CHAPTER 9
MATHER BEAMS UP at me with that blinding smile and doesn’t put me down. I try in vain to fight the blush that I’m sure is turning my pale face red. He’s definitely been in Bithai a bit longer than us—his hair is pulled back with a ribbon, he’s wearing a sky-blue shirt over clean ivory pants, and Hannah’s locket half gleams from his neck. Noam has one point in my I Won’t Kill You book: he took care of Mather.
Mather chuckles low in his throat. “Took you long enough to get here.”
His words vibrate through his neck and make me painfully aware of the fact that I’m holding on to his neck at all. My fingers tremble but I can’t pull away, and I just laugh down at him, feeling his muscles tighten.
“I didn’t realize it was a race,” I manage, the memory of our last hug flashing across my mind. His face reddens, a light tinge of pink. Is he thinking about it too?
“It was, and you lost,” is all he says, his laughter washing over me.
Sir clears his throat. Mather squeezes me one more time and sets me back on the stones where I find it difficult to balance. Who shook up the world?
“Who else is here?” Sir asks. Straight to the point.
Mather doesn’t seem as peeved by Sir’s abruptness as I always am. “Everyone.”
I exhale. We’re all here. We all survived. A bit of my guilt unwinds—we lost our camp, but none of our party. I wouldn’t have been able to recover if one of us had died because of me.
Sir exhales too. “Excellent. Have you met with Noam?”
Mather nods. “Yesterday. Dendera and I have been here for two days—” He glances at me, then back at Sir, and doesn’t continue whatever thought he had. But he suddenly looks like someone punched him in the gut, and all my senses jump to alert.
Something’s wrong.
Sir nods once again and turns to Dominick. “Show us to your king.”
Dominick pivots on his heels and leaps up the stairs to the palace. Two guards stationed there swing the doors open, eyeing our vibrant Winterian hair. Well, Sir’s and mine aren’t vibrant at the moment; our heads—like the rest of us—are caked in travel dirt and sweat. But I’m guessing by Sir’s determined march behind Dominick that we aren’t going to get a bath before meeting Noam.
A bath. I fight down a squeak of longing as we stop in the palace’s foyer.
The only source of light is the chandelier above us, which lets off a gentle white glow. The rest of the décor is dark—polished wood walls, black marble floor. Comfortable yet expensive through and through. Rectangular panels line the walls; I can’t tell if they’re doors or just decoration.
One, on our right, swings open.
Dominick rushes forward and pulls back in a sharp salute to a man within the room, out of sight. “My king, I have—”
“More Winterians. Yes, I assumed as much.”
The deep voice matches the warm darkness of the surroundings. Homey almost, a voice I’d expect from a grandfather, not a king.
Sir surges forward, nearly shoving Dominick away. “Noam.”
Once, when I talked Mather into stealing a bottle of Finn’s Summerian wine and we got a bit tipsy, Sir sentenced me to two weeks of scrubbing dinner dishes for being “disrespectful of our future king’s position.” But Sir has no problem snapping the Cordellan king’s first name like he’s a misbehaving toddler.
Noam steps into the foyer, arms crossed. He’s big—not quite as big as Sir, but still commanding. His golden-brown hair hangs loose to his shoulders, edged with gray around his face and even more gray in his beard. He’s got deep and mysterious eyes that make me feel both naked and invisible all at once, like he can read all of my secrets with just a glance. And his conduit, Cordell’s dagger, sits in his belt, the purple jewel on the hilt glowing ever so faintly in the dimness.
Noam, face impassive, turns his dark eyes to Sir. His gaze travels over Mather before stopping on me, and he grins.
That can’t be good.
“That is all, Dominick. Thank you.”
Dominick pulls back like he expected more. But then he bows, mumbles something about coming back to report on Autumn later, and marches out the front door.
“William,” Noam says though he’s still staring at me. “So glad you made it. Nasty business, dealing with the Shadow of the Seasons. The Seasons can be quite”—he pauses—“volatile.”
I hold back a snort. Volatile. And he hasn’t even met me yet.
But my snort gets caught on what he called Angra—the Shadow of the Seasons. I’d forgotten that’s what the Rhythms call him. Like he’s nothing more than a gray haze cast by the rest of us, and maybe if we move the right way, he’ll disappear.
Sir steps into Noam’s line of sight and I blow a sigh of relief.
“I’d hoped we could discuss it in a more private setting.” Sir looks at Mather. “My king said you had already spoken with him, but I have some matters I would like to discuss as well.”
Sir’s never called Mather “king” before. Future king, yes. Royalty, yes. But never king. King Mather Dynam. A flutter of unease rushes through me. I know he’s our king, and I knew this would happen. I just thought I’d have more time, until we found the other locket half, at least. Not . . . now.
Noam waves over two servants. “Get Lady Meira settled. We need her looking her best for tonight.”
Both Sir and I blanch. Sir, blanching. I don’t think I like Bithai anymore.
“Excuse me?” Sir grunts.
Noam smirks. “The ball. My court has been waiting in Bithai for two days, expecting a celebration. Now it can begin. Surely your king has told you.”
The way he says the word king makes my skin crawl. I look to Mather, whose face is as red as the azaleas outside, and his jaw set so hard his teeth have to be completely flattened.
The servants move toward me. “Come this way, please,” one says.
Sir nods at me. But there’s something behind his eyes, something he’s barely holding on to, that makes me want to set my chakram to work ruining Noam’s pretty foyer.
The servants start off and, after another pause, I follow. This must be what sheep feel like before we cut their heads off and roast them over open fires.
Noam’s voice carries as we leave the foyer. Like everything else in Bithai, it’s intentional. “Yes,” he says. “We may yet come to an arrangement.”
I whip around but Sir, Mather, and Noam have already gone into what I can only assume is Noam’s study. The door shuts, cutting off anything else I might hear.
“Lady Meira, this way, please.”
Lady. Really?
I surrender to following the servants. The foyer ends in a ballroom—the ballroom, I’m sure, where whatever party Noam’s planned will happen tonight. It’s big, opulent, with marble and chandeliers and lush green plants and lots of gold. I’m a little sick of Cordell’s wealth.
Two staircases wrap around the room, one on each side. The servants take me up the left one, circling around so I have a 180-degree view of the ballroom. I make a point not to look at it, focusing instead on the mud caked on my boots.
We get to the second floor and commence to weave through so many identical halls that I begin to think Noam’s plan was to get me lost in a maze of annoyingly expensive finery. Wood paneling so polished I can see my filthy reflection as we pass, crystal chandeliers that throw shifting dots of light across my body, maroon carpet so plush and velvety that my boots leave indentations. The same dark accents and expensive yet comfortable feel as the foyer.