Page 111 of Thorn Season
I steeled myself against the feeling. I’d already risked losing my secret to him.
I wouldn’t risk my heart.
“You have one week to get me that translation,” I said, leaving. “Or you can all hang together.”
32
After that long-ago day at the Opal, I’d expected a new fog of terror to settle over Daradon as it had settled over me. There were whisperings, of course. Pieces of the tale that had stowed out of Henthorn with vendors and travelers to worm across the provinces. But soon, the stories changed. They said a sympathizer had attacked the courtiers—or attacked the city folk—or a helpless elderly woman—and our great ruler had fearlessly taken action. In some stories, Erik had run the man through with a sword. In others, he’d defeated him in hand-to-hand combat. But in every story, one thread remained the same: Erik had emerged a hero.
Then the autumn winds had blown across the kingdom as if in a unified sigh of relief. If anyone wondered why the locals had let the Opal fall into disrepair, they knew better than to ask. The world forgot; people moved on. And months later, when I was still jolting awake every night, washed in tears and sweat, I realized it was a torture of its own—having to hold on to what everyone else had let go of.
Again, the world was moving forward. And I didn’t know how to move with it.
Since my father’s death, a slow rage had started simmering in my blood, and it was feeding the force of my specter. The power constantlypulled at my bones now, swollen with my pent-up emotion, until the Lady Alissa who performed the motions of day-to-day activity felt like a wooden shell around me, directed by the puppet-strings of obligation. And my specter, for the first time in my life, felt like the true core of myself rather than an extension: writhing and agonized and volatile to the touch.
Each night, I had to let the power ripple around my bedchamber to ease the ever-growing ache. By day, I clenched it tight like a fist and gathered up a smile; it was the only way to get the nobles talking to me again. Apparently, my grief was more palatable when tempered with a positive outlook.
Maybe that was why I accepted Erik’s next invitation to dinner: because he was the only person who demanded my candor. “You mustn’t pretend with me,” he’d said, low and sweet. “The others, I understand. But not me. I shall never balk at your sorrow.”
So, I let my smile drop. I let myself be authentic with the first man I’d ever feared. And in the comfort of my misery, my restless power began to settle.
On his balcony, Erik poured my wine and fed me sugar-dusted cranberries. When the night cooled, he took my gloved hand and said, “I want to show you something.”
He led me through the palace and into a perfumed gallery, where each past ruler of Daradon stared down from their own wide arch. The two-tined crown was painted everywhere, spiking from foreheads like straight, silver horns, its sapphire embellishments rendered with exact detail over the generations.
I spotted King Hoyt, the creator of the Execution Decree, beside his blushing consort, whose murder at the hands of her former Wielder lover had roused Hoyt into spiting every Wielder in Daradon. With intolerance already rising at the time—along with more and morestories depicting specters as uncontrollable—many believed that King Hoyt’s tale illustrated the highest act of romance.
I’d always thought it was a horrifying indication of what powerful men could get away with in the name of love.
Erik’s portrait hung inside the largest silver frame. The rendering was handsome—strong-jawed and sultry, with the crown elongating his bone structure—but inaccurate. The artist hadn’t captured the cruel light in his ice-blue eyes.
“It doesn’t feel like you,” I said.
“No?” He smoothed his jacket, the silver embroidery kissed with lantern light. “I think it captures me rather nicely.”
“Your face, maybe, but not your essence.”
He gave a heavy-lidded smirk. “What do you know of my essence?”
“I know enough.”
Chuckling, he strolled toward his mother’s portrait. I’d met Queen Wilhelmina once during childhood, when she’d scrutinized me with beady eyes and pinched my cheeks until they’d hurt.You should use rouge, little petal. Brighten up that pretty face.
I shivered at the memory and glided beside Erik, whose expression had turned cold.
“Do you miss her?” I asked.
“Not particularly. She was...difficult.”
And she must not have valued her own consort, Erik’s father, as his image was nowhere to be found.
Erik sighed. “We’re not here to discuss my mother. I said I wanted to show you something, didn’t I?”
He reached toward her arch, his hand seeming to disappear behind the trim. Then he tugged and the arch creaked open, emitting a breath of fusty air.
Erik smiled at my expression. “The palace is rich with concealedrooms and passageways. How do you think the previous monarchs hid their affairs?”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Have you appointed me your mistress already?”
