5
The king has invited his surviving challengers to a feast.
We’re forced to leave our weapons at the door with his guards. Killing isn’t allowed inside, because, according to the Watchman, “The king thinks there are too many gods-damned wraiths already haunting the castle.” He looks around at us. “The dead don’t stay quiet here. Kill someone within these walls, and the king will have you hanged on the closest cliffs.”
The castle itself has magic. All the Great Houses do.
I can feel it in the air like a whisper upon my skin as I walk over the threshold.
Someone shoves me to the side with their shoulder, and I would have cracked my head against the obsidian floor if it wasn’t for Kira keeping me upright.
I look up to see Cadoc wink at me before he strides down the corridor.
Killing might not be allowed, but there are other ways to hurt a person.
I’ll be sleeping with furniture against the door of my room, if I sleep at all.
When I make it through the grand foyer, my lips part. The outside of this castle is pure fortress—three rings of thick stone walls, high enough to keep all the hungry subjects out.
But the inside is gilded to utter excess.
Silver, everywhere. The king’s collection isn’t hidden behind a vault, it’s proudly displayed, hung upon every wall.
There are monstrous silver wings that once might have belonged to a great beast. Silver feathers that look dipped in starlight. Enchanted chalices, sitting upon stands, next to ancient books with blank pages.
I look around in awe and horror, at all the king has kept for himself, until I reach the base of a grand double staircase.
The Watchman is standing on the bottom step, hawk nowhere to be seen.
“Pair up,” he orders. “Find a room and make yourselves presentable for dinner.”
Then he strides away, likely to go give the king a full report on everything that’s happened.
Kira grabs my arm. “Come on,” she says, wincing, like her head still hurts. “Let’s get a good room.”
I don’t think there is a bad room in this castle, but I follow her lead up the stairs, marveling at each step. These are nothing like the ones leading up to the ruins. Every stair is whole, and made of thick marble that’s shined so perfectly, I can almost see my reflection in them. At the top, we turn left, taking the opposite hallway as Cadoc and his group.
“He isn’t so intimidating without his militia,” Kira says. His personal guards were turned away at the castle’s entrance. “Or his fancy gold sword.”
I grunt in agreement, but I don’t take my eyes off him until he turns the corner.
The Culling has begun. Everyone will be looking for a way to rise above the others. Treachery will be celebrated. Plans will be forming.
Kira makes a choking sound. I whirl toward her, hand going for a sword that isn’t there— Only to find her standing in awe in front of an opened door. She isn’t even being dramatic, I decide, when I slowly step next to her.
And nearly fall to my knees.
A bed. A real mattress, with thick blankets and pillows on top. Luxuries that would be ridiculous in Nightfell.
A rush of guilt poisons my excitement. Stellan might not have given me a true bed, or pillows, but he gave me a home when mine burned to the ground. He gave me everything when it would have been so much easier to
just let me curl up and die.
Look where that got him.
Kira kicks off her muddy boots and hurries in. “There’s a private tub!” she yells. “I’m using it.”
I hear a door slam and then the sound of water running just beyond it.
Steps echo. The hall fills with voices as the rest of the challengers find their rooms. I finally walk inside, shut the door, then slide all the way down it, not wanting to sully the bed with my dirty clothing. From the floor, I run my fingers down the pale lilac wallpaper made of—is that silk?
Shit. It is.
The wall is wearing the most luxurious fabric I’ve ever felt in my life.
And the rest of the room is just as opulent. I look around, taking in the gold trim of the ceiling, the four-poster bed, the massive hearth, the thick, richly woven curtains, and door-sized silver frame, surrounding a simple painting
of a knight.
What a waste of good metal.
I’m not in that broken and blood-soaked forest anymore. But my body doesn’t seem to know the difference between a castle and a battle. It isn’t fooled by this finery.
My heart is still racing, anticipating the next danger. My pulse beats against the stone wall. I breathe in slowly, the way my mother taught me a long time ago, whenever I would get so overwhelmed, the world seemed to narrow into a keyhole. Her warm hand steady against my back, she would count for me. Eight seconds to draw a breath. Eight seconds to hold. Eight
seconds to breathe out.
Breathe … just … breathe.
I do, and eventually, my heartbeat slows. My mind settles. My eyes close, as I drift into a half-sleep, waiting for my turn to clean up.
Kira doesn’t surface for twenty minutes, leaving little time for my own bath. But when she emerges beaming, I can’t bring myself to be annoyed.
The soft, floral scent of soap fills the room. My breath catches.
I haven’t smelled flowers in years. Nightfell had only the occasional blossom. Once, a wildflower sprouted just outside the ancient graves, about a mile from our home. I visited it every morning, watching it bloom—then watching it die, far too quickly. You are a phoenix, I told it as the petals withered away, repeating Stellan’s own words to me. You grew in poisoned ground. You’ll grow again. You will rise.
It never did.
Kira twirls in a plush towel, another luxury. The patch of missing hair has been covered with a strip of wrappings she must have found inside the bathroom. “I’ve never seen a tub in a house before. We bathe in ponds,
mostly, since the sea’s too briny. Or the common tubs.” She makes a face.
“They make you share sometimes.”
I shudder at that image, suddenly grateful for the bath that Stellan
installed in a closet for me.
“Go,” she snaps. “You’ll make us late.”
I sigh as I walk inside the bathroom. Then pause.
This isn’t just a closet. It’s nearly the same size as the room. There’s … polished stone on the walls, and the floor. The faucets are plated in gold.
The mirrors are lined in bronze.
Kira drained the tub, at least, and turned the taps on to replace the water.
I let it run, and my eyes widen at the curl of steam. The water is warm.
I lock the bathroom door and try the handle twice. Only then do I begin to strip off my clothing, until it’s a muddied pile on the marble.
A clean, large mirror shows the skin I’ve hidden for most of my life.
Thin silver rootlike markings spread down my throat, shoulders, arms, chest, and sides.
Silver is a forbidden color for mortals. It’s the color of the gods. My
markings make me strange. Dangerous.
Sky-touched, according to my parents.
If the king knew of my marks, I would be imprisoned by his guards. Or added to his collections. Or carved open and studied. I’m not sure which of those fates is worse. Stellan taught me to wield a blade, in fear that one day I would be found out.
And now here I am, right in his castle … I swallow. I’ve hidden my skin for so long that my nakedness almost feels wrong. My own body feels illicit.
I shoot another glance at the door, making sure the lock is turned, then lean over the counter, studying myself more closely, checking for newer markings and injuries. This mirror is so damned clean. I see myself more clearly than I have in years.
I wince as I get a good look at my face. I look exactly like someone who has lived out of a cart for the past day and a half. The cut is a crust of blood.
Dirt is smeared across my cheeks, obscuring the dusting of freckles. My eyes are red, but the dark blue still shines brightly. Strands stick up wildly through the braids in my hair. I’ll have to wash it more than once to get the grime out.
Still … I’ve gotten to the castle relatively unscathed.
For now.
The tub is full. I dip in each leg, tensing at the scalding heat—then sighing as I sink down. My hands are tired from tightly gripping my sword, the muscle along my forearm screaming as I grip the edges of the bath. My thighs are aching after hours on the back of a horse.
Now, my sore muscles seem to melt. For the first time in a while, my body goes almost boneless. I wish I had more time to enjoy it, but I don’t.
The feast is waiting.
I begin to scrub myself with one of the bars of soap. One time isn’t enough. I scrub again, and then again. I undo my hair, then wash it several times before attempting to comb the strands with my fingers.
A knock sounds against the door, and I jerk in panic, then remember it’s locked.
“It’s almost time to leave,” Kira calls from the other side.
With a whisper of regret, I step out of the tub and into a soft towel.
Another knock on the door has me tightening it around myself.
“There are clothes in the wardrobe. Open up.”
I tense.
Kira knocks again.
I don’t move a single inch.
But I can’t just hide in here. I need clothes. I can’t be suspicious. I wrap another towel around my shoulders, shrouding myself. I open the door just a sliver.
Kira isn’t even looking as she tosses the clothing toward me. I close the door again and stare at two options.
A simple dress with a low neckline. I wish. I throw it to the side without a second glance.
Pants and a long-sleeved shirt. Perfect.
My throat will still be visible, so I tear the sleeves off my old shirt, then put it on beneath the new one, to keep its high collar. I turn and look at myself in the mirror. The color is nearly exact. It’s not an ideal solution, but when I have more time, I’ll do a better job of fixing the new shirt with the supplies in my bag.
Quickly, I begin to braid my hair in its usual style, adding the pins, then open the door to find Kira, hand lifted as if she was about to knock again.
Her hair is tied up now too. She must have realized the liability it posed, after what happened with Waldron.
Her stomach grumbles. Mine echoes the sound.
She sighs. “Finally.” She takes my hand and all but drags me from the room. “Let’s meet the king.”
Long tables fill a room larger than the entire Nightfell square.
Swords are hung along the walls like decoration. Silver swords, enough to arm a battalion.
It’s a testament to the current peace between sides that they aren’t being used right now. It’s all thanks to the gates. Thanks to the agreement that the immortals would allow fifty of us to pass through them every fifty years to try to get some magic of our own.
I’m not the only one staring at the swords. The man next to me looks up at them with unadulterated longing. His cheekbones are visible. He doesn’t fit his new clothes; the fabric is rolled at his hips.
During the Culling and the Questral, our weapons will be the difference between life and death. Only a handful in this room have swords that compare to the ones shimmering just above, just out of reach, as if they’re mocking us.
We remain standing, crowded against the back wall. No one wants to be the first person to sit.
The thin man begins to fidget as attendants bring in silver trays of food.
Through gaps in the group, I see piles of potatoes. Meats. Fish, even, which is perplexing, given how far we are from the coast.
On my other side, Kira swallows. “I don’t know which one I want more.
That sword or that turkey leg.”
Her stomach growls.
“Definitely the turkey leg,” she says, just as the doors across the room swing open. There’s a moment of stillness, of anticipation.
Then in walks the king.
“He’s shorter than I thought he would be,” Kira whispers, and I dig my elbow into her arm.
She’s right, though. He is far shorter than he looks in the propaganda his guards occasionally leave throughout the villages, which I collect and use for kindling.
His skin is smooth, youthful, even, but with a waxy sheen. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He wears a crown of pure silver, with points sharp enough to draw blood.
He could be considered handsome, I suppose, but not by me. I wonder for a moment how this man has been able to keep us all under his thumb for so long.
The king of Stormside is legendary for his ability to survive countless obstacles. Stellan used to call him a roach. He’s said to be more than two hundred years old—impossible for anyone on this side … without magic.
He claims his youthfulness and unnatural lifespan is gods-given. He uses
it as proof that he should rule.
Seeing him now, it all makes sense.
His people are dying, yet here he is hoarding magic.
My hands curl into fists. The gods might be to blame for keeping magic on one side, but the king has clearly kept much of what comes through for himself.
For the first time, I wonder if more challengers returned than we knew about … that never made it past the king.
Is that what happened to Stellan’s cup? Did the king … take it?
A single drop of magic from Starside can make a field fertile for a century. It can revitalize a village. It can heal the sick.
It can also extend a life.
At once, the challengers in front of me start to bow, and I would rather die, but Kira pulls me down beside her. “What are you doing?” she snaps at me, and I don’t know. I shouldn’t care about the king. He’s just a step toward my fate. I’ll never see him again.
Still, kneeling before him feels wrong. Especially now that I wonder if the Questral is truly meant to serve our people … Or him.
“Please, rise,” he says, his voice easygoing. We do. “Sit.”
We do that too, each of us shuffling toward a chair. Kira drags me toward the two right in front of the plate of turkey legs.
Once we’re all seated, the king’s eyes roam over us, and they are not casual at all. No, now they are calculating.
The king is no fool. I can see it in the way his eyes immediately linger on who I’ve already marked as my greatest competition.
Cadoc, if only because he seems to have endless resources and his friends under his thumb. He might not have guards anymore, but he has a handful of challengers willing to kill for him. Two of them are archers. I wonder what he’s promised them.
The Enders, who look like a mountain range, sit side by side at the same table. They have weapons forged from shreds of Starside steel. I never thought that such a small quantity could be dangerous, but I was wrong.
Whoever made that chain was ingenious in how they got so much out of so little. Their swords are all bronze, the lowest of the high metals, but strong, all the same.
Valen. The archer I watched kill dozens in the forest with her bow and iron-tipped arrows. Her tan skin is covered in glimmering chain mail. It’s iron too, a lesser metal, but any type of armor is costly. Her dark hair is cut short. She turns sharply to look at me, and I glance away.
Then, of course, there is Harlan Raker, who sits at the end of the last table, as far from the king as physically possible.
The king nods at the head of his guard. Raker gives the slightest tilt of his head in return.
He does not lower his hood or mask, even inside. Even at a feast. Even in front of the king. I wonder if he’ll be ordered to.
But the king doesn’t say a word. Is he afraid? Has he ever seen beneath Raker’s famous mask or his battle helmet?
For the first time, I realize Raker must be making the quest on the king’s orders. Of course. It’s the only way the king would allow someone so
valuable to take the risk.
Why? To get the king more magic?
Is the king finally after immortality?
If so … chances are good he’ll get the opportunity to make the Turn. If any of us is making it back with a full cup of magic, it’s Harlan Raker.
The king continues speaking. “You have already survived several obstacles to be here. The platform. The journey. You have been culled from two hundred and twenty-six to just one hundred and fifty.” His gaze sweeps over us once again. “Tonight, you will know peace for perhaps the last time.
Killing is forbidden. You may wander these halls as you please. You may eat your fill. You may sleep soundly. And sleep you should.” His eyes glisten with amusement. “Because tomorrow, the Culling begins in
earnest.”
Next to me, Kira swallows.
The king looks around at us, brown eyes lingering on each challenger.
“You each have a reason for leaving your lives behind and going on this
deadly quest.” He lifts his chin. “But the Questral is not just about individuals … The magic you bring back helps us all.”
Him especially, it seems.
“Some of you have survived by pure luck. But luck won’t get you through Starside. Neither will alliances. Every day on that side will test you, and you alone must be strong enough to fight, if you are to take one of the coveted fifty spots. Bravery is admirable. But skill is better.
“You can only survive a quest across ancient, unforgiving lands by being resourceful and ruthless. The Culling is simple. At sunrise, you will leave this castle and race to the gates. The first fifty through them will embark on
the quest.”
I blink. That’s it?
I just have to beat most of the other challengers there. It seems almost simple.
As if sensing relief from most of us, the king frowns. “The way to the gates is laden with challenges.” Of course it is.
He stands dramatically. The food in front of us is going cold. He doesn’t seem to care. Kira’s stomach growls again.
“Now … a choice.” He looks at the walls. “These swords were sired by my own legendary blade, Maverick.” He pulls the sword from its scabbard, and a gasp spreads through the group. It’s thick—made of several sheets of pure silver. Perhaps even several swords blended together. He sheaths it just as quickly. “I will offer you a chance to claim one of my swords …”
Kira perks up next to me. Her own sword is of far lesser metal—nickel, the most common across Stormside.
“… in exchange for an oath. You will swear on your sword that should you survive and return with magic, you will give half to me.”
There. The confirmation I was waiting for. He is taking some of the magic.
Half wouldn’t be so bad, if the king planned to disperse the magic across his lands, but the current state of Stormside is proof he hasn’t. No, he’s keeping it.
So this is how he has kept himself alive all this time.
The thin man stands. “I’ll do it,” he says, practically wobbling with exhaustion.
The king looks at him as if he’s dirt. Still, he reaches up—and one of the swords flies into his awaiting palm. Just like Raker was able to call his own
blade.
Gasps fill the room.
Sword-magic. Can all swords be called, with skill, or only ones made from high metals? Could Stellan do it?
“Come here, boy,” the king says, and the man slowly shuffles forward.
His hands tremble as he reaches toward the blade. The king shakes his head.
“This blade would never have accepted you, to be sure, but I am bestowing it upon you. Do not disappoint me.”
The man is practically in tears as he says, “I won’t. Thank you, King.”
He bows before him and then happily returns to his seat.
“Anyone else?”
Almost everybody else. It isn’t a surprise that nearly the entire group takes the king up on his offer. Over and over, I watch him call the metal down. Kira tries to tug me forward, but I stay seated, even though my own blade is several steps down from silver.
I don’t trust the king. If these swords were made from shreds of his own … could he control them? No, I have no business making any oaths. Not when I don’t plan on returning anyway.
And I certainly have no business making any oaths on my sword to a king I would rather see dead at the end of it.
The only others who also remain seated are Zane, and the handful of additional challengers who have high-quality metal.
And Raker, who has a better sword than even the king.
When the last sword has been called down, the king walks over to the head of one of the tables. My table.
His eyes sweep across the challengers before landing on me. They narrow. His mouth is turned up in an amused smile, but his tone is cold as steel as he says, “You, girl. What kind of blade do you have that is better than my own?”
A hush settles around me. Kira tenses. For as grimy as the king is, he is the most powerful person on this side. He could order me dead, or kill me where I sit, and no one would think twice about it.
“It’s titanium, sir,” I say, keeping my voice measured. Docile, even.
He scoffs. “That would surely shatter against one of my blades. Why not take me up on my offer?”
I will my smile to be pleasant. “For my blade to shatter, someone has to block it.”
Silence.
His eyes narrow. “Silver is silver.”
“Metal is metal when it goes through skin and bone,” I say, smile tight.
Another second of silence. Two. Fuck. I should have just taken one of his damned blades. My heartbeat rattles my chest.
The king tilts his head.
I swallow, sure he’s going to call one of the remaining swords down from the wall and stab me through the throat for daring to speak back to him.
But he only turns toward another table, and I finally exhale, leaning forward. Kira sighs sharply next to me, as if she was also holding her breath.
The king finally remembers to tell us to eat, and plates screech against the tabletop as they’re dragged toward each challenger. The room goes quiet save for the king’s voice as he sits next to challengers he has clearly deemed to be his early favorites. Soon, guards come in to take each claimed sword and put them with the others.
I reach for everything I can, eyes on my own plate, grateful for having been forgotten.
“Can you die from eating too much?” Kira is currently lying in the center of the bed, her limbs stretched out wide. “I feel like I’m about to burst.” She strains her neck to look at me with what looks like, from where I sit against the door, great effort. “I wouldn’t know. There’s never been enough food in
Brambleside to be full.”
I nod. I know what that’s like.
Kira frowns. “Aren’t you going to get in bed? I can move.”
She doesn’t make a single attempt to shift to one side.
I shake my head. “No. I’m going to stay here, in case someone tries to get in.”
Kira blinks at me. “You can’t sleep on the floor.”
“I do it all the time.”
Not on purpose. I often wake up on the ground after having fallen off the piles of blankets that make up my bed, after nightmares so vivid, they have
me clawing at my skin and screaming.
They’re always the same.
Lately, I’ve been finding mushrooms for the village apothecary in exchange for a tea that makes my nights dreamless.
I don’t have the tea now. I forgot to bring the few leaves I had left. I left it behind in that house, along with everything else of value to me.
It’s fine. I won’t reach deep sleep tonight anyway, knowing the Culling starts tomorrow and that Cadoc could kick down our door at any moment. I tell Kira as much.
“Right. I probably won’t sleep that much either, with the nerves and all.”
She’s snoring approximately five minutes later.
I almost smile. I envy her deep sleep.
I really should try the same. But I think about what the king said. We’re allowed to explore. Is there something here that can help me? Am I putting myself at a disadvantage by staying put?
I weigh both sides. I sit in the dark, Kira’s snoring counting down the minutes. I shut my eyes, willing rest to wash over me.
It doesn’t. I’m too riled up.
So, I slip out of the room. I’ll stay close. At the first sign of danger, I’ll come back.
The halls are dark and quiet. I turn several corners without hearing anyone at all. One floor down, there’s a rush of commotion. Challengers. I take the opposite direction.
Every door I try is locked. I trail my fingers down the silver hung on the walls, but they’re mostly ceremonial objects. Goblets, tapestries, star- stitched capes. Either too heavy or unnecessary to be of any use during the quest.
I’m just about to turn back to my room when I hear whispers— From voices I recognize. The king’s.
Then another, deep and slightly rasped, torn from one of my worst
memories.
Harlan Raker.
Even his name in my thoughts sends a chill through my blood. I should run. But instead, I inch closer, careful that my boots don’t make a sound.
“And you have everything you need?” The king.
“Yes.”
“You know your orders?”
“I won’t return without it,” Raker says, deep and low. I frown. Without what? The cup of magic?
“Good,” the king says. “It will be the start of a new age. I feel it coming …”
I lean closer, to hear more, but then the steps retreat. They’re leaving. I lean around the corner, to see if I can follow, but they’re gone.
I should get back to my room. It’s getting late.
I take the same halls back, studying each object again, in case I missed something. But it’s all the same finery that I could sell in the markets for buckets of metal—and won’t do me any good on the quest. So much for getting anything useful. My steps hurry, panic sinking through my chest.
What if Cadoc and his friends are wandering these halls? I turn around the
corner— And smack right into a wall of armor.
Slowly, I look up—and up—only to see a hood. I swallow.
Fuck.