To Bleed a Crystal Bloom by Sarah A. Parker

Iwake to the whoosh of my curtains being drawn.

Groaning, I pry an eye open, using my hand as a shield against the mottled beam of light, though I’m pitted with regret when the motion sends shards of pain lancing through my shoulder.

I feel like I’ve been trampled by a horse.

“It’s too early,” I mumble, watching Tanith flutter about, boasting a smile that looks like it was carved from a moonbeam.

“It’s past nine,” she chirps, dancing her feather-duster over my collection of painted stones with one hand and cranking a window open with the other. “Baze requested I wake you for train—”

“Shh,” I hiss, jabbing a finger in her direction and earning myself a glare of feigned innocence. “Don’t say it. Don’t use that word, Tanith. You know it hurts me.”

“Training,” she says, and I make a sound like a dying animal, glancing at the swarthy sword on my bedside table that’s taunting me with the promise of strident blows. “In Hell Hole ... or whatever it is you call that place.”

It didn’t have a name, but it does now.

“I’m going back to sleep,” I mutter, sandwiching my head between two pillows. “Maybe forever.”

I consider the implications of spiking my offering with something that makes Rhordyn suffer just as much as I am.

Fucking Ebonwood sword. That thing’s loud, heavy ... I hate it. It makes Petrified Pine seem like paper in comparison.

“You can’t go back to sleep. I’ve also been instructed to ensure you get some sunshine.”

“From who?” I ask, my words muffled by the pillow.

The question is a little acidic, I’ll admit.

“The High Master himself. He said if you complain, I’m to remind you that he owns the roof, and is quite within his rights to remove it should you abuse its privileges.”

And he’s about to find out what happens when you overdose on senna.

Peeling the pillow back, I peep out the window at the hazy clouds drifting past. “But it’s not even sunny.” I breathe deep, scenting the promise of a shower on the breeze ruffling my curtains. “In fact, it’s going to rain.”

Tanith shoves the balcony door open and scans the sky, fists pinned to her hips. “Then you best get out there fast.”

Think I’d rather stay right here where I don’t have to see anyone. Especially not bull-headed males who refuse to let me dive to the bottom of the pond and retrieve the swords we lost the other day—swords that were a dream compared to the new ones. Yes, Selkies are scary, but in my very biased opinion, the reward far outweighs the risk of losing my toes.

Sighing, I glare at the thing ...

Tanith prances toward the bed and whips my blanket off, exposing me to a slap of cold. “Up!”

“Ugh ...”

I toss the pillow at her, earning a laugh as I swing my legs over the side of the bed.

Unraveling the long, golden plait hanging heavy over my shoulder, I wander outside and lean against the balustrade, getting my prescribed dose of non-sun while looking down on the world. On gardens churning with people dressed in not only the signature black garb of the West, but also rust-colored cloaks of the East and a few dark blue tunics of the South.

“I think I’ve lost track of the days. Is the Tribunal today?”

“This morning,” Tanith calls, bundling my sheets. “But a Conclave is being held this afternoon, remember? And the ball is tomorrow.”

My heart plummets.

I take a few steps around my balcony, past Limp Leaf and over a branch of my wisteria, gaze dropping to the ships grouped within Bitten Bay’s watery smile. I count twenty-four in total, made up of three flotillas, the largest consisting of dull brown ships with open-mouthed lizards protruding from their bows.

A smaller fleet anchored further in the bay is made of several black, sturdy-looking boats, their hulls wide and sitting low in the water. The third group—the minority—are white and sleek with slender hulls made for cutting through rough water, navy blue sails wrapped around their masts.

I look through the window to the mannequin, untouched since I tossed my throw over it, and frown at the glimpse of blood-red silk spilling across the floor.

Well, shit.

“Your sheets are clear. You should start feeling more yourself,” Tanith calls out.

“That’s something,” I mutter, returning my attention to the cluster of people exploring the lush castle grounds. Smelling my roses. Picking my flowers.

Frowning, I focus on a woman with long, raven locks as she plucks a salmon-colored rose from the bush I grew from a seed.

“Why do they always target Peachie?”

Tanith comes up next to me on the balcony, her arms laden with dirty laundry. “What’s wrong?” She blows a tendril of hair from her eyes and scans the grounds below.

“Peachie.” I point at the brazen woman tucking the pretty loot behind her ear. “I never see her fully fledged because every Tribunal, someone snips at her. I’m sick of it. And of course, she took the only one without bruised petals.”

I shake my head.

“How ...” Tanith squints, face scrunching up. “Wow. You must have very good eyesight.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I certainly can’t make out that sort of detail from this far up.” She shrugs and spins, heading back inside. “Now I understand why the gardeners do most of their pruning during meal times.”

“What?”

Lumping my laundry in a basket, she plants her hands on her hips. “They say it’s the only time they feel like they’re not being eyeballed.”

I blink at her, feeling a little nauseous, wondering if she knows she just tossed me a jar of worms I intend to bust the lid right off of. “Thank you, Tanith. That’s very interesting information—”

“That you didn’t hear from me,” she tacks on, leveling me with a hard look.

Ahh, she does know.

“That I absolutely did not hear from you.”

She smiles and throws me a wink, and I turn back to the scene below.

Those deceptive bastards aren’t going to know what hit them.

Finger-combing my hair, I survey the border, snagging on a small patch of navy that makes my heart flop around. Squinting, I focus on the cluster of bluebells growing at the base of an ancient oak tree ... four long paces past my Safety Line.

Might as well be on a different continent.

“Tanith?”

Receiving no reply, I turn to see she’s slipped out, and consider chasing after her before I come to my senses.

Sending my handmaiden across my line of rocks would be rather selfish of me considering I’m unwilling to step over it myself.

I sigh, gaze lured to the trickle of people atop horses and carts clattering through the front entrance—a monumental, black stone archway smothered in crawling vines.

Better get to training or Baze will be on my case for making him miss the Tribunal.

* * *

Bag bumping against my hip, I take a route less traveled to avoid the unfamiliar people bustling around, having a nosey about the castle. I understand their desire. Curiosity is a natural thing—or so I tell myself every time I find something new to explore in this big, old labyrinth of intrigue that doesn’t belong to me. I repeat the internal mantra as I watch a man boasting the Southern garb approach, strolling down the narrow, well-lit hall I thought would be abandoned.

A hall with no nooks or shadows for me to hide in.

He moves with a confident swagger, shoulders pushed back, hands dug deep into his pockets.

I lift my chin, reminding myself that to turn around and run would look awfully suspicious. I need to act normal, pretend I’m not freaking out ... though my galloping heart knows otherwise.

As we draw closer, I notice he’s deeply handsome with swarthy skin and golden, sun-kissed hair that’s pulled back from strong, masculine features.

He looks down at my bare feet, and his brow almost hops off his face.

Warmth floods my cheeks, and I look to the walls, the floor ... anywhere but him, until I can no longer avoid the awkward tension strung between us.

Our gazes collide.

Once I stare into those glacial blues, I can’t look away no matter how hard I try.

There’s a magnetism I don’t understand, like he’s rummaging through the pit of my soul, examining me from the inside out.

My breath catches, held in the grasp of paralyzed lungs.

The slightest line forms between his brows, and his steps slow, while mine become a frantic, churning beat, passing him like wildfire breezing past a stone.

I don’t dare look back and seek the source of the burning point of perusal between my shoulder blades—a red-hot poker threatening to push through me. He’s likely realized who I am and is drawing his own conclusions about the girl who lives in Rhordyn’s tower and never leaves the castle grounds.

The child-survivor.

Perhaps Rhordyn will count this toward my progress chart.

It’s not until I veer around a sharp bend that I can finally breathe.

Ahead on my right is a wooden door, and I steal a glance over my shoulder before pressing into it, letting it swing on silent hinges that have always allowed me to move into this elbow of The Tangle inconspicuously.

The pokey tunnel is roughly hewn rock, and very few torches line the wiggly hall. Those that do burn as though barely clinging to life, choking on air that’s thick and damp.

I don’t waste time checking to see if I’ve been followed. Whoever that man was, I doubt he knows this castle like I do.

I pick my way along the tunnel until I come to a fork in the path, then steal a torch from a wrought metal sconce. It gives me a bobbing aura of light as I veer left, rounding on a sudden dive almost steep enough to slide down, but not quite.

I’ve tried.

Once the path flattens out, I stop and lift my torch, illuminating the tapestry hung across the wall to my left. Hundreds of vibrant, delicately stitched flowers pock a lonely hill, sprinkling it in bright pops of color.

The solemn vision of beauty almost makes me cry every time my eyes hunger over it.

It’s exotic and so full of life ... yet it’s hidden in this dark tunnel.

The center of the masterpiece dips as if the hall behind it just took a breath, and I peel the corner back, thrusting my torch into the throat of darkness beyond.

I step into the gloom, let the tapestry thump back into place behind me, then make my way down the long, slender hallway that’s as dusty and unkept as the first time I walked along it.

Discovering this passage just shy of my thirteenth birthday was my most exciting find in years—something I knew from the moment I stepped past the heavy tapestry and saw the distressed state of my surroundings.

Neglected tunnels always lead to interesting finds.

I round on a small booth pressed into the wall with a seat skirting its length. It could easily pass as a strange little resting spot, but it’s so much more than that.

I can hear the distant burr of a voice radiating through the wall, and I stab my torch into the empty sconce, freeing my hands.

Kneeling, palms flattened against stone, I seek the wound in the wall—a hole the size of a large plum, perfect for garnering a full, overhead view of the people crammed into the throne room. They fill the entire room to my right, bar a crescent of space that separates the dais from the crowd.

Separates Rhordyn.

Ceiling aglitter with hundreds of chandeliers that sit not far above my eyeline, the room looks like it was carved from a slab of night sky. It’s beautiful, I’ve always thought that, but beautiful things don’t always bring you happiness.

Somehow, and despite the ocean of bodies all garbed in Ocruth black, the room still gives me the sense of a vacant chest cavity.

My gaze darts to Rhordyn, sitting atop a throne made of cleverly placed silver stems soldered together to form an elegant dais. Beside him is a pile of offerings almost taller than himself: crates of chickens, jewelry, fine materials, baskets of herbs, and much more.

A man’s standing within the arc of empty space—years etched into his face and stacked upon his shoulders in bricks of brawn. A farmer perhaps, considering the crate bulging with fat, yellow fruit on the ground beside him.

He’s dropped to one knee, shoulders hunched, revering Rhordyn with dull eyes rimmed in shadow.

“It was a monster that destroyed the fence. A great beast of a thing. And now there’s a gaping hole welcoming anything to slip through!”

Rhordyn nods, chin notched on his fist. “And it will be fixed, Alstrich. I will see to it.”

Plucking a sack off the floor, he loosens the silver drawstring, digs through the clattering contents, and retrieves a black chip he then extends.

Alstrich lifts his crate and places his offering next to a leashed goat. He then takes five steps up the dais and drops to a kneel to receive his token. The currency of promises.

Made from a near-worthless metal and stamped with a Master’s sigil, a token can’t be used to purchase grain or stock or to buy yourself out of debt with a neighbor. It’s worth so much more than that.

To hold a token means you’re owed a promise, and it’s only revoked once that promise is fulfilled.

A scribe at a nearby table scratches notes onto a roll of parchment as Alstrich backs down the dais and, with the vow held in his white-knuckled fist, merges with the crowd.

Rhordyn waves for the next person to come forth: a young woman I recognize from a previous Tribunal as being the medis from a nearby town.

Her eyes are large and tawny, cheeks flushed, hair long and brown and fastened in a low ponytail. Her black, ankle-length dress flatters her curvy form, its long sleeves drawing my eye to her porcelain hands and the deep blue and gold cupla secured around her left wrist.

A shackle of promise. One that wasn’t there last time I saw her.

She curtsies, head bowed in a sign of respect.

My attention slides to Rhordyn—to his straight lips and stony eyes—and I can tell he’s noticed the cupla just by the way his brow pleats.

“Mishka, what is your query?”

She straightens, worrying her bottom lip, smoothing the front of her dress. “High Master, I come to you with a full but heavy heart.” Her words are spoken softly in a reluctant cadence. “I’ve accepted a cupla.”

Rhordyn’s gaze doesn’t waver from hers as he says, “Congratulations. May you be blessed with a long and happy coupling.”

“Thank you, Master.” Her hands settle over her lower belly like a shield, then swiftly fall to her sides. “I ... I come today because my male is not from the West.”

There’s a slight lift of Rhordyn’s brow—a ruse of shock that doesn’t reflect in his stormy eyes nor the tone of his reply. “Oh?”

“N-no. He’s from the South. The capital.”

Murmurs ripple through the crowd.

“Quiet,” Rhordyn says, his voice a low command.

Starched silence sweeps over the room.

Mishka clears her throat, though it doesn’t stop her next words from coming out rusty. “My placement in Grafton as the town medis has been my greatest honor, Master. It has brought me so much joy over the years, but with my change of circumstances, I ...” She pauses, hands twisting before her. “I must ask you to bequeath me the sanction to cross the wall into the South.”

There’s a collective gasp from the crowd, and even my own hand claps across my mouth.

People don’t often search for love outside their territory, but on the off chance of it happening, the male generally relocates so the female can remain close to her family for support in raising their eventual young.

Notthe other way around.

And for a female medis who loves her post? Who I’m beginning to suspect is already with child? It makes little sense.

“Mishka, I must ask. Is this decision your own?”

There’s a silent threat in Rhordyn’s question, and the crowd goes dead quiet, as if their intake of breath is hinging on Mishka’s reply.

Just like mine.

A territory’s strength is in its people’s ability to breed strong men and fertile females. Therefore, the law protects women, preventing them from being coerced into crossing walls and trading colors against their will ... by penalty of death.

Mishka’s feet shuffle, her almost tangible well of nerves serving as fuel for my hammering heart.

“It’s my decision, yes. But as I say, it’s been made with a heavy heart.” Her hands settle over her lower abdomen again. “I’m seven weeks pregnant. Although the thought of raising our young without the support of my mother is daunting ... the thought of staying in Grafton is frightening.”

The last word cracks out of her, and I lean closer to the wall, pressing my face against the cold stone.

“Frightening?” Rhordyn asks, tone even.

Too even.

There’s murder in his voice.

“Y-yes, sire. After the attack on Kriesh a week ago, I had to feed liquid bane to any who were left breathing. A short while back, a bard passing through Grafton sang of other incidents very close to home. Sang of the Vruks growing in numbers and strength. Of children disappearing.”

Children ...

I taste bile, and even from here I can feel the air chill.

“Go on.”

The ball in Mishka’s throat bobs.

“My male says the attacks haven’t yet hit the South, so with great respect, we feel this move is the safest choice for our swelling family.”

Rhordyn shifts forward on his throne, hands steepled, eyes like chips of ice illuminated beneath a full-bellied moon.

There’s a waiting sort of stillness about the room—a silence stretched too thin.

It’s Rhordyn’s job to keep his people safe, and right now ... they’re not.

His hands fall and he straightens. “Another medis will be found to fill your absence. Do what is right for your family.”

Though the words sound genuine, it’s like they’ve been bitten from a slice of slate.

Mishka bows so low her hair brushes the ground, then rises and slips into the murmuring crowd.

I pull back and spin, spine hitting rock.

Children are missing. Vruk numbers are swelling. People aren’t feeling safe anymore ...

I close my eyes, picturing my invisible line of protection hard like a diamond. Hard enough to keep me in. Keep the monsters out.

But it’s all a pretty lie I tell myself, because they’re already here ... in my head.

They already got me.