Echoes of Silence (24 page)

I didn’t know the many thoughts streaming through the High King’s head, but I had only one in mine:
Do not back down. You are the Princess!
I raised my chin and linked my arm through Cris’s in a show of unity. Whatever the High King did to one of us, he did to the other. 

“Father—” Cris started.

“I’ll see you in Nyth very soon. We have much work to do.” He spun on his heel and stormed away. His magic stayed a moment longer, threatening and whispering in a language I couldn’t understand. When the door to Cris’s suite slammed, the High King’s power flew after its master. Cris and I both deflated, and I noticed that he clung to me just as tightly as I to him.

“Well, that could have gone better,” I commented.

Cris went to the bar and poured himself a drink. I stood in the doorway, wondering where I was to sleep and who’d packed my nightclothes. Cris sipped his liquor while looking out the window into the darkness.

“Do not be afraid, Echo,” he said. “I will never do anything you do not wish me to.”

“I’d like to rest,” I said, my voice much quieter than it ever had been.

“A room has been prepared for you. Come, I’ll show you.” He moved down the hall without looking at me. He walked as he had been trained, with his shoulders strong and his step sure. He stopped outside the first door on the left and pushed it open.

Darkness yawned behind it, and I almost didn’t want to enter alone. But inviting him in wouldn’t serve me well. “Thank you,” I murmured as I slipped past him.

He caught me at the elbow and turned me toward him. “I would love you,” he said. “If you’d let me.”

“Perhaps.” I gently extracted my arm from his grip.

“Echo,” he pleaded. “You said yourself you could love me.”

I looked at him, really looked. He wore an expression of guilt and pain, with a bit of need glowing within the depths of his eyes. It was a look I knew well, because it captured every feeling that had raged through me these past three days.

“You don’t have to pretend with me.” I reached up to cup his cheek in my palm. “If we are to be married, we should at least get to be ourselves.”

He closed his eyes and relaxed into my touch. “I could love you.”

“You could,” I said. “But right now you don’t.” I stepped away, into the darkness of my room. “Thank you for the beautiful wedding. I’ll see you in the morning.” With that, I closed the door and shed my wedding dress.

Clothed in my familiar pajamas someone had laid on my bed, I found solace in the window seat. I searched for Grandmother in the skies, hoping she’d be proud of me. After several minutes, my thoughts wandered to Castillo. I wondered if he was still awake, contemplating the stars as well.

#

Dawn found me curled in a lounge chair on the veranda. I’d managed to doze in the window seat, but true slumber never claimed me. Unable to breathe in the empty room, I’d come to the balcony with the hope of clarity and fresh air.

When I heard timid footsteps slinking down the hall, I knew immediately they didn’t belong to Cris. Surprise more than anything caused me to turn and see who was there.

Mari didn’t see me as she moved into Cris’s small kitchen. She grasped nervously at her dress—the same purple silk she’d worn to the wedding ceremony—with her back to me.

A raging storm sprang to life inside my chest. It mingled with the magic sizzling through my veins. The two sensations battled with each other as I took in her disheveled hair, her wrinkled clothes, the guilt that radiated from every inch of her exposed skin.

Even if I’d wanted to speak, I couldn’t. Anger and shame had closed my throat. The thin sheet of transparent glass that separated us would never be thick enough.

Before I could do anything, she scurried out the door. The resulting slam rattled more than my teeth, and I sank to my knees, staring down the hall toward Cris’s rooms. Seconds or minutes may have passed while I knelt there, too numb to move.

Soon enough I regained my senses. I got to my feet and stormed down the hall, bypassing my room for his. I didn’t knock, but I did slow my breathing and pause outside the closed door.

I listened for any movement or sound and heard nothing. I stepped away from the door, aware that this situation could turn ugly. My fists clenched against my nightclothes, balling the fabric up and then releasing it.

Before I could decide if I should enter the room and rouse Cris from sleep to discuss the issue of his mistress, a series of locks clicked and the door opened. A cry of surprise escaped my lips as I took in the man before me.

Cris grunted and took a step back, but he didn’t attempt to cover his bare chest. The skin, brown as molasses, was marked from shoulder to hip in long, snakelike scars. Two dozen, three, I couldn’t count. The lighter ropes of healed skin striped his entire torso.

The fury inside deflated, leaving only a phantom of helplessness in its place. “What happened to you?” I finally managed to wrench my eyes from his disfigured body.

He stared back at me, resigned to whatever judgment I declared. “My father is not a kind man.”

Again, my fists clenched. “He’ll pay for this.”

Cris glanced over my shoulder down the hall. I immediately thought he was checking for any sign of Mari, but I kept that accusation to myself. It seemed that secrets were power, and I wanted as many in my pocket as possible.

He tugged me into the room and sealed us inside together. “He pays for nothing.”

I could scarcely breathe inside his room. It smelled like wood smoke and thick linens, two things that embodied Cris. I found myself leaning into him, and my fingertips danced over his scars. “For this, he will.”

“He’s a dangerous man, Echo. You should do all you can to stay out of his way. There’s only so much I can do to protect you.”

I digested his words for his sake, but I would do whatever I could to protect Cris—and make the High King answer for his misdeeds. Once again, the forcefulness of my feelings surprised me. “When do we leave for Nyth?”

“Tomorrow.”

I nodded and separated myself from Cris so I could take in the majesty of his room. Cris seemed to favor burgundy and navy, two colors I’d seen him wear on multiple occasions. Other than the customary plush rugs and fluffy blankets, his room was surprisingly sparse. The walls bore no mirror or artwork, no personality.

“How long have you been living here?” I asked.

“Just over a year,” he said. Plenty of time to accumulate a trinket, a portrait of someone who mattered to you, something. Yet Cris had nothing to suggest that this room belonged to him.

When I turned around, he’d pulled on a shirt to cover his scars. “Why were you standing outside my door?”

My eyes flew to where he’d settled himself into a love seat. He wouldn’t look at me, but picked something invisible off the sleeve of his shirt, then his pant leg, and finally the chair.

“I don’t know.” My voice practically screeched out.

His eyebrows crept toward his hairline, but he remained silent. The merry lights flickering in the oil lamps seemed foreign and far away. My fingers twitched at my sides.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked.

“Not particularly,” I said, my voice settling into its normal register.

“Get used to it,” he said, finally looking at me. “There’s very little rest to be had when many wish you were dead.”

“Use your voice for good, dear Echo,” Grandmother used to say. “Don’t succumb to the dangerous dark power of song, but live in the light. Help others find their way.”

Across from me, Cris looked so lost. Grandmother may not have meant for me to use magic on him, but I could at least employ my voice.

“Have you heard many tales about the ancients of Relina?” I asked.

Cris looked at me warily. “Several.”

“Have you heard the one about King Gustus?”

“Yes.”

“How did the story end? My grandmother told me how it started, but she died before she could finish.”

Cris considered me a moment longer. “You might as well sit, for this is a long tale.”

I crossed the rich rug and sat near him in the love seat. He followed my movement with his eyes, without as much as moving a muscle. “King Gustus was a cruel leader,” he began. “He laid heavy taxes on his people. They loathed him, and he decided to expand his empire to feed his own ego.”

If he noticed the similarities between King Gustus and his own father, he didn’t acknowledge them. He continued the story, weaving a great tale about the wickedness of Gustus and how he went into lands he ought to have avoided, used song-magic to harm the lands, sang the spells to transfer his intelligence so his reign could be prolonged.

“The ancients sent messengers to plead with Gustus, to help him see the error of his ways. He would repent for a time, pull his soldiers out of the countries he’d invaded, sing chants to heal the lands, give relief to his people. But his greed proved too great, and in the end, he always reverted back to his unlawful and perverse methods of gaining and keeping control.”

“He was a tyrant,” I said, interjecting my voice into the story.

“Yes,” Cris said. “He was.”

“What happened to him?” I leaned toward him, trying to read the flickering emotion in his face. I couldn’t.

“It is said that the founders of the spell-songs, the magicians of Relina themselves, came to the land of Dynalia to offer one last treaty to the king. When he rejected it, they executed him with his own sword, extinguishing his intelligence forever. The legends say that the many lives he controlled and the numerous people he killed sang with joy the day he died.”

I thought of the High King, and how huge his magic felt, how ancient. I wondered how long he’d been in power, and if his intelligence had always resided in the body it now did.

“Grandmother said the magicians of Relina are kind.”

Cris regarded me for a moment. “My father doesn’t think so, but he still holds Relina and any who come from that land in high regard. He claims those who know the song-magic from Relina cannot be defeated. He traveled across the sea once, where he stayed for a few years, to learn their spell-songs.”

I frowned as I remembered the darkness in his power. Surely such songs didn’t come from the birthplace of magic, from those who counseled magicians to use the power of song to heal, to help, to restore.

I kept my thoughts quiet, still pondering about a land I’d only heard about through Grandmother’s limited stories.

“Anyway,” Cris continued. “At King Gustus’s death, magicians saw a shift in public opinion. You see, he was a sorcerer as well as a king. And when he abused the power, many began to believe that magic had no place among society. That, I’ve heard it told, is why the ancients were so angry.”

“Because they created magic for the benefit of mankind,” I supplied. “To work together between flesh and land.”

Cris nodded. “You know your lore.”

“My grandmother loved to tell the old stories.” My mouth turned up at the thought of her.

Cris ducked his head slightly. “I would’ve liked to have met your grandmother.”

I didn’t expect the kindness in his tone to strike me so powerfully in the chest, and I grappled for a response.

“You are radiant when you speak of her.” He cleared his throat and reverted back to his story. “The opinion of magic has been declining since the days of Gustus. My father is determined it stay that way, so he can maintain his control over the magic.”

His eyes took on a faraway quality as he relived some personal nightmare between him and his father.

“Here’s a thought,” I said, unsure if I wanted to continue or not.

“I cannot wait to hear it.” Cris smiled, and I found myself on the verge of laughter.

I put my hand on his. “Have you considered overthrowing your father?”

Cris sat back, a sudden look of seriousness on his face. “Many times,” he said, his voice soft and strong at the same time. “But I’m not strong enough.”

“You’re wrong,” I said. “You were not strong enough before. You are now.”

His gaze settled into mine, bright and burning, and filled with fear. “It will be difficult.”

“I know.”

A wicked smile curved his mouth, and he said nothing more. We sat together in companionable silence for several minutes.

My stomach growled, and I felt as though I could lay in a hot bath forever. I stood and moved toward the door. I paused with my hand on the knob. “I’m sorry about your father. I’ll do what I can to help you.”

#

I spent the day in the gardens, wishing Matu were with me, and lying in the grass near the bathing pools, wondering how the sun had the energy to shine day after day. Because after only one day as a true princess, the weight of the world pressed into my shoulders.

Lucia and Greta arrived that evening to help me pack for the journey to Nyth. I was unsure how long we would remain in the northern country, but I left the details to my trusted ladies.

After dinner, I gauged Cris’s mood. He seemed the same as always: Quiet yet attentive. Burdened but determined not to transfer those troubles to me.

“I was thinking about my personal guards,” I said lightly. “Perhaps we can take a walk along the Burisia and discuss who they might be.”

He rose, grinned, and offered me his arm. “There’s nothing I’d like more.”

I felt strong and content as Cris and I maneuvered through the halls, bypassed the pools where Mari had taken me, and exited the compound toward the rushing water of the river.

I exhaled, and it sounded like I’d finally been able to release my breath.

“You’re tense,” Cris said.

“I dislike the compound,” I said. “I’m sure I’ll feel better once we are in Nyth.”

Cris didn’t confirm nor deny my statement. He spoke of Nyth’s mountains, the crystal clear lakes, the grandiose castle where we would live. I enjoyed the conversation and asked him questions about his childhood, his summer cabin, his favored vacation spots.

The river was a gray, jagged highway in the dark landscape when the conversation hit a lull.

“Personal guards?” Cris asked.

“Yes,” I said, glad he had brought it up—something Castillo never would have done. “You have Princes’s guards. Surely the princess needs guards, too.”