The Deathsinger: Book 1

Ch. 5: Confessions

The first day of the king's funeral procession was oddly warm and sunny. Tievel's mother told everyone it was an auspicious omen for her husband's future as king. At Astreia's side when she said this, I eyed Brinley Darksbane with misgiving while he picked his teeth with his pinky nail and leered at a servant. If it was a sign, it was more likely that the gods were celebrating the end of a miserable tyrant, but since the gods had stopped caring about us long ago, I decided it was a coincidence.

As the newly crowned high prince, Tievel had the honor of lighting the beacon—a funeral pyre built in the palace's tallest tower. It wasn't where the body would be burned. It was symbolic of the fires of judgment, the first stage of a soul's rebirth.

Fire cast by magic. The flames were tall enough to be seen from miles away, and legend had it they would not extinguish until the king's soul passed through to the Other Realm. I could not deny they were beautiful, especially that night when the golden sparks broke free from flickering amber tongues and spread across the black expanse, but every time I saw them, I fought back a wave of fear.

Astreia and Tievel were gone for six days after the lighting ceremony. The king's body would travel the kingdom to allow the citizens of Edresh to pay their respects. As the princess's companion, I did almost everything with her, unless it involved matters of state, but with our recent argument causing tension, I was happy to stay behind, spending most of my evenings in the library.

Of course, that meant I had ample alone time to dwell on what happened to me the night the king died. The obvious explanation—at least to me—was that the Reaper had told the truth. I was a Deathsinger. No one else had heard the mournful song, and the strange blackness in my eyes and skin disappeared the moment the song ceased.

This discovery, coupled by Joreen's rather harsh assessment of my character, chipped away at the walls I'd built around my desire to uncover the secrets of my childhood. Being safe had felt like a reasonable tradeoff for knowledge, especially when I suspected there could be nothing remarkable about me since I was a low elf. I convinced myself I'd hit my head during the fire that left me disfigured, and the fire probably happened during a war skirmish.

Now, nearly every waking thought was consumed with what ifs and wondering, but how could I get answers when just speaking about it could get me killed? I flipped the page of my book hard enough to tear the page. Why couldn't that blasted Reaper show up again?

The library door creaked as it opened. I closed the book, keeping my finger between covers to mark my place and twisted to see who was disturbing my peace since the only people left in the palace were indolent ladies-in-waiting and servants. Astreia swept by my chair and settled on the ottoman in front of me, pushing my feet out of her way.

"I'm still angry at you."

That's how this was going to go? I ignored her, opened my book, and pretended to read. Astreia let out a long sigh, and another still when I did not look up. She shoved my legs hard enough they fell off the furniture, jerking me upright in my chair.

I glared at her. "May I help you?"

"You're really going to be snippy with me?" the princess gasped, her hand fluttering to the generous cleavage on display.

"I really don't like this version of you," I snapped. "You mock girls who act like this."

"Well, excuse me," she said. "Perhaps I feel a bit betrayed. It's only been seven days since I found out you want to bed my betrothed."

Accustomed to her language, I said, "You and I both know you're not jealous."

"Ew, disgusting." Astreia shuddered. "Of course not. Besides the fact that I now have to reevaluate our friendship because of your questionable taste in men, I'm most bothered by the fact you've kept it a secret from me. Why didn't you ever tell me?"