To Bleed a Crystal Bloom

by Sarah A. Parker

  One way or another, my safety circle’s encroaching—like hands sliding around my neck.

  Tightening.

  Could I bear the weight of watching Cook mourn her newly born granddaughter because I couldn’t break through the bars I’ve placed around my own mind?

  I know the answer to that question, and it’s a frightening one. An answer just as deadly as that circle I’ve drawn around this castle.

  Borrowed time. That’s all these past nineteen years have been ...

  And it seems that time is running out.

  Despite the roaring fire pouring heat throughout my room, the stone floor is cold and unforgiving beneath my bare knees and shins.

  It’s fitting. A way to prepare me for my inevitable frosty encounter.

  I study the pretty constellation on my door—a dusting of stars that surround the crescent moon like worshippers.

  The echo of approaching steps reaches me, and my heart launches an attack as I look to The Safe ...

  My hand tightens around the glass vial stoppered with a cork.

  He’s going to be so pissed.

  Rhordyn’s booming footfalls encroach, and I draw a deep breath, letting it crumble out of me, my hair a thick veil hanging heavy around me like golden armor. Not that I think it’ll do me any good.

  There’s a pause before I hear his key shove into the hole. Hear it clank around and dash the bolt aside.

  Hear him open the door and remove the goblet ...

  Silence.

  Nothing but bone-chilling silence.

  I try not to smile, biting down on my lips to tame them.

  I probably shouldn’t find this so amusing.

  A low, animalistic growl has my skin prickling, prefacing a shove of my door. It creaks inward and Rhordyn barrels through the opening, skewering me with an arrowhead glower.

  His eyes widen before he shoots his gaze at the ceiling, punching fists to his sides, spilling crystal-clear water across the ground. “What are you doing, Orlaith?”

  “I just want to talk,” I say, waving the vial of blood at him before tucking it down the front of my chest wrap. “You’re going to have a proper conversation with me in exchange for my offering tonight. One that involves actual speaking and not just brooding stretches of silence and the odd grunting sound.”

  He mutters something in that strange language I don’t understand, then clunks the goblet atop a small table and pinches the bridge of his nose.

  My eyes narrow. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Do you have head pain?” I ask, waving a hand in the direction of my stash of jars, each filled with various bits of dried flora. “I have the perfect antido—”

  “If you try stuffing a leaf in my mouth, I’ll bite your finger, get what I came here for, and be gone before you even feel the pinch of my teeth. Now get off your knees, and put some fucking pants on.”

  Rude.

  “Would it kill you to use manners every once in a while?” I ask, pushing up and giving him my back. I dig through my drawers for some longer pants, seeing as my sleep shorts are apparently inadequate. “Besides, you didn’t seem so disgusted by my thighs earlier when you had your hand on one.”

  No answer. Hardly surprising.

  I wiggle into a loose pair of trousers, tie them at the waist, and gesture down my body with a dramatic sweep of my hand. “Better?”

  He’s staring at me, jaw so gritted I wonder if it’s fused shut.

  “Guess that’s a yes. This two-way conversation is off to a strong start. I’ll have to set you challenges more often.”

  He very nearly guts me with a glare, but I look away fast enough to avoid any major damage, pointing at a calico package peeking out from his bunched fist.

  “What’s in your hand?”

  He lobs the parcel through the air, and I nab it, loosening the string fastenings and layers of damp cheesecloth, finally unveiling a tiny bulb that’s such a deep shade of purple it almost looks black.

  A familiar, potent smell taints the air.

  “A single dose of caspun to tide you over for the night. Zali was able to procure a month’s supply from a traveling merchant on her way across the border.”

  “That was thoughtful of her.”

  “It was also lucky, considering how hard it is to find. You’ll no longer be using it as a preventative measure,” he says, flexing his control and only succeeding in stapling nails into my nerves.

  My upper lip peels back. “Clearly.”

  I’m sick of these games. Sick of all these doors between us. I’m tired, frustrated, brimming with information that’s chafing my insides, and I’ve had enough.

  He widens his stance, arms crossing over his chest as he takes me in with overt curiosity. “Have at it, Milaje.”

  I will then.

  “Well ... for starters, were you just going to put this in The Safe and leave without telling me?” I bark, waving the precious brain-pressure-relieving bulb at him.

  “No. I was going to knock, inform you there was something in there, and then I was going to leave.” He shrugs, eyes like silver-barred prison cells. “I know it’s not ground down, but if you can make enough Exothryl to pop an army’s worth of hearts in one sitting, then I’m certain you can manage dealing with that.” He stabs a hand in the direction of my caspun and boils my blood.

  “You need a nap.”

  His left brow jacks up. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard,” I mutter, casting my gaze out the window.

  Naturally, all I get is a grunted response that lands like a slap to the face. A stretch of silence ensues, lasting long enough that I consider smashing my vial of blood on the floor just to rile him. But then the quiet is broken by a sigh so deep it sounds like a mountain’s rumble. “Ask your questions, Orlaith.”

  I look back to see Rhordyn massaging the bridge of his nose again, as if my very presence is making him want to prong a finger through his sockets and gouge his own brain out.

  Right now, the feeling’s mutual.

  “Did you get the last badge?”

  “Not yet,” he states, dropping his hand.

  The answer bites into my chest so hard I swear it reveals a window to my hammering heart.

  Not yet.

  Meaning he’s either rethinking his response to Cainon’s proposal ... or he’s considering gaining his support by force.

  Both options grate me.

  I don’t want to be tossed at Cainon like a sack of misshapen vegetables nobody wants to eat, and I don’t want Rhordyn and Zali to be forced to thin their resources in order to gain the key they need to sail The Shoaling Seas into Fryst.

  There needs to be another option. There has to be another option.

  “Well ... what are you going to do about it?”

  Tell me no action needs to be taken. Tell me you found a hundred ships crammed in a random, long-forgotten cove somewhere and you no longer need Cainon’s help.

  Rhordyn shrugs, the motion wary. “Anybody not with us is against us. Simple as that.”

  My heart slams to a stop—partially with relief, mainly dread. Because it’s not simple.

  Not at all.

  It’s wasted lives. Wasted resources.

  Another nail in my coffin.

  “And you can’t just ... wait? Dig deeper bunkers? Batten down the hatche—”

  “No,” he bites out. “That’s what we’ve been doing, and our people are being slaughtered. The longer we wait, the weaker we get, the less chance we have of withstanding whatever eventually comes through those gates.”

  I wrap my arms around myself in an effort to hold everything together, though it offers little reprieve. I’m already scattered, choking on that raging beat of chest-cinching anxiety.

  There’s only one option I can see ... and to pull it off, it’s going to take every last ounce of courage I can scrape together. I’m going to have to lie to myself. Deceive myself. Force myself into doing something I’d hoped I could avoid
for the rest of my life.

  I’m going to have to become somebody different. Someone bold and heartless.

  Fearless.

  “Why did you drag me to the Conclave?” I ask, glancing back up into his distant, rocky stare.

  “To open your fucking eyes, Orlaith. The world out there is so much bigger than this,” he growls with a sweep of his hand, gesturing around my room. My entire universe. “I needed to prepare you for the worst case scenario.”

  There are still words left on his tongue; I can sense them sitting there, ready to be flung.

  “And?”

  “And your tower may be high, but you of all people should know it’s usually the tallest flowers that get targeted with a pair of clippers,” he says with callous precision. “I figured you’d appreciate the heads up.”

  The blow is brutal, meant to wound and cleave me from the safety of my shell. Meant to leave me feeling exposed.

  Right now, the last thing I need is a bitter reminder of how exposed I am. I already feel it all the way to my bones.

  My fists bunch and I bite my bottom lip so hard I taste blood.

  Rhordyn’s nostrils flare.

  His eyes grow dark and stormy, scouring me in a way that leaves me feeling naked despite my clothes and the thick shield of my hair.

  “Anything else?” he drudges out through clenched teeth.

  “Yeah,” I snap, wanting him gone. Hating the indifference in his eyes when all I need is a hug—for someone to tell me everything’s going to be okay.

  A pretty lie to solder my spine.

  “One last question.” I dig my hand down the front of my top and retrieve the vial, chewing up the space between us in three short strides. “Why are you such a dick?”

  His eyes widen.

  I slam the vial at his chest so hard it would wind a regular person, but Rhordyn’s no regular man. I’m reminded of that as I move to tug my hand away.

  Not fast enough.

  He grabs the vial, snatches my wrist like it’s a wielded weapon, and pulls me so close I’m assaulted by the eddy of his icy breath—held at knifepoint by his rapier eyes.

  “Who taught you that word?” His voice is a blade that cuts me in all the wrong ways. Leaves raw, tender trails down my body, where they meet between my legs and make me throb.

  I swallow thickly.

  Technically, I learned the word from one of his guards, though I doubt now is the right time to mention that. So I shrug, feigning immunity, draping a casual bravado over my wrought reality. “I’m not as innocent as you think I am.”

  He laughs, brutal and unapologetic. “One day you’ll look back on this moment and realize how wrong you were.”

  Incorrect.

  It will be the other way around, but he’ll see that soon enough.

  He drops my arm and spins, then lumbers through the doorway, pausing on the threshold of the stairs—the light spilling off a flaming wall-torch half-gilding him into a statue of dark, arrogant beauty. “You’re no longer required to attend the ball,” he announces over his shoulder, the words presented like a bowl of gruel.

  A lackluster lie for me to choke down.

  Unease settles heavy on my shoulders ...

  “And why not?”

  He turns a little, barely catches my eye, and shrugs. “People have seen more than enough. You’re off the hook. Congratulations.”

  His words hammer that final nail into my coffin lid, plunging all the way through my soon-to-be rotten corpse, leaving me doused in dread.

  Then he leaves.

  I work tirelessly, pinning long sections of hair into golden rosettes that sit high atop my head. Fitting the final piece into place, I tame loose tendrils around my face, completing the bouquet hairstyle that’s far too regal for my liking.

  But it fits the mold—makes me look like a High Master’s ward would be expected to look.

  I hope.

  I glance down, ensuring the pendants resting between my unbound breasts aren’t obvious beneath the sheath of blood-red material.

  Poor Tanith. I think back to the moment she came to collect the gown, only to find a naked mannequin and me, claiming to have condemned the dress to a watery grave during my visit with Kai this morning.

  The lie slid off my tongue, and I’d felt a twinge of guilt when she paled, claiming she’d been ordered to retrieve it. But not enough for me to fetch it from beneath my mattress and hand it over.

  Not once has Rhordyn offered me an easy out, which means he’s purposely trying to keep me from the ball. Perhaps he thinks Cainon will poison my mind, but blinkers are bracketing his eyes, and he can’t see that Cainon’s the antidote.

  I’m the antidote.

  He’s going to toss me out eventually ... it might as well be in a territory that hasn’t been invaded by Vruks yet.

  I pop the cork off a jar of lip lacquer I made from ground-up rose petals, scented oil, and a bit of lard. Women at the Tribunal often wear red on their lips, so I figured I’ll blend in if I do the same.

  Claiming a paintbrush, I draw a deep breath and look to my pale reflection.

  Tonight, this mirror is not my enemy. Because tonight, I’m not the Orlaith who’s spent the majority of her life hiding behind a make-believe line, using Rhordyn as a shield.

  Tonight, I’m somebody strong, composed, and resilient.

  “Strong, composed ... resilient ...”

  I dip the tapered bristles, steady my hand, and stain my lips red with delicate precision. The color makes my lilac eyes pop and is the perfect tone to compliment my dress. But more importantly, it makes me look like somebody else, and tonight, that’s exactly what I need.

  A mask.

  Next is a smudge of kohl around my eyes, turning them smokey and mysterious. I even use a sharpened stick to draw a line of it above my lids that flicks out beyond the corner.

  Vision complete, I let the stick fall to the vanity.

  I look so confident and majestic—nothing like the woman who broke down in the gardens yesterday. A pretty, sacrificial offering dolled up just enough to draw that pair of clippers Rhordyn was so intent on warning me against.

  It’s perfect.

  Pushing to my feet, I smooth the material hugging my legs before retrieving my shoes off the bed.

  The heels look like oversized thorns, and I have almost a hundred and fifty stairs to descend. With that in mind, I decide to put them on later rather than risk cartwheeling to the base of Stony Stem and breaking every bone in my body.

  Stressing the limits of my tight dress, I edge down the tower in increments, one hand tracing the wall while the other grips my shoes and hem, every step announced by another bitten word.

  Strong.

  Composed.

  Resilient.

  By the time I reach the foyer at the base of my tower, I almost believe myself.

  Bending to slip my heels on, I notice a dinner tray sitting on the ground near the open doorway, covered by a wooden lid with a small velvet pouch perched on top. Frowning, I reach for it ...

  The door slams shut.

  The sound of a bolt sliding into place has my heart diving into my stomach. I dart forward, grasp the brass handle, and push—

  The door doesn’t budge.

  It’s never been locked before. I didn’t even know it had a lock.

  “Hey!” I bellow, slapping my hand against the wood so hard my palm throbs. “Open the damn door!”

  My only response is a convenient void of silence.

  No retreating footsteps.

  Whoever just locked me in here is standing by, listening to me yell, and there’s only one person I’d give that sort of credit to.

  “Rhordyn! I know you’re there! Open this door right now!”

  Nothing.

  I kick at it, slam my shoulder against it, search its hinges for a way to pry them loose ...

  “Rhordyn!”

  Heavy footsteps retreat down the hall while I kick and snarl and scream. Teeth bared, I unfast
en a hairpin and dig it down the side of the door where I think the lock might be, but it’s useless.

  There’s no weakness for me to manipulate.

  Bent pin pinched between my throbbing fingers, I crumble to the ground in a frustrated, sweaty heap ...

  How dare he.

  Flopped on the bed, I stare daggers at the velvet bag hanging from my finger. The one I just opened to reveal a stash of healthy bluebell heads ... minus the stems.

  I frown, seeing the gift for what it really is.

  Placation.

  Perhaps Zali told Rhordyn I was standing behind that curtain. Perhaps he’s just being a controlling prick. Whatever the cause of my sudden jailing, the outcome is still the same.

  I’m pissed, trapped, anxious ... and that’s a dangerous mix.

  I’m not silly. I know Cainon has seen something he likes in me—that he’s using me as a bargaining chip. Something Rhordyn is obviously opposed to.

  I know he thinks I’m better than a political pairing, but what Cainon said to me at the base of Stony Stem suggested Rhordyn’s own pairing is at least partially political. And what’s good enough for Rhordyn is good enough for me.

  I may not be a High Mistress, but I can do one better than Zali. I can secure Rhordyn a hundred ships and the means to put a stop to the carnage spreading across the land. I can help make the world a safer place just by accepting a simple cupla.

  But I can’t do that from up here in my tower, and the deal’s off the table at midnight.

  We’re running out of time.

  I hiss at the clutch of bells, half tempted to toss them out the window and see how fast they fall.

  Actually ... screw it.

  I roll off the bed and swing the door open, sweeping onto the balcony in a swish of red. Stepping close to the balustrade, I take in the castle grounds littered with people dressed in pops of color, decorating the grass like a field of wild blooms.

  There are carriages parked about, hooked up to horses chewing on piles of straw. A line of torches leads to the front entrance, ready to light a path for the guests whose chatter comes to me on the still twilight air.

  My isolation from such a crowd would usually thrill me to the bone, but I’m not that girl tonight. All I see are potential victims of a future raid I could have prevented.