“So that’s it then? We just accept it?” Seth’s eyes were red, he wanted to help, but there was nothing he could do. “Maybe one day we could…” His sentence trailed off to nothing.
“Yes, one day,” she echoed faintly. It seemed too cruel to raise his hopes. Try as she might, she could see no way out of the marriage Dagrun had proposed. She knew she was only stalling. Arko was stalling—but what good did it do? The emperor decided on her fate, and her fate was tied to Feren. The empire would threaten war if she did not do as she was told. And when it came down to it, she would not resist, she would not put her life above the lives of her people. Arko had given up Ren, his heir. Arko had seen his father revolt against the empire. In the Children’s War, Koren had fought to keep his son, Arko, out of the Priory. He succeeded but her father suffered nonetheless. Arko lived with blood on his hands—he dreamed each night of the fathers and sons who had died to keep him out of the Priory. They haunted his every moment. She did not want to live as her father had, burdened with guilt. She wanted her freedom, but she saw no way to attain it.
Seth reached out his hand, but she drew back hers. “Let’s get out of here tonight. Your grandfather resisted the empire’s edicts and he’s practically a hero. In the north they sing songs about Koren.”
“Thousands of Harkans died to keep one child out of a cell—Koren was brave, but foolish. I think sometimes my father would be happier if he had gone to the Priory—he’d be free of his guilt then. He wouldn’t spend half his time in the Shambles drinking and hunting. My father did the right thing when he sent my brother to the emperor—no one admires him or tells stories about his decision, but he made the right choice, the hard choice.”
“You’re not your father,” Seth said.
“No. But I am his daughter.”
Seth did not reply. The room felt big and empty, hollow for a moment. The two sat in silence: Seth’s eyes downcast and Kepi studying his features. The three cakes he had brought from the kitchen caught her attention. A fourth cake, one so slim she had not noticed it, sat beneath the black bread. “What’s this?” she asked, breaking the silence.
“That? Nothing—just a little something extra,” he said, looking as if he wanted to hide.
She knocked the upper cakes aside. Below sat a curious square of white, flat bread. “What is it?”
“It’s nothing really.”
Kepi picked up the crumbling square. Her eyes widened. “You’re from Barsip, aren’t you?”
He dipped his head in acknowledgment. The northern tribes—the villages that populated the hilly lands north of Harwen, near the Shambles and the Feren Rift valley, where the land was rocky and crops were hard to grow—made a special cake, a cake reserved for weddings.
“It’s a Barsip cake,” she said.
Seth frowned. “I wasn’t going to propose or anything. Don’t worry, I won’t make you turn down two men in one day. I just thought it would be nice. It’s a special cake, the most special we have, and so I baked one for you.”
Though they were part of Harkana, the northern tribes practiced customs unique to their lands, customs not shared in Harwen. Kepi had never tasted a Barsip cake, but she had heard of it and heard it was quite good. Seth took the flaky bread, snapped it into halves, and offered one to Kepi. She took a bite. The cake was hard, almost brittle, and when it broke, the crack revealed a hundred finely rolled layers, one piled on the next. It tasted sweet on her tongue. She wondered if he was lying, if he had meant to propose, and she had cut him short with her comment. She hoped he had not. She wanted things to remain as they were, there was no use taking the arrangement any further.
Seth reached across the table and held her hand. He gave her another piece of bread.
Kepi drained the last of the amber from her cup. The cool liquid made the downy hair on her arms prickle and her cheeks feel numb. The cut on her neck no longer ached and her bruises had ceased their throbbing. She dropped her cup and the clay chipped. Lamplight flickered in the alcove. The crowd thinned. Her head was already spinning, the drink flowing through her veins as she motioned for the girl to bring more amber. She locked eyes with Seth. I should end this, I should set him free, but I can’t. Not yet.
She didn’t want things to change, not with the boy from Barsip, the boy who knew nothing of the ways of kings and courts. She wanted to stay here and pretend they were just another boy and girl in the back of the Elba, sharing what was supposed to be a wedding cake.
14
“Halt! Stop where you are, boy,” the soldier said, his armor gleaming in the sunlight. Carefully etched symbols depicting a raven and an eye decorated the chest plate. The marks, Ren knew, were wards—blessings from the gods to protect the man from harm. This soldier belonged to the Alehkar, the Protector’s sworn men. He stood before an arched opening in the Dromus, brandishing a spear. The soldier guarded the eastern gates of Sola. Ren would be free once he passed through the arch.
“I’m bound for Harkana,” he told the Alehkar and held up the scrolls. The long walk from the gates of the Hollows to the great wall that marked the edge of Sola had left him exhausted, but he tried not to look it.
“Come closer,” the man said, motioning for the scrolls. He noticed Ren’s sunburnt skin and his eyes narrowed. Behind him there were more soldiers, spearmen at the gate and archers on the walk.
“Alone?” the man asked.
Ren nodded. Of course I’m alone. I’ve just been chased though the Hollows and half of Solus. I don’t trust anyone in this this kingdom.
Ren turned over the rolled parchment and the soldier bent to study the seal. Swirling grooves of hardened yellow wax clung to the leathery sheet. The paraffin was as hard as rock and had already chipped in one spot, but the detail was still legible. The soldier chewed some awful-smelling thing in his yellowy teeth, taking his time as he studied the wax.
A feeling of dread shivered through Ren’s body. If they turn me back, I’ll have no way to reach Harkana. He studied the soldiers on the wall. There were too many to fight and he had no weapon.
“You’re the dingiest messenger I’ve seen in weeks,” the Alehkar said, spitting as he talked, wrinkling his lip as he looked Ren up and down. “Well, what’re you waiting for, boy? Move on—Suten doesn’t like his messages to be delayed.” He lowered his spear and motioned for Ren to pass through the gate.
“Can I have a bit of—”
“On your way, boy, I’ve got no time for your questions,” the soldier said.