The Archshade

Thirty-Eight

As I make my way to the Imperial Gardens, I'm enveloped by the somberness which has fallen over the palace. Every corridor, even the busiest thoroughfares, reverberate with only hushed whispers and muttered conversations. Outside the ornate windows, a ceiling of gray cloud stretches from horizon to horizon and filling the palace with filtered, ashen sunlight.

All the nobles and servants I pass are ghosts just like me—figures clad in white linens or silks. Coupled with the white of the marble walls and the pallid light from the clouded sky, the entire palace takes on a dreamlike aura. It all seems... adrift. An entire palace lost and wandering. It saps my energy, giving me no strength to conceal my despairing expression.

Nobles scurry out of my path, whispering to each other as I pass, but I don't have the will to care anymore. I catch flashes of concerned smiles and worried eyes from the other servants and thralls, but not a single one dares approach me. The shadow over my eyes is enough to deter them all. There's no point in hiding. By this time tomorrow, I'll be just another runaway slave.

I round the corridor, head down the stairway, then pass under the archway into the gardens. The gentle breeze through the open roof is chilled, and the scent of the flowers does nothing to chase away the melancholy. The only comfort in this place is the explosion of color which overpowers the vapid white of death.

As my feet drag themselves across the winding stone pathway, I peer around the trees and behind hedges, expecting to find Master Sargon dressed in his own funerary whites. I approach a broad desert willow standing in the center of a marigold patch. A faint weeping reaches my ears. Following a small path through the blossoming marigold beds, I see an ornate marble bench on the other side of the tree. A woman in white sits there with her head in her hands.

"Lady Mala...?"

Startled, Lady Mala sits up and hastily wipes her face. "What—" She sniffles, then restarts her sentence. "What do you think you're doing, girl? Sneaking up on people like that? You could've stopped my heart."

I stand beside the bench. "What's wrong?" I ask softly.

Lady Mala furrows her brow and opens her mouth (to voice a berating comment, no doubt), but at the last moment, her brow softens, and she clamps her mouth shut, heaving a weary sigh instead.

"Everything is wrong..." she mutters.

Unable to find the right words, I stand still and look out over the expanse of manicured greenery and blooming flower beds. The gentle billowing of the desert willow softens the silence between us until Lady Mala breaks it.

"The Old King is dead."

I draw my finger across my forehead and sigh. "I know."

Lady Mala huffs and shakes her head. Even the sadness of the situation is unable to fully dampen the force of her personality. "Of course, you know! But I highly doubt you have grasped the full gravity of such a situation."

I conceal a shudder as I say, "Prince Darcron will now be High King."

"Precisely." Lady Mala buries her face in her hands and speaks through her fingers. "We need Sargon. His sons are... they're not ready."

"Master Sargon?" I tilt my head to the side. "What does this have to do with his sons?"

Lady Mala snaps her head up and fixes me with a sardonic stare. After a moment, her eyes narrow with sudden understanding. "It seems King Sargon kept his formal title from you."

I blanch. "King Sargon?"

"Well, of course." Her voice hitches with impatient distain. "Who did you think he was?"