State of Sorrow (Sorrow #1)(8)
She allowed herself the luxury of his embrace for a moment longer before she freed herself from his arms. He sighed softly as she did, but she ignored it, walking to the window and sweeping the curtains aside, pushing the frame open, relishing the small act of defiance.
She was surprised to find it was raining, for the first time in at least a month. The air that rushed in was crisp, and smelled fresh and earthy, and droplets lashed her face. It made her think again of sinking into a lake or river, and she opened the window as wide as it could go, raising her face to the sky. Lightning flashed, and seconds later thunder followed, the pressure low across her forehead. Perhaps that explained the true reason for the headaches. Not because she’d thought she smelled Lamentia, but the storm.
She let the water run down her face, not bothering to wipe it away, and it scored her cheeks. As she watched her reflection she realized it looked as though she was crying, and it reminded her of something Rasmus had once said about the Winter Palace. The Court of Tears, he’d called it. An entire palace locked in grief and sadness. But it wasn’t just the Winter Palace that slumbered like a fairy-tale princess.
Beyond the palace walls the country existed on a knife edge. Artists were not permitted to create art, save for government-sanctioned homages to Mael. Merchants could not stock fripperies – no ribbons, no trinkets, no vases, no flowers. The universities were prohibited from teaching arts subjects. There was no music. No performance. No games.
It was treason to wear anything lighter than dark grey or brown, treason to read books for pleasure, treason to laugh. Pregnant couples were treated with suspicion, and had to take great pains to assure anyone who’d listen that their union was made out of duty, and not in happiness. No one held hands, nor kissed. No one smiled, or at least not where they could be seen. Make-up and perfume were banned; even haircuts were seen as frivolous and vain, sometimes enough to warrant a visit from the Decorum Ward.
Children silently haunted the streets like drab little wraiths, never laughing, never smiling. They were taught from infanthood not to, for fear they’d be caught in a moment of joy when Mael had no more moments.
The Land of Tears would be more apt. All of Rhannon was forced to weep for what was lost.
Rasmus moved behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder, thumb rubbing her collarbone. His skin was cool, pale against her bronzed tone. Each of his elegant fingers had multiple silver rings on it, some at the base of his fingers, some just above the knuckles, the small green and blue stones in them the only colour in the whole room. They lit up when lightning flashed above them, glowing like lights, and spontaneously she kissed the back of his hand, feeling his chest swell against her spine as he smiled, thrilled that she’d done it. He leant down to kiss her neck, and her eyes closed for one delicious moment before she broke the spell.
“I suppose I should go now.” She let the drape fall back into place, shutting out the storm, and raised a sleeve to dry her face as she turned to him.
“I suppose you should.”
But she didn’t move.
“I hate this,” she said, so softly she might not have spoken. “I hate all of this. It isn’t right. Grandmama told me – even during the Eternal War there was still life. Hope. Art. Music. Growth. People went on holiday to Meridea, and sailed out to the Skae Islands on pleasure cruises. People studied, and started businesses, and invented. Nothing has changed in almost eighteen years, Ras. It’s like Rhannon is trapped under glass. Something has to change. Someone has to do something.”
“Who? You?” When she didn’t reply he asked again. “Who, Row? Your father is a mess, granted, but he’s still alive. Right now the only way things will change is if he dies, or you overthrow him. Is that what you want?”
“No. Of course not.”
Rasmus watched her carefully. “You know they want you to,” he said slowly. “Why do you think Lord Day sent everyone to you?”
“To help prepare me. To teach me, so when the time comes—”
“He wants it to be now, Row. You’d have his full support if you did choose to depose your father. Sometimes I get the feeling he’s waiting for it. Waiting for you to suggest it. Which is why we need to talk, because things are changing, and fast. And it will have an impact on us. We need to be ready—”
“Rasmus.” Sorrow moved her hands to his chest and pushed him gently back. “Not now. I have to go.”
“Wait. Please, Row.”
She paused. He didn’t often say please. Rhyllians never did. Nor sorry, nor thank you. Rhylla didn’t have a single word that translated to mean the same thing, and in Rhylla the phrases they used instead were potent, Ras had told her. Powerful words that were only spoken when they were truly needed. He said the Rhannish versions were used too freely to fill holes, after goodwill had been dug up, too easily tossed around so that they were all but meaningless. So for him to say “please”…
Her brown eyes met his violet ones. “We will talk. I promise. Just let me get through the next two days. After the memorial ceremony, we’ll talk properly.”
After a moment he released her wrist, his mouth a line of grudging acceptance.
“I’ll see you later?” she asked.
“Ever your servant, Row.” He bowed low, taking her hand once more and turning it over to kiss her palm.
She slipped her hand from his, leaving him there, a new layer of guilt coating her old ones like varnish.