Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
“I have no family!” I shout up at the oculus.
I wait for a response. I wait to beg some more, yell some more. I wait … because this was the whole point of it all, and the part of me that hasn’t given up yet will not give up now.
But she walks off, the shadow behind the mesh no more.
And with her departure goes any hope of accomplishing what I came for.
Eighty-Four
A New Lodging.
This is no dungeon.
Though I am tired, aching, and still covered with cobwebs, though all I can think about is seeing Merc with my own eyes, though I am stinging with how I’ve let the whole continent of Anathos down, I cannot avoid noticing the grandeur and the luxury I’m being directed through. The ceiling that arches over me is leafed in gold, the carpet under my feet is royal blue, and the walls of this hall are covered in a flowered silk that is as lovely as any meadow I have stood in.
In fact, I recall these flowers. From the fields after the Kingdom’s gate—
“This way, missus.”
Once again, I’m guided by the guard who’s so kind. Our paths keep crossing somehow, and now he’s in front of me, narrating the turns; no more pointing over my shoulder. I suppose I could look at the fact that we keep meeting as some kind of fate. I don’t. I think it’s an indication that the warrior queen doesn’t have much of an army at her disposal anymore—and the further I mull that over, the greater my sense of futility becomes.
Stuck in my head, I float along this fancy corridor, and not in a good way—and the muffled sounds of music and laughter in the distance don’t help with the disorientation. I gather that word has spread throughout the Kingdom about the sacred ruby’s return, and I want to tell them to stop. The future is not bright, the reprieve of strife is only temporary, and it’s all going to get so much worse for everybody.
As I pass by another window that looks out onto a courtyard, there are torches dotting and dashing in the darkness as those holding them spin and gyrate in glee, like fireflies in the summer. I worry this will call the demons to the castle, and see blood spilled all along the colonnade of white marble—
I almost walk into a floor vase full of flowers. As I jump back, I blurt, “How lovely.”
Because … well, they are.
My guard glances back. “The Queen plants them. In memory of her mother.”
“I am sorry for her loss.” Continuing on, I think of the torture racks. “And … what of her father?”
“That I do not know, missus. But those fields of flowers are tended even when our crops fail.”
“How…” Sad. On so many levels. “She must have loved her mother very much.”
A familiar longing pierces my heart—
“Here, missus.” The guard stops in front of a door. “Your husband awaits. Food has been delivered. You will see a bellpull should either of you require aught.”
“Thank you.”
My gratitude for him is real, yet I’m already forgetting his existence as I reach for the golden knob myself and open the door—
“Merc!”
Though I am a mess and covered with webs and limping, I launch myself across the golden room, over to the grand, golden bed on which Merc lies.
“Sorrel—”
He tries to sit up and collapses back against the satin pillows with a groan, but he is alive and I am alive, and really does anything else matter—
Does he pull me forward? Do I bend down? All I know is that our lips meet and his are warm against my own, warm and vital. Just as he is.
When we part for breath, he frowns, his black and white eyes traveling around my face and hair. “What happened to you, why are you covered in—”
He stops and tries to sit up again. After he’s finished cursing from the pain, he barks, “You did not go back there to the ruins. Dearest fates, are you mad, woman?”
With a tired smile, I trace his face with my fingertips. “All that matters is that we are here, together.”
“Why. What did you do there—”
“It matters not.”
As he does some more cursing, I’m relieved he has the strength to glower and get worked up. He’s dressed in black silk, the high-collared shirt up to the base of his throat, his legs covered in loose pants of the same flowing fabric. His hair is damp and smells of cedar and spice, and his braids are gone. All in all, he looks better than he ever has, and also worse: He’s clearly as worn out as I feel.
“Are you well enough to travel?” I ask grimly as I back off and remove the webby cloak.
“I don’t mind being comfortable at the moment.”