I wondered if he took my wavering as a sign that I did not trust him.
But that brought up another thought that was far more disconcerting to me. When had I grown to trust Adrian Aleksandr Vasiliev?
I gripped his arm as we neared the edge, and I looked down over our kingdom, where hundreds of fires burned across the land. I had no idea there were so many. It looked so ominous, as if we were on the cusp of battle and the fires were a mark of how outnumbered we truly were.
“The night High Coven was murdered, the world looked just like this,” Adrian said.
I looked at him as he watched the flames consume the night. His eyes looked black, his face harsh. He seemed so cold, the complete opposite of how he had appeared in my room earlier. Whatever he was thinking about had changed him.
“Why do you do this?” I whispered.
“What?”
“Torture yourself with whatever you are reliving while watching this. Adrian…”
“You asked before what motivates me to conquer the world,” he said and looked at me. “It’s this. Two hundred years ago on this night, I lost everything.”
He gave me nothing else, but I understood it all the same. Whatever had happened the night of the Burning had led to his conquest of my home. Normally, I would ask for more, but even I did not wish for him to continue to experience this—whatever this was. I only knew it was horrifying based on what Lothian and Zann had shared.
“Adrian,” I said and tugged on his hand, guiding him away from the ledge. Inside, the stairwell was just as dark, and before we could descend, he stopped me and pinned me against the wall. For a moment, I wasn’t sure what he intended to do, but then he rested his forehead against mine.
“I miss you,” he whispered.
At least that was what I thought I heard, but those words did not make any sense. I was right here. I did not ask him to repeat himself, and we did not speak as we descended stair after stair.
As we entered the great hall, it was to a round of applause, and despite the sound of approval, I could not help feeling that it was not for my benefit. The crowd stared back, full of noblesse and their vassals, guards and palace staff. They were dressed in far finer attire than I’d ever seen them. The women were in satin, silk, and velvet, trimmed in lace and pearls, ribbons and rosettes. The men wore high collars and ruffles, gloves and gold, and they all looked back at me with a mix of approval, longing, and pure, unveiled hatred. I let all of them see me—met each one of their gazes: from Sorin, Lothian, and Zann, to Gesalac, Julian, and Lady Bella.
“Preening, my queen?” Adrian asked, and he looked down at me, a smile touching his lips.
“Are you chiding me?” I asked.
“No, by all means, continue.”
He pressed his lips to my temple and then led me to the high table and where Ana and Daroc stood, waiting for us to join before they were seated.
When I saw Ana, I took her hand. “How are you?” I asked, knowing it was a horrible question, knowing there was only one answer.
“Afraid,” she said and gave a shuddering breath. Her eyes flicked to Adrian and then back to me. I knew what she wanted—to beg for Isla’s life again in hopes that she could find a cure, and I knew what Adrian would say: She may yet live.
I hoped, for Ana’s sake, she did.
As we sat, I took in the amount of food on the table—dried meats and bread, fruit and cheese. I looked at Adrian questioningly, wondering why there was so much.
“It is for you and the vassals,” he said and reached for a carafe. “Wine?”
He poured some into my goblet, and I took it, enjoying the taste on my tongue—a little sweet, mostly bitter. I sipped again and set the cup aside, watching the crowd descend into the heady madness of music and dance and feeding. The doors to the great hall and the front of the castle were open, and I could see into the courtyard where a fire blazed and more people danced. This was a merry contrast to how I’d felt high upon the castle with Adrian, and I thought it strange that this could be both a day of mourning for so many and a day of celebration for the same.
The music reached a crescendo suddenly and dove into a haunting melody. A line of women dressed in black and veiled cut through the crowd. I sat up straighter, a little alarmed.
“What is happening?”
“It is a mourning dance,” Ana said. “There are thirteen women, one for each member of High Coven.”
The crowd parted, and the women branched off in a circle. Hand in hand, they pushed and pulled upon one another, bodies undulating. One of the women spun into the center of the circle. She danced wildly, beautifully, and when she spun out of the middle, another woman took her place.