Kryndor's Bride parts 4-5

PART 4

KING VARKON

Ravore follows me out of the loading bay, seeming disgruntled that I interrupted his latest game. My brother has a taste for cruelty. Father sensed this when we were children and told me in my later years that this was why the gods made me the eldest. The heir to the throne.

I try to keep Ravore in check, but it is a burden when I have a million things to govern.a

We enter the grand library, where we're free to talk openly.

"I overheard the veilkeepers today," he says. "Uptight lowdwellers like to pretend they're so high and mighty and yet gossip like servant girls."

"Gossiping about what?" I respond, although I already know the answer.

House Fyrak of Vak'thra has named their latest son Tyor, meaning king. A snub that did not go unnoticed by me or the high Houses. 

The Vak'thra get braver every summer that I don't declare an heir. Alluding that their house should rule all kingdoms–a feat that hasn't been accomplished in ten thousand years.

The vrelling delusional bastards are begging for war. Their slights are no longer idle. There are reports that they increased production of their finest steel, intent on using it for something. Murmurs of war rumble through the three kingdoms and echo through the dead kingdom of Konir.

"About their disrespect. You could easily silence them, Varkon. I don't understand your delay. You are a Xor. You can marry an elder bride and choose five young concubines to vrell from dawn to dusk."

I glance at him. "Mind your place, Ravore. You're no minister. Spare me the lecture."

I've heard Ravore's moans many times before, along with the ministers and veilkeepers who beg me to silence my opponents by claiming a bride and impregnating her. But wouldn't be worthy of the armlet seared into my bicep if I was so easily swayed.

Ravore and I stop by the loading bay window as lightning flashes and rain pummels down on my kingdom.

"You have it all, Varkon. Why the hesitation to claim it?"

Because it's not enough.

I've yet to meet a noblewoman who hasn't been brainwashed to submit. I want a woman of courage. One that can challenge me instead of bending her will–and waist–just because she thinks it will appease me.

Not to mention our curse. Women don't get to see past their children's tenth birthday. I lost my mother when I was seven, and it's a trauma I don't wish upon my heirs. I've been avoiding passing down this generational curse for years.

"I should ride down to Vak'thra and cut down a neck or two," I grumble. "That ought to quiet them."

Violence would remind the Vak'thra that before there was steel in the wall that surrounds this kingdom, there were the bare bones of enemies lined as far as the eye could see. A show of force would quiet them down, at least for another summer. But it would only be a temporary solution. The rumors of infertility, confusion, and all other nonsense will never stop until I have an heir.

"I'd ride right behind you, brother," says Ravore with a glint in his eye that I'm well-acquainted with.

I glance at the master clock painted on the roof, the shadows that are cast revealing the current time.

"Do you have an appointment?" asks Ravore.

"Yes, I'm going to review deeds with a veilmaster. There's an unresolved property dispute by the swamp."

"Very well. I'm off to resume my training," he says. "Will I see you at the Aetherial Banquet?"

"Yes," I sigh. I've skipped too many banquets already, so I'm due to attend the next one. An infernal waste of time, where a dozen noblewomen will make a show of declaring their interest in the empty seat beside me. The seat meant for my queen.

He nods and glances out the window, looking in the direction of the loading bay where we just left a peculiar female.

"Ravore," I call for him as he walks away.

He pauses to glance at me.

"Leave the girl alone."

"Who? The lowdweller?" he laughs. "When did you become so concerned with 'sura?"

"When they became my citizens," I reply, glaring. "Don't put your vrelling hands on any female again, or you'll depend on your concubines to feed, bathe, and wipe your insufferable ass because I will very well break them."

He grits his teeth. Biting back his snark because he knows I'm the only person in this palace who won't take his bullying.

He lowers his gaze as he grips the hilt of his sword. "I'll meet you later," he says, leaving.

This time, I don't stop him.

As I wait for the veilkeeper, my mind wanders back to the lowdweller. 

As king, I've been offered many gifts. But this lowdweller's offer–a child in exchange for her father's life–was the most astonishing, even though it was fictional.

Goddess Zintha blessed her with a bright imagination.

———

Four days later, the storm and my mood took a turn for the worse as if they were synchronized.

Winds rattle the stained windows and howl at night, just like everyone in the palace, as they discuss the latest gossip.

Two sons of a low House from Vak'thral were found sneaking into a protected land in my kingdom. Plucking fruit from a sacred tree only to waste it. Disrespecting me and all my ancestors. 

The seers, ministers, and veilkeepers are infuriated, and so am I, because every fucking house in Vak'thral–both high and low, seem to want to undermine my authority.

I'm on the verge of thundering like the sky.

"My king?" calls a female voice. I look up from the maps scattered on my desk, looking at the servant beside me. Her gaze is low as if she's on high alert due to the fumes that seem to surround me.

"What is it?" I answer, rolling a sheet of parchment.

"There's a midwife outside who requests an audience."

I frown, fearing for the worst. If a midwife wants to see me, then something likely went wrong with Tephra's pregnancy after she was attacked by the lowdweller.

"I will see her. Let her in."

The midwife enters, clad in a long robe and a veil that covers her face and hair. Beads dangling from her neck and around her waist, lightly shaking as the woman trembles with emotion.

"Kryndor," she calls me. The highest honorable title. The name of our three kingdoms. "I–I'm afraid I need your guidance."

"Look at me," I order and find fear in her gaze.

"Vrell. Did Tephra lose her child?" I ask.

"Tephra? Oh, goddess, no. She and her blessing are fine. She will only have a scar."

"Then what is it?"

"It's the lowdweller girl. I–I've never seen anything like it! She's bleeding."

I'm completely baffled. "Midwife, I fear that I have little medical advice. Do you need materials to control the bleeding? Is that what this is about?"

She shakes her head rapidly. "No, no! I checked her body. Her bleeding is natural. There is no need to stop it."

"You're not suggesting that we let the girl bleed to death, are you?"

"My Xor, this girl has blossomed. Her bleeding comes monthly."

The words take a few moments to register. I've heard many shocking things in my time as king. But this? This is asinine.

A young woman in her twenties, blossoming? That's legend's fodder. Impossible. The midwife might as well have told me that the Unsailable Ocean has been tamed, that the wall surrounding our kingdom has fallen, and that Vak'thra's volcano has awakened after millenniums.

"Make way," I growl, rising from my seat and heading for the entrance. "I must see this for myself."

I thought of the girl a few times this week, remembering her rare golden eyes that bely her ancestry because lowdwellers are not known for such irises. I remebered the way she clenched her injured hands as if to hide her bleeding. How she clung to her tears, refusing to let them streak down her cheeks as if we were unworthy of them.

I found her audacious, maybe brave. But she was undoubtedly mad for proposing the impossible. 

She was supposed to be dismissed from the palace–and my memory–after the storm broke. But the storm has raged for the past four days, and the girl remains in both my thoughts and palace.

I follow the midwife as she hurries to the lowest level of the palace, her beads jolting. Something that other midwives consider unsightly, as they expect themselves to be the most gracious women in the palace.

Kings aren't known for chasing after anyone, either. But here I am.

She leads me to a small bedroom beside a storage room. There are four female servants in here, along with another midwife. 

The topdwellers hover over the girl, who stands beside the bed with her hands entwined. 

I am unable to look away like I did last time I saw her.

Her grey nightgown is red along with the bedsheets. Her face is clean, and her hair is combed. She looks different. No longer the teary, scared girl that I found on the loading bay, hidden under her whimpers and wet, ratty clothes. She's pretty; her features are soft. Her thin arms are toned from hard work, and I'm beginning to disdain the bloody nightgown that covers the rest of her.

She no longer looks like a beggar in tarnished clothes. Still skittish, but no longer afraid, because she knows that she's effortlessly got me and everyone in this room right where she wants us. 

An applaudable feat, because not many can achieve to capture a Xor.

I step into the room, closing the distance between myself and the girl in quick strides. I reach for the bed, overlooking the servants who instinctively reach to stop me as I touch the cool, red blood. 

I ignore the midwife who offers a handkerchief. I stare at my bloody hand. My thumb and index finger rub together as I realize that although I've touched male blood many times before, this is the first time I've felt a female's. It smells metallic, like a man's blood. But hers is different, because it makes my teeth clench and stirs something deep within me.

My eyes slowly shift to the lowdweller. She is a fertile young woman who has been blessed with the ability to live a long life beside her children. And perhaps, the curse of my curiosity. Because now that I'm intrigued, she has secured a seat in my turbulent world of cynical nobles and political warfare.

The storm could clear and reveal blue skies right now, but she wouldn't be dismissed from this palace. She's staying. At least until I figure out what to make of her.

It should be an easy answer. She's a lowdweller with a hard life and a fatal loyalty to her father. But I sense there's more within, inking a frustrating curiosity.

"Are you in pain?"

She shakes her head. Eyes glancing at the shocked servants who can't take their gazes away from her.

"Clear the room," I order.

Everyone leaves, save for the midwife who led me here.

"What is your name?"

"Ceryn," she whispers.

I lift my bloody hand, showing it to her. Demanding answers. "How is this possible?"

She swallows hard. Staring at my hand before rasping, "I'll answer your questions, Xor, if you answer mine: is my father alive?"

"Foolish girl!" lashes the midwife. "You do not negotiate with a Xor!"

I tip my head back and inhale deeply, fisting my bloody hand. My knuckles crackling.

Ceryn.

I've met noblewomen rich beyond Ceryn's wildest dreams who had no ounce of bravery. And yet this lowdweller with nothing to her name has the ferocity of a commander. A commander with no army, yet she doesn't need one, because as she stands alone, she harnesses the power of a goddess inside her womb. 

She's a wild shooting star. Captivating. And that's why I don't trust her, because every star that crashes onto Kryndor brings destruction. I want this woman to be removed from my palace and my thoughts, because I have a feeling that Ceryn could take as easily as she can give. I'm just not sure what that is yet.

There's something uncanny about this lowdweller. A contrast that makes my skin bristle. She seems innocent and harmless like a calm blue sky, but also relentless like the deep-blue Unsailable Ocean. Two shades of blue that vastly contrast. Two different realms that have stared at each other for eternity and yet are nothing alike.

She brings forth a promising offer. She could give me a son and live a long life beside him. My heir would forever silence the Val'thra and all my opponents.

But I refuse to bite from the juicy red fruit dangling before me.

I stare at my bloody hand, sensing danger.

"Your father is alive, Ceryn."

She exhales shakily, reaching backward and setting a hand against the wall for balance.

"But I cannot protect him from punishment. The woman he hurt deserves justice."

She keeps her eyes closed, her brow furrowed in pain. "It was an accident. I'll give you anything. Zil. Please."

This woman seems to have fallen on my lap at the perfect time. Offering me a solution to all my problems: an heir who wouldn't know the loss of a mother. 

But I would be a fool to accept it.

"I cannot take you as a concubine."

She doesn't react to my rejection. Responding, "What of another nobleman that could take me in exchange for my father?"

She has countered my rejection with one of her own.

A disgruntled rumble echoes through my chest. Her suggestion displeases me. Makes my chest tight with an unfamiliar emotion.

"No nobleman of House Arkon will take you. The nobles know you are not one of them and will beat you down. They will make you wish the earth would open and swallow you."

She opens her eyes, revealing fire in her golden eyes that seem to light up the room. Eyes that would erupt Val'thra's volcano.

"Well, then it's a good thing I'm a lowdweller because I know a thing or two about living and surviving in holes," she snarls.

The midwife makes a sound of anger. Discontented by Ceryn's disrespectful tone. I take no offense to it. We're playing a game, waltzing around each other. I'm intrigued by what step she's going to take next. Those tiny feet of hers that poke from under her nightgown have never stepped a foot in this menacing palace before. She has never stood before a Xor. And yet, she dares to dance instead of turning and running for her life.

There's a tension building between us. I felt it in the loading bay, and it followed me over the next four days as she occasionally claimed my thoughts. 

The tension feels like a slight tremble of the earth before an earthquake.

She doesn't know what she's asking for. The topdwellers are ruthless. They would destroy her.

She must learn one way or another that they will never accept her and abandon these foolish thoughts of saving her father. If she won't heed my warnings, then I will throw her to the beasts for them to devour. It would be a mercy to her.

Then, she will willingly walk away, finally fading from my memory as she was destined to. The dance will have come to an end.

"Have it your way," I say. "You will learn one way or another that storms brew both outside and inside the palace."

I turn to the midwife. "Prepare her for tonight's Aetherial banquet."

The midwife looks surprised but bends her knee in submission.

I give Ceryn one last look before turning and leaving, walking past the servants that flood the hall.

PART 5

CERYN

The midwife springs to action as soon as the Xor leaves, heading for the tall walls I've been staring at for days.

She turns on every lantern in the room, the warm flames glowing against the chiseled tile and glinting against the metal accents on the picture frames, chandeliers, window frames, and golden fixtures on the doorknobs.

She goes to the four-poster bed. Tall like every piece of furniture in this room, the mattress made of kelp mats; a material so precious that I didn't dare to lay on it the first night in the palace; opting to sleep on the window bench instead.

The midwife strips the bloody silk sheets from the bed, muttering under her breath. The beads she wears rattle.

"Ceryn, I will send a bath and a dress to you. Tonight, a servant will retrieve you and bring you to a banquet. You are to stay quiet when the seers pray and lower your gaze when the Xor enters the room. Do not question him as you did in private. You are nobody. Do you understand?"

I'm so sick with worry that I hardly process her warnings. I've been here for too long. Father hasn't had his medicine. The pain must be killing him.

"Can I…see my father?"

"I have no idea whether your father is in the royal prison or already at the gallows."

I shudder.

The midwife bundles the sheets and heads for the door, stopping before she leaves. "Do not be surprised when you see your sheets hanging over the mezzanine."

Hanging? Why in Kryndor would they hang my soiled sheets?

Reading my confusion, she says, "It is our custom. The sheets of blossomed noblewomen hang over the mezzanine for the people of the palace to admire and pray to the gods."

"But–but I am not a noble. Do you hang the servant's sheets, too?"

She shakes her head. "It is impossible for servants to blossom in the palace. They retire at age fifty. You are…" she scans me. "An exception. An inconvenience at that, so mind your place."

She leaves, and I'm left pulling at my hair, tormented by helplessness. 

The Xor warned me that the nobles would shred me apart. He told me to leave and that I would never survive as a concubine. But I will prove him wrong. I'll survive any humiliation and insults for my father. He has fared worse for me. Those nobles will learn that I'm as tough on the inside as I am on my calloused, scarred outside.

I wait in my bloody nightgown for a few minutes before there's a knock at the door. It opens before I can welcome anyone inside, and two servant women carry a giant glass tub inside, shooing me away when I inch close to help.

The tub is steaming with warm water. I stare at it in confusion. They can't possibly expect me to waste all this water? This is a week's worth of water in The Underhold.

One maid rolls a cart inside and changes the bedding,

The other maid disappears momentarily, returning with a tray of colored vials and a dress draped over her arm. She sets both at the edge of my bed.

"You may use all these soaps and oils for your bath," she says.

"What if I don't–"

"Discard them if you wish. No noblewoman will want to recycle your…waste."

They're frowning at me, glancing at my bloodied nightgown.

"I see. Thank you," I smile.

They leave, and I stare at the water for a long time before deciding that I have no other choice but to bathe.

I strip my nightgown off and step into the warm water, cringing with guilt as I step into the beautiful tub and soil many gallons of water that would've served a dozen people back home.

I stare at my reflection in the water, trying to make sense of today.

I've been so stressed these past few days that it's no surprise my red came. The Xor saw my truth written on the bed sheets. His violet eyes were dark as they scanned me, reading me. I could hardly breathe as he pinned me. My body was under his without him lifting a single finger.

He saw my truth, and yet it's not enough. He turned me away, finding me unworthy.

I'm one step away from failing my father.

I finish my bath and examine the clothes I am to wear. There's underwear and sanitary napkins. The long, grey dress has an apron tied around the waist. A servant's dress. The material is soft. I've never owned anything like it. There's a pair of sandals on the floor. A size too big for me, made of leather strips.

I change into the dress, admiring the perfect seams and the thickness of the material.

My cheeks heat as I store the extra bottles of oils and soaps on the nightstand, praying that they'll let me keep them and send them home for lowdwellers to use.

After folding my soiled nightgown, I sit at the edge of the bed and comb my fingers through my short hair, black from the dye.

And then I wait for hours. The storm outside the palace refuses to relent. The sound of thunder is loud, unmuffled like it would be in The Underhold. 

But I'm unfazed by the loud crackles that echo through the room. They're unremarkable compared to the king's rumbling voice, and the bursts of lightning filling this room are less startling than the flickering of the Xor's eyes.

Servants walk up and down the hall, and I catch some of their conversations. They gossip about the Vak'thra disrespecting the king yet again by trespassing and violating his land. They're getting more brash by the day, and I know the king won't tolerate it for long. He will want to quiet them.

If only he would find me worthy enough to negotiate with.

The door is opened without warning, and a servant enters, ushering me.

I rise and follow her outside, shrinking with every step I take and every detail I notice about this palace. The ceiling is impossibly high, like the summit of a mountain. Depictions of angry gods and world-ending storms are painted in vibrant ink; doom hovering over us.

Legend has it that the storms of the Unsailable Ocean were caused by the rage of Goddess Zintha when her daughter drowned in its waters. That men who drown in the Unsailable Ocean become monsters, and the tears of the women mourning their death fill the Ocean even deeper. I read some of those legends in the ceiling, but the majority of the stories are unfamiliar, their meanings lost in the swirling chaos of ink and divinity.

I lower my eyes, scanning the walls lined with portraits of topdwellers from distant pasts but with the same violet eyes. The faded color betrays them because I know first-hand how deep the violet can be.

We walk past statues and pedestals, giant glass-stained windows, and old, exotic bioluminescent plants that have probably seen three generations of Xors come and go. I feel the distant roar of the waterfalls beneath my feet.

Everything in this palace is giant, even the servant girls that walk past me. Their whispers and stares make me feel even smaller.

A beam of sunlight makes my feet stop as I realize that the clouds have parted and the rain has stopped. The storm is over, and my time is up. I am going to get kicked out of the palace.

I continue walking with newfound determination, suddenly immune to the whispers.

I must play one last card.

I'm led through the mezzanine. And just as I was warned, I find the shocking sight of my bloody bedsheets hanging over the railing like a flag for all to see. There's a big, red stain towards the center that no one can take their eyes off.

It's horrifying. Embarrassing.

And everyone knows that it's mine because I'm the only person walking these halls that's five feet tall. I stand out as easily as the red stain does.

The servant leads me into a hall, and I finally look up. The giant room is lit with twenty chandeliers, the light twinkling on the jewelry of the nobles. They wear their finest clothes. The women wear long, shapeless dresses with high thigh slits adorned with draping belts. Their glittering face paint trails down their necks before seductively disappearing under their dresses. Their hair is adorned with shells, crystals, beads, and ribbons. Some women are bald, the paint on their faces swirling around their bare scalps.

The men also wear their best, but they don't stand a chance against the Xor at the end of the room, sitting behind a long, horizontal table with his brother and other nobles beside him. His arms crossed over his chest, muscle stacked on muscle. The armlet seared into his bicep is the only accessory he wears. Subtle, and yet everyone–even the gods painted onto the ceiling–have their eyes on him.

I'm ushered against the wall, where servants are lined and await to be called.

The nobles mingle for a while before sitting at their designated tables. They look happy. Unconcerned with taxes, feeding their family, or the roof collapsing on them. The last thing on their mind is the people beneath their feet–the lowdwellers–living underground and fighting every day to survive. It's such a blinding contrast.

My presence gets noticed, and I find myself being scowled at by most noblewomen, young and old. It seems like news of my blossoming has spread far and wide.

All attention is forced to the center of the room when two Seers tattooed from head to toe open their books and pray in High Graxali. They ask the gods for their mercy. For the storms to cease and more women to blossom. Their voices are powerful and deep. Effortlessly echoing through the room. Their gloved hands carefully cradling their old bibles.

Then, when it all ends, the nobles and servants bow their heads–everyone but the king.

I'm distracted by a noblewoman at the nearest table to me. She reaches into her dress, retrieving a small dagger kept between her breasts. She unsheathes the dagger and shows it to the noblewoman sitting beside her. 

"Look. It was forged using metal scraped from the wall."

"It's lovely. Yera's got a dagger from Vak'thra. So tone-deaf. How could she forge a dagger in enemy territory to offer to the Xor and expect him to take her as his wife?"

I then notice many other young and old noblewomen retrieving their daggers, and some rise from their seats. I watch as they approach the horizontal table. They form a line. One by one, the women bow to the king and present their daggers to him. Offering themselves for marriage. He takes no dagger, disinterested as a dozen beautiful women walk past.

His gaze is distant. He's agitated. His arms crossed so tightly around his chest that it's a wonder his armlet didn't crack. He must be thinking about the latest bout of gossip. About how the Vak'thra are calling him a weak, seedless king.

I walk away from the wall, breaking from the servant line. I reach for the nearest table and take one of the plain dining knives, ignoring the gasp of the noblewoman. 

I grip the wooden handle hard as I walk past all the tables, headed for the most decorated one. The one with the bluest blood.

Ravore notices me first, his eyes latching onto me. I don't look his way.

When I'm standing dead in the center, right over the king, his eyes slowly trail over me.

"What," he says, his voice dead. Devoid of emotion. "Do you think you're doing?"

I stab the ordinary dining knife on the table, setting it in front of the king.

 All chatter in the entire palace ceases. All silverware stops clanking. Even the waterfalls that roar beneath our floors seem to stop flowing.

The world is watching us.

I lean closer, whispering words only meant for his ears. "Use this knife to kill me and spare my father or to cut my dress off and take my womb. The choice is yours, Xor."

He remains expressionless. He's the king of the three kingdoms and also of ice.

"No."

He doesn't care to whisper like I did. He says the word with his chest. Letting the entire palace hear his rejection.

I hold his gaze for a few seconds, but he doesn't break. So I grab the handle and pull the knife free. 

Rising to my full height, I step away and then sideways to stand in front of Ravore. Before I can even set the knife in front of the king's brother, the Xor roars and snatches it from me before toppling the table sideways to a wall.

Food flies across the room, a few specks spattering my skirt.

He jumps from his seat like a wave, bringing destruction. Determined to swallow me whole.

“Varkon!” shouts Ravore.

The Xor doesn't acknowledge him. He closes the distance between us. 

He lifts the knife to my face. I freeze, expecting pain.

His violet eyes are stormy as he grabs my neckline and rips it down to my shoulder, exposing my collarbone. Claiming me. Marking me, just as I asked him to. As he clutches onto my neckline in his fist to keep the material from flopping and revealing my body, I realize that perhaps I've made a foolish mistake. Because the Xor cut my dress with a knife and now his violet eyes are cutting into my flesh.

"You beg me to breed you, Ceryn?" he growls my name for the first time. "Then I will have you."

He throws the knife down at my feet, shouting over his shoulder, "Retrieve her father from his cell!"

There's an outcry as the men sitting beside him rebel, including Ravore.

"Silence!" the Xor roars. "I do not answer to any of you. Everyone clear the vrelling room!"

Everyone rushes to pack their things and get the vrell out of the room.

And then it's just the king and I. And I feel like I'm standing at the tip of the cliff overlooking the Unsailable Ocean. My feet are about to slip on the edge and send me pummeling to its cold, doomed depths.

READ PARTS 6-7>

Want to read more of this story? Check out the story's Lore ->