Chapter Five
LOR
unlight filters through my eyelids, turning the world into a blaze ofS orange and red. My body aching, I peel my eyes open, blinking as they water from the sudden brightness. The first thing I register is a window and a clear blue stretch of sky. So perplexed by the sight, I lie completely still,
wondering if I’m still asleep and dreaming.
A blue sky is something I remember only in a shadowed memory. Like the images of wildflowers and the sound of my mother’s cheerful laughter.
Sometimes I think I’ve conjured these flashes of recollection from the ether, only to bring me comfort. To feel like there was some good in my life before
I was reduced to nothing but a forgotten, tormented prisoner. That’s when my
memories changed, digging in their claws and refusing to let me go. Those are the ones I’ll never forget, no matter how many years pass.
I shift, my muscles and joints protesting. The surface I’m lying on is a cloud. It’s the softest thing I’ve ever felt.
No. It’s a bed. I’m lying in a soft bed with soft sheets and a soft pillow under my head. Have I died? This must be the heavens. Nothing else could feel this wonderfully decadent. Moving again, I let out a groan of anguish, pain searing through my limbs.
Surely if I were dead, though, everything wouldn’t hurt so fucking much?
“You’re awake!” exclaims a voice I don’t recognize, and now it registers that I’m not where I’m supposed to be. The last thing I recall is lying in the Hollow, barely conscious, listening to the distant sounds of the prison riot.
Someone has kidnapped me. My bare legs slide against silky sheets, and I sigh in satisfaction.
I’ve been kidnapped and sentenced to lie in a luxurious bed?
That…doesn’t seem right.
“How are you feeling?” comes the voice again, and this time I note its owner. A mortal woman—elderly with white skin, wearing a pale yellow dress, her silver hair knotted on top of her head. I scramble back, my skull
knocking on a headboard. One that reaches so high I have to tip my head up to see to the top. It’s then my surroundings sharpen into shocking focus.
“Who are you?” I ask, taking stock of where I am. A bedroom. Possibly the biggest room I’ve ever seen, other than the mess hall or the laundry in Nostraza. I’m in an enormous bed, surrounded by white wooden posts draped
with golden fabric. Blankets and pillows in various shades of cream and gold surround me like a fortress of embroidered clouds.
The floor is creamy marble striated with veins of gold, covered in thick
golden rugs. A massive fireplace sits at the far end of the room, and an entire wall of windows looks out onto that same blue sky where a brilliant sun
shines.
“Where am I?” I ask, drawing the blanket up to my chin when I realize I’m wearing nothing but a thin, white nightgown. The fabric is so soft, it must be silk. I’ve been kidnapped and locked in this room and made to wear the most beautiful piece of clothing I’ve ever seen while lying in a bed covered in pillows and sheets as soft as butter? This definitely doesn’t feel right.
“They tell me you’ve had quite a time of it,” the woman says, wheeling over a silver cart laden with food. “Have something to eat and you’ll feel better.”
“Who. Are. You,” I repeat, every one of my senses firing with warning.
“I’m Magdalene,” she says. “But most folk call me Mag.”
“Where am I?” I ask again, trying to focus on Mag, but the smell of toast and butter and hail Zerra…is that coffee? My stomach rumbles loudly, and Mag’s grey eyebrows draw together.
“You must be starving, you poor thing. Eat something first and then we’ll get you ready for the Tribute Ceremony.”
The what?
Mag holds up a strip of bacon, perfectly crisped, and I lunge for it like an animal, stuffing it into my mouth. This tastes nothing like the flaccid strips of greyish meat I’m used to. It’s crispy and salty and fatty, and I groan as I chew, the richness coating my tongue.
Mag brings the cart closer, lifting off a silver cover to reveal fluffy
pancakes and scrambled eggs, everything dripping in butter. I study Mag, wondering if this is all a trick and I’m about to wake up and find myself shivering at the bottom of the Hollow, but she continues smiling as she
patiently waits for me to proceed. No matter, if this is a dream, at least I can go out on a note as high as a mountain.
I pick up the knife and fork with one hand and a glass pitcher of syrup with the other, dumping the entire thing over the plate. Mag’s eyes widen a fraction, but she doesn’t comment as I begin sawing away at the food.
“Tea or coffee?” Mag asks, holding up two silver pots.
“Both,” I say, still sure none of this can be real. She huffs out a small laugh.
“Of course. How do you take them?”
“Take them?”
Her brow furrows.
“Yes. Milk? Cream? Sugar?”
“Yes,” I reply before I stuff a massive bite of egg and pancake into my mouth and then another.
Mag does as I ask, filling two mugs—one with coffee and one with tea— followed by generous pours of cream and milk, along with heaping teaspoons of sugar. I watch in fascination. The only time we had coffee or tea in the prison, it was so pitch black and bitter it made your tongue curl like a snail searching for its shell.
Someone has kidnapped me, put me into a beautiful bed, dressed me in a silk nightgown, and now I'm being force-fed pancakes?
“Oh my dear, slow down,” Mag says. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
I know she’s right. It has to have been at least a week, probably longer, since I’ve eaten. But if this is the heavens and I’m dead, then surely it doesn’t
matter. If I’m dreaming, then I feel it’s my sacred duty to inhale as much of this food as I can before I wake up.
A moment later, I’m reminded that I must actually be alive, because my
stomach cramps and I drop my utensils. Mag, Zerra keep her, is no amateur though. She’s already primed with a golden bucket under my chin, and I do
her the courtesy of heaving the contents of my stomach directly into it.
As I retch, Mag rubs my back softly and makes cooing sounds like a doting nursemaid. Who is this woman? Is she one of Zerra’s blessed? I can’t figure out what’s happening. When I’ve expelled everything, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, noting the clean, white bandages neatly wrapped around my arms. Thanks to my years in Nostraza, I've always been covered with cuts
and bruises in various states of healing.
Mag notices where my attention goes, pity in her expression.
“Why aren’t I dead?” I ask, and Mag sucks in a sharp breath, her lips pressing together. I should be comatose. I should be so weak I can’t stand. I should be an empty shell. I was in the Hollow for so long, I should be so broken I can’t be put back together.
Mag tucks the blanket around my hips with efficient movements.
“They fixed up most of your injuries. The rest should heal in a few days.
I’m sorry they couldn’t remove all the scarring. Some of your wounds were very old and…persistent.”
Confusion flashes in the woman’s eyes before she meets my gaze and folds
her hands in front of her stomach.
Of course, I know which ones she means. The ones on my back. The one on my face. The charred brand on the front of my shoulder—three sinuous lines on top of a circle. The sigil of the Aurora King. The stamp they burned into my skin when I was only a child, marking me as the rightful property of
Nostraza forever.
Now I feel even worse than before I ate, and I slump back on the bed, still marveling at how utterly soft it is. I want to lie here forever.
“I’ll send down for something a little lighter,” Mag says as she hands me a glass of water. “Drink this slowly.”
I sit up, taking the glass and sipping the water with a frown.
“Is it not okay?” Mag asks, wringing her hands.
“No.” I shake my head. “I mean, yes. It’s fine.” It’s more than fine. It’s cool and crisp and sweet, and I’d forgotten that water could taste like this.
Whatever they gave us in The Aurora was borderline brackish and clouded with things I tried never to think too hard about. Rumors said they half-
heartedly filtered whatever came through the latrines. The closest I ever got to fresh water was the rain I swallowed during my nights in the Hollow.
I take a large gulp, savoring the liquid as it slips down my aching throat. It tastes like sunshine and hope, and for some inexplicable reason, that makes my chest knot and tears burn the backs of my eyes. Why is this woman being so nice to me?
I take a few more sips, and my stomach allows them to settle. After placing the glass on the nightstand, I watch as Mag bustles around the room.
“Please,” I say. “Where am I? Who are you?”
“Why, you’re in the palace, of course, my dear. I know it’s going to take some getting used to, but I’ll help where I can.”
I blink, willing something about those words to make sense.
“What palace?”
I can’t still be in The Aurora. The sky is blue. Everything is bright and gold. The Aurora is nothing but shades of black and grey and misery. The only beautiful thing I ever experienced was the precious, fleeting glimpse of
the jewel-toned lights in the sky.
“Did you hit your head?” Mag asks, concern furrowing her forehead. “The Sun Palace, of course. I know it must be hard to fathom that a girl of your…
upbringing would find herself here, but it’s true! You are the Final Tribute!”
I squint at Mag, wondering if she’s the one who’s hit her head. What is she
talking about?
“Final Tribute for what?”
Mag flattens her mouth and tosses me a stern look. She’s getting annoyed now, but I’m not sure why.
“Stop this nonsense. What is your name, girl? They didn’t tell me.”
“Lor,” I say. “My name is Lor.”
“Hmm. Is that short for something? It’s a little plain.”
I shake my head. “No, it’s just Lor.”
Mag has her head buried in a wardrobe and, a moment later, emerges holding a stunning gold gown.
“Well, I suppose it’ll have to do. It’s not as though you won’t stick out like a sore thumb anyway, is it? Though we’ll do our best to make you presentable.”
I look down at myself, starting to feel a little insulted at this line of commenting. It then occurs to me that my threadbare tunic from Nostraza is gone.
“My clothes,” I say to Mag. “Where are my clothes?”
“You mean those filthy rags you were wearing?” She wrinkles her nose.
“They’re gone.”
“I need them back. Please.”
Mag pins me with another puzzled look, but whatever she sees in my face must convince her I’m serious.
She delivers a tip of her chin. “I’ll have someone find them.” Her tone suggests she can’t fathom why, and I choose not to enlighten her.
“What happened to your hair?” she asks, brushing past my strange
behavior, coming over and laying the dress at the foot of the bed. She lowers her voice to a whisper as she touches the jagged ends. “Did you do that
yourself? I suppose there are no proper salons in The Umbra—you don’t have much choice, do you?”
I run my hand through my shoulder-length locks, feeling self-conscious.
“The lice,” I say, and instantly regret it when I see the horror on Mag’s face. “It’s okay. I didn’t have it. They were just taking precautions.”
Mag’s shoulders relax. “Yes, that makes sense, I suppose.”
“What’s The Umbra?” I ask as she pulls back the blanket, leaving me exposed in the thin nightgown. She grabs my wrist and pulls me to my feet, peering into my face. I snatch my wrist away, clutching it to my chest.
“Are you quite all right? Perhaps we need to send the healer back in here.”
She turns to the food-laden cart again and picks up a piece of toast, handing it to me.
“You should try to get something into your stomach. Eat it slowly this time. I suppose we’ll have to add table etiquette to the list of lessons you’ll require.” She grimaces at my abandoned plate of pancakes and eggs. It looks
like a syrupy massacre.
“What lessons? What is going on?”
She ignores me again and shoves me towards a doorway where we enter a palatial bathroom. There’s a giant tub in the center of the room, bubbles mounded so high they’re spilling over the top. I’ve never been in a bathtub before. At least not one I can remember. The only time we bathed in Nostraza was the occasional icy cold shower, the water pressure so harsh it felt like
being shot in the back with a million tiny needles.
They also didn’t separate the men and women, so the only time Willow and I indulged was when Tristan guarded the door.
It’s then I remember.
“Willow. Tristan,” I say. “Where are they? What happened to them?”
Mag’s answer is another confused look. “I don’t know, my dear. Eat your toast and then we’ll get you in the tub and see what we can do with this hair.”
She’s undoing the buttons at my back, and I leap away, making a sound of protest. Not because I’m modest. Life in Nostraza strips all that away when you live shoulder to shoulder with hundreds of prisoners. No, but because I still have no idea who this woman is, and I’m not used to being touched by
strangers when it’s not intended to hurt me.
I’m still sure I must’ve died, but this is a very strange afterlife.
She makes a tutting sound. “Nothing I haven’t seen before, my dear.” She spins me back around and then strips me of my shift before gesturing to the tub while I try to cover myself with my arms. “Get in.”
The bath looks so inviting, but I hesitate, still waiting for a catch. I can feel the heat of the water from where I’m standing and the scent—Zerra, it’s pure bliss. It makes that shitty sliver of soap I fought for smell like a trampled petal.
I smirk to myself. Look at me now, Jude. Enjoy your crappy soap.
While I figure out what in the gods' names is going on, I decide I might as
well be clean doing it. I step towards the tub, and a ripple of pleasure pulls up gooseflesh across my skin when I dip in a toe. It’s so hot it burns, but I inhale a breath and plunge in. It takes only a few seconds for my body to adjust to the sting, and I sigh in relief.
I’ll never be able to go back to the brutal, ice-cold showers in Nostraza
after this. Now I hope I have died because this would be worth it.
Mag moves about me, eventually washing my hair. Then, when she’s satisfied, she holds up a thick white towel for me to wrap myself in. Before
I’m covered up, I catch the sight of my naked body, covered in bruises and scars. My ribs stand out so much they cast shadows on my skin. My
collarbones and shoulders are as sharp and lethal as weapons.
She directs me to a dressing table and tells me to sit before running her fingers through my shorn hair, that now feels like silk and smells like a garden. I hold a wet strand to my nose and inhale in appreciation. Mag slaps my fingers, making tutting sounds, and then brushes it, dries it, and pins it on top of my head. Somehow, she’s made it look like I have three times the
amount of hair than is actually there.
“That’s better,” she says, scrutinizing her dubious masterpiece from every angle. “Do try to refrain from taking the scissors to it again, hmm? If you need a trim, one of the palace stylists will be happy to do it for you. As it stands, I’ll get one of them to come see you later to even this mess out.”
I frown at her in the mirror. I think she’s trying to be nice?
Next, she dips into the myriad of small glass jars and pots arranged on the table. As she dabs several things on my face, I sit as still as I can, worried I’ll mess up her efforts. Makeup. I’ve never worn makeup before. The sheer scale of the riches surrounding me is staggering in its abundance. How much would that bath cost? And this room? These clothes?
What am I doing here?
When she’s done, she turns me back to the mirror. “There,” Mag says.
“You might pass for a lady now.”
I’m staring at my face, and I can’t look away. There were no mirrors in Nostraza, and this is the first time I’ve seen myself in years. I touch my cheek
and my bottom lip, marveling that these pieces are mine. I look terrible.
Compared to Mag, my cheeks are hollow and my dark eyes are sunken.
She’s done the best she can with the makeup, but whoever she is, she’s not a
magician. My black eyebrows angle up and my deep brown eyes are dull and haunted by memories, all of them forged in the ruthless fires of torment. My
features are too big for my face, but my skin seems a shade healthier now that it’s clean. A light brown, as opposed to its usual greyish hue. Maybe after a bit of sun, I won’t look so anemic.
My fingers trace the scar that bisects my left eye, starting above my eyebrow and running to the middle of my cheek. I knew it was there even though I’ve never had the chance to inspect it. Whatever Mag has done with
the makeup has covered most of it up. I’m not sure how I feel about that.
I don’t have much more time to contemplate myself because Mag has returned to the bathroom—I didn’t even notice her leave—and she swats my hand away from my face.
“Stop, you’ll mess it up.” She has the golden dress in her hand and is directing me to stand.
“Let’s get you into this. You’re due to meet the king any minute.”
Those words send me crashing into reality with a thud. “The king? What king? Why am I meeting a king?”
Mag rolls her eyes. “They really didn’t choose you for your brains, did they? It certainly wasn’t for your looks, though I suppose you could be
attractive if you worked at it and had a little meat on those bones.”
I frown again, not sure if that comment is insulting. She’s holding up the dress and gesturing impatiently for me to step into it. “Come on. We haven’t got all day.”
I do as she asks, still reluctant, but going along with this for now in the
absence of any other options. She pulls the sleeves up my arms and moves behind me to lace up the back. I gasp when I catch sight in the mirror. The bright gold fabric drapes to the floor in layers. One sleeve is sheer, while the
other is made of more of the same gold cloth. Sheer material cuts down the side of the bodice, where a sunburst of gold beading stretches across my ribs
and my stomach. The dress is a little loose on my emaciated frame, but this is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I seem to be thinking that a lot right now.
I’ve been kidnapped and am being made to wear a dress fit for a queen?
“These next,” Mag says, indicating a pair of gold slippers she’s placed on the floor.
“I don’t understand,” I say, looking at them and then at her. “Please.
What’s going on?”
“Is she ready?” comes a deep male voice from the bedroom.
Mag turns to me with a flutter. “Put them on. It’s time to go.”
I lack the capacity to protest as she shoves the slippers onto my feet and then tugs me back into the bedroom.
Inside the room stands a ridiculously attractive male in uniform. He’s young, and appears close to my age, with dark blond hair tied at the nape of his neck. Tall, he towers over me, all muscle and warrior breeding. I gape at the pair of snowy white wings that spread from his back. If those didn’t already mark him as some type of High Fae, his delicately pointed ears and
glowing skin would. A large sword hangs from his hip, and he looks like he knows how to use it.
I swallow a jagged string of nerves before Mag tugs on my hand again.
As I approach, the male bows and I pause, unsure of how I’m supposed to respond. Do I bow too? The women in the novels I read sometimes curtsied.
What I do know is I’m not supposed to stand here gaping at him like an idiot.
“I’m Gabriel,” he says, straightening up and saving me from having to
figure it out. A golden tattoo curves around the side of his neck, where the rays of the sun spread out like fingers over his tanned skin. “I’ve been
assigned as your warder during the Sun Queen Trials.”
“My what? The what?”
Gabriel looks at Mag. “You may leave.” Mag does, in fact, curtsy, and I make a note to remember that for next time.
“I’ll see you soon, my lady.”
“No, wait.” But Mag is already leaving and although she was a bit rude,
she seemed to mean well. Now I’m left standing with this intimidating Fae who’s studying me like I’m a bug he plans to squish with his boot.
When the door closes behind Mag, Gabriel turns to me, his sharp blue eyes burning.
“Lor. Welcome to the Sun Palace. You probably have some questions.”
I take a step back. Gabriel’s intensity is frightening me. I’m alone here. I have no idea why I’m in this room or what I’m doing in the Sun Palace. I don’t know exactly where that is, but I do know it’s a hell of a long way from where I was. I reason they probably didn’t bathe me and dress me up just to kill me, but can I really be sure? Perhaps I’m the victim of some elaborate prank. But who would go to such lengths just for me?
“Yes, what in Zerra is happening? Why am I here? Who are you?”
Gabriel presses his lips together, his hand going to the sword at his side.
“You probably have questions,” he repeats, “but they’ll have to wait.
Come with me.”
He spins on his heel and makes his way to the door. When he sees I
haven’t moved, he turns and pins me with a stern look.
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why I’m here. Is this a dream?
Am I dead?”
“It’s not a dream and you’re very much alive,” he replies, his hand around the doorknob. “And you can come willingly, or I can make you. It’s your
choice.”
There isn’t one ounce of humor in his expression. I have no doubt he will do exactly as he says. “If you come with me, some of your questions will be answered.”
I hesitate. What choice do I have, though? He’s covered in weapons, and I can only assume a palace like this houses plenty of guards ready to do his
bidding. And he’s promised me answers. Though I note his use of the word some.
“Very well,” I say, trying to make it seem like this was my idea all along.
“A wise choice, my lady.” I’m sure I catch the hint of a smile on his dispassionate face.
“Why does everyone keep calling me that?” I ask, coming to a stop next to him. “I’m no lady.”
Gabriel studies me closely, something flashing in his gaze.
“Perhaps you weren’t, but that changes today.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“As I said, if you’ll come with me, your questions will be answered.” He
opens the door and gestures towards the hall. “After you, my lady.”
I give him a suspicious look, wondering if he’s mocking me, but there is only seriousness in his expression.
With a nod, I pick up the hem of my skirt and sweep out the door, ready to meet my fate.
