It’s like nothing I could ever have imagined.
Stone the color of pale sand shapes walls that are sculpted into countless pointed arches. Multiple towers reach into the sky, and the spires—I count a dozen from where I stand, though there are surely more—are capped in rich burgundy pinnacles and adorned with a contrasting black detailing. The windows are massive, copious, and ornate, with geometric patterns crafted by an artist’s hand.
If I’m reading the sun’s position correctly, I’m on the third and top floor of the east side, though it feels so much higher given the height of the ceilings. A mirror of this wing stretches from the other side of a center section. Only the top floors have these circular balconies, all supported by a complex construction of pillars and stonework beneath. There must be hundreds of rooms within this place.
Peeling my stunned gaze from the castle for a moment, I shift my focus to the grounds below. It looks more like a botanical park, the manicured space stretching far, most of it obscured from my view by foliage. Intricately laid stone paths meander around leafy trees, beneath vine-clad trellises, along ponds, over decorative bridges. I hazard a person could get lost in that expanse, even without the cedar labyrinth.
The wall I escaped through that first night surrounds the entire vast grounds and on the other side of it, below the ridge, are lush, green rolling hills and dense forest as far as the eye can see. The city of Cirilea must be located on the other side of the castle.
And somewhere within this space has to be the nymphaeum.
I inhale. There is a faint, familiar scent in the air, though I can’t place it.
A shout calls out, followed by a clash of metal. I seek out the source. Nimble bodies are sparring with swords in a courtyard to my right. Many are men, though I spot the feminine curves of several women. Back and forth, they parry in pairs, an intricate, skilled dance, their blades gleaming in the sunlight, proving they are not mere wooden props.
I smile as I admire their proficiency and fearlessness. That takes so much more talent than pointing a gun and pulling a trigger, and can be just as deadly, if Sofie proved anything in the warehouse that night. While I don’t envy her talents as a cold-blooded murderess, learning how to throw a dagger to stop a threat is a skill I wouldn’t mind acquiring.
These people must practice often. Are they the royal guard? Or maybe nobility? Do they live within these grand walls? Someone other than Zander and his two siblings—and unfortunate prisoners such as I—must occupy these rooms. Just one of these wings could house multiple families.
My gaze sweeps across the castle again. There, on the palatial balcony overlooking the sparring courtyard, a man with hair that gleams gold in the sunlight, dressed in all black, leans against the railing.
Even from this distance, I know it’s Zander, and while it appears he’s watching the action below, my gut tells me his attention is not on them.
Wendeline said there would need to be a reason to let me out of my rooms, to let people know I’m still alive. I’m being escorted somewhere, which means people will see me. What does he have planned for me?
The brief excitement over my window victory fades. I skulk inside to prepare for what is to come.
My fingers are occupied with the tiny, embroidered flowers on my skirts as the guard leads me down flights of stairs and along the seemingly infinite corridors of the castle. I struggle to remain composed as I take in the opulence. Floors of marble in tones from a rich charcoal to a bottomless black gleam beneath the candlelight of enormous candelabras, lit to counter the moody darkness inside, a stark contrast to the gushing sunlight outside the windows. Gilded pillars reach to the domed ceilings, where a vast and endless mural begs for attention.
Footfalls and voices echo, and everywhere we pass, people stare and whispers follow. At least the servants are more discreet. The nobility—I assume, based on their richly colored silk clothing and gleaming jewels on their sword hilts—openly gawk.
I guess I’ve earned that notoriety, given who they think I am and what they think I’ve done. Or, more likely, it’s because they thought I was dead. I’m suddenly thankful to Corrin for ensuring the dress she brought did an adequate job of hiding my scars. The foul-smelling salve did wonders, slogging away through the night as Wendeline promised, but the dragging claw marks on my shoulder are far from invisible, and it will take time for my confidence to come to terms with them. I don’t like this attention, but I can’t avoid it, so I hold my chin high and return the favor of staring.
What are they?
Human?
Caster?
Elven?
How am I to know? They all look just like me.
And what is it about the Islorians—elven by blood—that would make the Ybarisans hate them? What would make Ybaris cast them from their lands? Does it have something to do with their church and the gods they bow to? It’s far from unheard of, for a belief system to cause friction and war. A Great Rift, as Wendeline called it.
Some of the servants bow as I pass. I note that they all wear the same jewelry Corrin wears—an inner conch piercing that loops around the cartilage of the right ear in a gold cuff an inch wide. The metal is engraved with a symbol, but she has never come close enough for me to decipher it.
It isn’t just the servants who wear them, I note. Several young women and men in fine clothing also have their ear pierced in the same manner.
The guard accompanying me—a tall, slim man with dark curls and tawny brown skin—reminds me of a volunteer at one of the soup kitchens. Becks was a bank manager who doled out food to the needy the first Sunday of every month. He always had a broad smile and a second helping for me.
This guy hasn’t smiled once, though, and keeps his hand on the hilt of his sword at all times, watching my every move from the corner of his eye, as if expecting me to bolt or attack.
Is he human or elven?
His rich brown eyes flash to me, and I realize I’m staring at him.
“How much farther is it?” Half of me could walk forever without reaching our destination. The other half would prefer to get this audience over with.
“About thirty paces, Your Highness,” he answers civilly, his voice hinting of his accent. Maybe not everyone despises me as Corrin does. I decide to test that out. “How did you get so lucky?”
He frowns. “I do not understand the question.”
“You’re at my door every night, for at least twelve hours. You normally change your shift at the sevens, except you’re still here, escorting me. That’s a long day. Does the king not believe in sleep?”
His steady march falters. “How did you know it was me?”
“You have a slight spring in your step, and you’re better at polishing your boots than the day guard.”
Another beat passes and then the corners of his mouth curl. Is he picturing me with my face pressed against the floor? It’s the only way anyone could pick up on something as minute as footfall pattern and basic cleanliness while locked inside that room. He dips his head. “Not to worry. I will have my rest soon, Your Highness.”
We stop where two grim-faced guards secure a hall. The one on the right spins and leads us down. At the end is a set of double doors, and loud angry voices behind it.
My blood pounds in my ears as the guard pushes open the door.
“—someone give me a name!” Zander roars. “How are we not capable of even that much!”