CHAPTER 26: TWENTY SIX

All hell breaks loose.

Kneeling in the center of the room, watching beings centuries older than I am bicker like children and yell at each other in accusation might have been entertaining, if the subject of the matter wasn’t me.

I peer from face to face, thinking one of them is my mother. One of them made me and left me behind. How do I feel about that?

There are only six women of the sixteen royal houses.

Elara of House Vaelthorn. Raven hair. Onyx black irises that encompasses her entire eyes. Her skin is white as chalk with her lips as black as tar. Though seated, she looks as nearly as tall as the King and as she narrows those black eyes at me, there’s only a world of cold and death in her gaze.

Nope. Not my mother.

Serenya of House Blackspire. Flaming red hair. Eyes that burn the colour of flames and ash. Serene features and a graceful semblance to her that reminds me of a duck. She doesn’t speak, seemingly lost in her own world. Maybe a little stoned, if her dilated pupils say anything.

Lyssandra of House Stormrend. Hair of black and silver. Gaze mismatched like her hair in a manner that’s both unsettling and striking. There’s a bird perched on her shoulder, one she strokes absentmindedly as her tongue lashes in rebuke.

Thessaly of House Caelthorne. She’s... floating. I mean... she’s seated, legs crossed. On a floating pillow.

Veyra of House Solmire. She is the oldest of the sixteen. Or she appears so. Young and yet ancient. Ageless in a way that makes the skin want to crawl off my bones. Eyes completely white and empty. She blinks, staring right at me like she sees something the others cannot. She reminds me much of the priestesses back at Silvermoor. Those who had the gift of seeing and communing with the gods.

Lastly, Margot of House Draemont. Originally hailed from House Nythorn, she was the second wife of the Late King, Vaelor Draemont. And so happens to be King Lucien’s... distant... stepmother?

It is Margot who has me in a fix. Her open stare borders on murderous hate. She has a wicked beauty about her. A hint of colour graces her cheeks, large eyes of amber ringed with black is framed by thick golden locks, a tiny curl artfully arranged on her brow. Her skin is poreless, pale and smooth as the finest alabaster, but her lips are a full, obscene red. It is impossible to look away from her, but dread fills my belly, even as I stare.

It’s like looking into mirror at a much older version of myself with a dispassion and cruelty that only the understanding of ’forever’ can bring.

"Oh, for goodness sake," Thessaly snaps, bring the room to heel. "The boy is so obviously Margot’s."

I glance once more to the woman in question. She rises out of her chair, fingers lifting the skirts of her billowing gown. She is dressed in crimson, her corset snatching her waist to an abysmal width. "How many winters has it been since you were born?"

Thrown off by the question, it takes a few seconds to respond. "This is the nineteenth."

She turns and walks from me. "That is no bairn of mine. I haven’t been outside the wall in two hundred years. Not after I was captured and tortured within an inch of my life by those wretches, and you all know that."

"Perhaps, one of your children has done this."

Settling back in her seat, Margot turns a lethal stare to the speaker. A man named Malrik. "Zara was the only child of mine to march to war, and she is dead. Say another foolish word, Mal, and I’ll rip your tongue from your skull." To the king, she snarls, "And how are we so sure he is of royal blood?"

King Lucien shrugs. "He has begun dreamwalking."

Margot leans forward sharply in her seat as every accusatory glance sharpens onto her. "That is impossible!"

The King continues anyway, bored and yawning. "Only House Nythorn bears that ability and like all of the other Houses, the gifts have not been passed from parent to child in so many years, we’ve considered our link to the gods broken. However, this one," he nods to me. "Is the strongest I’ve encountered since you, Margot. He was, after all, able to break through my shield for a rather quick chat."

Every eye snaps to me, and something new shines in them. Even the sleeping woman seems to finally take notice of me.

"What do you think, Veyra?" The King asks.

The woman whose eyes have never left me merely blinks. "Two races. Three bloodlines. The lion. The Lycan. The snake. Interesting, that. Death. Great loss."

I stare around, a little lost. "What... does that mean?"

"You do not speak before your elders, wretch," another male snarls, fangs bared.

"My elders? I hold no respect for the lot of you, neither do I care for who and what you are," I snap, tired of being in the back of a conversation that has everything to do with me. I don’t understand shit they’re talking about. This is my life. My existence being pushed and pulled, back and forth like some ball. "If I’m going to be executed or you know," I look pointedly at the King. "Boiled alive, the least I deserve to know is what the hell I am."

Heavy footsteps thud behind me and I look behind in time to get a blow across my cheek that sends me crashing into the ground. Pain ricochets in my rib as a foot slams into it next. "Watch your damned mouth when you speak to His Majesty--"

"That’s enough, Nath," King Lucien says dryly as I cough, bile and blood thick in my throat. "It’s been yet a while since I’ve been entertained. Let the man speak his grievances."

My hand curves over my broke rib, water springing to my eyes as I glare up at the retreating brute, and then, at the King, whose benevolence I suppose I should be thankful for.

But I don’t have it in me to be polite or pretentious or meek. I want nothing more than to rip his heart out of his chest and burn it to ashes.

As if reading my thoughts, the King’s lips curl into a smile that says, "Come. See where that ends.

I look away first, feeling the sharp sting in my eyes that often results from staring too long upon him.

He draws up tight on his throne. "I have called this council because of this dilemma. I may gut him up prettily and spread his entrails over the walls. Or, we could use his abilities to our advantage. We have yet to hear back from our spies within the Wolf King’s Court. Suffice to say, they have been compromised. Having a *Whisperer* in their midst might make all the difference in our next attack."

I turn my face to the gathered, a familiar rage swelling deep in my chest. "I will never betray my people or work as your spy."

The King’s lips curl. "I thought you might say that." His bejewelled, elegant fingers entwine. "Right now, there six men riding fast and hard to retrieve Rhea Ironfang from the village of Briarwood in Silvermoor."

I do not realise I am moving until swords jut out from different sides, all aimed from my neck, protecting the king and his council from the perceived threat that is me. "If you so much as lay a hand on my mother’s head--"

"You will do nothing, Ironfang." His smile vanishes, something old and terrible unfurling in the violet glow of his eyes. "You stand in enemy lands. You hold no sway here, no name, no weight. Be grateful I’ve offered you another path. If I so wished, I would snuff out you and your mother both--" His lips curl, cruel, "--and collect in kind on the debt you owe me. And even then, it still wouldn’t be enough."

Tears sting my eyes, fury shaking me to my bones, as he drags his tongue slowly across his lips. "You will play your part whether or not you like want to, because no one gives two fucks about your feelings here. Do you understand?"

My head hangs low. "Yes."

He taps his foot against the ground twice. Expectantly. Curses lay on the top of my tongue but I vomit the statement he so badly wants to hear. "Thank you. For your benevolence, Your Grace." Iwish you fall off the back of your horse while riding and die on your own sword, I don’t add.

"What are the odds that he learns to use his gifts before the appointed time? It takes centuries to manifest for most," Lyssandra says.

King Lucien shifts his gaze to Margot. "He will dwell here, trained by the finest Whisperer in Ebonheart. Not too great a burden, I trust?"

Margot’s lips pinch, her displeasure barely leashed as she bows. "Of course not, my King. If it pleases you, I will take the wretch beneath my wing." Her eyes flick to him, dismissing me entirely, and sly calculation sharpens her features. "But the matter of war remains unresolved. To march as general against the council’s wishes has cost us losses beyond measure--"

King Lucien waves her words away with a flick of his hand. "Enough. You’re dismissed, all of you. I tire of your endless bickering. Veyra, remain."

As the guards usher me out, I swear the weight of Veyra’s stare burns between my shoulder blades.