The soldiers finish their not-at-all creepy murmuring to two gold trees and gather their horses. Captain Dominick moves through his men, all now busy with leading their mounts to the right, down a separate road that wraps around the back of the palace grounds.
Dominick motions to the gate. “General William, Lady Meira—”
Lady. My nose curls, the title rubbing up my spine. That had better not stick—I’m not sure I want to be a lady.
“—if you will please follow me, I will take you to our king.”
Sir’s neck is red. This trip is going to destroy him from the inside out. Not that I feel any better about being here—most of the experiences I’ve had with Rhythms left me feeling worthless in a less-than-human way. Jeers as we walked down streets; rotten vegetables hurled at us as we rode out of town. Why should Cordell be any different? But no one has been cruel so far, so I trail behind Sir as Dominick leads us through the gate into a lavish garden area.
A fountain spits water into the air in the center of a small stone walkway, the whole thing lined with bright-red azalea shrubs and shoulder-high lavender bushes. Bits of pollen float through the air, darting around like bugs chasing each other through sunbeams. To the right, a stone walkway meanders into a forest of maple trees, a hidden path for midnight trysts or assassination attempts.
In front of us stands a palace of the same gray stone as the rest of Bithai. This building dwarfs all the others though, gleaming with four stories of glittering windows, ivory balconies, and thick velvet curtains.
Just as Dominick waves us into the palace, a shout makes me whirl around. Sir stops too and eases long enough to smile, a soft, truly relieved pull that fills me with comfort.
“Meira!”
I turn toward the forest as a blur of white hair and blue silk swoops out of the green darkness—Mather.
A smile bursts across my face, erasing all the lingering remnants of exhaustion from the trip. He rushes forward and swoops me into a back-cracking, body-pinning hug.
I don’t even care that my ribs just popped.
9
MATHER BEAMS UP at me with that blinding smile and doesn’t put me down. I try in vain to fight the blush that I’m sure is turning my pale face red. He’s definitely been in Bithai a bit longer than us—his hair is pulled back with a ribbon, he’s wearing a sky-blue shirt over clean ivory pants, and Hannah’s locket half gleams from his neck. Noam has one point in my I Won’t Kill You book: he took care of Mather.
Mather chuckles low in his throat. “Took you long enough to get here.”
His words vibrate through his neck and make me painfully aware of the fact that I’m holding on to his neck at all. My fingers tremble but I can’t pull away, and I just laugh down at him, feeling his muscles tighten.
“I didn’t realize it was a race,” I manage, the memory of our last hug flashing across my mind. His face reddens, a light tinge of pink. Is he thinking about it too?
“It was, and you lost,” is all he says, his laughter washing over me.
Sir clears his throat. Mather squeezes me one more time and sets me back on the stones where I find it difficult to balance. Who shook up the world?
“Who else is here?” Sir asks. Straight to the point.
Mather doesn’t seem as peeved by Sir’s abruptness as I always am. “Everyone.”
I exhale. We’re all here. We all survived. A bit of my guilt unwinds—we lost our camp, but none of our party. I wouldn’t have been able to recover if someone had died because of me.
Sir exhales too. “Excellent. Have you met with Noam?”
Mather nods. “Yesterday. Dendera and I have been here for two days—” He glances to me, then back at Sir, and doesn’t continue whatever thought he had. But he suddenly looks like someone punched him in the gut, and all my senses jump to alert.
Something’s wrong.
Sir nods once again and turns to Dominick. “Show us to your king.”
Dominick pivots on his heels and leaps up the stairs to the palace. Two guards stationed there swing the doors open, eyeing our vibrant Winterian hair. Well, Sir’s and mine aren’t vibrant at the moment; our heads—like the rest of us—are caked in travel-dirt and sweat. But I’m guessing by Sir’s determined march behind Dominick that we aren’t going to get a bath before meeting Noam.
A bath. I fight down a squeak of longing as we stop in the palace’s foyer.
The only source of light is the chandelier above us, which lets off a gentle white glow. The rest of the décor is dark—polished wood walls, black marble floor. Comfortable yet expensive through and through. Rectangular panels line the walls; I can’t tell if they’re doors or just decoration.