At first glance, the sweeping spires and glittering parapets look to be floating high above me, as though perched among the clouds. It’s only when the wind changes that I see the mountain and the castle are one and the same. The structure is cut directly from the white rock, more blinding than the sun itself, and accented with exquisite shining gold, most of the upper structure almost lost in the sky. I keep blinking, uncertain how what I’m seeing could possibly be real.
Bridges span between the towers, arcing gracefully over one another. Toward the base, the castle diverts a massive, roaring waterfall in two; it spills over the side of the rock. The closer we get, the more details come into view; statues and engravings and flying buttresses catch the eye, glistening in the dying sunlight.
Something lurches in my chest, and I want to throw myself to the ground and cry. I grew up hearing the stories, but I never imagined anything so magnificent could truly exist.
But it’s real. It’s here, right before me.
The sheer beauty stirs something deep at the core of my being and my eyes burn with tears.
High House.
And my mother’s killer may be waiting inside it.
* * *
As the wagon draws ever nearer to its destination, I find a more suitable hiding place underneath the reams of cloth near the back. Running my fingers over the fabric, I wonder what village this might have come from. It’s certainly finer than any of the coarse wool produced by Aster.
“Halt, in the name of High House!” calls a deep voice.
The wagon rolls to a stop. I huddle deeper into the fabric, covering my mouth with my hand so no sound escapes me. I can’t afford to get caught. Not when I’m so close.
“Is this the tithe from Taranton?” another voice asks.
“Valmorn.” I hear the driver speak up. “Can’t you tell by all this wretched scrap?”
A few of the men chuckle. Even their laughter manages to sound pompous. But I frown, confused.
It takes a second for it to sink in as I look around me at fabric that is finer than any I’ve seen in my lifetime. My indignation and surprise are quickly replaced with relief—it does not appear they will be personally inspecting the tithe.
“Well, you know how much Lord Cathal enjoys dressing up his little trophies,” a voice chimes in. “Soon you Bards will be outnumbered by seamstresses.”
“Pretty women, more likely,” the driver scoffs. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“It’s a shame that ladies can’t handle the Telling better,” another interjects. “It would be nice to have more of them in the ranks.”
The men continue to banter as I bite down on my hand, stifling a gasp. I’ve only heard the very faintest whispers over the years of Cathal, the powerful and enigmatic master of High House, and by extension, all of Montane. It’s strange to hear him discussed so casually. He sounds more like a real person than a mythical figure.
The conversation ends on a light note, one of the Bard escorts making a joke about the tithe from Taranton getting lost. I’m still processing what I’ve heard—the dismissive, sarcastic way the Bards talk to one another. I would have expected something more elevated. My thoughts are lost as the wagon jerks forward again.
The enormous gates to High House are made of wrought gold and slide open without so much as a whisper. I grip the bolt of fabric that conceals me tightly, until my knuckles are as white as the stone of the castle. I don’t have much time before the cart is unloaded and I’m discovered. My heart thunders nervously in my chest.
I venture another look out of the wagon, and the finery of my surroundings is dizzying. My head spins and this is merely the entryway. The courtyard alone is the size of Aster, paved with an intricate, colorful mosaic. Two elegant semicircles of topiary in every shape imaginable line the sides, and beyond are arches and stairways leading to luxurious balconies overlooking the waterfalls.
Along the upper walls of the castle, rows and rows of dashing black-clad figures march in succession.
The Bards.
To see so many at once sends a dagger of apprehension and awe through my gut. I thought three Bards were intimidating, but the air of eminence they possess seems only to multiply by their numbers. My chest clenches a little when I recall the delicate features of the Bard I spoke to in Aster. Ravod, with his striking raven-black hair.
With no time to waste, I quickly throw the cloth off me, shivering from the cold wind, and dart over the side of the wagon as it passes under the shadow of an elegant archway. Landing sloppily on my knees and scrambling into the shadows, I throw my back against a curved wall of cool, white limestone. I glance around frantically—I need a spot to wait out the daylight. There’s a door on the other side of the archway; I take a quick breath and hurry toward it. Thankfully, it opens at my touch, depositing me into a vestibule, where I have to blink to adjust to the darkness within.
I make my way gingerly inside, careful to step lightly. The vestibule leads to a large, circular chamber. I blink rapidly several times, disoriented. From my glimpses of the castle as we approached, it had seemed far more massive than it does from the inside. It’s much darker than I expected, too. lit only by a few iron sconces, without the splash of sunlight against the falling water and glimmering gilt railings. Still—clearly there are rooms upon rooms, and I just don’t understand yet how they are all connected. Rooms where a killer may hide behind their daily life.
Two staircases wind around the perimeter of the room, meeting at a large landing at the top. As much as it terrifies me, I force another deep breath, steadying myself.
I must find Lord Cathal and appeal to him directly. He’ll help. He has to. He’s the only one who can.
Frozen and overwhelmed, I let myself think that maybe there’s a chance I can someday return home to Mads and Fiona. Not as a pariah, but as someone who inspired the leader of the Bards to remove a danger to his people and restore safety and justice to our land. I have to try.
Swift but quiet, I move up the stairs—I swear more appear with each step I take. I try the golden handle at the top landing, and it yields, but a considerable amount of weight is needed to push open the heavy oaken door.
On the other side, I gasp. I’ve somehow found myself in the guards’ barracks and seventeen armored men are staring directly at me.
12
“Stop! Let me go! Get your hands off me!” I shriek in vain as two strong men drag me squirming back toward the gate.
I try everything in my power to slow them down. I drop my weight, dig my heels into the ground, twist and struggle and kick … and still they pull me along with barely any effort. Other Bards have paused their business, looking curiously on at the commotion. They look at me in my simple, tattered clothes like I’m a rat rather than a human girl.
“I demand to speak with Lord Cathal!” I finally shout, and the guards look over their shoulders at me as if I told a fantastic joke.
“Oh, of course. We’ll get right on that for you, my lady,” one says between bursts of laughter.
I growl, twisting my body to the side and hooking my leg around the guard’s, causing him to stumble. The brief interruption allows me the chance to wiggle free and scramble backward toward the castle, my feet slipping on the cold stone floor.