State of Sorrow (Untitled #1)(18)

She returned to her bed, picking up the small lamp from beside it, and lit it. Then, in silence, she entered the passageway.

She and Rasmus had found it by accident years ago, before they became more than friends. They’d been messing around in the corridor of the diplomatic wing, mocking a bureau of old artefacts that seemed to have been hidden down there, out of sight of the rest of the palace. Sorrow had reached for a particularly ugly vase, fashioned like a kind of dolphin, but as she’d tried to lift it the bureau shifted instead, revealing a passageway behind it.

They had slipped into it and, holding hands, followed it all the way along until they’d found themselves, to their surprise, in her wardrobe. They’d never discovered the real reason for it, hadn’t wanted to ask in case someone blocked it off, though Sorrow fancied it was for some ancient ancestral chancellor to sneak out to see his mistresses. It had made for great fun when they were children, and become even more useful as they’d grown, and things had changed. Not even Irris knew about it.

Moments later she had reached the end, stepping into the corridor where Rasmus’s room was.

He was lying on his bed, still fully dressed, reading, when she entered the room without knocking, and he looked up in surprise.

“Row?”

She tugged her nightgown over her head and dropped it, releasing her hair from its crown. Rasmus put down his book and stood.

“Row, what’s—” he said, but she gave him no time to talk, tugging at his shirt, unlacing it and yanking it over his head. She pressed into his body, warm and living, and felt a peace begin to spread through her, beneath the wildness of fear and need. She pushed him back on the bed, silencing every word he tried to say, and soon he stopped trying, responding in the way she needed him to. Somewhere beneath the wanting, she knew she wasn’t being fair, that she had to tell him what had been decided, and what it meant for them, but she couldn’t think of that then.

She reached across to the drawer beside the bed and pulled out a small bag, and he took it from her, emptying the contents into his mouth and chewing, his hands stroking at her the whole while, his rings cold against her rapidly warming skin. When he bent to kiss her, his lips tasted bitter and green, and she licked the flavour away. He made a sound deep in the back of his throat, and she closed her eyes, pulling him against her, into her.


Her hair was damp when they separated, her mouth sore from kissing. He’d curled himself around her, one hand stroking her spine.

“Are you all right?” he asked, and she nodded against his chest.

“Are you?” she murmured.

Above her head he gave a soft snort. “Well … I suppose so.” She could hear the smile in his voice and it made her ache.

The first time she’d seen Rasmus smile, it had terrified her. It wasn’t the first smile she’d seen, but it was the first one that was wide, and full, with no guilt or fear behind it. It was so open she hadn’t known it for a smile at first.

She was eight years old, as was he, newly arrived there to live with his father, Vespus, the then Rhyllian ambassador, after the death of his mother back home. When he’d found her in the nursery, his face had changed, widening, his eyes narrowing as his lips had parted and he’d bared his teeth at her. She’d punched him in the nose and run from him, her short legs pumping down the corridor as she tried to put as much distance between them as she could. But his legs were longer, he’d grown up on milk and honey and fresh air, and he easily caught up to her in the old ballroom.

“Why did you hit me? Why do you run from me?” he’d asked in halting Rhannish, tucking his fair hair behind pointed ears. She’d remained mute and staring, balled fists ready to hit him again if she needed to. “I only want to be your friend.”

He’d raised a hand, long slim fingers pointing towards the ceiling, and eventually she’d uncurled her own, her pudgy fingers spread like a starfish as she mimicked his stance. He’d pressed his palm to hers, and the feeling sent a spark of something new through her body. Joy, she would realize later, when he gave her the word for it. Peace.

“Now we are friends,” the Rhyllian boy said solemnly.

“You won’t growl at me any more, then?” she’d asked.

“I never did growl at you.”

“You did. Like a dog. But silent.”

“I smiled at you. Not growled.”

Sorrow shook her head. “You mustn’t smile here. It’s forbidden.”

As though she’d said something funny, the boy smiled again, then clapped his hand over his mouth, violet eyes wide.

Sorrow frowned, chewing her lip, as she came to a decision. “Show me,” she’d demanded.

And Rasmus had smiled for her on command.





The Jedenvat

Sorrow slipped out once he’d fallen asleep. In the dim light, he looked almost Rhannish. With his ears hidden by his hair, there was no sign of his Rhyllian heritage.

They’d first kissed a little over a year ago. One moment they’d been playing a Rhyllian card game Ras had smuggled to her rooms – she’d complained he was cheating, he’d tried to explain the overly complex rules – and then her mouth was on his, their lips the only parts of them touching in a frozen kiss.

They separated, and laughed, not quite meeting each other’s eyes, and continued with the game as though it hadn’t happened. And three nights later, Sorrow had found herself kissing him once more, but this time with confidence, curiosity, his hands on her shoulders, hers at his waist. It happened again the next night. Then again. And again, until sliding her arms around his neck and pulling him close when they were alone was almost a reflex. Things might have been different if Lincel hadn’t made it clear she didn’t need the aid of a fifteen-year-old boy who now spoke Rhannish better than he spoke Rhyllian. And if Irris hadn’t been occupied taking over from her brother on the Jedenvat, leaving Sorrow and Rasmus alone more and more.