Golden Sentinels are waiting for us two miles outside of Duren. They’re so well trained that they say nothing of my state of undress, though they keep a wary distance from the birds, throwing my animal companions alarmed looks. Good. I want them to be afraid.
Rian’s soldiers escort us past villages and farmsteads, where children run out to wave banners made from scrap fabric and cheer for us. For me. There are no leers here, no catcalls, not even titillated curiosity.
“Lady!” the children call as they wave. “It’s the new Lady of Sorsha Hall! Look at the birds! Hullo, my lady!”
Their warm reception throws me off. Shame? That I expected. I was prepared for it. To keep my head high and my chin tipped against the people’s slander, as I’ve borne for the last three weeks. But this is different. What were these people told? To welcome me? Show me respect? Maybe it’s just another twist that my future husband has thrown into his game.
“Just ahead, my lady,” a mounted sentinel says, motioning to a bend in the road ahead. “The gates of Duren.”
Duren might be known as “Sinner’s Haven,” where one can bet on dog fights in the arena, or have women of any skin color ride one’s cock, but from the outside, the town looks unexpectedly solemn. The city’s high stone walls are plain except for slitted windows and guard towers. The only decoration is two white banners, emblazoned with an image of a red key, rippling in the breeze on either side of the gate.
Oh, great.
My stomach sinks. Red on white is the color and emblem of Immortal Iyre, who Lord Rian must think is my patron goddess because of my time in the convent. Why, in the name of the Immortals, would I worship anything related to my abuse?
Basten, walking a pace ahead of me, glances back at me. It’s only then I realize I’m growling so quietly in my throat that no one but him can hear it.
Once we pass through the gates, however, everything changes. The city’s dour exterior walls give way to a veritable symphony of color and activity. Paper lanterns hang from house gables and street lamps, painted to depict colorful scenes from Immortal Iyre’s life. The air is heavy with the scent of brewing ale, roasted meats, salted smoked fish, fritters and puddings. People line the narrow streets three rows thick. Children run and shriek, energized by the festivities. I’m immediately struck by the residents’ fashion, much finer here than in a provincial town like Bremcote. The women wear asymmetrical hems to mimic the fae gowns in the Book of the Immortals, and their hair is twisted into immortal braids. More than a few wear pointed golden caps on the tops of their ears, secured by a delicate chain, to further mimic the ancient fae. Some have painted light blue fey lines on their arms and necks. Almost everyone—men and women alike—line their upper eyelids in bold colors to make their eyes appear winged.
The streets fill with cheers. Small children scamper up to me, bearing baskets of cut flowers that they toss at Myst’s feet so she treads on a carpet of petals. It’s all so overwhelming—and frankly unexpected—that my brow pinches tightly.
Am I supposed to be honored by this?
Too much noise, Myst says as her muscles tense beneath my thighs.
I smooth a hand down her long, arched neck. I know, girl. I know. We both must be brave.
As the Golden Sentinels lead our procession, I catch exclamations of surprise from the crowd. People are entranced by the winged creatures clothing my body like a gown of feathers. Murmurs travel through the crowd ahead of us, but since I don’t have Basten’s keen hearing, I can only overhear broken pieces.
“ . . . wings like an angel . . . ”
“Supposed to have long hair covering her, isn’t she?”
“ . . . the lord’s planning?”
“ . . . no, not the lord’s doing. It’s her. An act of defiance!”
I straighten my spine and roll my shoulders back, the twin ravens perched there extending their wings. Lord Rian draped his city in white to welcome me, his chaste bride, and I’ve arrived in dark woodland colors. It gives me a grim sense of satisfaction to think of how this transgression will stoke his ire.
My body is my own, my gown of living wings announces to the crowd. No man will command me.
A pace ahead of me, Basten keeps his head down, ignoring the festivities. It hurts to even look at him. I feel like one of the stained glass windows that hung in the convent’s chapel. Such a window starts as broken glass, but when soldered together with iron, comes out stronger than before. Basten might have smashed my heart, but I will pick up the pieces. I will weld myself back together into something mighty.
The main street veers, and ahead, the brick walls of Duren’s famous arena rise, with vast canvas sheets strung up high to shade the seating. It’s quiet now, the games halted for my welcome procession. We pass through a market with smiling vendors selling bolts of clothing, giant cheese wheels, and roasted nuts out of barrels. To my surprise, Duren is an astonishingly beautiful town. It’s vast and chaotic, a buffet of intriguing sights and sounds. There’s no sign of rubbish or emptied chamber pots in the gutter. I might not have much experience in large towns, but something feels off. Too scrubbed and purged. I don’t just mean that Rian had the streets cleaned for my arrival, but that this whole procession was carefully planned to show me only a portion of Duren. After all, this town is called Sinner’s Haven. There must be whores, beggars, cockfights. Where are all the scrappy orphaned boys pummeling each other for coin in the streets, like Basten?
As we pass an alley, I crane my neck to peer down its length. Shadows mask its contents, but the smell of opium and lurid perfume tells me enough.
Yep. I’m not seeing the real Duren.
It’s all just another trick.
My winged friends stay with me faithfully as the soldiers lead us up a hill to the towering structure on the city’s pinnacle: Sorsha Hall.