It was a soldier from the ship. The general was already walking away from him and had a hand on Rayne’s upper arm. “Take them to the dungeons,” the general said, barely glancing back at the man.
“No sir, it's just that, one of them's miss—”
“Dungeon,” the general repeated, cutting the man off hastily. “Don't make me say it again.” He squeezed her arm and urged her forward beside him on the narrow dock. She had to take two steps to every one of his but she was too distracted to protest or pull away.
One of them is missing. That's what the soldier had been about to say. That's what the general didn't want anyone else to hear. What did he know? Was he ashamed of losing Wido, or had he been the one helping him all along? Rayne knew better than to ask questions, at least not right now. Instead, she let herself be ushered along beside the general through the merchant district and toward the castle gates. They passed a stall with plants hanging from the tent's poles, and another where a man was barely visible through his collection of random goods. Women hawked cloth dyed in outrageous colors and men sat sullenly beside their jars of oils and wax. But most prevalent of all was the fish—stall after stall of fish parts and bait and fishing nets. The smell hung in the air like a blanket over the city, acrid and pungent, touching everything.
She must have made a face because the general looked over at her. “You'll get used to it,” he said, the usual mean amusement in his voice.
The banded servants that were in the streets lowered their heads and scurried out of the way of Rayne's retinue, while the merchants made no such efforts, stopping to stare and slow to move. Rayne did her best to ignore them, keeping her eyes straight ahead. The general was there, begrudgingly protecting her, and there was a wall of palace servants around her acting as a barrier. This wasn't her triumphant homecoming; it was more like a death march.
The closer they got to the palace, the nicer the district became. Instead of tents and booths, shops were in two-and three-story buildings. Etched-glass windows displayed their wares—fine dishes and clothing, a chemist, an apothecary. One shop caught her eye with its red door and dainty jewelry on display—rings of hammered silver, necklaces with delicate loops of gold wire. It was different than anything she'd seen, and so was the girl who stood in the open door. She was no older than Rayne with the same light brown skin as her, but with a wild bundle of golden curls bouncing on her head. She leaned carelessly against the doorframe, scantily clad in a red shift dress that bared the silver band on her muscular arm. She was banded, but there was a challenge in her eyes as she followed Rayne's trek through the street. The girl seemed to have already taken Rayne's measure and found her unworthy. Rayne couldn't disagree.
Finally, they reached the palace courtyard, where the smell of fish faded at least minutely, and the sun, which had not quite disappeared behind the eastern wall yet, reflected off the marble steps. It was there that her uncle had died, there that the Malstrom sisters had given their blood for their young queen's freedom. Were the steps still stained red or was that Rayne's imagination?
As she approached, the wooden doors at the top of the steps opened and a man emerged, his eyes wide and searching as they took in her group. He wore a black cloak and the iron crown of Dusk on his brow. She couldn't help herself, pushing her way through the barrier of servants and emerging at their front, stopping when she was only a few steps away. His eyes met hers, and it was like looking in a mirror.
“Father,” she said, the word foreign on her lips. “It's me.”
The king's uncertainty lasted only a moment, and soon she was wrapped in the warm, welcoming embrace of his arms.
“You're here,” he said into her hair, his voice a rumble deep inside of his chest as he pushed her back, his hands on her shoulders, her cheeks, her hair, as if trying to decide if she were real. She drank in his face—the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes were deeper, his black hair speckled with gray, but it was him. The man who had ruined her life. She was surprised to find she still loved him in spite of everything, even in spite of the fact that she was here to ruin his life in turn.
“I'm here,” she whispered in confirmation, hardly able to believe it herself.
? ? ?
In the hour that followed, Rayne was washed and combed into some semblance of the lady she was supposed to be, dressed in a modest, cream-colored nightgown, and then locked in what they called her room. It was really a series of connected rooms—a sitting room stuffed with comfortable chairs and a small dining table, a bedroom with a bed larger than her whole room in Bricboro, and a bathroom with its own water spigot. No more communal bathing in a freezing lake for her. Why did that thought make her sad? Warm water would make anyone happy, but there it was—that twinge of longing pricking behind her eyes. She was supposed to be in Bricboro with Imeyna, planning their next move while Tamsin bustled patiently around them, cleaning or cooking, brushing her hand across the back of Imeyna’s neck or cheek every time she passed. Not here, on her own, wearing a ridiculous nightgown she could barely move in with not a clue what to do next.
There was a part of her that wanted to go find Imeyna, to creep into the dungeons and throw herself against the cell’s bars and beg Imeyna to tell her what to do. She could kill the jailer, free Imeyna, and let her lead the way as she had always done.
Or she could just get it over with. Find her sister, plunge a knife into her heart, and accept her fate. It wasn’t just about what the Knights wanted, either. It was about what she needed—to avenge Madlin’s death, to atone for standing by and watching as Madlin was beaten to death, as Imeyna was led away from her in chains. To stop her father before he could destroy anything else. Her life was a small price to pay if it meant starting the rebellion that would end her family’s reign of terror. On the desk, Merek’s map book and Imeyna’s knife looked terribly out of place in this gilded room. The map book was dusty and old, not like the carefully bound tomes that lined the shelves. And the knife seemed to beckon to her as it gleamed in the light of the hearth fire.
The decision made, she tucked the knife away into one of her pockets. Picking the lock was easy with a couple of the massive hairpins that her lady's maid—a blond Hailian girl with a polished silver armband—had left on the dresser. They slipped easily into the locking mechanism and with just a few pokes and turns, the bolt slid smoothly out of her way.