by Dylan Farrow
“Please, Ravod, I’m…” I pause, unsure how to make him understand how much I need to trust him, and for him to trust me. “I need your help. Someone killed my mother,” I persist. “I think it was a Bard.”
Ravod keeps his eyes locked on mine as he leans very slightly closer and lowers his voice to a whisper.
“You really don’t get it, do you?” he says, low and dangerous. The reverberations in his voice are deep, and send waves of hot and cold through me. “Do not mistake my courtesy for kindness. I have no concern for your problems. I don’t care why you are here. I am not your friend. You are not here for friendship.” He looks into my eyes. They look even darker in the faint light. Dangerous, yet pained. I swallow. “You are here to serve High House, and that is all. Everyone within this place is duty-bound to Cathal, myself included. Our loyalty and our lives belong to High House, and to High House alone.”
“But—”
He cuts me off. “I will only say this once. Don’t ever say these things aloud again, to me, or anyone.”
He pulls back, eyes burning into mine. The torch in the wall beside us flares up, lighting his face, but it’s over so quickly, I might have imagined it.
I don’t know whether to be furious or afraid, or something else: the exact opposite of what he wants me to feel. I need to know what he is hiding. I need to know what makes this young man, who rarely reveals a single sign of emotion, suddenly become so intense.
His eyes flick to the torch, and for a split second, horror crosses his face. I’m not sure if it’s because of what he said or what he didn’t. “I must go.”
He takes his leave as quickly as he first appeared, and as soon as he’s out of sight, I bolt the door swiftly.
My hands are shaking, and I accidentally drop the bag of food Ravod delivered to me, the apple rolling out and across the floor. The memory of his voice echoes distantly in my ears. I crouch, gathering everything up, only to drop it a second time.
As tired as I am, I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight. Not with all the questions rushing through my mind—images of the constable and the gilt dagger with inlaid lettering. Images of my past life, fragmented and jarring.
Not with the memory of Ravod’s warnings. His dark eyes locking on mine. His words. Don’t ever say these things aloud again, to me, or anyone.
Later, I lie restlessly in bed, the sheets smooth against my skin, and one thing becomes certain: I’m not going to obey Ravod. Especially not when it’s so obvious that he knows more than he lets on. A terrible secret trembles behind his words, behind that piercing, sorrowful look in his eyes.
I’m not here to stay silent and afraid.
I am here for answers.
14
The next morning, I hurriedly retrace my steps through the corridors of the Bards’ Wing, still buttoning my shirt. The training gear of the Bards is a simple black shirt, pants, and boots, but the fabric is far silkier than I’m used to. In Aster, this would be considered finery.
My needles are in my pocket. They remind me of home, of who I am, and it makes me feel a tiny bit stronger knowing they are close.
Sleepless night notwithstanding—my dreams were riddled with dark figures lurking in the night, glinting knives, and treacherous landslides—there is a tight determination deep in my chest. If finding Ma’s killer means training to be a Bard to blend in at High House, I will be the best Bard they’ve ever seen.
I only need a lead. The bloody dagger flashes in my mind. I curse myself for allowing the constable to whisk it away. But the memory of it is crystal clear in my mind.
Prior to the murder—chills run through me as soon as I think the word—there were three Bards present in Aster. The weathered-looking red-haired man, the mysterious woman with dark skin and pale, amber eyes. And Ravod. I need to find out which of them the knife belonged to, if any.
It won’t be enough to simply discover the killer, I realize. I will need irrefutable evidence. Something Cathal can’t ignore.
I’ll turn this entire castle upside down if I have to.
For Ma.
I halt outside the refectory and take a deep breath before reaching for the large double doors.
The High House sentries to either side of the entrance push the heavy oaken doors open before I can touch them, startling me. I’m not used to people opening doors for me. The confusion must be written on my face; I hear several audible snickers as I stumble into the room.
The refectory is massive. Although similar to the rest of the Bards’ Wing, when I look closer, I see it was cut out of the side of the mountain in one piece. The pillars, windows, and ornate carvings that wind into the vaulted ceiling are the same stone. Long rows of dark wooden tables and benches fill the space, and black-and-gold-clad Bards and their trainees crowd each one. They cast dark looks in my direction.
That, at least, I am used to.
I pause, wondering what the protocol here is.
“Go ahead and have a seat, my lady,” a smiling girl in a pressed black and white uniform says to me. “I’ll bring your breakfast.”
I nod gratefully to the servant girl—relieved to see another female face in this sea of men—and try to find a seat far from the other Bards. Their glares make it very clear I’m not welcome to join them.
I look around for the other female Bards, on the off chance they are as isolated as I am. My mouth twists in disappointment when I see two others at different sides of the throng, laughing and dining casually with their male counterparts. One is probably twice my age and half my size, with most of her long chestnut hair shaved off and an intricate red tattoo that looks like branches winding over the side of her face. The other stands out almost immediately because of her shock of white hair, braided elaborately with an assortment of fiery-colored beads. She’s much older, possibly than many of her fellow Bards, and the occupants of her table look visibly nervous in her presence. She does not speak a word. She doesn’t have to for everyone to know she dislikes being bothered.
There should be four others, including the woman I saw in Aster, but I don’t see them. Perhaps they are traveling to Montane, collecting tithes, or somewhere else in the castle.
I take a deep breath. It looks like I’ll be taking my first official meal here alone.
While servants bustle by attending to the Bards, I look for a seat somewhere isolated. Luckily, the end of the closest table is vacant. A group of older Bards are clustered about ten feet away and either ignore me or don’t notice me take a seat.
I am not your friend. You are not here for friendship. Ravod’s voice reverberates in my head, and I drop my gaze to my hands, knotted in my lap.
The logical part of me knows I didn’t come here with any expectation of kindness. But that knowledge doesn’t lessen the sting of being looked at and treated with disdain like I was back home.
A plate of food is set before me, with a warm smile from the servant who greeted me. She’s quite young, probably a couple of years my junior, but tall. Her head is covered in tight, wild curls, the color of freshly tilled soil, locked in battle with the cord that ties them to the nape of her neck. Her smile is broad, revealing a gap in her two front teeth. It’s the first real sliver of affability I’ve received since arriving in this viper’s den.
Suddenly tears threaten to overwhelm me, and all I want is my ma to hold me, and my pa to sing to me. I can’t bear it another minute. I cling to the ball of wool in my pocket, my needles grasped between my fingers, the one anchor I have to home, to my past. To myself.
“New here, my lady?” The servant sets a fork and knife at either side of the plate in front of me. I nod. Anything else I fear would crack me open. “I’ve served High House my whole life. I know every face in this room.” She leans over to whisper conspiratorially in my ear, “Believe me, each one of them looked like you do right now when it was their first day of training.”
“Thank you.” My voice shakes a bit.
The girl smiles broadly, flashing the
gap in her teeth, and I realize just how young she actually is. Maybe she grew up here. She can only be about eleven or twelve. A mere child in a place where a murderer hides. The thought sends a chill through me. “Only doing my job,” she says with a tiny shrug.
“Do you like it here?”
The girl looks vaguely puzzled by my question, but her cheerful smile doesn’t falter. “Well, yes! High House is the most beautiful place in the world, don’t you think? I’m very lucky to serve here.” She pauses. “I’ve never left the castle. I’ve overheard from the Bards that things are … bad. Down there.” She makes a little gesture with her chin to indicate the outside world.
“It’s a completely different world.” The words slip out of my mouth. My heart squeezes painfully as I recall the poverty and famine in Aster, the barren dusty roads plagued by bandits, and the towns that were destroyed by their cruelty and barbarism. “But I come from one of the poorest villages. I have heard that much of Montane is beautiful and thriving. Every year, my village would strive to live up to the standards set by the rest of the villages, and every year, we struggle.”
“It’s a good thing you made it here safely.” The girl nods sagely, although it’s clear she has no idea how close I came to not being here at all. “This is the first time in a long while I’ve seen them bring a girl in,” she adds, “but I’m sure you’ll do much better than the last one.”
“What happened to the…” Before I can finish, she seems to realize her off-putting remark and scurries away.
I remember what Cathal said yesterday. For every Bard in the ranks of High House, there are dozens more hopefuls who cannot withstand such power. Their minds shatter. Such occurrences are sadly more prevalent amongst the few women we have discovered in possession of the gift.
Is this the fate that awaits me?
My hand is shaking so badly, it sends my fork clattering to the floor. The noise causes the nearest group of Bards to glance in my direction.
Keeping my actions quiet and discreet, I duck my head beneath the table. Thankfully the cutlery at High House is as shiny as everything else, and I see it glinting on the floor where it skidded a few feet away.
Bracing myself with one hand on the table, I reach for the fork underneath. My fingers brush the side, pushing it farther away. Groaning, I slip beneath the table before I can think to simply ask one of the servants for a new fork.
Now that I’m on my hands and knees under the table, I exhale a heavy sigh and grab my wayward utensil.
A flash of gold catches my eye.
In an instant, I’m outside my home, watching Constable Dunne carry the knife that killed Ma out of the house. It glints in the sun.
Except I’m at High House. And the glint is coming from the hilt of an identical knife protruding from the boot of a Bard seated only a few feet away.
The ground beneath me feels very cold. I blink several times, but the golden hilt is still there.
I bite my lip hard, scrambling closer for a better look. My fork is clutched tightly in my hand like a lifeline as I crawl beneath the length of the table. I can only see the legs and large black boots of the knife’s owner.
I reach out with my free hand. The tiny, delicate engravings are unmistakable. The tips of my fingers brush the cold metal.
The owner of the knife shifts in his seat, and I pull back, gritting my teeth and holding my breath. They’re leaving the table. I scramble forward.
Too late. The knife moves from under the table and out of sight.
I sit back on my heels, my mind racing.
Another flash.
I look up with a quiet gasp, noticing another golden knife, tucked into another boot farther down the long table. And another. And another.
From where I sit, I count sixteen identical knives tucked into black boots in two long rows.
I swallow hard, backing toward my abandoned seat.
I may not have found the exact knife that killed Ma, but one fact is inescapable: It was a knife that belonged to a Bard.
It’s just a knife, I reason. Maybe a thief stole it and broke into the house …
No. Another piece clicks into place as I clamber back up onto my seat. The landslide. A thief wouldn’t cover up their crime with a Telling. Only a Bard can do that.
I just have to find out which Bard, one who has lost their dagger. And to hopefully not die or go mad in the process.
I take a deep breath, shaking my head to clear it, and deliberately concentrate all my attention on the delightful smelling food in front of me.
Warm buttery rolls, fresh fruit, porridge, eggs, and sausage sit steaming on the plate. In a mug to the side is a dark, hot liquid with a bitter, earthy aroma. Back in Aster, this one meal would be more than I would eat in a whole day.
Intimidated, but excited, I take a sip of my beverage. It lands on my tongue harsh and sour, leaving a slimy texture behind. I choke it down and decide I’ll worry about acquiring a taste for it later. I’m too hungry to worry about it. Instead, I shovel as much food as I can onto my fork and tuck in with enthusiasm. The hot food melts on my tongue, rolling over and dissolving into a cold, wiggling mass.
Gagging, I spit a writhing clump of maggots onto the table.
I stare in horror, ready to expel the rest of my stomach’s meager contents, until I hear the sound of a low chuckle turn to raucous laughter at the table across from mine. Looking up, I see a Bard, perhaps half a decade my elder, watching me while his lips move imperceptibly. He is surrounded by four others, all gawking in my direction with different variations of the same wicked grin.
I glance back to the table and find only a mass of half-chewed food.
I blink. I can still feel the nauseating, disgusting sensation of the maggots on my tongue. The food looks normal again, but I’m terrified to take another bite.
“She sure is jumpy.” I pretend not to hear the remark.
“It’s the first sign she’s going to snap,” another chimes in. “I bet my stipend she doesn’t last the month.”
My hand goes to my needles, clutching tightly as others excitedly place their wagers on the limits of my sanity. Pretty soon, there’s a large sum riding on whether I will last three weeks or a whole month.
I stare at my food, appetite gone. They did this as a cruel joke. At least no one in Aster knew how to perform a Telling, I think as the Bards nearby have a laugh at my expense.
“What do you think, Ravod?”
He’s somehow entered the refectory without my notice; I was too busy trying to keep yesterday’s dinner down. Our eyes catch, and last night flashes back to me: his urgent warning. The way his eyes locked on mine. He was hostile, intense, almost terrifying. And yet I swear there was something else in his tone—an air of protectiveness. The same kind I often felt in Mads, but in a different form. There are layers of anger and hurt in him, and he guards them well. Watching him pass me, something in my chest flutters. Part of me hopes he pauses to speak with me. To apologize for last night or explain himself better. Maybe sit down to keep me company.
Without even breaking his stride, Ravod sails right past and places a few coins on his compatriots’ table. “One week,” he says.
My horror and nausea turn into painful humiliation. Even Ravod thinks I won’t last.
“What about you, Niall?” the others address the red-haired Bard who I remember from Aster.
Niall’s eyes flick to me and crinkle around the edges as he studies my face. They are the color of the grass on the training grounds—a brilliant green. His mouth is pressed in a thin line.
I hold his gaze, trying hard not to blink until he looks away.
“I don’t waste my time with foolishness,” he says before moving farther into the room.
The other Bards jeer playfully at Niall’s back before busying themselves with counting their wagers. The money has taken precedence over taunting me at least.
I exhale a ragged breath.
Perhaps this is what High House does to people,
strips away compassion and erodes kindness until there’s nothing left but duty. I push my plate away and get to my feet.
It would be easy to go mad in a place like this. A place where nothing is what it seems, where even your own senses can’t be trusted.
It is only as I stand—unable to risk another bite—that I catch another look at Niall as he’s taking his seat beside Ravod. He does not wear a dagger in his boot like the others.
My chest flashes hot.
It could mean nothing.
But he was there the day before my mother was killed. The day before I found a Bard’s dagger in her chest.
I have my first lead.
I just have to figure out how to follow it, without getting caught.
15
The training grounds are bathed in warm sunlight. They are busier than before, with High House coming to life in the new morning. Iridescent beads of dew cling to the grass, rippling like waves as a breeze sweeps over the mountain.
I stop near the edge, looking for any sign of my mysterious new trainer. I wonder what the chances are they won’t be as cold and hostile as the other Bards.
“You.” A cold, hostile voice barks from behind me. I nearly laugh; I don’t know why I bothered hoping otherwise.
I turn around, my breath catching when I recognize her pale eyes and dark skin: the woman who I saw so fleetingly in Aster. She stands a good two heads taller than me, with her gloved hands on her hips and a scowl on her face. Her dark hair is swept into an austere bun with tiny braids running up the side of it. I’m struck by how gorgeous she is.
“You’re Kennan?” I ask, my voice sounding smaller than I intended. “I was told to wait for you.”
Kennan fixes me with her haunting eyes and gives a tight nod. “That’s right, peasant. I’ll be evaluating you over the course of the week.” Her mouth twists like she’s tasted something sour. Raw hatred drips off her every word.
Ravod’s wager is beginning to make a lot more sense.
