Page 3 of Skyshade
Starting with the burial ceremony, the next morning. Grim had given her his room—their room—and she woke at dawn. Lynx had nearly torn apart Grim’s stables in the moments they had been parted, and now he watched her from the corner of the room—his green eyes simmering with worry—as she braided her hair into a crown, in the Nightshade style.
She chose her dress carefully. Here, surrounded by enemies, her image would matter.
That was why, when she was ready, she reached for her golden rose necklace with shaking fingers. It was the only thing she had left of Oro, other than her memories. Tears slipping down her face, she unclipped it and slid it into her pocket.
In the mirror, she hardly recognized herself. The Wildling green and red were almost gone—replaced by a black dress with the faintestof roses beaded into the bodice. She looked like a Nightshade’s devoted wife.
It was a lie, she thought, as she portaled into Grim’s store of weaponry. That was where she found their stock of the healing elixir, the one that the Wildlings had been making for battle. Much of it had already been used, but she took the majority of what was left, drew her puddle of stars, and sent them through to Lightlark’s infirmary.
It was a risk, but hundreds of injured warriors would die without the healing properties. It was the least she could do to help, after bringing them into battle. Nightshade had endless fields of nightbane, the flower the elixir was made from. They wouldn’t miss it.
She closed the portal and was back in her room just before Grim knocked.
“You don’t have to go,” he said, studying her swollen eyes. He lifted a hand as if to wipe a tear from her jaw; but then, seeing the expression on her face, seemed to think better of it.
Her voice was cold. “I know. I’m going anyway.”
On Nightshade, bodies were buried. Warriors were put to rest on a sacred stretch of land overlooking the coast, beneath mounds of ash.
The air smelled of flesh and salt. It blew her hair back, revealing the black pins she’d added. They were tipped in black diamonds to complement her cape. The necklace Grim had given her, with the large glimmering black diamond, was now purposefully visible against her throat.
Some gasped at it. She heard whispers about the stone around her neck. It was a symbol of their marriage. Perhaps they hadn’t believed their union was real until they saw the necklace.
It didn’t seem to make a difference to the Nightshade families who eyed her with hatred as she walked through the rows of the graveyard, toward the newest mounds. She couldn’t blame them.
“Traitor. You don’t belong here,” she heard someone mutter. They were right. She belonged on Lightlark, mourning the deaths of thepeople who fought alongside her. Now, she pretended to honor the same warriors that had cut them down. She felt disgust, and hatred, and anger alongside families that cried out in grief.
Also, guilt.
Flashes of ash and bone had filled her dreams. Lynx had woken her that morning with a nudge of his head. The sheets had been on the floor. There were scratches down her arms, as if she had clawed herself. Her ribs still hurt from her racking sobs.
Now she buried those emotions. This was not the time to feel anything. Not when that same ruinous power prickled just beneath her skin, waiting to be unleashed.
As Grim spoke in remembrance of the dead, she clung to every word, searching for indication of a veiled plan or threat against Lightlark. All he offered were condolences. A line of warriors stood behind them, their heads bowed, and swords dug firmly into the dirt. When Grim’s speech was over he waved his hand, and some of the ash that coated the graves rose toward the sky.
“My court will meet in the throne room tonight to discuss our plans,” Grim told her, after meeting with every family.
She kept a vise around her emotions, lest he wonder why he’d piqued her interest. “Is there a place for me?” She studied his face, scanning for any irritation at her request.
She found none. “There is always a place for you,” he said. “I made your throne myself.”
He had: She remembered it now. Grim had crafted it with his own shadows.
Hours later, she walked toward that throne like a ghost. Memories blurred, past and present bleeding together until they were one.
She remembered the outrage when Grim had announced her as his wife to his court—as his equal—right before they left for the Centennial. Grim had made it clear that anyone who didn’t respect her didn’thave a home on Nightshade, and so the dissent was not erased, not pulled out by the root and banished, but permitted to grow like a weed in secret.
This room...these thrones...She recognized these faces that stared her down, the space filled to the brim with high-ranking soldiers and nobles.
They bowed for her because Grim would have gutted them if they didn’t. Only he remained standing. He watched her walk toward him with an admiration typically reserved for the gods. But there were no gods here.
“Your ruler has returned.”
No one dared protest.
A woman watched from the corner of the room, one palm resting at the intersection of the curved swords that formed an “X” on her chest. Isla felt a vestige of recognition from her past. It was Grim’s general, Astria. Her long black hair was tied back into a single braid. Her high, pale cheekbones made her face seem even more severe.
Her dark eyes slid back to Isla’s, after sweeping across the room for any threats against Grim; and they narrowed, as if spotting the greatest threat of all. From the first moment they had been acquainted, Isla had known that Grim’s general didn’t dislike her...she just didn’t trust her.
