“Later, dearest one,” Grandmother says gently. “We will seek out every painting in the castle if that is your wish.”
I follow her reluctantly, curiosity warring with my body’s desperate need for sleep. This world has taken its toll on me, making every step heavy and slow.
We pass other lovely things—vases and more artwork and statues that look like angels—before finally arriving at ornately carved white doors.
Grandmother sends me a secret smile as she pushes the doors open. “I thought you might like to stay in your mother’s rooms.”
The sweet smell of flowers greets me the moment I step into the room—like peonies and roses—and I quickly find the source: robin’s egg-blue vases overflowing with bright pink blooms. My feet sink into a thick cream and gold–colored rug, but before I can sigh luxuriously, my attention has already been diverted by the wall of bookcases.
“Oh,” I say ineloquently as I run my hand along the edge of one of the jewel-toned leather spines.
“Tomorrow,” Grandmother says with a smile in her voice, pushing me gently along to the next room—the bedroom.
My mother’s room opens over the waterfalls, and all four doors—to her two balconies—are open wide to admit the warm sunshine, soft breeze, and the soothing roar of the water. My mother once stood here, I think as I look out over the waterfalls and the rest of the gleaming white city. It’s a bittersweet sort of pain to see Mama’s world, to stand in her footsteps, and I turn back to the room before the lump in my throat can devolve into tears.
The room is dominated by a large four-poster bed, the wood carved with knotwork in the most unusual color. I touch it to be sure it isn’t paint.
“It’s from the amethyst tree,” Grandmother says. “The wood is dark purple in color.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say and run my hands over the thick, downy coverlet. White with silver embroidery, it complements the furniture perfectly. “And this is divinely soft.”
Grandmother smiles nostalgically. “Well, it should be. A bed could never be made plush enough to suit your mother, but we did our best.”
I smile back, pleased at this small anecdote I never knew about Mama.
A knock at the door comes, and a girl with hair like black waves down her back enters. She’s dressed in a white high-collared tunic and form-fitting breeches, the fabric shimmering like satin.
“This is Astrid,” Grandmother says, and the girl places a hand across her chest and bows. “She’ll be your handmaiden during your stay.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say truthfully.
Her answering smile is kind. “And I you, my princess. We’ve been waiting a long time for the chance to meet the children of Princess Isidora.”
“Oh,” I say in a surprised sigh of breath.
Astrid glances worriedly from me to Grandmother. “Have I said something wrong?”
I shake my head. “No, no. I’m a bit overwhelmed is all—I haven’t quite wrapped my mind around the fact that my mother was a princess here.”
“The fairest one I’ve ever known,” Astrid says with a sad smile. “If you’ll excuse me, my princess, I’ll fetch a nightgown for you.”
She strides away, her movements lithe and graceful—otherworldly, really. Like Grandmother. Like Mama.
“She was Isidora’s handmaiden,” Grandmother says when Astrid disappears into the adjoining dressing room. “It was hard on us all when your mother left.” She reaches out and takes my hand. “But I understand why she did.”
I glance down at Rowen, another who was abandoned by Mama for me and for my siblings, and swallow a lump of guilt.
“I’ll leave you now to rest,” Grandmother says. “Sleep as long as you like. It’s best to begin your training with an able body and mind.”
She turns to go, but I reach out to her. “Grandmother, if I may ask … where will Alexander—that is, the man who crossed through the portal with me—be taken?”
Her lips press together in an expression of regret. “Are you sure you wish to be troubled with knowing such a thing, dearest one? Why not focus instead on the happier parts of today?”
“I’d rather know.”
“This castle is meant to be a fortress if the city were ever taken. And like most castles I’m sure you’re familiar with in your world, it has a dungeon. This is where we hold any of our subjects who have committed the worst sort of crimes—like treason.”
The word resonates within me. Treason, so very similar to betrayal. How could I have been so foolish? How had I not known he was a member of the Order?
“Any act of aggression against the royal family is considered treason,” Grandmother continues, “and he is of Sylvan blood—no matter how diluted.”
“I think—I should like to speak to him.”
Grandmother’s hard look is replaced by one of sympathy. “You may speak to him, if you insist. But it will keep until tomorrow.”
I swallow hard, my eyes burning from unshed tears and too many emotions crashing over me at once. “Tomorrow then.”
Grandmother gives my hand another squeeze before slipping out of the room.
I glance down at Rowen as Astrid returns with a long, silky nightgown to wear.
Not all hope is lost, Rowen says.
I nod, though all I feel is the crushing sense that everything I ever thought I felt toward Alexander was wrong.
He was my enemy all along.
ALEXANDER runs a hand over the shimmering white wall of stone. It surrounds him on all sides; even the door through which the sentinels entered faded away again the moment they left. High above him, glowing orbs cast soft light in the windowless space. The room is without furniture, without even a blanket with which to sleep. When he closes his eyes and reaches out with his prana, he feels nothing. Not the faintest hint of the energy the Sylvani call arcana, nor any sense of Lucy’s own power.
Arcana, he reminds himself. Lucy is Sylvan. Her energy is beyond mere mortal prana.
His hand drops away from the wall. He was a fool to think there was a chance Lucy wasn’t Sylvan—when all the signs pointed to it. The Sylvani were beings capable of great evil, immortal creatures who thought nothing of killing a young boy’s mother. But Alexander had convinced himself that Lucy was different. That Lucy couldn’t have been Sylvan.
He was wrong.
And now he will likely be killed for his mistake.
Had he been wrong about Nadi? Had the girl who used her prana to weave beauty into cloth been a killer in disguise?
He remembers every one of the men and women he’d found for Lord Tyrell. The ones with an abundance of spiritual power—the ones suspected to be Sylvan. There haven’t been many—only seven in the fifteen years he’s been searching for them. All seven used their powers for evil, or if not evil, then at least personal gain: a hired killer; a seducer of rich, married women; a woman who was able to change the way she looked and who married man after man, killing each one; another who was such an accomplished thief that others just handed over their money; others who had profited from their abilities, amassing huge riches. And not a single one of them was the man he was truly looking for—the man who killed his mother.
But Nadi had been different. No matter how much he searched, he could find no sign that she was anything other than a good person. Poor, from a lower caste family, and the only daughter of parents who were servants to a wealthy merchant. She sold her saris to bring in extra money for her family.
Alexander’s task had always been to use his excess of prana to find others with an abundance of spiritual power. With each new lead, he’d been filled with fervor, hoping this time he’d find the man who took his mother from him. So he’d seek them out, discover everything there was to know about them, and then bring them to Tyrell to be dealt with.
Alexander’s jaw tightens as he stares at the wall. It wasn’t until Nadi that Alexander felt the first inkling of doubt. He knew Tyrell had the Sylvans drained of all their power. Alexander
never questioned it, and whether he was willfully ignorant or simply naive, he couldn’t say. But he hadn’t known draining them would end in them dying. He had stupidly thought their power was being harnessed for something good.
But then he found Nadi gray and lifeless, and that was when he’d begun to doubt.
He grips his head in his hands. Even thinking these thoughts feels like the worst sort of betrayal, though they’ve been whispering in his subconscious for months.
Unbidden, an image of Lucy smiling secretly at Alexander fills his mind, and his body tenses.
The worst of it was … he may have doubted, but if he had found anything suspicious with Lucy, he would have turned her over.
His physical reaction to her be damned.
EIGHTEEN
I awaken to the sound of birdsong and the roar of the waterfalls. A gentle breeze flutters the sheer draperies, bringing with it the clean smell of the water below. From the light pouring in, I’d say I’ve slept clear through to the next day. I sit up, pleased to see I feel refreshed rather than groggy from all that sleep. As I glance around the room—Mama’s room—I see Rowen sitting in the doorway with his tail curled around his legs, gazing out toward the waterfalls.
As beautiful as the scene is, it also pierces my chest with sadness. This must be what my mother saw when she awoke, and how terribly I miss the woman I only remember in pieces. Small things will trigger my memories: the smell of lavender reminding me of her perfume (though now that I am in this exotic place, I wonder if that might be how she naturally smelled), a single note can bring forth a torrent of memories of her enchanting music, and the feel of a brush running through my hair—our nightly ritual. But I do not have as many memories as Wren and Rob do, though they have told me the stories so many times they have almost become my own.
Just as my nostalgia grows too great to bear, a soft voice interrupts my thoughts. “May I help you dress, my princess?”
Astrid stands in the doorway to the sitting room. She is dressed much the same as she was yesterday, only she wears a headband of silver leaves in her hair.
I smile gratefully. “How did you even know I was awake? Or have you been checking on me to be sure I was still alive? I cannot believe I slept so long.”
A small laugh escapes her. “It’s understandable to need rest when you travel between realms. But to answer your question, I have very good hearing—so good, in fact, that I have had to learn to block out most sounds, else I will hear the sound of someone breathing in the dungeon far below us.”
I stiffen. The dungeon, where surely Alexander has spent a miserable night.
Good.
My mind had threatened to swallow me with worries—most notably, how had I let myself become so easily deceived?—but the exhaustion of traveling to another realm had won out. Now, clear-headed and fully awake, it all comes rushing back: Grandmother’s guards surrounding Alexander, my fear for him turning to shock, the horror of realizing his true identity. For I’ve been a fool all along. I was afraid of what Wallace might do, while all the while, I was dancing with his compatriot. It sickens me that I’ve been betrayed.
For to be betrayed, I had to have believed him in the first place.
Astrid returns from the wardrobe with an outfit, and I am grateful for the interruption of my thoughts. “But mostly I can hear you’re in desperate need to break your fast.”
My stomach rumbles in response, and I press a hand to it as if to silence it. “I am rather hungry,” I say as though we both didn’t just hear my stomach’s loud protest.
She holds up the emerald frock in response, and I see that it isn’t a dress in the style I’m used to. Rather, it’s cut in the same way that Grandmother’s was when I arrived: a tight-fitting bodice with a cut-away chiffon skirt over breeches. It looks terribly daring and exotic. How Wren would love to wear such a thing.
I throw my legs over the side of the bed and stand, grasping the bedpost for balance. A day of sleep and no food or drink has made me lightheaded.
Astrid helps me out of the floor-length satin nightgown she’d given me yesterday, and then in no time at all, fastens me into the beautiful emerald green frock. The bodice is like a second skin, secured in the back with countless hook-and-eye closures. But much to my surprise and pleasure when I take a deep breath, I can actually breathe in it—unlike a corset. It’s heavily embroidered with a swirling vine-like pattern of gold thread. The skirt is constructed of an airy chiffon, with golden threads that catch the light as I turn.
Astrid helps me into the breeches, and then I look at my reflection in the mirror with wide eyes. I’ve never been one to ride much—not like Wren and Rob—and so this is far more of my legs then I’ve ever seen. Soft leather slippers complete the ensemble, much like the ones Astrid wears, only gold.
The whole thing would be terribly scandalous in my world—my arms, décolletage, shoulders, and legs far too much on display—and yet, something about the outfit bespeaks royalty. I turn this way and that, puzzling over it. The lines, I decide. The tailored cut and the way the skirt billows out behind me like a robe.
“You look just as a princess should,” Astrid says, smiling at me in the mirror. She runs a silver brush through my hair and pins it away from my face with golden hair combs. When I turn my head, I see a great soaring bird set in rubies on each comb. When Astrid catches me examining them, she says, “The queen’s crest.”
“Oh, I see it now. They look just like Serafino.”
“The spirit animals of kings and queens become their emblems, for we believe the animal itself is the best representation of the person’s soul.” She glances fondly at her own owl perched on my wardrobe.
“Fascinating,” I murmur, my fingers itching to draw all that I’ve learned.
Astrid makes a few more adjustments to the golden combs in my hair and leaves the rest in waves down my back, which must be the style here. She stands back to admire the results and nods approvingly.
“Thank you, Astrid—truly, this is lovely. I’m not used to dressing in such a way, but I adore what you’ve done. I love the freedom of movement, too—and being able to properly draw in a breath!”
“The clothes you arrived in did seem rather restrictive,” she says with a smile, “but should you ever have need of them, you’ll find them in your dressing room.”
We hear a light knock on one of the outer doors of the sitting room, and then the door opens to reveal another Sylvani with a kind face and light hair dressed similarly to Astrid. She carries a tray from which the smells of delicious food waft into the air.
“The queen will be here soon,” Astrid says as the other girl sets the tray upon a table in the sitting room, “but she thought you’d like to fortify yourself before seeing the rest of the castle.”
“How thoughtful,” I say, for she’s right—the moment I left this room, I’d be consumed with exploring, hungry or not. As it is, it’s hard to tear my gaze away from the books now that I’ve entered the sitting room. When I get a proper look at the food, though, I sigh with pleasure. “This looks divine!”
The girl with the tray beams, and a small, ferret-like creature crawls onto her shoulder to peer down at me. It, too, seems to be watching me with satisfaction as I take a sip of first the crystal glass of sparkling water and then the steaming cup of tea. Both are delicious—sweet and refreshing.
“This is Fianna,” Astrid says, and the girl makes a short bow, “and her spirit animal Sophocles.” The ferret’s nose twitches at me merrily, and I smile.
“A pleasure to meet you both. Thank you for bringing me such a lovely spread.”
Laid out before me is an array of fruits and cheeses, sweet-smelling breads, and pastries. I note a curious lack of meat, but as I gaze around at the three spirit animals in the room, I rather suspect why.
“If you need anything else at all, my princess,” Fianna says, “you need only let Astrid know, and she will send for me.”
With another bow, she leaves, and I waste
no time trying every bit of food on my tray. I try a fruit as purple as an eggplant that tastes like honey and cinnamon; something else the color of a lime but with the texture and taste of a carrot; and the bread … the bread is so light and flaky it melts instantly in my mouth, yet is filling and satisfying at the same time. But even these delicious flavors cannot distract me completely.
I want to know the truth.
The thought makes me desperate to speak to him, but at the same time, icy prickles of fear take up residence in my stomach.
I want to know if he intended to drain my arcana just as Wren’s was almost completely taken from her.
I drop the flaky piece of bread I’d been enjoying, my appetite suddenly waning. “Astrid,” I say hesitantly, “you will think me mad, I’m sure, but do you think I might go and see him? There are things I’d like to say to him … to find out from him, you see …” I trail off before I start to go on and on.
Astrid’s expression is sympathetic. “I’m afraid only the queen can take you.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” I say, trying rather unsuccessfully to hide my disappointment.
“But I do know she intends for you to speak to him today,” Astrid adds, and I glance up hopefully. “She told me so herself.”
I force down the desperate urge to interrogate Alexander. I must be patient. “Forgive me. Then I shall say nothing else about it.”
Cup of tea in hand, I walk to the bookshelves, which have been calling out to me since the moment I laid eyes on them. I touch the jewel-toned spines, wondering which were my mother’s favorites. After a moment, my gaze lands on a thick book the color of amethyst. I gently pull it free and find an unfamiliar golden rune stamped into the leather. When I open it, the smell of lavender rushes out and I close my eyes. Mama.
The Order of the Eternal Sun Page 18
