Page 37 of In the Ravenous Dark
But Lydea appears unsurprised. She doesn’t clap when the ballroom explodes with applause. “And now we cheer and forgetthat my father just condemned my sister and cousin to a tomb until they die from lack of light and living.”
I’m not clapping or cheering, despite Japha’s turn of good fortune. And yet I don’t know what I can say about Delphia that will sound sincere enough. “I thought two bloodlines shouldn’t marry. Isn’t Helena due to inherit her own in a couple years?”
“No.” Lydea’s voice is flat. “You wouldn’t have heard; it was an embarrassment kept quiet. Helena doesn’t have a drop of power in her blood. She was never even warded. Her parents finally had to admit it. They’re trying for another child, or so they say. My guess is they never wanted Helena or any child of theirs to carry the burden of a bloodline… let alone to face the necropolis.” She flinches, cursing under her breath. “Delphia. And I thoughtIwould bear the heavier burden.”
I retake her hand and squeeze gently. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
Something flashes in Lydea’s eyes, and I can’t tell if it’s gratitude or pain. She opens her mouth to say something, but the king’s voice rises instead.
“Princess Lydea of the line of Athanatos, my elder daughter.”
Lydea drops my hand as if it burns her, her face glassing over like a frozen lake. She comes forward on silk-smooth steps, without hesitation. Meeting her fate like a queen instead of a princess.
The king’s smile looks staged as he peers down on her from the dais. “You, my daughter, are hereby betrothed to Alldan Cannar, prince of Skyllea, third in line for their throne.”
I nearly gasp in shock as a man steps up from behind the dais. His forest green hair is crowned in golden stag horns and wreathed in vines and white flowers—more than a match for any of the headpieces here, and that’s saying something. His tunic, so deep green it’s almost black, is embroidered head to foot in thorny goldbranches and cut in an unfamiliar style, though perhaps my father might recognize it. His dark coppery skin gleams with a metallic sheen, and his eyes are a brilliant violet. I can’t help staring.
A Skyllean prince?From what my father has said, Skyllea and Thanopolis are enemies, especially after what the royals here did to Cylla—forcing her into marriage, childbirth, wardship, and an early death alike. Never mind that the entire polis thinks that Skyllea and its unwarded, wild-hued bloodmages are mad.
The Skyllean prince, Alldan, doesn’t have a bloodline, and neither does he seem to be in Thanopolis against his will. He’s flanked by a small, official delegation of other bright-haired individuals—the most subtle hair color among them a purple black—and he wears a polite, welcoming smile. It seems like this, his engagement, is precisely why he’s come. Perhaps the two peoples are trying to mend their rift and fight the blight together, despite what happened to Cylla and my father.
What will the Skylleans think, then, when they see my father? That’s probably why he wasn’t allowed to come to the ball, I realize. Who knows what version of events the royal family has told the Skyllean delegation? And now, if everyone is striving for peace, maybe our chances of crossing the blight to Skyllea and being welcomed there have just grown a lot slimmer.
King Tyros stares down at the newly betrothed couple as if they’re rats in a bucket. And despite how beautiful they look together with their silver and gold attire, raven’s wings and stag horns, it doesn’t seem the rift between Thanopolis and Skyllea will be closing anytime soon, if Lydea has any say. She gazes at Alldan with cool disinterest, her black-winged head refusing to bow even as he takes up her sigil-lined hands and kisses them. He doesn’t seem terribly eager to touch her himself, despite the smile painted on his face. His vivid violet eyes seem to shine as if from behind a mask.
Ah, the joy of arranged marriages, I think. My heart aches a surprising amount for Lydea, but for the hundredth time, I thank the goddess—maiden, mother,andcrone—that this evening’s entertainments have nothing to do with me. Even if my hope of escape has dimmed.
“And finally,” the king says, facing the crowd. “It is my greatest pleasure to announce the betrothal of my son, Crown Prince Kineas of the line of Athanatos”—he holds his arm out to the loathsome squid at his side—“to the daughter of Silvean Ballacra of Skyllea… Rovan Ballacra.”
Oh, I think, as the seconds trip by like several missed stairs.Shit.
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I hardly notice the king’s nod to the Skyllean delegation after his announcement. I barely hear him say, “Our apologies Silvean couldn’t be here tonight, but he sends his regards.” I don’t see Kineas’s reaction. All my thoughts, my entire world, stutter to a halt. The pronouncement isn’t horrible so much as it’s unreal. I simply can’t believe it.
I don’t meet Kineas’s or the king’s eyes, or those of anyone around me on the crowded lower tier of the ballroom. I stare at the floor in front of my feet, at the red rose petals like spilled blood against the blue-veined pale marble.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m turning, stumbling away from the dais, but hands catch my arms before I make it five steps. I don’t even know whose. They tug me, laughingly, as if I’m merely a shy, blushing bride, right up to the foot of the dais. The strings of rubies trailing from my dress glitter and tinkle, the red flashes too bright, the delicate sounds oddly loud.
I taste copper. I’ve bitten my tongue. Maybe I can dip my finger into my mouth, wet it with blood, and hurl everyone—the king, Kineas, whomever stands in my way—out through the towering, twining windows, before this becomes real.
“Rovan,” the dead man says over my shoulder, as I’m pulled to the front of the dais.
I’ve entirely forgotten him. I want to keep forgetting him, but the warning in his tone gives me pause, despite myself.
King Tyros smiles down at me, his eyes bright in a way thatmakes me want to recoil. “Honor your mother, now,” he murmurs softly. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint her.”
Another threat against my mother. Ensuring I’ll cooperate. Just like the dead man, using the invisible leash he has around my neck to keep me at heel. I haven’t fully experienced his power over me yet, but I know he can drop me if I try to run. Hurt me.
I can understand, now, how my father felt at the banquet. Not to mention how he felt when he was hauled off to the palace and betrothed against his will all those years ago. Alone and powerless, just as I am now. My heart breaks for him as it never has before.
I should never have blamed him. None of this is his fault. He’s doing his best, trying to stand against forces that want to smash him into the ground. He’s still putting one foot in front of the other. So what if his head bows occasionally?
I shudder to think whatthiswill do to him. Even more than the Skyllean presence, this must be why he’s been kept from the ball. I’m glad for it.
I stare back at the king, unable to do much else. If I once thought of his face as hard as settled marble, now I can see through the cracks to what lies beneath, and it’s terrifying. He’senjoyingthis.
Japha was surprised at their uncle’s change in behavior since he was crowned. Was that other face a mask, waiting to be torn free as soon as he was king and could act how he pleased?
