That white cloak, that pale face and sharp jawline. Iseult would know him anywhere. Her Threads would know his anywhere. Mhe varujta. Te varuje.
Eleven Days After the Earth Well Healed
It is the room where Hell-Bards are made. Safi cannot believe Henrick is showing it to her. At first, she thought it was a warning. Now, she thinks it merely a point of pride—and as disturbing as it is, she cannot deny she understands.
The room is beautiful. Square, marble, with four pillars to support a high, domed ceiling. There is something ancient about it, as if she has stepped into another time. The floors, marble tiles with gold-inlaid eagles, are worn but meticulously maintained. The ceiling, streaked in more gold, teases and taunts like fish fins in a pond.
It is the walls, though, that draw the focus. Thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of gold chains dangle on invisible hooks. They are still, silent, yet they echo footsteps and voices in a way that makes them seem alive.
Safi half expects to find eyes winking out from them.
Despite the nooses—despite knowing what they mean—there is something soothing about this room. Something unnaturally peaceful, and she wonders if there is a spell. Some Aether-bound magic that erases fear and numbs the soul. Without her full Truthwitchery, though, she senses nothing false.
“This is where chosen Hell-Bards swear fealty,” Henrick says. As usual, he wears brown. As usual, he looks squat and graceless and his snaggletooth wiggles. He and Safi are the only people in the room.
“The noble Hell-Bards,” he elaborates. “Or officers in the army who have proven themselves worthy. I bring them here, and they enter my service.” He speaks with no arrogance, no performance. Though he is proud of this room—of the power it gives him—he is also respectful of it. He wants Safi to see it, to understand it, because she will be his wife soon.
She hates that she appreciates this gesture. And she hates that she appreciates this room. It is betrayal of the four Hell-Bards who matter most to her: Caden, Zander, Lev, and Eron. She will help them, though. Soon, when the plan is complete, she will help all Hell-Bards.
“How?” she asks. “How do you … enter them into your service?”
Henrick licks his lips. Several seconds trickle past. Then without preamble, he waddles to a stone table at the heart of the room. It is also marble, but with no adornments save for the four iron straps at each corner. Safi swallows at the sight of it. The straps are clearly intended for wrists and ankles, clearly intended to restrain.
“It is simply a matter of placing one of these chains around the person’s neck. But there is great pain, hence the iron straps.” Again, no pleasure in his voice. Only matter-of-fact honesty that Safi’s magic knows is true.
“I will show you one day,” Henrick adds. He taps his fingers against the table. “But not today.”
Safi’s fingers flex against her thigh. She doesn’t want to see a noosing ever, but she can hardly say that.
Henrick abandons the table and approaches her, arm extended. He has been a doting betrothed these past five days, and to his credit, he has treated Iseult with the same consideration. Safi almost feels bad about what she and Iseult have planned.
Almost.
“Did my uncle become a Hell-Bard here?” Safi asks before Henrick can reach her.
He pauses and she quickly turns away. Four long steps bring her to a wall of nooses. They flash and wink, and yes, she swears that eyes ought to be there.
Behind her, Henrick says, “Yes. He was. By his choice and by my hand.”
“Oh.” She sucks in a long breath and runs her fingers over the chains. They chime like tiny bells. “And why did you discharge him?”
She tells herself she only asks this out of curiosity. She tells herself it is not some perverse need to understand the uncle she has always hated. But even a Truthwitch cannot lie to herself. The truth is that she has always wondered why Eron chose his Hell-Bard duties over protecting her parents. She has always wondered what drives a man to hate himself so.
To her surprise, Henrick actually answers her: “Eron disobeyed an order.”
Eyebrows lifting, she slides a noose off the wall and twists back to face him. “But can’t you force Hell-Bards to do anything you wish?” She dangles the chain his way. “I thought they were bound to you.”
“I can and I did.” Nothing in Henrick’s expression or tone changes. It only makes Safi want to know more.
“What was the order?” she asks.
A pause stretches between them. The Emperor watches Safi; she watches him, her arm still outstretched. The chain still hanging between them.
Then at last he says, “No,” before turning away. And as he strides for the door, Safi is left wondering if he meant No had been the order or No he would not answer her. Either way, she has gained no ground. No understanding. Her uncle remains an enigma—and also remains imprisoned.
She does not return the noose to its hook as she hurries after Henrick. Her footsteps bounce the chains. “Where is he?” she asks once she reaches Henrick at the door.
“Patience,” he replies.
“You told me I could see him, Your Imperial Majesty. You told me you would not execute him.”
“And I meant that.” He glances back, the tiniest of smiles upon his lips. “I will not execute him, Safiya.”
True, her magic sings, warm and tender. A balm to soothe. Yet Safi does not miss that Henrick has only replied to one of her comments. She doesn’t miss that he said nothing about visiting Eron.
But that is all right, she tells herself. For she and Iseult have their plan, and so far, each step has gone accordingly—including today’s, which has left a shiny golden noose resting inside her pocket.
When she reaches Henrick’s side, she bares her brightest smile. Her most persuasive grin. “Thank you,” she tells him, accepting his offered arm. “I am grateful that my uncle will be spared. You are a generous man, my Emperor.”
He does not contradict her.
ELEVEN
Snow had fallen in the night, leaving the skies leaden and the ground white—not that any white remained on the paths Safi now followed. They had been carefully cleared away by an army of ever-invisible servants.
A terrible job, working in such temperatures for rich nobility who might use the sprawling courtyard gardens at the center of the imperial palace. Safi hoped the servants had thicker layers than she.
Svenja had been right: Safi should have worn her heavy cloak. But she had wanted to give the impression of a girl in love, and girls in love tended to favor fashion over practicality. So did men in love, for that matter, and all other genders too. As such, she’d donned a lighter, golden velvet cloak over her forest-green wool.
At least she’d had the sense to wear the ermine muff and matching hat, what little good they did. By the time she reached the Winter Garden, nestled between the evergreen maze and the Royal Greenhouses, her nose had gone numb and her ears were headed that way.
She strode, Hell-Bards in formation around her, through a lush archway designed for some empress almost a century ago. The paths and flowers were meticulously maintained year-round by an army of dedicated Plantwitches, and though there might be snow on the ground, there were also roses in bloom. Daffodils too, and crocuses and dahlias, hyacinth and tulips and hydrangeas with heads large as carriage wheels. There were varieties of flowers Safi had never seen before—much less blossoming in winter.