Kepi stared at the two girls and was uncertain which, if either, she could trust. In truth, she knew Dagrun no better than his slaves. He was a mystery to all of them.
When the gray-eyed girl saw concern on her mistress’s face, she smiled her clumsy smile and gave Kepi a sympathetic look. “This poor thing needs to know what she’s facing.” The girl moved to spread oil on Kepi’s arm, but dropped the jar. Kepi wondered if her gray eye was blind, if her disfigurement had set her apart from the others, had made her the object of their scorn. “Do what the king asks,” the girl said. “Do as he says and you’ll be better off.”
Kepi went cold. Something in the girl’s tone made her think of Roghan. She gulped amber.
“Is something wrong with my pretty queen?” asked the gray-eyed girl.
“I’d ask for a blade,” Kepi said, “but I know you can’t bring me one.”
The slaves all shook their heads and went about the rest of their work sullenly, the tension between the girls making them silent. She could not imagine these slave girls as her waiting women after she became queen, but then she could not imagine being Dagrun’s queen either.
“Eat,” the gray-eyed girl said. “You are so very thin, my lady.”
The slaves wrapped the dress around Kepi. She was embarrassed when she realized the dress left her breasts exposed, coming up just to her waist.
“It’s the tradition,” said the gray-eyed girl, nodding as she fitted the dress beneath Kepi’s breasts.
Even Merit’s most tasteless gowns cover more than this. She cast about for a shawl, a cloak—but no, nothing.
“We just need to stitch you up, nice and tight, yes,” said the sprite. “You’re a slender one, but we can’t have you looking like a boy. No, no—we need to make you nice and pretty for your king,” she said as they stitched the fabric to her form with thick wooden needles. Kepi could barely contain her disgust. I wish I were a boy. She no doubt had the body for it.
Once the dress was properly fitted, the slave girls removed the white slip and Kepi donned her old clothes. A thought occurred to her as she pulled the fabric over head. “The wedding—when is it?”
“Three days,” said the sprite.
Three days, thought Kepi. She had hoped for three months, three weeks even. Time to escape, or to hurl herself out the window.
She’d do either before she’d marry Dagrun.
32
Ren saw the horned totem gleaming like a thorny branch in the morning light. The pole, carved with the outlines of eld skulls, one stacked atop the other, marked the edge of the hunting grounds. Ren was nearly free from the reserve, but he paused. There were bits of pale skin showing between the grass and rocks. A body lay awkwardly at the totem’s base, one arm fixed at an unnatural angle, a red puddle turning black against the pale sand. The head was turned and he recognized Dakar’s face, his gray hair and wide eyes. The warden of the Shambles. The one who had given him his hunting dog and his provisions. Ren knelt down and pushed a strand of hair from the warden’s face. His skin was cold and Ren closed his eyes. He guessed this was Shenn’s work. Now Ren knew why Shenn had looked at him oddly when he made mention of the warden.
He found tools and dug a grave.
The rocky earth was difficult to move, the digging slow, but he didn’t mind. He needed time to think and plan, to comprehend what had happened on the hunt. Merit, the sister he had never met, had sent a man to kill him. And now her husband, Shenn, was up there on the mountain, wrapped in bloody bandages. Ren wondered if he’d been too lenient with Shenn, if he should have ended him. What if I’ve saved my brother only to face him again? Will I wake with his dagger at my throat? Ren didn’t know, but he was certain of one thing: He didn’t want to be like Merit—he would not kill his own kin. If he had to face Shenn again, so be it. Until then he had more pressing concerns.
Ren knew what he should do next. He had left the Priory. He had performed the hunt—he held the eld horns. He had done what the empire asked and what his father requested. It was time to return home. He would go to Harkana and take his throne, but there was little sense doing it right now. If I march straight into Harkana, Merit will poison me at my own coronation, or her archers will shoot me down at the wall and call me a beggar or thief.
Ren would go home, but he would go there with allies. After what he’d learned—the way Merit had first sent her gray-cloaks, then her husband, to kill him—Ren knew he could not walk into Harkana alone. There was no one there he could trust. His father was dead and Merit was not family—not the kind he pictured, at least.
When I walk into Harwen, I’ll do so with Adin and Tye at my side, and their kingdoms’ armies too. Perhaps Tye’s father could assist them. It was the only sensible thing he could think to do. Right now, walking into Harwen felt like suicide. Ren would take his father’s throne, but he’d find his friends first. It was what he wanted anyway. I promised Adin I would find him when I got out. I’m free and I want to see my friend. I need his help.
He recalled how, when he was younger, Adin had stood up for him against Kollen and the older boys who constantly teased and harassed the younger ransoms. Adin had more than once offered Ren his meal when Ren was sick or feeling malnourished. And once, when Ren knocked over the kettle in the refectory, it was Adin who took the blame, because he hadn’t wanted to see his friend suffer. Ren thought he owed Adin something, so he would head to Feren first. If Adin were still alive, he would need all the help he could get.
Ren took what provisions he could find in Dakar’s cottage, a few crescents, and headed north, toward the woodland kingdom. He took the eld horn and covered it with red clay, disguising it. He tied a leather thong he found in Dakar’s cottage to both ends of the horn and slung it over his shoulder. Leaving the cottage, he tried to entice the dog to follow, tossing it a strip of meat, but the servant would not stray from its master’s grave.