Cadogan avoids my eyes. I swear, he is almost blushing. Jac, on the other hand, shows no such modesty. A slow smile spreads across his face as his gaze sweeps me head to toe, lingering in places that make my stomach flutter.
“You look good enough to eat, Ace.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s not saying much. I’ve sat beside you at dinner. Is there anything you won’t eat?”
“We should get going,” Cadogan interrupts. “It’s a long walk to the throne room. Are you ready?”
“She’s ready,” Teagan says, giving me a tiny shove toward my escorts.
“She’sperfect,” Keda proclaims.
I allow the women to usher me toward the door. But when wereach the threshold, I pause and tug them both into brief hugs, whispering words of thanks into their ears.
“Och! Off with you now!” Teagan scolds, pushing me away. “I’ll not be blamed for your tardiness.” Despite her harsh words, I notice she’s blinking a bit too rapidly, as though holding tears at bay.
Keda merely winks merrily at me and whispers, “Have some fun, Lady Rhya.”
“You, too,” I order, squeezing her hands tightly. I glance at Teagan. “Both of you. You deserve to enjoy the festivities, after all you did to prepare the palace for them. Go dance in the streets. Eat something delicious. Drink a bit too much spiced wine. Seduce a handsome stranger. I expect to hear all about it tomorrow!”
They wave me off, into the care of Jac and Cadogan—one set of nursemaids swapped for another. Cadogan is mostly silent as we descend from the tower, an endless downward spiral, but Jac keeps up a steady stream of mindless chatter about the jousting tourney he’d competed in at the festival grounds erected just outside the city limits. Today, he’d been unseated by a burly fellow named Smithy; tomorrow, he will have his revenge in the hand-to-hand combat arena, gods willing.
I only half listen to him, using most of my focus to keep from tripping on my long train. The gold gown has far more fabric than the simple day dresses I’ve grown accustomed to wearing.
We reach ground level, then pass through the grand ballroom and banquet hall. The palace is bursting with folks from near and far, all clad in their finest attire. I knew, of course, that Dyved was rich in gemstones—Vanora’s inner circle flashes them at every opportunity—but tonight, the display of wealth is staggering. Rubies, diamonds, sapphires, emeralds. Men and womenalike drip with them as they make their way toward the throne room at the back of the keep. My gown, glorious as it is, looks understated in comparison to the sea of silk-draped courtiers swanning around us.
We join the crush, three minnows carried on the current of opulence. It would be easy to be swallowed up in such a crowd. But Jac and Cadogan keep a firm buffer of space around me as we walk, prohibiting anyone from getting within three paces. There is no blocking the curious stares or pointed comments as people spot me in their midst, however.
“That’s her.”
“The new wind weaver.”
“Did you get a look at her eyes? Silver storm clouds!”
“I hear she and the prince are—”
I do my best to shut them out, to keep my gait steady and my chin high as we make for the impressive arched doors that grant entrance to the throne room. In all my wanderings of the palace grounds, I have never been here before. It is not often in use, except for formal matters of state or great celebrations. Located in the oldest part of the keep, it is more a cavern than an actual room, embedded deep in the bedrock behind the falls. Not so unlike the glyphed chamber where I have spent so many mornings at practice—except completely enclosed from the mist and utterly massive in scale.
The throne room is so large, in fact, I have difficulty making out the ceiling overhead. The jagged walls are the gloomy shade of petrified ash, full of crevices where the lava flows dried and hardened a millennium ago. With no windows to speak of, it would be pitch-dark inside if not for the trenches of fire that run along the perimeter, burning steadily. Stone columns, wide as the tree trunks at the heart of the Forsaken Forest, shoot upwardtoward the ceiling. At their bases, more fires burn in sharp-toothed metallic cages, the flames licking hungrily at the stone.
I would have liked to pause at the threshold to properly take in the grandeur of it all, but we are caught up in the crush, already moving down a set of stone steps. At the bottom, the crowd parts in two—diverting to either side of a central aisle that cuts directly between the stately columns. The room is already nearly at capacity; folks stand shoulder to shoulder all the way to the raised dais at the far side. Despite the vast numbers, it is mostly silent, only a low murmur of voices as spectators find places to stand, jostling for better viewing positions. I make to follow them, but instead, Jac and Cadogan steer me toward the aisle.
“Where—”
Jac cuts me off before I can get more than a single word out. “You get a prime seat at the front, Ace.”
I say no more as they lead me onward, aware that there are as many listening ears as watchful eyes trained in my direction. Cadogan and Jac flank me on either side, matching their strides to mine, their faces set in uncompromising masks, the broadswords strapped across their backs shining almost as brightly as the jewels adorning the crowd that surrounds us.
The atmosphere is rife with anticipation. The very air feels still, sacred, as though everyone is holding their breath. A full hush sweeps over the room in a wave as I make my way, one step at a time, down the aisle, deeper into the earth. I keep my expression clear, a mask of serenity concealing the chords of anxiety chiming in my bloodstream. It is more than being the center of so much attention; claustrophobia is rearing its ugly head, my natural aversion to being so far underground gripping me with sharp talons.
The stone walls are closing in, the heavy stone ceiling pressingdown on my shoulders, flattening me toward the floor. Each step is an endeavor, each breath an enterprise. I taste soil in the air, inhaling the distinct flavor of confinement with every pump of my lungs. Visions of being buried alive, of opportunistic cyntroedi creeping and clacking and chewing at my bones, plague me.
I walk on.
The journey to the throne platform seems endless. The chill of the floor seeps into the thin soles of my gold slippers. I focus on the cold, envision it not as crushing stone, as confining earth, but as the crisp breeze of a winter evening, the icy kiss of the season’s first snow. I am not here, not entombed. I am in the air. In the sky. A bird in flight, the golden wings on my back stretching wide as I soar.
These imaginings help a bit. But self-delusion only goes so far. By the time I reach the aisle’s midpoint, my breaths are shallow, my skin clammy. I am teetering on the edge of a bottomless pit of panic, half-ready to turn and bolt from the room.
But then I feel it.