Blinking quickly, Simon revived himself — he was not here for Countess Odeline. He turned, smiling brightly, and dropped a hideously intricate bow before Lady Bellenet. When he straightened, he caught her gaze and held it. He knew that he radiated warmth, an unassuming beauty, despite the strange encounter at the door.
Everything about Simon Delara was practiced. Rehearsed.
“My lady,” he said, “a thousand apologies for the delay. My lute was afflicted with a string that simply refused to sing true. If you must have me executed as punishment, I should warn you that I would enjoy it terribly. Facing eternity at the hands of such a lovely woman… how could I complain?”
Lady Bellenet’s cupid’s bow lips curved in a slight smile, a froth of gold-brown hair piled above her youthful face. “God willing, we won’t need to go so far as that. And how is the string now, Mr. Delara?”
His smile widened, and he bowed again. “She sings with the utmost purity, my lady.”
“Good,” said Lady Bellenet. “I expect nothing less from Mirith’s most recommended minstrel. And what will you be performing for me?”
“Whatever will please your ladyship most,” said Simon, setting his lute case on a velvet bench and flipping it open with deft fingers. The instrument gleamed within, shining honey wood, inlaid with mother-of-pearl flowers along its curves. Removing it gently from its velvet case, he hefted the lute with practiced ease and strummed a chord.
“You may not be familiar with the song I crave,” Lady Bellenet said, lily-white hands folded in a taffeta lap. She was perched in a throne-like armchair, her back facing a tall window that looked out over a red-drenched sea.
Simon knew the sunset illuminated him strikingly, setting his coppery hair afire. But even that couldn’t free him from the barbs in the lady’s eyes.
She tilted her head ever so slightly, her sharp gaze trained on Simon’s face as if she expected to find something there. But greater women than she had attempted to see through his mask, and all had failed.
“Tell me the name of the song,” said Simon, playing a soft chord as he spoke, “and I shall do my utmost to ensure that your ears are caressed with the tune you so desire.”
She smiled faintly, her eyes devoid of any pleasure. “Tell me, do you know The Song of the Sun Gate? A traditional Mekyan folk tune, nothing I’d expect anyone here to have heard.”
Her expression was all soft apology, but Simon felt the sharpness in her tongue as if it were steel against skin. He had expected the mysterious Lady Bellenet to be fierce, a force to be reckoned with, but there was more to her than a simple gift for charm.
“My lady,” he said, “you underestimate me. We Mirithans may have an obsession with science and progress, but only the hardest of hearts could not be swayed by the stories of the ancient gods. The Song of the Sun Gate… I haven’t heard it in years, let alone played it, but I’d be obliged to hang up my minstrel’s hat if I didn’t know the tune like the back of my hand.”
Lady Bellenet inclined her head slightly, a silent acknowledgement and the cue for him to play.
So he did. The notes came effortlessly as always; he was a skilled musician, his fingers deft, his musicians’ muscles blessed with long memory. As he played, he schooled his features, kept his eyes light, his smiles soulful and indulgent. But on the inside, his gut churned, his heart hammered, and try as he might to stop it by sheer will alone, a sweat broke out on the back of his neck.
Lady Bellenet knew something she wasn’t telling him. Simon wondered whether the woman hadn’t known he was waiting, listening. Wondered whether she hadn’t left the doors ajar just to ensure that he heard his sister’s name.
Worst of all, this was no simple song request from a bored lady of the court. It was a brutal song, a vengeful song of death for those who disobeyed their betters. Simon had spent enough time at court to know that every song he played, every request from a noble, alluded to something bigger. This one was a warning.
And Ru was in danger.
CHAPTER 1
Lord D’Luc came in the mornings.
When they first returned from the Shattered City, Ru had been eager to prove herself impervious to him, to make it clear that she couldn’t be cowed by his threats or manipulations. She had called herself Destroyer, taking up the mantle in a moment of anger, spurred by a thirst for vengeance.
But as time passed, she found that her rage was beginning to gutter.
Because Lord D’Luc came in the mornings.
His arrival was always heralded by a sharp knock on Ru’s door, his very presence a reminder that this was notherroom — it was his, just as the artifact was his, and the Tower. The professors, the academic leaders and keepers of the Cornelian Tower who had sat at the head of the kingdom’s scholarly pursuits, were bedridden, all afflicted by a mysterious sickness. And who but Lord D’Luc was so conveniently placed as to keep the Tower in their stead?
Ru was already awake and dressed when the knock came that morning. She had attempted to do something with her hair, which amounted to pulling it out of her face and securing it with a piece of velvet ribbon.
“Good morning, Delara,” said Lord D’Luc, smiling brightly in the haze of morning light.
Ru hated the way he affected her, even now. His beauty was simply unavoidable, a fact of science. Anyone seeing him in that moment, with the rising sun reflected in his pale gold hair, would have been struck by the vision. There was an air of ethereality about him, and while he was tall, he remained trim, elegant, angelic. Full lips and a sharp jaw, light eyes, and a dimple when he smiled — these were the trappings of a man whose soul, Ru believed, was rotten through.
She wanted to slap that dimple off his perfect face.
“Goodis subjective.”
