
“The King’s court,” I whispered beneath my breath, picturing the hall leading into court, outside the large double doors.
I fell onto the tiles of the hallway, the space empty and quiet. I picked myself up and pushed through the doors, finding the hall devoid of the crowd from the night before. It was, in fact, completely empty. The same long dining table stood in the middle of the room, set and ready. With a frown, I pushed against my ring again. I spoke Vidrol’s name lowly and managed to fall onto damp tiles without losing my balance.
“You forgot shoes again.”
It was Andel who spoke, drawing my eyes past Vidrol’s chest, to where he stood against the uneven balcony edge formed by the driftwood woman’s crown. We were outside the driftwood room, the wind carrying cold condensation as it ripped through the stone-carved crown spiking up around us. Each stick of the crown looked like the horn of an antler, or the smooth surface of a stick washed to shore. In some places, seaweed had been carved from stone, stretching between the spikes.
I hugged myself, glancing about warily as the masters slowly formed a circle around me.
“You’ve been busy.” It was Fjor who spoke, his face guarded.
I wondered if he was angry with himself, for not figuring out our plan. For dismissing my friends.
“I thought you were testing your mind,” he said, reaching out, his finger touching the oyntille stuck to my chest.
I could feel their eyes on me. Heavy and full of power. Closed-off and trapped. They may not have cared what happened to the people of Fyrio, but what was the King without his subjects? Who was the Scholar without his Obelisk servants, and the Warmaster without his Sentinels? They had taken painstaking efforts to keep up appearances and uphold their reputations, sending their devoted followers to speak on their behalf, and carry out their business. They had built up their status for a reason, and if they refused to help me now, they would have a civil war on their hands, all their hard work gone to waste.
“I need your help.” I turned to Andel, my neck prickling the second I turned my back on Fjor.
It was like I could feel his suppressed need to drag my attention back to him and punish me thoroughly for tricking them.
“I’m obliged.” Andel spoke plainly, unemotionally. Mechanically.
I narrowed my eyes on him, stepping closer. The cowl of his cloak was raised, dousing his features in shadow. A quick glance around the men encircling me demonstrated that they all wore their hoods up, their faces shrouded. I turned back to Andel, peering up into his face. His eyes were unfocussed, unseeing.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Right here,” he answered in the same mechanical voice, making me shiver.
Gnawing on my lip, I ignored the feeling of trepidation at his detached expression, hugging myself harder against the wind.
“I have to defeat you to win the second battle,” I told him.
His lip curled, flashing a row of white teeth. His violet eyes flickered, and for a moment, I could see him staring back at me. It was as though he stood at the end of very long corridor and could barely focus on me. There were so many doors between where I stood and where he stood. So many thoughts, so many possibilities and impossibilities. He was examining all of them. Living a thousand futures without stepping from his place or lifting a finger.
“Your little friends are smart,” he told me. “But not smart enough. The greatest test of the mind isn’t me. I am merely the greatest practitioner of the mind.”
“More riddles,” I muttered, before raising my voice. “This world is going to end unless I win the mind battle. If you’re the smartest person in this world—as you claim—you must know what my battle is.”
“I must,” he agreed. “But you haven’t asked.”
“What…” I sucked a slow breath in through gritted teeth. “Is. It?”
“The place where people lose their minds,” he answered. “The place that steals your head from your shoulders. The place you get lost inside. The place where evil is born, and good goes to die.” He leaned forward, his eyes darkening. “You are to battle the Vilwood, Tempest. Not me.”
I stumbled back from him, shocked by the ferocity of his magic, sparking to life in the vivid colour of his irises.