Witchshadow (The Witchlands #4) - Susan Dennard Page 0,3

had been in Marstok.

Everything she’d ever fought for, everything she had ever loved had been scorched away. She was trapped here, inside this palace. Inside herself.

The Hell-Bards’ footsteps changed from clack-clack to echoing hammers as they crossed into the oldest part of the palace. Then Safi’s footsteps changed too, and harsh drafts swept against her.

Everything felt colder here. Larger too, each stone in the wall as tall as she was, each banner stretching long as a sea fox. It reduced her to tiny insignificance—as no doubt the Emperor wanted. And no doubt why he kept his personal quarters here, despite greater comfort in the newer additions.

Safi followed the Hell-Bards through the King’s Gallery, then the First Receiving Room, the Second Receiving Room, and, at last, the former empress’s sitting room, where Henrick’s mother had once entertained. Safi stalked past the door to what should have been her bedroom, and stoutly avoided looking at it.

It was just one more reminder of how everything in her plan had gone horribly wrong.

When at last she turned onto the Guards’ Hall that preceded the Emperor’s personal rooms, twelve Hell-Bards watched her pass. Their expressions were hidden behind their helms, and Safi’s own retinue took up positions between them. One Hell-Bard, however, winked as Safi passed.

Caden fitz Grieg, appointed three weeks ago to personally guard His Imperial Majesty.

Safi did not wink back.

One of the Emperor’s many simpering attendants rushed forward, the whip-thin man clearly appalled to see Safi still dressed in her green velvet nightgown. Which just reminded her how much she hated him, how much she hated his master, and how furious she was that Henrick had hurt Lev.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” the attendant began, hurrying toward her, “the Emperor would like you to dress for court—”

Safi threw him. So easily. Too easily, really. When he was near enough to reach, his palms raised and beseeching, she smacked up both his arms, braced one leg against his hip, and dumped him to the ground.

“Stay down,” she ordered, pleased when none of the Hell-Bards intervened. Now that she was one of them, they regularly looked the other way when she did things that were … beneath her title.

A second attendant, his eyes bulging, yanked open the door into the Emperor’s quarters. He did not have time to announce Safi before she strode in.

She had entered Henrick’s personal office only once before, prior to having her magic severed away. At that time, the scarlet rugs had shone bright as fresh blood. Now, they were old gashes, left exposed and rotten. Even the bookshelves she had genuinely admired—so many tomes from all over the Witchlands and beyond—now felt oppressive. Too many shades of gray stacked around her.

Behind a broad desk layered thick with papers and ledgers sat the Emperor himself: Henrick fon Cartorra. He was, as Safi was meant to be, dressed for court, in a fine brown velvet suit.

The color did not suit him, and for the hundredth time, Safi was struck by his toad-like visage, his face sagging and mouth too wide. Although, now she understood his looks were carefully cultivated. The waddling and exaggerated underbite, the slouched posture and overindulgence in food, the unkempt nature of his graying brown curls. Even the sallow undertones to his pale skin seemed part of the act. And though he might look like a toad, he had the mind of a taro player—one who knew exactly how to play the tricky Emperor card.

Safi came to a stop before his desk. “If you want me to do something,” she declared, standing at her tallest, “then pull my noose. Do not hurt the Hell-Bards, do you understand?”

Henrick sniffed, an indulgent sound. “My Empress.” He pushed to his feet with a grunt. “I will hurt whomever I please, and despite your wishes, that will never be you.”

“Then why put this on me?” She yanked at the chain around her neck. “If you do not plan to use it, why bind me to you at all?”

His lips spread with a smile. “That is simply a guarantee.” His one snaggling tooth jutted out above the rest as he shuffled around his desk toward her. “You proved I could not trust you, so I did what I had to do. If you did not want others to suffer at your expense, then you should never have returned to Cartorra. You should have continued running, just as your uncle wanted you to do.”

It was a fist to the stomach, a blow meant to wound—and it did.