White Horse Black Nights (The Godkissed Bride, #1)(79)
The air in my lungs is all sharp edges. My pulse raps hard in my veins. I didn’t know that asking to get out of the business of murder, extortion, and arson had borne such a weight on Rian. He’s wounded. Stung. Ever since I changed my surname to Bowborn and took up a quiver, he’s been more distant, but I chalked it up to the fact that I was gone hunting for weeks at a time, whereas once we’d been together daily. But now it’s clear—he distanced himself on purpose the last few years. I left that rough life, but he never can.
Taking a deep breath, I say, “My lord, I truly believe that Lady Sabine—”
He claps another hand on my shoulder. It isn’t angry this time, but it is conclusive. His voice holds a trace of regret as he orders, “Go shoot grouse, Wolf.”
Chapter 27
Sabine
I’ve never stepped foot in any structure as grand as Sorsha Hall. It dwarfs my father’s manor house like a kitten before a lion. Even the chapel at the Convent of Immortal Iyre, with its altar of prized treasures—a golden chalice, a crystal decanter—is laughably plain compared to the riches in the castle’s entryway alone.
My head spins at the dizzying opulence that drips off every surface. The stained glass windows bathe the decor in muted rainbow colors: the crystal chandeliers, the ornate candelabras, benches upholstered in velvet, the high arched ceilings. The delicate, spicy smoke of aloeswood side-winds out of ormolu incense holders placed at every window’s base. I’m overwhelmed by the assault of so much grandeur. The colored light stings my scratchy eyes. The smells of incense and roasting meat and musty drapes are too rich, too cloying. Maybe I’d feel differently if I was at my prime; but I’ve come off a hellacious twenty-one-day ride. My thighs are chaffed raw. My bones ache from sleeping on tree roots every night. I’ve been kidnapped, nearly raped.
I couldn’t care less about a gods damned tapestry, even if it was woven by Tarrian priests.
“You’ll note that the architectural molding here varies from what we saw downstairs,” Serenith tells me, pointing a graceful finger toward chiseled stone accents along the window frames. “These are fae axe patterns, in honor of Immortal Vale. Though the Valvere family worships Popelin, they still wanted an ode to the King of Fae.”
I limp after her, wincing with every step on my heel’s puncture wound. We’ve traversed so many staircases and hallways that I feel trapped in one of Immortal Meric’s endless mazes. I’m shivering beneath the cloak, though the castle feels warm. It’s all I can do to keep putting one foot in front of the next.
“Lord Rian thought you’d enjoy staying in the east tower bedroom. It gets excellent morning light, with a view of the Darmarnach Mountains. The room formerly belonged to Lady Madelyna, Rian’s late mother. It has remained empty since then, used only for occasional guests. Unfortunately, that does mean you will be removed from the rest of the family’s residences. Lord Rian resides in the keep on the third floor, and Lord Berolt and Lady Eleonora have suites in the north tower.”
This is the one good piece of news I’ve heard all day—that I’ll be far from my husband and that viperish grandmother of his.
When we reach the east tower stairs, my vision blurs into fizzing dots, and I have to steady myself against the stone wall. Serenith looks back at me in concern, though I don’t lie to myself for a minute that she cares about me. Only as much as Rian will hold her responsible for my well-being.
“My lady? Do you require assistance?” She holds up a hand to the two Golden Sentinels behind me, ready to give them a signal.
My shoulder slumps against the wall as, slowly, my vision clears. I don’t want those soldiers’ hands anywhere near me. Breathing hard, I grit my teeth and mutter, “I can make it.”
Slowly, painstakingly, I climb the spiral stairs to my bedroom. When Serenith opens the door, I temporarily forget my exhaustion. I stop at the threshold, afraid to step inside, like crossing a portal into the dreamworld.
Serenith called it a bedroom, but I call it a palace. There’s a canopied bed draped in velvet, piled high with quilts and fur coverlets. A marble wash basin and matching marble bathtub are already filled with steaming, fragrant water steeped in flower petals. A monstrously huge walnut wardrobe hulks opposite the bed, carved with allegorical forest scenes from Immortal Solene’s life. And the ceiling! It’s painted. A work of art on a ceiling? I’ve never heard of such a thing. It’s a portrait of the full fae court, all ten Immortals, seated on a fae hill surrounded by playful cloudfoxes and twisting, enchanted vines.
My head is tipped back so far to marvel at the artistic feat that I lose track of how spent my body is, until a wave of dizziness hits me. I stumble.
One of the guards moves forward, but I catch myself on a bedpost and wave him away.
As I’m regaining my breath, a line of servants appears at the door, laden with more decorations and furnishings. Serenith immediately begins directing them.
“Yes, you two. Remove that painting of Immortal Iyre. And you. Place that perch next to the window on the left. And you—set the cages there.”
I watch in dazed confusion as the servants remove an impressive portrait of Iyre, her skin fair as snow and marked with soft fey lines, and replace it with one of two playful cloudfoxes chasing each other. The rest of the decorations are even more confounding. Empty wicker baskets lined with blankets, wooden perches, cages made of woven rattan.