Chapter Thirty-Four
I gape at the mansion before me. Or better said, a palace!
Gleaming white marble, columns that could support a small mountain, and a staircase wider than most roads. Stone lions flank the entrance, looking less like guardians and more like they’re judging my decidedly un-royal attire. Lush gardens surround the place, overflowing with flowers I can’t even name, and a fountain sparkles under the moonlight, making the whole scene look opulent.
“Uh… where are we?” I ask Zanyar, my voice a little higher than usual.
We’d just spent the last hour trekking halfway across the city, a journey filled by the lingering bitterness at my interaction with Darian and Zanyar’s unnerving silence, which, honestly, was probably a blessing. I needed time to cool down.
Darian’s shocked, wounded face kept flashing in my mind, making my stomach roil with guilt. I know he was only trying to protect me when he excluded me from their plans to break into the Martyshyar wing, so why did I lash out with such hurtful words?
I didn’t appreciate Darian preempting my choice in the matter rather than letting me make it myself, but I hadn’t realized how deeply it affected me until I snapped at him.
But now that we stand before this monument to excessive wealth, I suddenly remember that we are on a mission. We’re not here for a scenictour of Shemiran’s humble abodes.
“An Aramisi merchant’s home,” Zanyar replies. “He’s taking us to a gathering tonight. We’ll be attending as his guests—two Aramisi travelers seeking fortune in Shemiran.”
“This is a merchant’s house?” I squeak, my voice cracking slightly. “This looks like a High Lord’s castle! What does he sell, dragons?”
“Lord Palewyne’s family were minor lords in eastern Aramis who moved here for the promise of great wealth, which they’ve achieved.”
The grand doors of the mansion swing open before I can respond, revealing a portly figure standing at the entrance. Dressed in the finest Aramisi silks, his pale hair contrasts with his ruddy complexion as he greets us with a broad smile. He rushes down the stairs to meet Zanyar and bows, saying, “Welcome, my lord!”
“I am no lord,” Zanyar replies curtly. “Just an Ahira, Lord Palewyne.”
“A wound that Aramis will forever bear,” Palewyne says, bowing again. “The finest High Lord we were denied.”
I steal a glance at Zanyar. His face is a blank mask, as always. But hiseyes… for the briefest of moments, they betray him. I see a flicker of something raw, something resembling a weight he’s carried, hidden, for far too long.
Whatever Lord Palewyne’s words have touched, he quickly buries it, smoothing his expression to that familiar wall of practiced composure. It is the same front I’ve worn myself countless times—the instinctive flinch of someone who’s learned through bitter experience how to suppress emotion, to guard against the world, to hide any hint of weakness beneath a veneer of control. And in that recognition, a deep and unexpected sense of empathy wells up within me.
Palewyne turns to me. “I didn’t realize you would have company.”
“Plans change,” Zanyar says. “When do we need to leave?”
“As soon as you’re ready, I have a carriage waiting,” Palewyne says as he guides us up the stairs and into the mansion’s opulent interior. The foyer is a stunning hall, its soaring ceiling supported by marble columns adorned with gold leaf.
Lord Palewyne gestures toward two servants—a man and a woman—standing at the foot of the stairs. “They’ll see to your attire. Join me outside in half an hour. What names shall I call you when we meet Bakewell?”
“Lancel Lefford,” Zanyar declares, “a lordling of Banefort seeking his fortune in trade.” His eyes flick to me in silent contemplation before he adds, “And his wife, Leonor Lefford.”
Before I can protest the absurdity of posing as nobility, let alone as the wife of Zanyar Zareen, the servants guide us up the grand staircase. At the top, the maid points me to the left while the manservant leads Zanyar to the right.
The maid, round and cheerful, leads me into a room so magnificent it could accommodate a queen. As the door slowly opens, my eyes widen in awe. The chamber is filled with silks and satins glimmering in every corner, with gowns of every style and hue imaginable twinkling in the gentle glow of a crystal chandelier. It is a maiden’s fantasy, a visual delight, and I, dressed in my simple gray, feel as out of place as a Gajari at a royal ball.
“Is there a dress that you’d find to your liking, my Lady?” the maid inquires.
Immediately, a wave of self-consciousness washes over me. I have never worn a dress in my life, save for the gray, long-sleeved, and long-collared kirtle of Firelands. The thought of appearing before Zanyar in such finery makes me wish to face a Nohvan instead; at least with a Nohvan, I know what to expect.
“These gowns… they’re too lavish for a lordling’s wife,” I say. “And I am no lady.”
The maid chuckles. “Fear not, my lady. We shall find something that suits you perfectly.”
The maid walks to a corner and carefully selects a simple yet elegant red dress. Delicate golden embroidery adorns the bodice and hem, adding just the right touch of subtle luxury. It’s beautiful without being too extravagant.
“Please try it on, my lady,” the maid offers, gesturing to a dressing screen.
Behind the screen, I carefully shed my warrior’s attire. On a shelf, I find awater basin and a cloth. I use the cloth to cleanse my skin, and the fragrant soap leaves me feeling refreshed and smelling sweet.
