“If your little fit is over,” she said, and he wanted to weep as she chucked the ruined garment to the ground and stood over him, hands propped on her still-small, childish hips. “Let us begin.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The sun was threatening to rise by the time Ripka and Honey had hammered out their plans with Dranik and dragged themselves, aching and exhausted, back to the palace. Even at night it was a piece of art. Carved into the side of a dormant firemount, the wide terraces of the stepped structure were strung with glimmering oil lamps, faceted glass splashing brightness in all directions. A flagrant display of Hond Steading’s wealth, but one the citizens seemed to admire. They struck Ripka as ostentatious, but then, this wasn’t her city. She wasn’t sure she’d ever have a city to call her own again.
The front steps were more in line with Ripka’s aesthetic. They were broad and shallow, spaced in such a way that would make them difficult for an invading force to take at any speed. The builders of this place had carved it into a gleaming jewel, and its edges could still cut when required.
The guards lining the walkway were reminder enough of that. Jacketed in sharp black, spears held easy at their sides, they dotted both sides of the broad stairs on every third step, their gazes locked on all approaching visitors. They appeared ceremonial to the average citizen, but Ripka saw the tension in their jaws, the spring in their knees, and knew them the deadliest warriors the city had to offer. And the city would soon need them.
Massive double doors loomed at the top of the steps, thrown wide despite the late night. Dame Honding welcomed her citizens to seek refuge in her palace at all times. In the few days Ripka had been in the palace, she’d stumbled across troubled souls more than once, pacing or praying or weeping in silence in the solitude of the Dame’s home.
There was kindness here, amongst the harsh living of the desert. A kindness born from the seed of the ruling family’s philosophies. She wondered if Dranik ever considered that.
She stepped into that place of welcoming, and a guard grabbed her arm.
“Miss Leshe, Miss Honey?”
“Yes? Is there a problem?”
A red-eyed man reading on a bench nearby looked up, assessed the two women being apprehended, and shuffled away to a far seat. She couldn’t blame him.
“The Dame wishes a word with you.”
“It is very late…”
“She has been waiting.”
Ripka nodded understanding. They were escorted through the welcoming room and down a side hall Ripka knew well – the path to the Dame’s private sitting room. Her heart thundered, wondering just what had kept the Dame up through the night to speak with her. When the door opened, her stomach dropped.
The messenger she’d intercepted stood alongside Dame Honding’s chair, his pale face streaked with what might have been dried tears. Tibal lingered to the side of the room, Enard on the other, and both had a set of guards twin to the two escorting Ripka and Honey.
Ripka put a placid face on, and bowed over her hands like this were any other meeting. “Good evening, Dame.”
The Dame snorted and flicked the hem of her long sleeve. “My patience has burned away with the lamp oil, Miss Leshe. You know why you are here, do not insult us both by pretending otherwise. You accosted this young man and intercepted a message from me meant for the Valathean Fleet. Why?”
Ripka wished she was facing this with a well-rested head. After a moment’s consideration, she decided to gamble with the truth. “I find Ranalae’s promises to you impossible, and I fear what will happen to Hond Steading if you invite her and her forces within your walls. Frankly, Dame, once she is inside your palace, you will never get her out again.”
“Now that’s unfair.” Ranalae stepped from behind a pillar. The dignitary looked ragged from lack of sleep, but otherwise composed. Maybe even a little amused. “I do have my own home to return to.”
I bet you do, Ripka thought, but bit her tongue. Antagonizing the woman without a point wouldn’t win her any good will from the Dame, and that was what she desperately needed now.
Interfering with a Honding messenger was treason. And she knew full well how treason would be handled in Aransa: walk the Black, or face the axe. She licked her lips, composing an argument to keep Honey, Enard, and Tibal free of the fallout she’d brought down upon them all.
“I understand,” the Dame said, “that you faced a great deal of hardship in Aransa. The stories you have told me, and that I have heard from others, are quite chilling. But I fear your experiences have biased you to reality, my dear. The Scorched exists because of the goodwill of Valathea. Even Hond Steading, though unique in its system of government, relies on the empire for trade and, yes, even protection, when it comes to that. Relations between our city and the empress have always been strong. And now, in our time of need, they have come to our aid. I will not allow you to insult our imperial friends to soothe your paranoia. Is that clear?”
“And where was their friendship, when they took your nephew and tortured him?” The words were out before she could stop them, thrown hard as knives against a woman she could not otherwise wound.
The Dame took a sharp breath, but Ripka’s gaze was on Ranalae, whose smile turned decidedly predatory. Whatever Ranalae’s position in the empire, she knew. She must know what went on in the Bone Tower. There was no hiding something like that from the higher-ups. And, in knowing and doing nothing, Ranalae had been complicit in Detan’s suffering. Could even be held accountable for the wall he brought down during his desperate escape.
“Those rumors are unsubstantiated,” the Dame snapped, “and the fanciful imaginings of sick minds. They tried to cure my nephew’s loss of sel-sense, he did not take well to the treatment. That is all.”
“Is that what Ranalae told you?”
Ranalae smiled knives at Ripka, but she pushed on. She’d already stepped in the quicksand, might as well get a few shots off before she was buried. “He was never a normal sel-sensitive. He was always deviant, and they dug around in his flesh to figure out why.”
“That. Is. Not. True.” The Dame’s cheeks had gone scarlet, her fingers curling into the arm of her chair.
“Why don’t you ask him, instead of this sycophant?”
“He isn’t here!”
Ripka jerked back a step, the anger seeping out of her sails. That was real pain in the Dame’s voice, broken and ragged, and it shook Ripka to realize she’d done that to the woman – that she’d ripped a scab right off a festering wound. While Ripka fumbled for words, the Dame shot a glance at Tibal and said, “Despite my best efforts otherwise.”
“He ain’t a pet to put on a leash,” Tibal drawled and rolled his shoulders. “But.” He hesitated, flicked a gaze to Ripka. “She’s right, you know. Weren’t pleasant little talks they were having with Detan in that tower. Talks don’t make a man scream in his sleep.”
“My nephew,” the Dame grated out the words, “is beside the point. The point is your treason, Miss Leshe, and your accomplices in the act.”
“I pressed them all into it,” she said immediately.
The Dame waved this off with a flick of her fingertips. “Noble of you, but I do not care. You are all quite lucky that the only damage you succeeded in causing was delaying matters by a few marks. If it had been otherwise, I would have you struck down where you stand. Now, out of deference to the friendship you have all shown my nephew, you may leave this place with your lives. But you are leaving this place.”