The Girl King (The Girl King #1)(13)
Next to the case, on a dress form, hung a set of his emperor’s robes, the dye of Hu imperial scarlet still clinging to their age-embrittled silk. Lu fixed her gaze upon them; judging from their cut, Kangmun had been a large man. Broader and taller than her father, even.
Infuriatingly, Lu felt her eyes well up at the sight of those robes. At the legacy and the honor they bespoke. She blinked the tears back fiercely. She had been so close. What had turned the tide against her?
She could not say how long she stayed there on her knees. Her mother was right. There was no taking back her father’s decision, not when he had announced it before the whole empire. This was her life now. She would walk through the same unhappy motions of marriage, of childbirth, of managing palace staff and the small manipulations of gossip and whispers, like a hundred generations of women before her, starting with the Betrothal Ceremony, where again she would be paraded and humiliated in front of the entire court, and—
The Betrothal Ceremony.
Lu looked up sharply, eyes falling upon the broad, ghostly form of Emperor Kangmun’s robes and tiger pelt. And an idea took root. A stupid, rash, childish idea. One that might just work.
Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind: You can bend to that reality, or you can be broken by it.
Let them try to break her, then.
CHAPTER 4
Slipskin
“Slipskin.”
Nok’s throat was closing up.
The shamaness studied him with bright, eager eyes. “Yes,” she murmured. “Yes. And Ashina at that. The blue wolves. A strong people. But what you have . . . I never felt that in any of you before . . .”
His free hand dropped the morning’s purchases and shot to his chest, as though to push away the massive weight crushing him—but of course, his hand grasped at nothing but his tunic.
I’ll kill you!
The girl’s voice cried out again. It was only in his head, he knew, and yet he could hear it, surer than the blood thundering in his ears.
The beggar woman’s hand tightened around his wrist, her nails digging painful little crescents into the flesh, bringing him back to the present.
His breath came back to him with a gasp. “Let go!”
She released him. He stumbled back, and for a taut moment the intimacy of his secret reared between them, terrible and unexpected, like a trod-upon snake. Nok stooped and retrieved his bag, never taking his eyes off her.
He ran.
“Your secret is safe with me, little pup!” The woman’s voice rattled after him. Her laugh was rough and sad. As he turned the corner, he heard her add: “We’re both a long way from home, aren’t we?”
Nok couldn’t say for how long he ran, but he finally stopped in a narrow alley with his heart pounding like it was set to kill him. The alley let out down into the harbor; he could see the Milk River, hear dock workers shouting at one another, tossing crates of cargo.
I’ll kill you!
He whipped a glance over his shoulder. The alley was empty—of course it was. He mashed a hand against his eyes. What was he expecting? The shamaness? Soldiers wielding steel? The whole imperial army at his heels?
Get ahold of yourself.
The only danger was his own fear, his own memories. And he knew how to control those.
“Nok!”
He jumped, but it was only Adé. She was smiling and waving, but as she neared the cheer drained from her face. “Are you all right?” she asked. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
Her words almost made him laugh. He stumbled instead.
Adé leaped forward and caught his elbow. “Do you need to eat something? I bought an apple—”
“I’m all right,” Nok managed to wheeze. “I’ll be fine,” he told her. “Just got a bit dizzy.”
He threw up. Water yellowed with bile splattered the ground.
“Oh gods,” Adé cursed. “All right, definitely no food then. Sit.”
She led him toward a stack of packing crates. A trio of dingy chickens pecked at the dirt before them. Adé shooed them away, and Nok collapsed onto the crates gratefully, dropping his head into his hands. The scars on his palms and face were aching as they hadn’t done in years, the pain quick and lancing and panicky. It was as though with a croaked word, the shamaness had released some sickness that had lain dormant in his bones.
“Nok?” Adé’s voice sounded distant. She dropped down beside him.
His heart was hammering so loudly. Surely Adé could hear it. Surely the whole city could hear its pounding, screaming out who he was. What he was.
She rubbed his back, murmuring comfortingly in his ear, but he could not understand the words; the dissonance, the confusion of them made his stomach roil. He focused on trying to breathe.
“Dunno what’s wrong with me,” he muttered finally. “Guess I just got overheated.”
Adé’s brow furrowed. “Drink some water, then.”
Nok fumbled for the bladder he kept slung over one shoulder and drained a few weak drops onto his tongue before offering it to her.
“You need to drink more than that,” she told him matter-of-factly. “Finish it.”
“Oh, what are you now? A healer?” he teased weakly. “Some sort of apothecarist’s assistant?” She stuck out her tongue but watched him carefully to make certain he took another swig. The water in his mouth felt foreign and metallic and wrong. He forced himself to swallow.