Three Years Ago...
The iron key burned a hole in Ryne's pocket.
The key felt strange at first, but he was used to its weight now, settling on him like a blanket. He found himself clutching the key, as if it could connect him to his father. His father, who was dead. Even now, four months after the funeral, Ryne couldn't believe it.
He felt like a ghost himself, drifting between glittering balls and meetings with advisors and dinners held for foreign diplomats. When Ryne couldn't sleep at night, he wandered around the corridor, touching vases and tables just to reassure himself that he was alive.
Often, Ryne ended up in the Portrait Gallery.
He had never spent much time there, growing up. He preferred riding outdoors with Tristan and Isaac to studying mouldering old tapestries, and Ryne had only looked at the family portraits once, just to remember the exact shape of his grandfather's smile. No. He had never given much thought to the Portrait Gallery — or the door at the end.
But that was just it, Ryne thought: you never knew how much you wanted something until you were told that you couldn't have it. And now, he wanted to know what lay beyond that door.
Some things are better left alone, John had warned him.
But what was better left alone?
Ryne tried to ignore it, at first. He stretched out on the carpet as Camille read poetry, and he bothered Tristan in the laboratory. He practiced sword fighting with Isaac. Hell, he even agreed to play dolls with Penny — a task that would have severely embarrassed him if anyone had caught them. But nothing could take his mind off the mysterious room.
Isaac told him he was being stupid.
"It's just a room," Isaac said, exasperated. "It's probably just used for storage." He lunged at him with a sword. "Unfashionable carpets and such."
He dodged. "Then why wouldn't my father want me to go inside?"
"Maybe it's dusty."
"Dusty?"
"You have allergies." Isaac shrugged, swiping at his feet. "We can't have our king dying of dust asphyxiation."
Ryne jumped over the sword. "That's not a thing."
"But it could be." Isaac gave an exaggerated poke with the sword. "And we could never admit it to anyone. We'd have to falsify your tombstone and claim that you died bravely fighting a fearsome pirate to save a maiden's honour."
Ryne often worried that Isaac had an overactive imagination.
Still, Ryne avoided opening the room for many months; it wasn't until a hot summer's evening that everything changed.
He had been wandering around the Portrait Gallery when he heard something. A noise emanating from the room. It started quiet and then grew louder, filling the corridor with an odd sort of hissing noise. Ryne. Ryne.
He froze.
Surely not. Ryne shook his head. He was imagining things; he hadn't been sleeping well lately, and Tristan had claimed that the veal stew they had for supper was awfully dodgy. Maybe he had food poisoning.
Then he heard it again.
Ryne. Ryne.
His hand went to his pocket. The key felt hot, almost as if he had been holding it over a fire. He drew the key out. The iron glittered in the moonlight, its silvery teeth chattering as his hands shook.
Ryne shouldn't open that door. It had been his father's dying wish. And yet, Ryne reasoned, wasn't it worse to go mad from not knowing? Surely whatever was inside that room couldn't be as bad as the terrible agony of wondering?
Decided, Ryne put the key in the lock.
The door swung open. Ryne blinked, his eyes adjusting to the light. It was a windowless room, dusty and unused. There was also no furniture. Nothing, he noted, except for a portrait hanging on the opposite wall.
He took a step closer.
A young blonde woman stared back at him. She was wearing a gilded dress that matched the frame, and her golden curls were arranged with pale peonies. Ryne blinked. Hang on. He could have sworn that her mouth just curled up in a smile.
He frowned. What the—?
Blinding pain hit him.
Trembling, Ryne sank to his knees. Hot blood raced through his body, melting his bones, soaking everything in a terrible liquid fire. He wanted to scream, but all the air vanished from his lungs. And when the fire receded, leaving him cold and shivering on the tile floor, Ryne's heart beat the words that he could no longer say: What have I done? What have I done?
***
Camille couldn't stop thinking about Dex.
She'd worked on dozens of people for the queen. Fifty of them, maybe. But Dex Beauchamp had been the first one Camille knew, and the memory of that sunny meadow clung to her like a perfume. The sound of his sigh coated her hands in oil. She couldn't wash it off.
And there would be more.
More and more people. Guards, courtiers, council members... an endless parade of people that Brigid wanted to control. And Camille would have no choice but to pry into their deepest fantasies, to implant things in their brains.
It was worse than reading a diary. Worse than intercepting private letters.
She touched the blue necklace.
Camille had cut it off with scissors. Yanked it over her head and crushed it under her foot. But the necklace reappeared each evening, whole and unblemished, sitting between her collarbones. It was pointless. She couldn't take the necklace off, and she couldn't tell anyone what it did. She'd tried, over the years.
She also couldn't forget the look on Dex's face.
She would do something about it, Camille vowed. She'd read dozens of books on magical objects over the years, but she'd try harder. Do more. She'd go to Grim's Market, if she had to, the first chance she got.
For Dex.
For all the victims that Camille couldn't forget.
Not even now, when Elsie Marks was preparing to gleefully rifle through her head.
Their tutor Owain strode around the turret, his hands clasped behind his back. "Remember," he said, "the idea is to move slowly. Concentrate on reaching their deepest desire. If you pull out too quickly, you'll scramble their brains."
Camille inhaled.
How comforting.
She glanced around. Tristan and Grayson were sitting on the carpet, facing one another, while Ryne was practicing on Isaac, who looked none too thrilled to be a human lab rat. Camille hid a smile.
Elsie gripped her arm. "Hold still."
"Sorry."
The word was automatic. Camille wasn't sorry; not at all. Elsie's gaze darted to Isaac, and she sat up a little straighter. "I'm going in."
Golden threads cocooned them.
Camille blinked. Elsie's fingers were cold, but they felt distant. Faraway. She could feel herself falling into the illusion that the other girl was weaving, could feel her heart racing as she realized where she was. A bed with tangled navy sheets. A wall filled with sharp swords. Isaac's bedroom.
Oh, no.
No, no, no.
Heat flooded her cheeks.
Isaac was humming as he splashed water on his face. She could see the training scars on his back, criss-crossing his dark skin. Muscles rippled as he leaned closer to the basin, and he half-turned, smiling at her. "Enjoying the show?"
A genuine smile. The kind that reached his grey eyes, softening them like smoke drifting over a forge. Not that smirk that he wore like a mask.
"I don't know," dream-Camille mused, propping her head up. "Maybe you should come a little closer. Give me a front-row seat."
"Tempting." Isaac's voice was a purr. "I do like how you look in the morning." He stalked closer, his eyes growing dark. "And I like that you're not wearing anything except for my shirt. You should do it more often."
She was breathless. "Except for my necklace."
"What necklace?"
Her hand flew to her throat. But there was only bare skin there — no blue necklace. The shock of her naked throat was enough that Camille gasped, and Elsie hesitated. Glimmering golden threads appeared over the bed.
She was free.
In this dream, she was no longer the queen's slave.
The illusion shifted. Camille's necklace pulsed.
Stop this.
Camille stiffened. No. She couldn't stop Elsie, not when the other girl was so deep inside of her brain. The woven strands were too fragile. Most people slept while the Dayweaver rummaged around precisely for this reason.
Camille thought of Owain's warning. If you pull out too quickly, you'll scramble their brains.
The necklace grew hot.
Stop this.
Pain burst through her skull. And then Camille was cutting through the glistening golden strands, her mind shooting out of the darkness. Her breath caught. Too fast. Too soon. She was losing control, spinning wildly—
"Oh, dear." Elsie laughed. "I mean, I'd be embarrassed, too."
Camille scrambled for purchase, trying to slow her ascent. Colours burst before her eyes. Shimmering gold. Crimson. Topaz blue. And so many glimmering golden threads, so many thoughts and desires.
"Stop it," Elsie said. "Seriously, Camille. I'm not done."
Her entire body was shaking.
"Camille—"
Sharp needles poked at her brain. She cried out, and Elsie moved backwards, shouting something. Calling for help, maybe. Fingers cupped her face.
"Cami? Are you alright?"
"Step back, Isaac." Ryne's voice was sharp. "She could lash out and injure you."
The fingers only gripped tighter. Pain licked down her arms. Camille bit down hard on her tongue. Metal exploded in her mouth. Someone swore.
"She's spiraling."
Isaac growled. "What the hell did you do to her?"
"Nothing," Elsie said, a note of fear creeping into her voice. "I did everything right. It's not my fault she tried to pull away too soon."
"A healer," Ryne ordered. "Someone fetch a healer."
Footsteps slapped across the room. Agony ripped down her spine, and Camille couldn't help the whimper that escaped her. Dark. It was so dark down here. But the calloused fingers on her chin steadied her.
"I'm right here with you," Isaac murmured.
Camille couldn't speak. But she clung to those words, let them steady her even as she spun, her stomach flying into her throat. How long had she been down here? Minutes? Hours? Somewhere, a door opened. And then another person was crouching down, smelling of cinnamon and lilac.
"What happened?"
"They were in the middle of a training exercise." Isaac was clipped and efficient; his Captain of the Guard voice. "Elsie was trying to read her deepest desires. Standard stuff, for new trainees, but she must have tugged on the wrong thread—"
"I didn't!"
"—and Camille pulled back," Isaac finished, ignoring Elsie. "She rushed her ascent. I think she's stuck in there."
Something snapped open. A case? "Move." Smaller fingers gripped her chin, and then liquid dribbled into her mouth, tasting of bitter wine and salt, of midnight stars and prickly thorns. Camille gagged.
"What are you giving her?" Ryne's voice was sharp.
"If you wait a moment," the girl said, sounding annoyed, "then you'll see."
Camille blinked. Her vision cleared, revealing the circular turret. Anna was kneeling on the carpet in front of her, her eyes the colour of pressed bluebells. Isaac was resting a hand on his sword, as if he planned to cut away the invisible enemies attacking her. But that was Isaac, she thought; h would tear the world apart for the people that he loved.
And he did love her.
Just not in the way she wanted.
Camille turned to Anna. "Thank-you."
Anna rose. "That was nightmare somnium," she said, putting an empty phial back into her bag. "In small doses, it can counteract the effects of dream magic. We keep some on hand just in case."
"Your Majesty," Tristan said coolly.
"What?" Anna asked.
"Your Majesty," Tristan repeated. "You're the help. He's our king. Therefore, you'll address Ryne as His Majesty."
There was a horrible pause.
Grayson had gone pale. Elsie looked as if First Frost had come early. Only Ryne's face was impassive as he looked at her, a pale statue in the afternoon sunlight. When Anna spoke, her blue eyes were burning.
"We keep some on hand just in case, Your Majesty."
"Good." Tristan's lip curled. "Now curtsey to him."
Grayson made a noise. "Tristan—"
"Curtsey," Tristan said. "Your legs work, don't they?"
Anna stiffened. She'd been adjusting her leather satchel on her shoulder, but she froze, one hand brushing her dark hair aside. Seconds ticked by. Camille didn't think anyone was breathing.
Holy crumbs.
She wouldn't bow.
Camille bit her lip. This wouldn't end well. Not for any of them. Ryne's reign was so delicate — so fragile. He couldn't afford to ignore a healer if she snubbed him. Not in a room filled with children from the most powerful Dayweaving families.
It would make him look weak.
Camille cleared her throat. "I have a headache." She looked at Owain. "Would it be alright if I went to my room and lay down for a while?" Owain nodded, although their tutor was frowning at Anna. "Anna? Can you accompany me, please?"
Camille's voice was pointed. Mercifully, Anna gathered her things, her hands shaking. "Of course."
She was still shaking when they left the room.
She should have killed him.
Anna set down her bag on the vanity. She pulled out things automatically — smelling salts, a tonic for headaches — but her mind was spinning. Gods-damn Ryne Delafort. She should have plunged a knife straight into his back the other day. And then another one into his skull, for good measure.
She would never get that key.
Not at this rate.
Camille sat on her bed, watching her warily. Her blonde hair was falling out of its braided updo, curling around her face. Still, she sat upright, her shoulders drawn back. The perfect royal. Anna thrust the tonic at her.
"Here," she grunted.
"What's this?"
"A cure. For your headache."
Camille looked exasperated. "You know I don't actually have a headache, right?" Anna continued to shuffle around phials, and she sighed. "You shouldn't have insulted Ryne like that. It's not smart to antagonize a king."
"I didn't mean to be insulting."
"Yes, you did." Camille set the phial on the table. "I may wear fine clothes, but I know how it feels, you know. To be sneered at. Mocked."
Anna ignored this. "Did you need anything else?"
Her brown eyes were thoughtful. "I want you to come with me to the tavern."
"Pardon?"
"The Stillwater tavern." Camille rose from her bed, rifling through her wardrobe. "There's a Hallow's Eve party there this evening. I'd like you to come as my guest."
"Why?"
"You're treating his illness." Camille held up a shimmering white dress. "I grew up watching my father make swords, and he always put in more effort for the customers that he liked. Made their weapons a little sharper. A little stronger. And sometimes, those men went off to war and those blades made the difference between life and death."
"You know," Anna said, "I've never been a fan of long and consulted metaphors."
"Still."
"Let me guess." Anna shook her head at a frilly pink dress. "Ryne is secretly hiding a soft heart."
"No," Camille said. "I'm afraid Ryne's cold exterior hides an even colder heart." She put back the dress. "But I want you to see that we love him, anyway. And maybe that makes him worth saving."
Anna thought about it. Ryne would be at the tavern tonight. A very drunk Ryne, hopefully. And there was no better time to rob a man than when he got drunk. Anna fiddled with the straps of her bag. "A tavern?"
"Yes."
"I don't have any clothes."
"Ah." Camille's eyes sparked. "Why do you think I'm looking through my wardrobe?"