Bring Me Their Hearts(53)
“That makes one of us.” I giggle. When he doesn’t crack a smile, I quiet down. “So, what sort of valuables do they have you guarding? Treasure? Or perhaps stuffy, important documents?”
“Pictures, milady.”
“Pictures?” I raise a brow. The guard straightens, holding his halberd a little tighter, a little prouder.
“Behind me is where they keep the private d’Malvane family portraits of their dead. I guard them in case of defacers.”
“Who would ever want to deface a d’Malvane portrait?” I frown. The celeon cracks a fanged grin for the first time.
“You’d be surprised, milady.”
“Would I? I’m a new arrival in Vetris. I hardly know anything about this place, or the d’Malvanes—you don’t learn much about the royal family on a pig farm.”
The celeon fixes me with a stare. “You’re the Y’shennria Spring Bride, then?”
I curtsy with a smile, the wine nearly unbalancing me. “The one and only.”
“Rumor has it the prince doesn’t like you much.”
I look him up and down; no other servant in the palace would dare to say that to a Firstblood’s face. Maybe the palace guards are used to speaking their minds more.
“Well, rumor has it that I don’t like him much, either,” I say lightly. He blinks his large violet eyes.
“Then why are you here, milady?”
“Why are you here?” I shoot back.
“To make a living in this cruel world,” he rasps.
“As am I.”
He chuckles at this, the sound somewhere between a purr and a snarl. It’s cut off as a familiar bellow vibrates down the hall.
“Is that you, Lady Zera?” Baron d’Goliev waves his sunbird-feathered cap madly at me, several other nobles on his heels. He turns to them. “Come, you must meet her—she’s a Spring Bride, and clever at that!”
“Kavar’s bloodshot eyeball,” I curse. I dart my eyes around for a way out, the door in front of me pushed open all of a sudden by the celeon’s paw. He jerks his head inside, ears pricking in the same direction.
“Go on, milady. Hide in here. I’ll tell you when they’re gone.”
I shoot him a grin. “You’re a lifesaver.”
I duck into the dim room, and the guard closes the door behind me with a heavy thud. The door and walls are so thick I barely hear the baron’s and his cadre’s footsteps, though their voices demanding to know where I went are louder. The guard fends them off with as many miladies and milords as he can, but the baron won’t have it. I slide away from the door, tucking myself in a corner of the room in case they do manage to barge in here.
The room itself is so different from the rest of the palace—no marble walls or floors, only soft, polished wood. The curtains are black, not pale green, and no gold decorations or statues stand in this room. It’s kept plain save for the walls, which are lined with stunning oil portraits of people long dead. There’s a common thread to them—all wear expensive furs, most of them have Prince Lucien’s dark raven-wing hair. A few are much younger than the dead should be. The first paintings are faded, worn by time and air, but as the wall extends and the paintings grow, the brighter the hues and the fresher the canvas until, at the very end, tucked away in the same corner I stand, is the most recent painting.
The eyes are what take my breath away—her eyes, like obsidian daggers. There’s no mistaking those eyes; this must be Princess Varia. Though, unlike her brother’s blade-eyes, forged with anger and seriousness, Varia’s eyes glimmer with mirth, like she’s keeping some hilarious secret all to herself. Her broad lips are twisted in a half smirk, but something like heartbreak rests in the corners of them. Her black hair is pulled up into an elaborate bun, her dress bright crimson. She stands before a chair and holds a sheaf of bellflowers in one hand and a strange white sword in the other. The painting is so lifelike and distinct I know instantly it’s the same painter who did Lord Y’shennria’s portrait.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?”
I start out of my skin at the voice. I turn to see none other than King Sref rise from a chair in the deep shadows on the other side of the room. I fold into a curtsy.
“Y-Your Majesty,” I start. “I didn’t know you were here; the guard didn’t tell me—”
“Be at ease.” He smiles, face crinkling. “I loathe to admit it, but I’ve been here for many hours, since before his watch started. He didn’t know. I hope you won’t hold it against him—Noran is a good man.”
“Not at all,” I protest. “I thought him g-good as well. A little intimidating, but I suppose that comes with the job.”
I curse my runaway mouth—this isn’t the time to be glib. But the king just laughs softly.
“Indeed.” He turns, his pure gold robe whispering over the wood floor as he approaches Varia’s portrait. His salt-and-pepper mane is tied in three long braids, which are twisted together in an intricate pattern at several points down his back. A gold circlet graces his fierce brows—Lucien’s brows, and Varia’s too. He takes the portrait in with gray, melancholic eyes, as if searching for something he knows is there but can never grasp. I feel almost awkward at his reverent silence, until he turns to me and smiles.