Reviving.
And Ojka’s blood quickened at the sight of it. She’d been in a shop once, and had seen a chest covered in dust. She remembered running her hand across it, removing the film of grey and revealing the dark wood beneath. It was like that, she thought. The king had come and swept his hand across the city, brushed away the dust.
It would take time, he said, but that was all right. Change was coming.
Only a single road stood between her quarters and the castle walls, and as she crossed the street, her gaze flicked toward the river, and the other half of the city beyond. From the heart of Kosik to the steps of the castle. She’d come a long way.
The gates stood open, new vines climbing the stone walls to either side, and she reached out and touched a small purple bud as she stepped through onto the grounds.
Where the Kr?s Mejkt had once sprawled, a graveyard of stone corpses at the feet of the castle, now there was wild grass, creeping up despite the winter chill. Only two statues remained, flanking the castle stairs, both commissioned by the new king, not as a warning, but as a reminder of false promises and fallen tyrants.
They were likenesses of the old rulers, Athos and Astrid Dane, carved in white marble. Both figures were on their knees. Athos Dane stared down at the whip in his hands, which coiled like a snake around his wrists, his face twisted in pain, while Astrid clutched the handle of a dagger, its blade buried in her chest, her mouth stretched in a soundless, immortal scream.
The statues were grisly, inelegant things. Unlike the new king.
The new king was perfect.
The new king was chosen.
The new king was god.
And Ojka? She saw the way he looked at her with those beautiful eyes, and she knew he saw the beauty in her, too, now, more and more every day.
She reached the top of the stairs and passed through into the castle.
Ojka had heard tales of the hollow-eyed guards who had served under the Danes, men robbed of minds and souls, rendered nothing but shells. But they were gone now, and the castle stood open, and strangely empty. It had been raided, taken, held, and lost in the weeks after the Danes first fell, but there were no signs of the slaughter now. All was calm.
There were attendants, men and women appearing and disappearing, heads bowed, and a dozen guards, but their eyes weren’t vacant. If anything, they moved with a purpose, a devotion that Ojka understood. This was the resurrection, a legend brought to life, and they were all a part of it.
No one stopped her as she moved through the castle.
In fact, some knelt as she passed, while others whispered blessings and bowed their heads. When she reached the throne room, the doors were open, and the king was waiting. The vaulted ceiling was gone, massive walls and columns now giving way to open sky.
Ojka’s steps echoed on the marble floor.
Was it really once made of bones, she wondered, or is that just a legend? (All Ojka had were rumors; she’d been smart, kept to Kosik, and avoided the Danes at all costs during their rule. Too many stories surrounded the twins, all of them bloody.)
The king stood before his throne, gazing down into the glossy surface of the scrying pool that formed a smooth black circle before the dais. Ojka found its stillness almost as hypnotic as the man reflected in it.
Almost.
But there was something he had that the black pool lacked. Beneath the surface of his calm surged energy. She could feel it from across the room, rippling from him in waves. A source of power.
Life might have been taking root in the city, but in the king, it had already blossomed.
He was tall and strong, muscles twining over his sculpted body, his strength apparent even through his elegant clothes. Black hair swept back from his face, revealing high cheekbones and a strong jaw. The bow of his lips pursed faintly, and the faintest crease formed between his brows as he considered the pool, hands clasped behind his back. His hands. She remembered that day, when those hands had come to rest against her skin, one pressed against the nape of her neck, the other splayed over her eyes. She’d felt his power even then, before it passed between them, pulsing beneath his skin, and she wanted it, needed it, like air.
His mouth had been so close to her ear when he spoke. “Do you accept this power?”
“I accept it,” she’d said. And then everything was searing heat and darkness and pain. Burning. Until his voice came again, close, and said, “Stop fighting, Ojka. Let it in.”
And she had.
He had chosen her, and she would not let him down. Just like in the prophecies, their savior had come. And she would be there at his side.
“Ojka,” he said now without looking up. Her name was a spell on his lips.
“Your Majesty,” she said, kneeling before the pool.
His head drifted up. “You know I’m not fond of titles,” he said, rounding the pool. She straightened and met his eyes: one green, the other black. “Call me Holland.”
I
RED LONDON