My heart leaps into my throat. I try to imagine what such a scene would look like; Corvan himself—intense, enigmatic, crimson-eyed—presiding over a hall of festivities with my brothers and Garan in attendance.
The thought fills me with excitement and dread.
Not once has he objected to our betrothal, even if he claims he was unaware of the arrangement.
“I assume that the option to decline isn’t actually an option?” I smile sweetly at Gerent.
“I would advise against it, my lady.”
“How long have you worked for His Highness, Gerent?”
“Close on ten years.”
“So you know him very well, then.”
“I wouldn’t presume to say I know him well. I’ve merely learned to anticipate his needs.”
“And would you consider him to be a fair man?”
Gerent’s expression hardens. “Lady Solisar, it isn’t at all my place to comment on matters between the nobility, but since you’re new here, and still unaccustomed to the ways of things, I will offer you an insight. Consider that all of us that live and work in Tyron Castle were given the choice of returning to Lukiria after the war. Tyron is the most inhospitable duchy in all of Rahava. The winters here are harsh, and we are far away from everything. Yet, most of us have chosen to stay.”
One of the young servants, a freckled, ginger-haired young man with sky-blue eyes, looks up as he carefully drapes a long, flat velvet bag on my bed. He clears his throat nervously. “My ma served under the previous lord. We barely saw her. They worked her to the bone. Didn’t even allow her to rest on Seinmas. And what did she get for it? A pittance. Barely enough to feed her five children. Now, I’m to be a father soon, my lady. With what Archduke Duthriss pays us, I’m able to afford comfortable lodgings and plenty of food and necessities for my wife and our babe-to-be. I don’t care what happened to him or what they say about him. Don’t care what he looks like. Those of us who know Tyron well would agree that life here is far better since he took over.”
A wistful smile drifts across my lips. These servants are more than willing to defend their master. And from all accounts, Corvan seems to treat them fairly. Is this what the lord of a castle is supposed to be like? I can’t imagine that any of the servants in Ruen Castle would go to such lengths to defend my father. “Thank you, Gerent, and… I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Daron, my lady.” The young man bows.
“Thank you, Daron. And congratulations. I wish you and your wife all the very best with your upcoming arrival.”
“Th-thank you.” A flush spreads across his cheeks.
My smile turns sincere. It’s the first time I’ve felt any real sense of goodwill since I arrived in this place. “As soon as you’ve finished arranging these packages, you may all go. I don’t expect you to wait on me hand and foot while I look at garments in boxes.” Is that what highborn ladies do? Have assistants fluffing around them all the time? I snort. I’m not that useless. “But Gerent, does His Highness expect Aderick to attend, too?”
“Only if he feels up to it. Archduke Duthriss is well aware that it hasn’t been long since his injury, but he also knows what lads his age are like, and bed-rest simply isn’t conducive to sanity in an otherwise healthy young man. The physician has cleared him to attend, but he’s entirely happy for you to provide guidance on the matter, as older sisters are entitled to do.”
“I thank him for his consideration. I’ll go pay him a visit when I’m done here. Gerent, I must confess that I’m not really accustomed to attending banquets in the presence of royalty. Would you be so kind as to offer me some guidance on how one might be expected to dress?” I tip my head elegantly, acting more genteel than I really am. Perhaps Lady Majurie’s incredibly boring deportment lessons have some value after all.
Gerent’s expression softens. A hint of amusement creeps into his steely grey eyes. “Of the items we’ve brought, I’m sure any combination would be acceptable. Wear whatever you like, Lady Solisar.”
23
CORVAN
I make my way down the damp, musty corridor, running my fingers along the rough stone wall. Beneath the surface of the earth, in the cold and the darkness, exists another world entirely.
I hear everything.
Rodents skitter. Water trickles down the walls. Insects crawl in the dust.
The faint hiss of the gas lamps.
The quiet banter of the guards.
I walk slowly; deliberately, forcing my footsteps to imitate a mortal’s.
I should remember how to do this. It’s been three years since I transformed. Not too long ago, I was an ordinary man; slow-footed and heavy.
I reach the guardroom, where warm light glows through an open door, illuminating the corridor on either side.
The smell of the dungeon is overpowering. It’s the smell of ancient blood and piss and shit. It’s dust and grime and damp and rot. Sweat and misery; fear and suffering.
It’s the smell of death, accumulated over the years.
How many wretched souls have passed through here on their way to the afterlife?
The castle is over a hundred years old, and these dungeons were dug beneath the foundations well before it was completed.
It was only half a century later, when my father came to power, that the castle was actually finished, but the dungeons have been in use ever since the day they were built.
Poor bastards.
I’m sure many of them were innocent.
I make a point of scuffing my boots as I step through the doorway. The guards are playing cards at a small table.
They immediately stand to attention.
“Your Highness.” Hedy is the more senior of the two; my Head Warden and manager of the keys. He’s stocky, and powerful, with crude tattoos inked on his forearms. On one arm is the shield and crossed swords insignia of the Imperial Military. On the other is a beautiful woman. He gets surly if asked about her. “The prisoner’s awake. Finally bloody shut up, too. You should’ve heard the racket he was making. You want us to bring him out?”
“No, I’ll go and see him in his cell. Give me the keys.”
The other guard, a soldier called Treave, unclips the keys from his belt. “This one.” he lifts the bunch by a single saw-toothed key and walks over to me, his wooden prosthesis tapping on the cold stone floor. His features are distinctly Vikurian. A formidable swordsman, he’s tall and slender, moving with uncanny grace in spite of his amputation. “You sure you don’t want one us to accompany you?”
The keys clink softly as I take them. “Thank you, Treave, but that is unnecessary. Do you really think Solisar could do anything to me?”
Hedy snorts. “Respectfully, no. We just thought we’d come along for moral support. Just don’t make him scream too much. I’ve got a bloody migraine from all his shouting. It’s echoey in here. Amplifies the sound a hundred-fold.”
“He’s the soft type. Won’t take long to crack,” Treave says quietly. “Especially when it’s you.”
“Let’s hope so.” For his sake. I turn and walk away, keys in hand, leaving the guards to their card game.
I reach the first cell. The thick wooden door has a small metal hatch for delivering meals to the prisoners. The stench of the cell seeps from underneath, making me slightly nauseous.