“Do you like it here?”
The girl looks vaguely puzzled by my question, but her cheerful smile doesn’t falter. “Well, yes! High House is the most beautiful place in the world, don’t you think? I’m very lucky to serve here.” She pauses. “I’ve never left the castle. I’ve overheard from the Bards that things are … bad. Down there.” She makes a little gesture with her chin to indicate the outside world.
“It’s a completely different world.” The words slip out of my mouth. My heart squeezes painfully as I recall the poverty and famine in Aster, the barren dusty roads plagued by bandits, and the towns that were destroyed by their cruelty and barbarism. “But I come from one of the poorest villages. I have heard that much of Montane is beautiful and thriving. Every year, my village would strive to live up to the standards set by the rest of the villages, and every year, we struggle.”
“It’s a good thing you made it here safely.” The girl nods sagely, although it’s clear she has no idea how close I came to not being here at all. “This is the first time in a long while I’ve seen them bring a girl in,” she adds, “but I’m sure you’ll do much better than the last one.”
“What happened to the…” Before I can finish, she seems to realize her off-putting remark and scurries away.
I remember what Cathal said yesterday. For every Bard in the ranks of High House, there are dozens more hopefuls who cannot withstand such power. Their minds shatter. Such occurrences are sadly more prevalent amongst the few women we have discovered in possession of the gift.
Is this the fate that awaits me?
My hand is shaking so badly, it sends my fork clattering to the floor. The noise causes the nearest group of Bards to glance in my direction.
Keeping my actions quiet and discreet, I duck my head beneath the table. Thankfully the cutlery at High House is as shiny as everything else, and I see it glinting on the floor where it skidded a few feet away.
Bracing myself with one hand on the table, I reach for the fork underneath. My fingers brush the side, pushing it farther away. Groaning, I slip beneath the table before I can think to simply ask one of the servants for a new fork.
Now that I’m on my hands and knees under the table, I exhale a heavy sigh and grab my wayward utensil.
A flash of gold catches my eye.
In an instant, I’m outside my home, watching Constable Dunne carry the knife that killed Ma out of the house. It glints in the sun.
Except I’m at High House. And the glint is coming from the hilt of an identical knife protruding from the boot of a Bard seated only a few feet away.
The ground beneath me feels very cold. I blink several times, but the golden hilt is still there.
I bite my lip hard, scrambling closer for a better look. My fork is clutched tightly in my hand like a lifeline as I crawl beneath the length of the table. I can only see the legs and large black boots of the knife’s owner.
I reach out with my free hand. The tiny, delicate engravings are unmistakable. The tips of my fingers brush the cold metal.
The owner of the knife shifts in his seat, and I pull back, gritting my teeth and holding my breath. They’re leaving the table. I scramble forward.
Too late. The knife moves from under the table and out of sight.
I sit back on my heels, my mind racing.
Another flash.
I look up with a quiet gasp, noticing another golden knife, tucked into another boot farther down the long table. And another. And another.
From where I sit, I count sixteen identical knives tucked into black boots in two long rows.
I swallow hard, backing toward my abandoned seat.
I may not have found the exact knife that killed Ma, but one fact is inescapable: It was a knife that belonged to a Bard.
It’s just a knife, I reason. Maybe a thief stole it and broke into the house …
No. Another piece clicks into place as I clamber back up onto my seat. The landslide. A thief wouldn’t cover up their crime with a Telling. Only a Bard can do that.
I just have to find out which Bard, one who has lost their dagger. And to hopefully not die or go mad in the process.
I take a deep breath, shaking my head to clear it, and deliberately concentrate all my attention on the delightful smelling food in front of me.
Warm buttery rolls, fresh fruit, porridge, eggs, and sausage sit steaming on the plate. In a mug to the side is a dark, hot liquid with a bitter, earthy aroma. Back in Aster, this one meal would be more than I would eat in a whole day.
Intimidated, but excited, I take a sip of my beverage. It lands on my tongue harsh and sour, leaving a slimy texture behind. I choke it down and decide I’ll worry about acquiring a taste for it later. I’m too hungry to worry about it. Instead, I shovel as much food as I can onto my fork and tuck in with enthusiasm. The hot food melts on my tongue, rolling over and dissolving into a cold, wiggling mass.
Gagging, I spit a writhing clump of maggots onto the table.
I stare in horror, ready to expel the rest of my stomach’s meager contents, until I hear the sound of a low chuckle turn to raucous laughter at the table across from mine. Looking up, I see a Bard, perhaps half a decade my elder, watching me while his lips move imperceptibly. He is surrounded by four others, all gawking in my direction with different variations of the same wicked grin.
I glance back to the table and find only a mass of half-chewed food.
I blink. I can still feel the nauseating, disgusting sensation of the maggots on my tongue. The food looks normal again, but I’m terrified to take another bite.
“She sure is jumpy.” I pretend not to hear the remark.
“It’s the first sign she’s going to snap,” another chimes in. “I bet my stipend she doesn’t last the month.”
My hand goes to my needles, clutching tightly as others excitedly place their wagers on the limits of my sanity. Pretty soon, there’s a large sum riding on whether I will last three weeks or a whole month.
I stare at my food, appetite gone. They did this as a cruel joke. At least no one in Aster knew how to perform a Telling, I think as the Bards nearby have a laugh at my expense.
“What do you think, Ravod?”
He’s somehow entered the refectory without my notice; I was too busy trying to keep yesterday’s dinner down. Our eyes catch, and last night flashes back to me: his urgent warning. The way his eyes locked on mine. He was hostile, intense, almost terrifying. And yet I swear there was something else in his tone—an air of protectiveness. The same kind I often felt in Mads, but in a different form. There are layers of anger and hurt in him, and he guards them well. Watching him pass me, something in my chest flutters. Part of me hopes he pauses to speak with me. To apologize for last night or explain himself better. Maybe sit down to keep me company.
Without even breaking his stride, Ravod sails right past and places a few coins on his compatriots’ table. “One week,” he says.
My horror and nausea turn into painful humiliation. Even Ravod thinks I won’t last.
“What about you, Niall?” the others address the red-haired Bard who I remember from Aster.
Niall’s eyes flick to me and crinkle around the edges as he studies my face. They are the color of the grass on the training grounds—a brilliant green. His mouth is pressed in a thin line.
I hold his gaze, trying hard not to blink until he looks away.