“I know you wish to see them,” Nehelon read her yearning as they continued along the river, “but now is not the time.”
Gandrett’s heart sank. She had hoped…
“But I have made my own conditions for this bargain on Lord Tyrem’s end of my deal with the Meister,” he informed her with a conspiring look. “I am aware you, as an acolyte, and even as a full member of the Order of Vala, cannot take payment,” he reminded her of the rules that dictated her life—would be dictating it for all eternity, “but I thought seeing your family would be possible on the way back to Everrun.” He flashed her a smile, a real one. “When your task is done, that is.”
The task. Freeing Joshua Brenheran. A task that, for some reason she yet had to learn, was something she qualified for. Nehelon was still cryptic about that. But seeing her family. Maybe running wasn’t worth it after all. Not that she would make it far with a Fae hunting her down.
“Don’t tell the Lord I have told you, though,” Nehelon added. “He likes to make that sort of announcement himself.”
“To appear like the great philanthropist he is,” Gandrett bit at Nehelon and watched his face cloud over.
“He is not a bad man.” Nehelon shook his head as if to enhance the meaning.
“He gave the order,” she countered. The order to sacrifice a child from Alencourt rather than from his own city as it should have been.
Nehelon didn’t ask what order she meant. It was clear on his face he knew what she was talking about. “He had his reasons.”
Gandrett didn’t look north as they passed the bridge where the Penesor split into Ackpenesor and Eedpenesor. No, she kept her eyes west, on the water, and when the next day the skyline of Ackwood, with its pointed spires, appeared on the horizon, she kept her eyes on those. She didn’t ask any questions until they reached the massive gate where the statue of a hooded warrior, point of his sword set down before his feet, had Gandrett craning her neck. The city was a fortress, set on an island right where the Ackpenesor met the sea in the west. On the wall above the statue, a row of guards, armed with bows and crossbows, eyed their approach.
Gandrett turned on her horse, facing Nehelon as she whispered. “Do they know?” Her eyes darted for his silky, dark hair, which was covering his ears and neck, his glamour in place.
He shook his head, and the look on his face made clear that if she dared so much as indicate what she knew to anyone, Gandrett Brayton would be a figure of the past.
The gate opened upon a lift of Nehelon’s hand, the guards, clothed in burgundy embroidered with threads of gold, saluting him as if he were the lord himself.
But Gandrett’s eyes went straight to the gate, which slowly flapped outward to form a bridge over the water, and the view that spread behind it. Timbered houses settled along a canal with its own little gate on the side, granting access to merchants and traders coming in by boat. The streets were busy among workshops open to the thoroughfares, the clinking of metal from the blacksmiths filling the air as much as the hammers of the carpenters. Children were running along the cobbled roads, driving wheels before them, which they steered with sticks. Children, laughing and playing, unlike the unfortunate ones whose childhood had ended two nights ago when the noble Lord Tyrem Brenheran had sentenced another one of them to a lifetime of service. A lifetime of fighting and praying.
“Stay close,” Nehelon warned as he noted her attention drifting. “We don’t want you to get lost in this city.”
She lifted her eyes to his, trying to read the warning.
But all he did was nod at the side streets, which were darker than the main road they were following and where women in light dresses were offering their bodies for money.
“Just because something is pretty on the surface doesn’t mean it’s as pretty deep down.” For some reason, Gandrett didn’t have the feeling he was speaking about Ackwood.
The spires of the castle towered high over the rest of the royal residence. Royal because House Brenheran had once held the title of kings. As had the House of Denderlain in the east. But the kingdom of Sives had been shattered long ago, during the same war that had eradicated the fertile lands around Everrun and starved its people. The same war that had turned the gate of Ithrylan into ruins. Now, they were merely two noble houses fighting for their standing while they ruled in the east and the west, tearing the people of Sives apart and the country into ruin.
Gandrett got off her horse, shaky from all the eyes she found on her. She was still wearing that plain, brown dress Nehelon had gotten her, but she could have been in rags, and it wouldn’t have made much difference. Nothing was fine enough for the palace that stood before her, a row of guards, all in burgundy uniforms, shiny armor protecting their chests and their shoulders. A carriage rolled by, decorated with ornate gold patterns, and behind the lace curtain, Gandrett spotted a woman in a colorful dress, a small hat atop her curly hair, and a fan hiding everything but her eyes.
As Nehelon beckoned her forward, Gandrett’s knees went wobbly. She had been at the order for too long, and before that, she had lived on a farm, playing on the fields, not learning how to use silver tableware and pretty lace-up dresses. She hadn’t even learned how to curtsey properly.
He seemed to sense her distress and offered a hand, face expectant as if he were saying, Take it. Or I’ll drag you by the collar.
So Gandrett took it, her fingers hesitant as they touched his.
But Nehelon’s hand gripped her tightly and led her forward, forcing both their hands forward between them.
“Smile,” he ordered, his own face smooth and a bit amused.
So Gandrett smiled. It felt unnatural, and her eyes stung as she dragged one foot after the other forward until the palace had swallowed her, but she smiled.
The halls were cool and unwelcoming. Even if they had been bright and filled with flowers, it wouldn’t have made a difference for Gandrett. It was his home. Lord Tyrem Brenheran’s. Every banner on the wall, every portrait, every carving on the doors they passed spoke of the man who was responsible for her loss.
A pair of guards had joined them on their way in, both reporting to the Fae male in hushed voices and slipping Gandrett curious glances every now and then. They didn’t ask questions but escorted them up a flight of stairs, then another, until they halted at open double doors where more guards were stationed, armed with swords and spears.
They inclined their heads to Nehelon as he led Gandrett right into the great hall made of dark, polished stone.
And there he was lounging at the end of a long, dark, wooden table. The face Gandrett knew from paintings and sketches at the order, paler and gray from bad health. A man in his late fifties, popping some type of exotic fruit into his mouth, failed to heed them a look as they entered. The rest of his court did. Men and women dressed in fine clothes and frilly gowns, gold details on layers of fabrics, eyes on not Nehelon but Gandrett, who shrank under their stares despite what she had promised herself: that she would get through this, help this man she hated so dearly, and live to see her family again.
“About time,” he said by way of greeting, not interrupting his decadent snack. “My lovely wife and I were just beginning to wonder if you would ever return.” The lord gestured at the small-framed lady next to him, who glanced up with an unreadable gaze, meeting Gandrett’s then Nehelon’s.