She grimaced at them. “You’re in the right place. If you’re here for that windbag, that is.”
Ariella rolled her eyes. “Unfortunately.”
“You can still leave, you know.” The girl looked over shoulder, as if to check whether they were being watched. “He’s in a foul mood. Has been since he got back and found out about the market. He was furious that you weren’t here.”
Ariella shared a glance with Prell. His loose posture and easy grin had disappeared, and he looked about ready to bolt, but he squeezed her hand and nodded at her. He waited for her to decide, and afraid as he was, he’d respect whatever she chose.
She drew a deep breath and stepped into the house. “I’ll have to deal with him sometime.”
The blonde girl’s eyes were sympathetic as she held out a hand for their coats. Ariella handed hers over, slightly embarrassed by the white loren fur that was all too visible on the black wool. The small cat had grumbled at the loss of its favourite pillow when she’d slipped it out from under him earlier.
“If you don’t mind me asking—” she started, still utterly disoriented at finding the strong girl from the market here.
“Why am I here?” the girl finished for her.
Ariella nodded nervously.
“Food is hard to come by in winter. The smaller the clan, the better the meals.” She shrugged as she tugged Prell’s coat from his hands and flapped him away from the coat rack, upset that he was trying to hang it up himself. “So those of us who can find winter work in the city stay on.” She frowned. “My dad says I was lucky to get work at the mayor’s.”
“Jesna!”
The Cythian girl jumped at the bellow that echoed down the stairwell. She reflexively pushed her hair behind her ear then yanked it forward again almost straight away—but not before Ariella saw a dark purple bruise marring the soft skin behind her ear and under the blonde stubble.
“Is that the girl? Bring her in here.”
Jesna rolled her eyes at Ariella and gestured for them to follow her. Ariella’s skin had gone clammy, the bruise on the Cythian’s head all too reminiscent of the bruises she’d worn over the years, courtesy of Ellentyre. She’d been wondering what kind of man the mayor was, willing to give him the benefit of the doubt despite the quiet gaps and pointed looks that punctuated any conversation where he was the subject.
The massive house was dark, the few candles too small and too far apart to make any difference to the gloom that swallowed the high ceilings. Ariella shivered, half-wishing she’d taken Jesna’s suggestion to run.
Yora had strongly suggested that she leave her beloved leather pants at home and wear one of the more traditional gowns Ellentyre had insisted she pack. She’d chosen the plainest one, a simple dark dress, although with skirts were so wide Prell was forced to walk an arm’s length from her. She wanted the mayor to see her as an adult, rather than a child playing dress-up in sparkling gowns.
Jesna led them up several sets of stairs. “He’s in the conservatory,” she said, not even out of breath as they headed up the third and what Ariella hoped was the last flight of slippery marble stairs. “I swear he chooses it just make our lives harder,” she muttered under her breath.
Ariella shared another look with Prell, whose hand was as sweaty as hers, but neither of them let go. Fear was making Ariella’s chest tight, making it even harder not to pant as she climbed the seemingly endless stairs upward. The Cythian girl was one of the most impressive people she’d ever met—and a few weeks in the mayor’s house had hunched her shoulders, and faded her tanned skin, so that she looked like a memory of herself.
Finally the girl stopped in front of a set of massive wooden doors, accented with gleaming brass detail and handles the size of her head. She waited until Ariella had regained her breath then backed into one of the doors, using the weight of her body to swing it inward.
She gestured into the room, and whispered “Good luck,” as Prell and Ariella walked slowly through the doorway.
The room was made of glass, the walls and ceiling utterly transparent. The conservatory itself was dark—darker even than the rest of the house. But beyond the room, the city of Pyscoria twinkled. Patches of shifting light marked out the islands among the dark channels of the river.
Ariella tore away her gaze from the view below. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the wide, empty room and she could see now that the airy interior wasn’t as empty as she’d first thought. A table had been placed near the far glass wall, in front of a set of open balcony doors. A small candelabra sat in the centre of the delicate dining table, and at the end of this, with his back to the doors, sat the mayor. Endorian, the last remaining member of the Rochard family.
He wasn’t what she’d expected. He was average in almost every way, his only distinguishing feature the white wings of hair that flared out from behind his ears, the only light patches among his still-dark hair. Somehow she’d expected someone older, someone more threatening. This man looked utterly ordinary.
Only one place had been set, to the right of him. Despite herself, Ariella swallowed. Prell squeezed her hand and made his way to the other—bare—side of the table. Endorian’s jaw tightened at the sight of Prell, and the thought that she’d annoyed him dissipated some of her fear. This was a power game, and a far less subtle one than the ones her mother played.
She found herself smiling slightly as she took her seat and remembered not to incline her head to the mayor. The Grace-in-Waiting outranked everyone except the Grace herself—a fact he’d seemed to have forgotten. She resisted the urge to point out that as the highest-ranking Blood in the room, the seat at the head of the table should be hers. She had bigger battles to fight, and her hands were still sweating. She’d never been good at theses power games, but she did know that winning meant picking your battles.
Jesna saved her the trouble of insisting on a place for Prell, bustling into the dim room with her arms full and quickly setting a place in front of him. The room was silent except for the rattle of cutlery and crockery. Jesna snapped out a white linen napkin, and laid it on Prell’s lap then hurried out when Endorian waved her away from him.
His eyes hadn’t left Ariella. He took another sip from his glass of amber liquid. Up close, she could see that his eyes were dark—a rarity in the Vale. She’d thought them exotic on some of the boys from town. Now she didn’t. Up close, the mayor wasn’t ordinary at all; his cold, expressionless face unsettled her. The exotic eyes on him were just terrifying. They weighed her, and judging by the slight sneer hovering on his lips, they found her wanting.
The silence stretched out, thin and brittle, almost a living thing in the dark room.
Ariella forced herself to wait, swallowing the greetings and excuses that threatened to leap from her lips.
“Why is it that I returned yesterday to find that the little Grace-in-Waiting had snubbed my home? Why is it, that despite my messenger, I find you still at the home of a mere merchant? And a Blood traitor at that.” Endorian’s shoulders were stiff with the irritation of being forced to speak first.
The first battle was won, but Ariella swallowed despite herself, her fear a reflexive thing. “My mother might have sent me to foster in Pyscoria, but I am old enough to choose where to foster. And I chose to foster at a home with a host who was polite enough to be home when I arrived.”
Endorian’s face didn’t change expression as he said, “Old enough to choose where to foster, but not old enough to be courted?”
Ariella was starting to wilt under his harsh gaze. She didn’t dare glance at Prell. They still hadn’t discussed the issue of courting. She hadn’t want to crush whatever young delicate thing was growing between them with the weight of any expectation.
She felt a small shift in the air, an almost inaudible pop, and then, a brush of soft fur against her leg. The loren had materialised under the table, and the soft, wet press of its nose against her calf made her braver. A friend. She had friends, allies. Despite what
the mayor and her mother would like her to believe, she was not at their mercy.
She coughed a little to cover the noise of the loren’s appearance, and Jesna, who had been fussing at a sideboard came over to pour her a glass of water. Prell pushed his own glass across the table and Jesna, ignoring Endorian’s glare, leaned over the table to fill it.
The grey sleeve of her dress inched up, baring her wrist, and this time she didn’t get the sleeve down fast enough to hide the bruises. Finger-shaped bruises.
“Who did this?” asked Prell in alarm, pushing back his chair and reaching for the Cythian girl’s arm.
Jesna leaned away quickly, tugging her sleeve down. She glanced at Ariella—a glance of shared understanding, and a request—and hurried quickly back to the sideboard.
“Such dramatics,” said Endorian with an edge to his voice. “The girl is clumsy. And slow.” He put a heavy emphasis on the last word and Jesna jumped, hurrying towards the door. Prell opened his mouth to protest, but Ariella shook her head at him. He would only make it worse. Attention always made it worse. Jesna deserved better from them, but all they could buy her was less blame. When Prell didn’t sit, she shook her head again, and he subsided, looking worried and confused.
“The main course had better not be cold when it arrives on this table,” Endorian continued, without raising his voice. Jesna’s footsteps hastened.
The mayor kept his eyes on her. “It seems like Ellentyre has done us all a disservice in you. She obviously has not taught you discipline or respect.” His mouth turned downward and he sipped the golden liquid in his glass. “How disappointing.”
The anger at Jesna’s bruises froze into a hard, cold ball of dread in her stomach, while shame heated her cheeks. Ariella opened her mouth, but found that she couldn’t speak—not without crying and proving his point.
She was a fool to think she could stand up to him, to think that she could break free of the expectations heaped on her to make her own path. She was too afraid to look at Prell. She’d brought him here and into this.
The loren pressed itself to her leg, its soft fur bringing her back to this room, to this moment. Memories of past failures, and of the harsh, sometimes bloody punishments that followed, threatened to overwhelm her, beckoning her to relive them.
But the loren was here, purring now, despite the threat of discovery. Her first real friend. And now she had another one.
The gentle vibrations against her leg gave her strength. She blinked away her tears and raised her chin.
The mayor wasn’t even looking at her. A small frown brought his brows together like a great furry caterpillar, and suddenly it was as if she was looking at him from far away—an average man in every sense, except perhaps his cruelty.
Prell gave her a tremulous smile from across the table. He tilted his head, an unasked question. She found she could return his smile, answering, that yes, she was all right.
“And this—” Endorian swung his index finger from Ariella to Prell and back. “This will come to a stop.” Another sip of the amber liquid. “The Synod will be arriving next week, and they be bringing along your betrothed.”
Ariella went stiff. The loren’s purr turned into a low growl, picking up her mood.
“I have no betrothed,” she snapped back. “Was I not clear when I said I would not accept courtship?”
The door swung open and Jesna hurried in, holding two large white plates. One, heaped with meat, was set before the mayor. Another, filled only with assorted leafy greens and a small piece of fish, Jesna set before Ariella. The Cythian turned her mouth downward, as if to say sorry for the meal, before hurrying out again. Ariella’s heart broke a little, seeing this strong, confident girl forced into fearful servitude.
Endorian’s smile was feral. “Perfectly clear, little Ariella. Or should I say, not so little Ariella.” He glanced meaningfully at the salad in front of her, and she wanted to smack the plate right off the table. Prell gave a low growl, but Endorian continued, “What you seem to be unclear on is that you are not in charge. You are the Grace-in-Waiting only, and at the mercy of the Synod of Light’s dictates. The same as any citizen of the Vale.”
“You’re wrong,” said Prell.
The mayor almost snapped his neck, his head turned so quickly.
“The Grace—or Grace-in-Waiting—” Prell inclined his head to Ariella. “—answers to no one. Graces belong only to themselves and to the Stars. If Elle says she won’t be accepting courtship, she will not. And you’ll discover that not everyone finds the Synod’s fascination with power comforting. The Grace still commands loyalty.”
“Yora’s whelp,” drawled Endorian, leaning back in his chair to look fully at Prell for the first time. He swirled his glass of whiskey, the smell floating through the room. “A disgrace to the Blood. I shouldn’t be surprised that you champion discarding rules and tradition.” His lip curled.
“Don’t speak to him like that!”
“You are in my house, girl,” Endorian thundered at her, smashing his glass down on the table, all semblance of calm detachment vanishing. “You will behave like the lady you are expected to be, or I will show you the discipline that your mother clearly hasn’t.”
The faint clatter of a plate being set on the table shattered the tension, and Ariella turned to find Jesna stepping away from the table where she’d set Prell’s plate.
“I know just the kind of discipline you’re talking of,” said Ariella. “I can see it stamped on Jesna’s body.”
Behind him, Jesna was shaking her head. Don’t draw attention to it, it’ll only get worse. But she wouldn’t let it, not anymore.
Ariella held her eyes as she said, “And it’s the kind of discipline my mother has used on me my whole life.” She gritted her teeth and pushed back her chair, “I used to think that I was the problem. Just too stupid, too slow. A disappointing, frustrating child that Mother had the grim task of shaping into someone worthy of power.” She let her lip curl, let the disgust for Endorian and his actions show on her face. “But now I know that I am not the problem. That the kind of discipline you speak of is for the weak.”
Prell pushed back his chair, grinning at her, but Ariella wouldn’t—couldn’t—leave Jesna to face the kind of abuse she knew the mayor was doling out. “Come with us,” she said, “There are other—”
“Where do you think you’re going?” Endorian didn’t bother to stand, instead, picking up his knife and fork and tucking into his meal. “You will be staying here. You will greet the Synod next week as a properly behaved lady, and you will accept the courtship of your betrothed.”
Ariella laughed. She didn’t mean to, but it suddenly seemed so absurd. This small, petty man deciding what she would do with her life.
He moved faster than she would have thought possible. She was embarrassed that she didn’t see it coming—his slap knocked her backwards and sent her stumbling back into her chair. The shock of it, as well as the throbbing ache, brought tears to her eyes but it had been a long time since she’d let anyone see her tears. If she didn’t give Ellentyre the satisfaction, she wouldn’t give it to this man either.
“Don’t you touch her.” Prell’s snarl was low and feral. She’d never heard him sound like that. She turned back to see him throw a punch at Endorian, but her sweet, beautiful Prell wasn’t a fighter. His punch went wide by a mile, and the mayor moved like a snake, his arm whipping out and tugging Prell to him, his elbow locked under Prell’s chin.
Prell, his back to Endorian’s chest, struggled, but the man ignored him utterly. He pointed at Ariella. “Sit.”
She swallowed and nodded, tucking hair that had flown lose of her braid behind her ear. “Please, let him go. He can’t breathe.” She tried to keep the panic from her voice, but Endorian’s lips twitched into a small smile.
She squeezed her hands together, not daring to move from the chair, paralysed by the violence and feeling like a fool for trying to stand up to this man. Why had she thought this time would
be any different? Prell was trapped, and being hurt, and all she could do was beg. She’d didn’t deserve Prell—she’d know it was too good to be true. A part of her had been waiting, knowing that something would end it.
“So weak.” His eyes bored into hers. “I really expected more from a whelp of Ellentyre’s. Perhaps the Blood really does run weakly these days. All the more reason to marry you off to a properly Blooded man, and get a few strong Blooded Graces on you. You’ll play your part for the Vale in that way, at least.”
Prell’s struggles intensified at his words, but his face was going red. The mayor’s grip was too strong, blocking his airway.
“Yes, fine!” shouted Ariella. “But please, please, let Prell go.”
“Yes?” hissed Endorian, clearly enjoying his position of power.
“Yes. I will be whatever you need me to be, but please let him go.” She couldn’t stop the tears that welled up and spilled over. He was right, she was weak, so weak.
Endorian glanced at Prell, whose struggles had slowed. He was running out of air.
Ariella wrung her hands, half out of her seat, desperate to free Prell, but slow and stupid with fear. The heavy ringing of metal sounded out through the room, and Endorian’s face went slack. His arm loosened and Ariella was pulling Prell to her a heartbeat later, shocked and grateful as Jesna backed away from the mayor, the heavy silver tray she’d just hit him with clasped to her chest.
Ariella had her arms round Prell, rubbing his back as he gulped in air. They had to leave. She needed to get Prell away from this man.
But Endorian caught himself on the edge of the table. His hand went to his hair and came away bloody. His roar of anger made Ariella flinch. He turned to Jesna, who was now trapped in the corner behind the table and sideboard. There was no way for her to avoid the man. The only escape was the balcony, and they were several floors up.
The City of Dreams Page 6
