Page 47 of Between Smoke and Shadow
“Mother,” I say. It comes out loud and harsh, like a strained cord finally snapping. She’s barely left my side all night, one step behind, criticizing my every move. “I have already decided.”
I press my thumb against the lift’s access screen. A quiet swishing, like the sound of birds taking flight, fills the silence as the lift rises to meet us. We’re in the military sector, but now that I’ve assembled a last-minute security team, there’s nothing left to do except leave.
The lift door gasps open and I stride inside, disappointed but not surprised when Mother joins me. She’s still wearing her gown from last night’s battle, but her typically flawless appearance is ruined by the dark bags under her eyes and the fade of her once-bright lipstick.
After my humiliating loss against Malek, I’d barricaded myself in a room behind the arena. I’d sat with my throbbing hands in a bucket of ice, silently letting the healers treat me. I ignored anyone who knocked on the door and felt slighted whenMalek didn’t bother to come taunt me. My loss was so pathetic I’m no longer worth tormenting.
Maybe that’s what spurred all of this into action.
I’ve spent my entire life trying to prove my worth as heir. I trained harder and longer than Malek. I took on more responsibilities. I did what Mother and the Committee and the Architect asked of me, and still, Malek was faster, stronger,better.
It struck me at some point in my self-pitying thatat leastif I lose my title, I can behave the way Malek always has. Not as a monster, but as a man with few worries. I’ve dedicated my time to training and preparing for kinghood—now that it’s slipping away, what’s the point? If I’m never going to be king, if all that work was for nothing, the least I deserve are those luxuries of wealth and power.
By the time Mother came around, I had the beginnings of a plan. I was taking a trip through the exterior sectors of Savoa: the Wilds, the City of Mirrors, the Pit, the Reaping Grounds…even the Deadlands, though only out of convenience.
“Harrick,” she says, pulling my focus back to the present. We’re almost to the entry level of the Tower, where my guards will be waiting with three carriages. They should have our bags packed, along with whatever Viana decided to bring. I don’t care if she’s packed half the Tower, so long as Rune is with her.
“My son,” she whispers. Her voice grows quiet, laced with urgency. “You cannot go. If you try, I will have to alert the Architect. You have too many responsibilities here. There’s too much?—”
“The Architect won’t care, Mother,” I say as the lift settles on the main floor. “He’ll only be angry that you’ve disturbed his sleep.”
The lift stops and I exit. This time, Mother doesn’t follow. There’s a chance she’s going straight to the Architect, but I doubtit. I think she knows as well as I do that I’ve been written off. Even if there are two more battles to come, he knows Malek will win.
After last night,everyoneknows.
I slow my steps. The Tower’s entry level is one of the grandest floors in the entire building. It’s an exquisite maze of bright papered walls and multi-colored marble. Black and red, green and violet, even a few splashes of white and pale yellow. The Architect designed this level to be as confusing as it is luxurious, in hopes that visitors would believe the entire Tower to be this beautiful and impossible to navigate. I imagine anyone unfamiliar with the layout could spend days lost on this level alone.
I take my time walking the halls, pretending this is the last time I’ll ever have to see them. The garish violet and green wall coverings, the gnarled plants with vines curling around hanging portraits, the marble floors so polished I can see my own reflection. The decor becomes increasingly extravagant as I near the main entryway: rare gemstones in glass cases, masks worn by ancestral warriors, retired crowns of previous royalty.
Voices filter from the entryway, and I realize I’m among the last to arrive. Joran and Dae are discussing possible routes to take, and Viana occasionally interrupts them with questions about ourvacation.When I enter the foyer, a pair of drenched servants give their updates to Dae.
Through the ajar doors behind them, the half-flooded courtyard is visible. Three carriages, pulled by magic, sit near the Tower’s entrance, and one appears to be packed full of luggage. Opposite the shivering servants and my guards, Viana stands beside two oversized bags. There’s a female servant near her, but it’s not Rune.
“My love!” she calls. She dances across the colorful marble, a grin splitting her mouth, and throws herself against my chest. Igive her a halfhearted pat on the back, scanning the room behind her. Aside from the soaked servants, the female servant, and my guards, there isn’t anyone else here.
Sheisn’t here. And a pain in my gut tells me there’s a reason…one I won’t like.
“Ah, my prince,” Joran says. He crosses the room, pausing a respectable distance from me and Viana, who is still pressed against me, even though I dropped my arm a while ago.
“Give us a moment,” I say to Viana. She skips back to her baggage, keeping her eyes on me. If she’s upset about my humiliating defeat last night, she doesn’t show it. I wonder if she’s written it off as a fluke, if she thinks she’ll still be queen.
“We are almost ready to leave,” Joran says. He glances back at the two wet men. “The carriage is packed. They’re struggling to fit the last of Viana’s bags, but I told them to figure it out. Everything else is prepared. Safety procedures are in place and there are enough supplies to last us several days, on the off chance we are delayed.”
“Who’s coming?” I ask.
“Only a small team, my prince, as requested,” he says. “There will be yourself and Miss Viana, myself and Dae, two additional guards, Viana’s handmaiden and an additional servant to cater to your needs.”
My attention flickers to the woman near Viana. She’s no longer alone. There’s a young male servant, a cycle younger than me if I had to guess, now standing beside her. He wears the insignia of a crowned servant, but he’s unfamiliar. And, obviously, he isnotRune either.
Joran excuses himself, and I force myself to remain still. A panicked wrath pulses through my bones, pressing against my magic, growing stronger as Viana skips back to my side.
“Where are we going first, my love?” she asks, purring. She looks ready for a luxury event: glittering makeup onher cheeks, an elaborately twisted hairstyle, and a long green gown, accented with red jewelry. She’s wearing an overpowering perfume, sharp cinnamon, more acidic than alluring.
“Where is your handmaiden?” I ask. It comes out as a demand, and I have to clench my jaw to stop from continuing. Viana stares at me with wide eyes, her red-painted lips parting.
“There, my prince,” she says, tilting her chin toward the unfamiliar servant. In many ways, she resembles Rune. Her hair is light brown and she’s about the same height, but she’s heavier, healthier. Rounded cheeks, subtle curves, unblemished skin. She keeps her face tucked down, away from me, as if she’s been instructed to hide it.
“No, your usual handmaiden,” I say. I force a soft lilt to my voice, trying to sound coy. It’s blatantly false in my ear, as if the anger refuses to be stifled. Viana relaxes all the same.
