18: THE COURT OF IRON ROSES
Qown’s reaction The Lighthouse at Shadrag Gor
Just after Qown’s memory
“That wasn’t how that ended!” Qown screamed at nothing as the vision stopped. “You’re not telling the whole story either!” He turned to Sheloran. “You were there. You know that’s not how it ended. Your father was just getting that awful woman to leave without a fuss. He didn’t believe her.” Qown took a deep breath. “He was nice. He apologized.”
“Qown,” Sheloran said. “It’s fine. Really.”
“It just made him seem like some kind of terrible person,” Qown said quietly. His hands were shaking. It had been just like being there, so that he remembered the fear and the anxiety and all the ways that it had gone wrong …
“He’s a high lord,” Xivan said. “By definition, he’s a terrible person.”
Sheloran glared. “That is not true.”
Xivan shrugged. Her smile was just a little too flat to be genuine. “Isn’t it? Why don’t we ask the former slaves in the room?”
The temperature in the room had plummeted with the fire out, so Qown knelt by the fireplace and worked on lighting it again. These days, he was almost as good at fire spells as Janel, so it didn’t take him long to have the fire crackling again.1
But the fire somehow didn’t seem as bright or warm as it had been previously. Even the mage-lights seemed to have lost some of their power.
Qown thought it was a very bad sign.2
Kalindra snorted in response to Xivan’s comment, a rare moment of solidarity between the two women.
“Oh, please.” Senera looked up from her papers. “Please tell me the one where your parents aren’t like the other royals. That they treat their slaves kindly and that makes it all okay. Go ahead and tell me that House D’Talus doesn’t use slaves in the mines. I haven’t had a good laugh in ages.”
So perhaps it was cold in the room for reasons other than temperature.
“Let it go, Red,” Galen said.
The lower half of Sheloran’s face was hidden behind her fan, but the way her eyes were narrowed suggested she was very much not letting it go.
Qown stood up from the fireplace. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to start a fight. Let’s just be nice…”
“Sure,” Talon said, “because heaven forbid we make the royalty uncomfortable.”
Qown sighed. He might have agreed with her—he did agree with her in principle—if he didn’t know Sheloran and Galen were the last two royals in the whole damn empire who deserved to be yelled out for supporting slavery. Which Talon probably knew perfectly well. But Talon was a little damn demon, and there likely hadn’t been enough yelling in the last five minutes to make her happy.
“We’ll have all the time we want to make them uncomfortable once we’re out of here,” Kalindra said to Talon. She crossed to the other side of the room. Qown wasn’t sure if she intended to check on Teraeth or if she just had a difficult time staying in one place when she was upset—but either way, Talea blocked her path.
Talea looked like nothing so much as a guard standing watch. A coin danced across her knuckles for a moment, then she pocketed it and met Kalindra’s gaze coolly. She didn’t move out of the way.
“And just what do you think you’re doing?” Kalindra snapped. “Babysitting?”
Talea shrugged. “Just keeping an eye on them. Wouldn’t want any of them accidentally falling on a knife several times while they slept.”
Kalindra frowned. “Why would I—”
“Oh, was that a slam at me?” Talon said. “I feel like that was a slam at me.” She faked a gasp. “I’m insulted.”
“I wasn’t going for that,” Talea admitted, “but I feel a lot better knowing you took it that way, so thank you.”
“What happened between us?” Talon mourned.
“You murdered my twin sister,” Talea said flatly.
“But besides that…”
“And then you ate her.”
Talon made a face and then nodded as if to concede the other woman had a point.
Kalindra backed away from the one-woman barricade. “Okay, fine, I forgot we had a man-eating monster with us.”
“More than one,” Talon volunteered happily. “We should start making a list.”
Qown looked around, wide-eyed. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that Xivan was exactly the same as Gadrith. And somewhere in the Lighthouse, a demon lurked, and their diet was sadly all too predictable as well. Indeed, Talon stood out in that at least she ate flesh.3
“Right,” Kalindra said. “And while we’re sitting here hoping that the god at the end of the hall never finishes taking a step, what happens when the monsters locked up in here with us grow hungry?”
“Hmm. That reminds me. I should make us something to eat,” Qown volunteered, mostly because he really, really didn’t want to think about the consequences of what Kalindra had just said.
“You might want to be a little more careful with your wording while people like Xivan and I are in the room,” Talon said cheerfully. “We might think you were volunteering.”
Qown blinked at her, and then his eyes widened. “Obviously, I didn’t mean you can eat any of us.”
“Was that obvious, though?” Talon’s smile was just a little too wide.
“I’d rather not be lumped in the same category as you,” Xivan said. “And I have no intention of harming anyone here.”
“Oh, come now,” Talon said, “don’t tell me you’re not a little hungry?”
“No,” Xivan said. “I’m not.” She frowned then as if she’d just said something strange.
“That’s fine,” Talon said. “I have no intention of hurting anyone here either.”
Everyone stared at the mimic in disbelief.
“Kihrin doesn’t like it when I kill his friends,” Talon explained.
Qown noted the use of present tense. Unfortunately, there was no way to know if that meant Talon didn’t consider Kihrin dead, or if Talon considered Kihrin … part of Talon, talking to her right at that very moment. Sometimes it was easy to forget that Talon was insane.
And then there were times like this.
“So … yeah. I’ll just … cook something,” Qown said.
Sheloran walked over. “Lentil soup, you think? Do we have the ingredients for that? Something spicy would be just the thing to take some of this chill off.”
Qown dragged his gaze away from the vampire and the mimic. “What? Oh yes, I think we do. There’s some onions and garlic in the box, if you’d like to help with the chopping. Do you mind?”
“No, not at all,” Sheloran said, smiling at him. “Do we have the right spices?”
“We do. Thurvishar’s always done a good job of keeping the pantry stocked.” Qown found himself smiling back. He was just so glad she was still talking to him. Plus, it was nice to have a helper; she’d picked up the cooking basics quickly for someone who’d grown up with servants doing all the work her whole life.
Mostly, it was nice to think about … something else.
Qown eyed the ingredients. “We should toast the spices.”
“You’re right, we—” Sheloran frowned and lit the fire again, because the tiny fire had died immediately instead of catching. This time, she concentrated until more than just the tinder caught. “If only we had clarified butter.”
“We have that as well,” Qown said. “There’s a preservation box that keeps perishables from spoiling.”
Sheloran stared. “All the ice in the world won’t keep food from going bad for as long as it would have been sitting here, Qown.”
“That’s true,” he replied, “but this isn’t a cold box. I don’t know how it works—”
“Thurvishar created it,” Senera said distractedly. “It’s ingenious.” She seemed to have no idea that she’d just said a complimentary thing about her rival.
Although Qown was starting to feel like rival might be the wrong word for that relationship.
Talon’s chuckle was chilling. “Oh, so does that mean it’s story time?” She happily drummed her fingers against each other. “I love story time. And being back here in the Lighthouse, well, it’s making me all nostalgic. I really should go find a rock.”4
Senera straightened. “Talon, what are you plotting?”
“Senera, they think I’m untrustworthy,” Talon explained, all wide-eyed innocence. “But don’t worry. I’m not going to jump ahead. I mean, Qown is right; Vol Karoth cut off the story far too soon.”
“Nobody wants to sit here and listen to you talk,” Kalindra said.
“That’s fine. I wasn’t going to talk.” Talon smiled, then tilted her head to the side and gave Qown a wink. “We’ll just keep going with your story, won’t we, ducky?”
“What?” Qown nearly dropped the bag of lentils he was holding. “No, I don’t want to do that—”
“Oh, I’m sorry. You misunderstand. I wasn’t asking permission.”
The world changed.
Qown’s memory
Still in the Lotus Court section of the Rose Palace
Qown didn’t dare move. The guards had him locked in an iron grip, fingers digging into him so hard it was impossible that he wouldn’t have bruises to show for it.
Lord D’Talus watched the woman go. As soon as the D’Mons were out of sight, he turned back to his guards. “Release him. Now will someone explain what happened here again without the hysterical woman trying to drown it out with theatrics?”
Sheloran nodded. “Assassins attacked our carriage on the way back from the funeral, Father. They killed almost all our guards, apparently with inside help from the carriage driver. So we knew it wasn’t safe to return to the Blue Palace. Where else could we go?” She gave Galen’s unconscious body a concerned look. “I certainly didn’t expect his aunt Gerisea would be here, which was rotten luck. Since she thought you and Mother were gone, she took advantage of the opportunity to be rid of Galen. Did you know Gerisea was a sorceress?”
Lord D’Talus’s face twisted like he’d just bitten down on an unripe persimmon. “No, but it doesn’t surprise me. Therin never really cared what his children got up to as long as they weren’t caught.”
“The nerve of some people,” Sheloran said dryly.
“Indeed. Now come over here and give your father a hug.” He held out his arms to Sheloran.
“Daddy…” She rushed into her father’s arms. “It really wasn’t my fault this time.”
He kissed the top of Sheloran’s head before letting her go. “It wasn’t your fault last time either. I’m just glad nothing came of it.” Lord D’Talus then gestured toward one of the men tending to his son-in-law. “Nothing did come of it, right? He’ll recover?”
“Just stunned, my lord. They should be up and around in a few minutes.”
“Good.” Lord D’Talus scanned the group with a clear expression of distaste on his features. “They’re a mess. Bring everyone new clothing and show them to the baths. My wife will want to speak with them when she returns. If anyone needs me, I’ll be in the workshop.” He gave his daughter a glare that would have been terrifying if he hadn’t been hugging her just a moment before. “Make sure no one needs me.”
With that, High Lord D’Talus swept back out of the room.
The next few hours turned into a blur. Qown was firmly escorted away from the others and taken to the very large, private D’Talus bathhouse. A number of attendants promptly took his clothes (he could only hope they intended on cleaning them) and set about yanking him through a series of hot and cold baths before subjecting him to a vigorous scrubbing and massage. After that, he was rinsed off once more and finally allowed to just sit and soak in a large heated indoor pool, which was empty of anyone else.
Or … not. He hadn’t been there for more than a minute when the doors opened and Anlyr was escorted inside.
Qown turned away and studied the engraved metal walls. He immediately chided himself. He had no idea why he was letting himself be so flustered by just—everything. It’s not like he’d never been in a public bath before. But it had been a few years—bathing was strictly a very private activity in Duke Kaen’s court—and what he might have once not even thought about suddenly seemed embarrassing and awkward.
“You know, this isn’t how I imagined my day would go,” Anlyr said, splashing water as he made his way over to Qown. “Would you have ever predicted it? Not one but two assassination attempts?”
Of course. Anlyr was the sort who loved to talk while soaking after a bath. A perfect match with the smile and the cheerful eyes. Qown had a sudden brief bout of sympathy for Senera whenever Talea would bounce after her, chattering away.
Qown swallowed. “No, absolutely not.”
“I was a bit out of it back there, but how did you end up with us? You didn’t work with House D’Mon before this, did you?” Anlyr’s eyes were bright, his smile friendly.
“Uh, no. I’m a priest of Vishai.” He paused and reflected that he was probably going to have to explain—again—what that meant. Qown felt a peculiar sense of floundering, almost resentment, at the idea. He didn’t want to have to keep explaining his beliefs.
But Anlyr surprised him. “Oh, I should have known that. I have a cousin who joined the Vishai. But if you don’t mind me saying, I never would have expected a priest of Vishai to end up with the D’Mons.”
Qown blinked and raised his head, looking at Anlyr. “Wait. You’re from Eamithon?”
“Oh yes,” Anlyr said. “Sterenale. That’s just a—”
“I know where Sterenale is. I’m from Vanoizi.”
“Really!” Anlyr straightened, clearly delighted. “That’s just an hour down the road! That’s fantastic. My brother has a bakery in Vanoizi. Colarin’s.”
Qown’s mouth dropped open. “Colarin’s? I know Colarin’s! They have the most amazing black lentil sag…”
“Oh, you should try their caraba. Astonishing. And those tiny little dibis … And stop, stop. You’re making me hungry and homesick.” Anlyr laughed and splashed water in Qown’s direction.
“Hey, you were back there a few days ago. I haven’t been back in years…” Qown stopped smiling and looked to the side. This was the second time someone had brought up his birthplace in one day, and he wasn’t enjoying it any more with repetition.
Anlyr put a hand on Qown’s shoulder, broad fingers clasping him. “I’m sure you can go back.” He was suddenly standing very close.
Qown stared at him, wide-eyed, and flinched backward away from Anlyr’s touch and Anlyr’s … everything.
Anlyr started to say something, then he seemed to realize how nervous Qown looked and instead backed away. “Ah, right. Sorry about that. I know Vishai take vows. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable. I wasn’t trying to make a play at you.”
Qown started to laugh it away, offer his assurance that he hadn’t taken it that way at all. Then he realized that most people wouldn’t have assumed Qown would take it that way. Most people would have thought he was flinching because of the violence of the day, because he’d been caught off guard, because he was a cloistered, introverted priest who wasn’t used to being around other people so much. They wouldn’t have assumed Qown’s hesitation had anything to do with attraction.
Qown blinked. “Yes, you were.”
He felt absolutely astonished. He’d never in his life … well, almost never. A few times in Jorat, but they’d always seemed so impersonal. He’d always felt he was being approached because it would be a bit rude not to approach. Good manners and all that. Absolved of all responsibility once Qown said no, which he always did. Never because someone was actually interested. And this beautiful man—practically from his hometown—no, it was impossible.
It made no sense at all.
Anlyr’s expression brightened into a wide smile. “Sure, but if you’re not interested, I’m allowed to say I never meant it that way. Those are the rules.” He shrugged. “If you’re working for the D’Mons, you’re not a Vishai priest anymore, are you?”
All the moisture evaporated from Qown’s throat. He stood very straight and stared at the wall with renewed dedication, while his mind floundered and slipped under. That wasn’t … That couldn’t be …
But did the Vishai faith even exist? Did it even exist when he knew perfectly well that it was all a fraud perpetrated by Relos Var to further his own agenda? Could it be worth continuing to follow if he knew that his church had been built on a foundation of lies? He only worked for Father Zajhera as a front for truly working for Relos Var, and Relos Var didn’t demand a vow of chastity.
He only demanded obedience.5
Qown wondered if it might be possible to think about something else, anything else. He took a deep breath and attempted to force himself into a state of calm. Anlyr seemed nice. He was certainly brave. And he’d been through a great deal that day. He didn’t deserve Qown being upset at him for reasons that ultimately were none of Anlyr’s doing. If anything, Qown was just surprised that someone on this side of the Dragonspires would be bold enough to make this sort of advance. In Jorat? Sure. But here…? Maybe this was something that had always existed, though, and Qown had just never been paying attention enough to see it.
Meanwhile, Anlyr had no idea what Qown was thinking, only that he’d stopped smiling and seemed upset. “Hey, forget I said anything. I’ll just, uh … We’d best not linger, anyway. Not if the high lady really is waiting to interrogate us. That should be fun.”
“For certain definitions of fun, I suppose.” Qown forced down his heartbeat, slowed his breathing. He could do this. There was, ultimately, nothing at all to be ashamed of, was there? “Let’s see what we have to do to find our clothing.”
Clothing turned out to be easily acquired. It wasn’t Qown’s clothing, however, which the attendants had mysteriously lost, even going so far as to claim they never received any robes in the first place. They proved resolutely impervious to any of Qown’s attempts to convince them to materialize his original priestly garments. What he was given instead were very plain linen robes that were at least without anything like decoration or pretension—although, in Qown’s opinion, they were far too thin. They seemed more like the sort of garments one might wear at a bath, if one intended to stay at the bath and not go out in public. Temporary, placeholder garments. It actually got Qown’s hopes up that they might intend on returning his Vishai robes.
Anlyr was given a guard uniform for House D’Mon.
After they’d both changed, they were escorted into a sitting room, where they were served a meal. Qown suspected this was some sort of area for guests—not nearly as nice as what the royals themselves would enjoy, but far better than one might ever expect outside one of the palaces. And then there was the food: saffron-laced butter rice, cooked in a rose-shaped copper pan until seared with a perfect crust, decanted right at the table, and drizzled with a tart cherry sauce; sorshi balls—coconut, cherimoya, and sugar apple—dusted with different-colored powdered sugars; hot-spiced dakerra, served a perfect medium rare, along with herbed sag bread for rolls; and, to crown it all, a delicate kevra sorbet.
If Qown found out this was what the servants ate, he was going to seriously reconsider his life choices.
As soon as they were finished, several servants in House D’Talus colors arrived.
“If you would,” one of the servants said to Anlyr, “I will escort you back to Lord D’Mon.”
Anlyr stood. “Yes, that would be fantastic. Thank you.”
Qown waited a moment, but the guard left with the servant behind him, and nobody had indicated he should follow. He stood up, intending on possibly following, anyway, when one of the other servants turned to him. “If you would come with us, please.”
“Where are we going?” Qown asked.
“The temple,” the man answered as if that did in fact explain anything.
It very much did not. It especially did not as Qown exited into one of the open areas and realized two important facts about this temple. The first was that it was still inside the Rose Palace—very unusual. Most temples would be in the Ivory District in the Capital. Royals seldom kept their own holy sites beyond the occasional chapel.
The second important piece of information was that this was a temple dedicated to Caless, goddess of sex.
“Oh no,” Qown said, turning around.
But House D’Talus servants seemed to expect that and found it amusing. One of them grinned. “It’s fine! Lady D’Talus wants to talk to you, that’s all.”
Qown stepped back. “Lady D’Talus is in there? In a temple to Caless?” He felt a spike of dread tear through him. Because it wasn’t the fact that Caless was the goddess of sex that made him feel chilled.
It was that he had an odd sort of connection to Caless, who was Suless’s daughter. Once, that wouldn’t have meant anything to him, but once, he thought Suless was just a long-dead remnant of half-forgotten god-king tales. The idea of god-queens being real and horrible and perfectly capable of ruining lives was much more believable now than it had once been. And unlike Suless, whom everyone had long believed dead, Caless was very much alive and reputed to be every bit as wicked as her mother. Wicked, in this instance, having all kinds of nefarious sexual connotations as well as moral ones.
“Sometimes, yes,” the man said. “Now please come along.”
He forced himself back under control, reminding himself that this was what Relos Var had asked him to do, and it would look odd for him to refuse. The temple itself was strangely lovely, a small building of lacework, carved stone, and orchid flowers, with architectural elements that suggested sexuality without openly depicting anything lewd or obscene.
A priest came to meet them at the door. He wore his head shaved bald and had a line of gold earrings piercing each ear. His eyes were lined with black kohl, and he wore an agolé with no garment underneath save for extremely baggy kef, leaving his well-muscled chest bare. At his belt, he wore a long, curved knife.
“Ah, so here’s my victim,” the man said.
Qown stopped.
The priest started laughing. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t help myself. I bet you thought I was going to ask if you’re a virgin next. The look on your face is priceless. I’m Aryahal. I’m going to help you with your disguise.”
Qown blinked. “I’m sorry. My what?”
“Come forward. Let me look at you.” The priest made a shooing motion to the servants who had escorted Qown. “A disguise. Something about having made enemies recently and you shouldn’t look so much like exactly what you are. You very much do look like a priest. Such soulful eyes. I bet you could convince a scorpion to confess its sins.” He frowned, pausing thoughtfully. “Are you … are you Vishai?” He seemed faintly incredulous.
“I’m, uh … yes?” Qown wondered if he could possibly make a run for it.
“I thought you might be.” The priest gestured toward one of the low couches. “Have a seat. We should talk.”
Qown moved over and sat down, feeling uncomfortable and strange. He wondered where Galen was and was honestly tempted to go run somewhere to use Worldhearth to find him. The only problem was that searching through the Rose Palace was a bit like staring into the sun—there were so many heat sources, it tended to make everything blur together.
“You pay a license fee to House D’Mon, yes?” Aryahal asked.
“Well, I used to—”
The priest held up his hands. “The priests of Caless don’t tend to have the same relationship with House D’Mon that Vishai priests do, but that’s only because House D’Jorax and House D’Mon have been feuding for the better part of the last three hundred years over which of them should claim us. House D’Jorax because Caless is inaccurately grouped under ‘entertainment’ or House D’Mon because body modifications might be considered ‘healing.’ So while our orders have rarely crossed paths, it might be accurate to say that your church and mine annoy all the same people.”
Qown started to protest, but then stopped. He frowned. “Inaccurately grouped…? Caless is the goddess of sex, the goddess of … uh…” He knew he was blushing, but couldn’t stop himself. “Prostitutes.”
Aryahal’s lips turned downward. “Caless is the goddess of love,” he corrected. “And love is not an emotion that the Royal Houses have ever found useful. Sex, on the other hand, is a tradable commodity.” He drew himself up. “But that’s not important. What is important is that I have been asked to provide you any physical alterations to your appearance that you might desire. You saved the daughter of the high lady, and as a result, she is feeling generous. Anything you like. Eye color, skin, anything. Always hated your nose? We can fix that.”
Qown stared at the man. He knew enough about healing spells to know how such things might be performed, but he knew of no method for doing so that wouldn’t be incredibly, intensely, unbelievably painful.
“Thank you, but I don’t need any of that.”
Which is when a woman’s voice snapped, “You stupid boy, it’s not about what you want. It’s about saving my daughter’s life.”
Qown turned in his seat and then fought not to let his mouth drop open.
Standing behind him, at the entrance to the temple, was a stunning woman dressed in red ombré silks, with red hair—scarlet red, crimson red, not any natural color—piled up high on her head before falling back behind her like a red cloak. Despite her appearance, she struck him as being like the Rose Palace itself—smooth, made of steel, and full of thorns. The only thing about her that wasn’t some shade or tone of red was a blue crystal she wore nestled in her cleavage—a rough-cut piece of indigo gemstone set in a lavish gold cradle crafted to look like flames.6
The priest was on his feet immediately, bowing. “My lady.”
High Lady D’Talus sailed into the room, the transparent layered silks of her dress unfurling behind her as she walked. “I’m sending my daughter and her husband into hiding for a few weeks while we attempt to see if we can find a diplomatic solution to this mess. But that does me no good at all if the very identifiable Vishai priest whom my son-in-law insists is coming along with him still looks the same as the man that Gerisea D’Mon managed to get a good, hard look at. Her assassins will find you, and then her assassins will find Galen and Sheloran. Unacceptable. So. You will change your appearance. You will be in disguise. You will keep your head down. You will stay out of trouble.” She gave Qown a searching gaze. “Am I understood?”
Qown met her eyes and then had to fight not to flinch. Her eyes weren’t D’Talus red. They were red like Janel’s—red and orange and gold, like a flame. Then he remembered she was waiting on an answer. “Yes, my lady.”
She frowned. “Honestly, I don’t even understand why he’s bothering.” Then her hand lashed out, far faster than Qown would have expected, and grabbed him by the chin. She turned his head to the side, then back again. “There’s nothing wrong with your bone structure. Reasonably good symmetry. Your skin’s a bit loose. It makes you look older than you are. Were you starved?”
Qown’s eyes widened. “I … I was, uh … I spent a few years with people who didn’t really eat much other than meat, and I don’t eat meat, so … I lost a lot of weight.”
“And you haven’t gained it back since?”
“No, I … My studies keep me busy. I forget to eat.” Which was mostly true, although it was really that when he used Worldhearth, it was far too easy to ignore the needs of his physical body—including hunger.
“You’re malnourished,” she announced. “And it’s just as unhealthy to starve yourself as it is to overeat. Assuming overeating was the issue and not a metabolic imbalance, which I’m more inclined to believe. Fix that, Aryahal. I want his skin looking like he’s bathed in ass’s milk and roses every day of his life.”
“Yes, my lady.”
She continued to study Qown even as she removed her hand from his jaw. “Give him hair; that’s the easiest change. Striking hair, so people notice that first. Oh, and change his eye color.”
“That’s very kind, but I don’t—” But they weren’t listening to Qown.
“D’Mon blue?” Aryahal asked.
“Tempting, given most people don’t know how careful Darzin D’Mon was to not flood the world with Ogenra, but people would question why he’s not running off to present himself. Any D’Mon Ogenra out there who’s not an idiot is going to be showing up and asking for formal admission to the house, no matter how embarrassing their background. No, make it gold. The way Palnyr D’Kaje goes through concubines, it’s a wonder half the Lower Circle isn’t yellow-eyed.”
“Is that—is that really necessary?” Qown asked, starting to feel thoroughly horrified.
“Yes,” Lady D’Talus answered harshly. “It really is.”
“I thought you wanted me to be unnoticed, though? Isn’t it going to look weird when a blue-eyed royal and a yellow-eyed royal are spending time with each other?”
The corner of her mouth quirked. “My son-in-law tells me that you can do a trick with writing in light, yes?”
Qown swallowed and nodded, feeling irritably betrayed that Galen D’Mon had told someone else about the witchgift he’d revealed in confidence. But that wasn’t the real problem. The real problem was that impersonating a royal was a capital offense, which this woman undoubtedly knew. “Yes.”
“Perfect for the witchgift of a lamplighter’s guild reject slumming in the Lower Circle then. Yes, that will do nicely.” She pointed to the priest. “Hair, eyes, skin, raise the cheekbones a bit, fix his teeth. Don’t forget his nails. Bring him to the others when you’re finished.”
The priest nodded. Qown fought down his panic and stared at his hands, feeling ugly and embarrassed. He’d never paid attention to what he looked like. It had never mattered.
Lady D’Talus turned to leave. Indeed, Qown thought that she had and didn’t realize that wasn’t the case until she spoke again, much softer. “Who’s done this to you, Qown? Who twisted you like this?”
He startled and stared back at her, wide-eyed.
Lady D’Talus stood at the doorway, and the expression on her face was not the haughty arrogance that it had been just a few minutes before. She did, however, look angry.
“I’m sorry? No one’s … no one’s hurt me.” He refused to think of Relos Var, of how the wizard had gaeshed him. That had been for his protection, because the alternative would have meant his death.
She scowled. “Do you know what you should be doing right now?”
“No, I—”
“You should be telling me to go fuck myself.”
He swallowed. “Oh no, Your Highness. You’re a royal—”
She waved that away. “I’m a royal who’s ordering Aryahal to change your bone structure, your muscles, your eyes. And you know that’s going to hurt. You know just how much that will hurt. You’re not my slave. You’re not Galen’s slave. You’re a free man who’s known Galen D’Mon for less than a day. You shouldn’t be meekly submitting to treatment like this from anyone. You should be walking out that door and saying, ‘I quit,’ because no one has the right to do this to you against your will. But you’re not. Why?”
“I was asked to—I mean, you said it would endanger—oh stars.” He found himself floundering. He was supposed to have some sort of smooth lie for this, right? Some sort of justification for why this was important enough to him to make it worth his while to put up with this treatment. Something that wasn’t “Because my master, Relos Var, ordered me to stay by Galen’s side and earn his trust, and so that’s what I have to do even if it means letting you change what I look like when I see myself in a mirror.”
Lady D’Talus cocked her head and studied him as she stepped back toward him. “You Vishai talk a lot about love and selflessness. How important it is to love others, sacrifice for others, put the happiness of others before your own. But do you know what I have learned in all my years? And don’t let my appearance fool you. I’m older than I look. I’ve learned that all that sounds sweet but means very little if you’ve never learned to love yourself. You are allowed—no, you are entitled—to think of your own health and safety first. Someone has taught you that you aren’t worth the same love you would give a stranger. That someone deserves to be slapped quite hard.”
Qown didn’t have any idea what to say. He found himself blinking back tears and wondering just who the hell this woman was and how she had managed to just … dismantle him … so easily.
Lady D’Talus’s expression softened, just a little. “I’ve known far too many like you, and you never last long. The world grinds you to pieces.” She gestured, not at Qown but behind him, to the priest. “All right. We’re done here.”
“You weren’t serious about doing all that, then?” Qown asked.
“Oh no, you silly child. I’m still saving your life, whether you want me to or not.” Lady D’Talus told him. “But there’s no law that says you have to be awake for it.”
Aryahal stepped up behind Qown and set his hands against his temples. Everything turned to the softest velvet, wrapped inside a veil of sleep.