Page 4 of In the Ravenous Dark
The ward who’d pricked her finger glared and spat on the ground. “What a loss,” he said. “If we can’t gain anything from him, we at least need his corpse to prove we found him. Bring him.”
Two more wards dragged her father’s body to one of the remaining horses and slung it over the saddle. Rovan tried to reach for him, but hands dragged her back. Her father’s head dangled, blue hair drifting, and he left a trail of blood behind on the cobbles that looked like strewn poppies.
1
Iawake outside, staring up at the bright midday sky, with no clear idea how I’ve gotten wherever I am. The fact that I’m wretchedly hungover is a clue to my curious lapse of memory, but my head hurts too much to puzzle over it. I can hear the bustle of people as the aromas of food and horse dung waft over me in a light breeze. The front side of me, at least, is warm from the sun, but my backside rests on something hard and tilted, as smooth as glass. I groan and roll over.
And nearly fall off a rooftop. I catch myself at the last second, gasping. I sling my leg back onto a marble lip, scraping my knee, before my weight can drag me off. The gentle slope of the slippery roof—which is indeed glass—is still threatening to help me over the edge, and the mosaic-whorled ground is a dizzying distance from my down-turned face, about the height of six people standing on top of one another.
“Shit,” I breathe. Then I throw up.
The vomit—as red as the wine I must have guzzled the night before—vividly splatters a pile of oranges stacked in a neat pyramid on a vendor’s cart down below. There are lots of carts ringing me, because this is the agora, I realize. At the center of the square is a huge gazebo.
I know precisely where I am, at least: I’m spread-eagled on the edge of the gazebo’s dome, a rippling blue and green glass replica of the veil that protects the entire polis from the blight. This replica“veil” only shelters a fountain of the first king of Thanopolis, Athanatos, though he symbolizes the city itself, of course. Ringing the fountain and supporting the dome are three statues of the goddess, sculpted in white marble: the maiden, the mother, the crone. The maiden holds a chicken and a knife, hinting at blood soon to be spilled; the mother cradles—what else?—a baby; and a dog sits at the crone’s heels, mascot of the dying en route to the underworld, since dogs are supposedly the guardians of thresholds. I more often see them eating trash.
I’m certainly not shaping up to be immortalized. My vomit has narrowly missed the outstretched chicken in the maiden’s arms and hit the oranges instead. Better to have infuriated a fruit vendor than the goddess, I suppose.
The fruit vendor is indisputably furious. He’s shouting at me. “Rovan, you drunk of a girl, what are you doing up there?”
Oh no. He knows me. Luck is not on my side today.
“Ugh, who’s shouting?” moans a voice, quite nearby.
I carefully lever myself up to look.Yes, right.Bethea is up here with me. Her lips and eyes are swollen, but she’s nonetheless lovely as she props herself up on her elbows, blond hair and warm skin glowing. A crown of brightly wilting flowers sits askew on her head, and the disorderly folds of her peplos reveal too many voluptuous curves for decency. And yet I bet the two of us have thoroughly dispensed with decency already.
Don’t get attached, I remind myself.You’re leaving soon enough.
Bethea smacks her lips. “Where are we? Oh, the agora. On top of the statuary. And it’s market day. Lucky for us.”
“Do you remember what we were doing yesterday?”
She ponders for a moment. “Oh!” she exclaims, making us both grimace at her volume. Rubbing her temple, she finishes, “There was the pageant.”
I vaguely recall people parading through the streets, wearinggossamer death shrouds and cheap clay masks molded to look like skulls, colorful ribbons streaming from their wrists and wreaths of flowers in their hair. That’s where Bethea’s wilting crown must have come from. It all had something to do with the king—the current king, Neleus—though I didn’t care enough to discover exactly what. Pageants are often held to honor the famous and wealthy deceased, as if to put in a final good word before their arrival in the afterlife. But King Neleus isn’t dead, as far as I know. He is apparently old and sickly, has a middle-aged son ready to take over, and also has nearly grown grandchildren, but I’ve never seen any of them. The business of the royal family, other than that of the king, is mostly kept secret outside of the palace, away from the prying eyes of the populace. I’m fine with knowing next to nothing about them.
What Idoknow is there was plenty of free-flowing wine.
“Yes, the pageant,” I say. “That explains it. Somewhat.”
The two of us must have stolen across the dark and empty square last night after the festivities, climbed up the gazebo on a whim—though the goddess knows how we managed without breaking our necks—and then… Vaguely tantalizing memories of the two of us entwined surface in my mind. I remember more ofthatthan how we got up here, especially the part where I was too drunk to achieve satisfaction.
“Lovely. Rather,you’relovely,” Bethea adds, her eyes growing heavier lidded. She pinches a loose lock of my wavy hair—burnt umber in the daylight. “I’m sorry I wasn’t successful at persuading you to surrender.” Wincing, she pokes at her mouth. “I think my lips are numb.”
“That’smyfault and shame,” I assure her. “I was utterly wine wrecked.”
“Shame?” She arches an eyebrow.
“No, I… not about anythingwedid.”
“Are you sure? Your mother hasn’t convinced you?”
My mother doesn’t approve of my wine drinkingorBethea, never mind that I’m nineteen years of age and can do whatever andwhomeverI please. At least her disapproval has nothing to do with the fact that Bethea’s and my potential pairing can never result in natural children. Both of us are fine with that, even if some people might tut in reproach. No one much cares what you do in the bedroom, and yet having children is deemed a sacred duty to the polis, especially if you’re a bloodmage or a royal. But I’m definitely not a royal, and by all appearances I’m not a bloodmage. My dalliances are, as I’ve made clear, not exclusive to anyone and temporary, besides. No, my mother’s issue is with Bethea’s social standing. She fits into the category of “the less fortunate” as the poor daughter of a husbandless medium who communes with spirits in a back alley.
I shake my head. “My mother doesn’t have a peg leg to perch on. Everyone knowsshe’sruined goods.” Ever since my father was hauled away when I was seven years old, and killed for being a fugitive, an unwarded bloodmage from an enemy island kingdom, suitors haven’t exactly been lining up at my mother’s door.
The memory still makes my stomach clench. Even now, I can smell the fear in the air, the blood. I try to shove it away.
At least, whatever my mother’s reputation, no one can resist her weaving—myweaving. My mother doesn’t have to lift a finger anymore, while my patterns are widely thought to be the most beautiful outside of the royal quarter. My scrolling vines and blossoms look as if they’ve grown from thread, my butterflies and birds ready to flap their wings. Since my mother takes credit for all my work, I view my drinking and dalliances as a fair trade.
