Page 36 of In the Ravenous Dark
Kiss, I suddenly think. If there’s one way to whisper in someone’s ear that won’t draw attention, that’s probably it.
I don’t give myself time to reconsider, because then I’ll be too terrified to ever do it. I bring my mouth to Lydea’s jawline only somewhat discreetly, unable to resist planting a kiss there—purely for appearances’ sake, of course—before I reach her ear.
She smellssogood.
“Can I trust you?” I murmur as low as I can. My words could be sweet nothings for all anyone knows. Or I could be nibbling her ear. I try that out, just in case.
“Yes,” Lydea breathes. “Japha and me both. But leave Delphia out of anything risky, and beware of Kineas and my father.”
“Will you help me,” I say, barely audible, “find a way to escape them?”
“Depends,” Lydea says, “on—”
The sharp blare of a trumpet cuts her off. A burst of white doves takes flight from the clamshell dais, dissolving into a rain of red rose petals that fall as if from the white branches high overhead. Before I have time to do much more than bat a petal away from my nose, King Tyros is speaking over the crowd, his voice magically amplified.
“We have celebrated the passing of the crown from my glorious father to us, and now today, we celebrate our glorious future. I have some announcements to be made regarding my children and my sisters’ children.”
Lydea’s face has gone hard. I search for Japha in the crowd and catch their rueful gaze.
“First,” the king continues, “may my youngest daughter, Princess Delphia of the line of Athanatos, and my niece, Princess Crisea, daughter of Penelope of the line of Athanatos, come forward.”
I blink at the same time as Lydea, her icy facade cracking. Murmurs rise in the crowd. These aren’t the names anyone has been expecting. The two girls, one with a crown of dark hair, one wreathed in the snowy curls of her Skyllean mother, step onto the dais.
“Too long have we gone without respecting the goddess,” the king booms. “My sisters had three children together, even if they came from two mothers.”
But only one father, I think, before I realize with a jolt where this is headed.
“The third child should always serve that third and final aspect of the goddess: the crone. Let it not be said that I, myself, refuse to lead by example. So it is with great pride that I declare that my youngest daughter, Delphia, will accompany my niece, Crisea, to begin apprenticeships in the necropolis. They will bring honor to our family by devoting themselves to the goddess in this regard.”
The room falls absolutely silent. Lydea is crushing my hand in her own. Her eyes are fixed on the dais, her face paler than ever before. Yet it’s nothing,nothing, compared to Delphia’s expression. The girl is nearly as white as her hair, terror in her eyes. Crisea—perfect little warrior, Japha called her—looks ready to vomit.
And yet, neither of them protest. The king hasn’t left any room for argument. They stand silent, motionless, staring out over theheads of those assembled as if already separate and striving for lifelessness. I can’t help but pity the both of them, even Crisea.
“Your Majesty—brother…,” comes a choked voice from the crowd. Penelope takes several hesitant steps toward the dais, raising a pleading hand. “Please—”
The king’s voice cracks like a whip. “You shirked your duty to the necropolis as my third sibling, but I begged our father to allow you to care for your daughter and follow your own path as a warrior, against his better judgment. Perhapsthatis why the goddess didn’t see fit to grant you another child.” His lips twist in obvious disapproval. I figured the royal family had seen my sudden arrival as a blessing, but perhaps the king views me as more of a curse that could have been avoided. “Now that your daughter is grown, allow her to carry your burden with grace, dear sister, and to make amends with the goddess on your behalf.”
After such a public reprimand, Penelope can’t do much else, even if her daughter has just been as good as sentenced to a slow death. Penelope falls silent, head bowed, shoulders shuddering. Tumarq stands next to her, his face a carefully blank mask, but I can see tendons standing out on his arms, his fists clenched.
Tyros waves a hand, and two black-swathed figures sweep forward to escort Delphia and Crisea from the dais. I haven’t spotted shadow priests outside of the necropolis often, only at the most important public ceremonies. They aren’t supposed to be enjoying life, after all, instead embacing death. The sight of them makes me want to take a step back. Or maybe run.
It isn’t their death shrouds, the likes of which are often worn by lay people in honor of the dead, but their masks. Just as blood magic most powerfully controls fire, water, and living or once-living material—flesh, bone, fiber, and wood alike—death magic holds dominion over air, earth, and metal—the inert, the never living, the void. Death magic, I’m learning, is responsible not onlyfor the shades wandering about, but for most of the stone- and metalwork in the palace. The black-shrouded figures before me wear masks made of elaborate strips of dark iron winding around their necks and faces, leaving gaps only to breathe and see by. The ends of the strips rise in spikes around their heads, forming jagged, disturbing fans. They’re utterly terrifying.
King Tyros doesn’t even look at his own daughter as she’s taken away by them. He’s colder, crueler than I guessed him to be—even crueler thanLydeaguessed him to be, based on her stunned expression.
“I don’t understand,” she murmurs. “He loves her more than any of us.”
“Onto other matters,” the king says, smiling and clasping his hands before him as if this were a celebration and not something more like a funeral rite. “Japha nu Tumarq, my first sister’s child and inheritor of her powerful bloodline, we must announce your betrothal.”
My stomach plummets.
Japha strides forward through the crowd, not hesitant in the least, their flower-wreathed head held high.There are some things we must suffer with grace. Or at least with excellent clothes…Japha is living up to their own words with the highest standards.
“Japha,” the king continues, “I am pleased to present your future wife, Helena of Radeus.” He spreads his arms, and a young woman with a curtain of wheat-colored hair and a gold-embroidered cream peplos steps forward to meet Japha. She’s lovely and… shockingly sweet-looking, for a royal.
Now Japha’s jaw nearly drops.
Helena, I think.Helena was meant for Kineas.
