Page 49 of Heart of Night
The information settles in my stomach like a heavy boulder. “So she’s the one administering the drug to my meals?” It wouldn’t be a first. So much for trusting anyone.
“That’s my guess. She could be making it extra delicious, though.” The attempted joke doesn’t remotely stir a laugh out of me. Not even a smile.
“She doesn’t strike me as the type with the patience to cook.” Imagining Kaira behind a stove is enough to bring that grin forward after all. “Poor ingredients.” She’d chop them with the spirit of waging war on them.
“So, what about her?” Picking up the dress, Clio rises. Apparently, the time for sitting and musing is over.
I drain the glass of water I filled in the bathing chamber. “She came to Meer with us… Kind of.”
“Kind of?” Clio raises a thin, copper brow.
So, I tell her the story of how I met Kaira and how I don’t trust her not to lace my food with the drug Erina developed with Ephegos’s help.
While I’m talking, Clio helps me out of my nightgown and into the golden dress that seems to be made for a queen rather than a prisoner, and I can’t help but think back on the black, feathery gowns Myron provided for my attire at the Crow Palace. I hated them back then, but now that soft, smooth golden silk slides along my skin, the room illuminated with late summer light, I wish for the darkness of Myron’s realm. I yearn for the cold emptiness and the dire shadows. That darkness, I knew how to handle. It’s such an innate part of me that it now misses the grayscale of my time there. But the gold and airy light of the Tavrasian palace? It’s intimidating on a level that has me quivering at the mere thought of stepping back into Erina’s throne room. No shadows provide a reprieve from eager eyes in these halls. And I have too many things to hide.
Twenty-Four
Ayna
An hour later, I’m walking down the now familiar stairs to the main level where too many people are already collecting in front of the throne room. Herinor hasn’t left his place at my side since the moment I stepped out of my room. The small nod he exchanges with Clio every time he takes over on the threshold has become a routine as much as the dreaded walks past the Tavrasian courtiers. He ushers me through the corridor forming where the lords and ladies part to make way for the stranger who’s supposed to become their new queen. I try not to think about what’s awaiting me today. If I’ll be executed or if there are more evil plans prepared that Erina hasn’t deigned to share, I don’t even want to know. It’s enough to be paraded around court at every opportunity without regard for the state of my stomach or my constant fatigue as side effects of the drug.
Today is no different. Erina’s guards stand at attention as we pass them, and the courtiers steal eager glances at my dress, whispering behind my back as I cross the threshold into the throne room. My hand itches to check for the thick, golden bracelet Clio put on my right wrist to cover the chain tattoo where the long sleeve might slip and expose it.
No one told me what today’s occasion is. Another lunch or a banquet, or merely an opportunity to humiliate me.
Erina is sitting on his throne, sepia uniform and crown perfectly in place, and smiles at me with that false curve of his lips most people mistake for kindness. Beside him, Ephegos stands in the position of honor right of the throne, and from Erina’s other side, Katrijanov smirks at me like he’s been gifted a particularly entertaining present.
The whispers of the audience ebb into silence as I drop into a curtsey hurting my pride more than my tired legs. My back is weak, and my arms lack their usual strength, and the seams of the dress itch across my shoulder. I resist the urge to scratch, focusing on straightening with enough grace to hide my otherwise obvious weakness. If I had my magic, I’d flood this room and wash away the white flowers decorating the small tables scattered along the edge of the room, the golden plates and crystal goblets. I’d shove the water down Ephegos’s throat before pulling it back out and doing the same with Erina and Katrijanov for their hand in my fate. For their capturing Myron and Royad and the third Crow whose name I yet need to learn. Not to forget Astorian.
It’s only when I lift my head again that I realize Erina’s gaze has drifted to the table closest to the dais. A table with three chairs, one of them occupied. My breath catches, and my heart stutters.
He’s sitting on the chair closest to the wall, dressed in sepia finery, hair brushed and tied at the nape of his neck. His skin is even paler than I remember, except for the purple and black bruises on his jaw and cheek. But his eyes?—
Myron. I mouth his name, voice failing as I meet his gaze.
It’s impossible to make out their color across the thirty paces separating us, but they are clearly no longer all-black.
The itch in my shoulder has returned—no, not itch. It tingles right from the edge of my biceps to the base of my neck where the bird is inked onto my skin by Vala’s magic, if Clio is to be believed.
The corner of his mouth lifts in a pained half-smile before he smooths his expression into the mask of the Crow King, and all emotion is gone. If it wasn’t for the way his hands clench in front of him on the edge of the table, I could have been fooled into believing he’s here out of his own free will.
But it’s Ephegos’s magic holding him in his seat. I recognize the way the Crow flexes his fingers in an obvious use of power and the way Myron goes rigid as the force of it binds him more tightly. There is no way for him to get to me if Ephegos doesn’t allow it.
I’m about to yell at him to release my husband and get to his knees before his king, but the fucking traitor grins and lifts his other hand a heartbeat before my breath leaves my mouth, an onslaught of magic sealing my lips so I couldn’t get a word out even if I screamed at the top of my lungs.
Katrijanov places a hand on the pommel of his sword as he steps down from the dais, marching to stand behind Myron, his smirk intensifying as he glances from Myron’s neck to his sword, then to me. A clear warning that he could slit Myron’s throat with one quick move and there’s nothing I could do about it.
While I ponder the merits of dragging the small knife that goes everywhere with me from my skirts, Erina summons me with a gesture of his hand. “Sit with me, Wolayna.”
Instead of pointing to the chair a foot next to the throne, right behind where Katrijanov was standing a moment ago, Erina gets to his feet and stalks down from the dais like his general isn’t threatening the love of my life and his traitor friend isn’t binding the King of Crows to a chair like a common criminal. The tirades of hatred I have for all three of them are ready to erupt the moment Ephegos releases his magic on me, and I refuse to take as much as a step while they are threatening Myron—not that I can articulate my intentions.
“Move,” Herinor orders in a low growl. The menace in his voice isn’t directed at me, though. I’ve known him long enough to tell when his frustration is with me. His anger is with the King of Tavras and the traitor Crow he made a bargain with. And now, he’s unable to help his true king, even when Myron is right there within reach.
Guardians, I want to run to him so badly. Want to touch him, just to reassure myself I’m not hallucinating, that he’s real and alive, and that the sensation in my shoulder isn’t only in my imagination.
Bonded, Clio’s diagnosis comes back to me. We are bonded. Whatever that means, I hope we’ll get the time to find out. Right now, all I can do is try to keep air flowing in and out through my nose as I keep myself from doing anything rash that could mean Myron’s end.
I don’t even try to calm my racing heart as I take one unsteady step after the other with Herinor’s blade at my back, my gaze never drifting from Myron’s. With every pace forward, the tingling in my shoulder heightens, becoming a pulsing, an ache matching the one in my chest at the proof of violence on my Crow’s skin.