Page 5 of The Shrouded Queen
Unless it wasn’t a palace servant but rather someone from Ketopolis, a townsperson who wouldn’t know about a scullery maid’s disciplining.
The moonbeam flickered again.
There. A silhouette against the deep blue of the water.
Or rather,silhouettes.
One by one, they emerged from the river. Almost entirely silent. I could’ve dismissed them as Ashorans braving the crown’s wrath for a sip from the river.
If not for their hair.
The moonlight reflected off the sides of their scalps where their heads were shaved, and a long braid hung down each of their backs, varied in length. No one in Ketopolis wore their hair like that. No one in all of Ashorah wore their hair like that.
My hair was dark and short, barely reaching the bottom of my ears, like all female citizens of Ashorah. Men let it grow to their shoulders. And royals, like my princess, shaved their heads entirely, relying on wigs.
There was only one place I knew where people had such strange hair.
Kaldfold.
My heart hit my feet, and I shook my head, terror seizing me.
Stories about the monsters to the north were whispered in the pitch-black of night. Tapestries and hieroglyphs all over Khada Palace depicted King Zaid’s battle against them seventeen years ago,when he’d delivered the crushing blow that successfully pushed them beyond the Frozen Sand Mountains.
The Kaldfolk were battle-crazed. Foamed at the mouth when they so much as scented fear. Rabid, depraved monsters that weren’t satisfied with just killing their victims. They mutilated them, defiled their corpses,atethem. Heretic witches who could manipulate you into killing your own family, friends, yourself. They’d plagued more than one of my nightmares.
And they were coming straight for the palace.
THREEAMUNET
The sound of scratching was infuriating. Like a thousand little nails over stone. All I could hear was that consistentchick, chick, chick. Not the Lotus River. Not my own heartbeats.
I huffed and clutched the candle tighter, its grooves cutting into my palms. “Come on,” I muttered, eyes screwed up tight. I waited for the telling warm breeze to smooth over my scalp. If not a breeze, I’d settle for a feeble sigh. A fuckingfart. Anything that said Shaya heard me, that he was there.
All I got was more of that infernal scratching.
With a grunt, I dropped the ancient obsidian candle in my lap and opened my eyes.
My father stared back at me.
This candle was the most perfect depiction of Shaya I’d ever seen. Dressed in the solid metal armor reserved for kings, face both human and feline, beautiful and deadly. High cheekbones, slitted eyes, and curling, full lips.
I’d purchased the candle nearly five years ago, and it had cost me a small fortune. The woman running the stall in the Ketopolis Market, renowned for the authenticity of her products, said it was one of the oldest ever found, probably dating all the way back to the War of the Ancients. Which could mean Shaya himself had touched the candle. Or at the very least had been close to it.
For the past five years, whenever I focused on the candle, Shaya lit the wick. A warm breeze heralded his presence, and then a burst of flame would alight above his otherworldly face. An assurance that he was here. That he was with me. That we were family.
Until a few days ago. Now, no matter what prayers I recited, it stayed dark.
Chick. Chick. Chick.
I ground my teeth.
It could be rats.
I knew it wasn’t.
I also knew it wouldn’t go away unless I checked. Sighing hard, I placed my candle back on the nightstand, marched to the door, and wrenched it open.
Just as I expected. The hall was empty.
