Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Aurelia
S imply walking into the dining room intensifies the burn of hunger in my belly. Over the past day and a half as my body has adapted to the emptiness, my appetite has mostly dwindled from a sharp throbbing to a dull ache, but even the faint scent of the doughy rolls already laid out on some of the tables sets off a fresh jab.
As I walk toward the head table, I avert my gaze from the carafes of various beverages. The gravelly sensation in my mouth and the pinching of dryness in my throat has only deepened the longer I endure this trial.
Perhaps I should just be glad for the minor relief of wearing undergarments again. One of the female guards played chaperone in my bedroom overnight, but she didn’t interfere with my dressing any.
Normally when I reach the head table, one of the palace staff directs me to my assigned seat for the meal. Today, the woman who approaches motions me off to the side near Marclinus’s throne-like chair. “You won’t be sitting for this meal. All of the seats are taken.”
The emperor and his heir are going to make us stand through the entire luncheon we’re not allowed to partake of? A prickling of dizziness ripples through me even imagining it.
Rochelle has come up behind me in time to hear the instructions. We exchange an uncertain glance, but we don’t speak about it.
At this point, we need to preserve all the moisture in our bodies that we can—and all the energy. Talking will only expel both.
I fight the urge to lean against one of the unoccupied chairs, also in the name of conserving energy. I suspect that would be considered cheating too.
Our tyrants are determined to make this latest test as taxing as possible.
No one else has slipped and tried to sneak nourishment since the lady who was slain yesterday afternoon. I suppose she served as warning enough. But just as with the trial of over-indulgence, the imperial heir has shown no inclination to end this one early simply because he’s eliminated a contender.
More of the competing ladies join our unsteady cluster while the other nobles file in and take their seats. A nearby marchion pops a grape into his mouth with a juicy crunch that sets my parched throat on fire.
Marclinus saunters in alongside his father and takes his seat with barely a look at the ladies waiting for his approval.
Emperor Tarquin scans his assembling court, frowning. “ Where has Prince Lorenzo wandered off to? I think we’d enjoy some music with our meal—he can have his after.”
As several of the nearby nobles shake their heads in ignorance, my stomach twists for a different reason.
This would be the first time I’ve seen the emperor demand that Lorenzo play twice in one day. The prince already performed for nearly two hours in the parlor this morning and looked rather ill by the end of it. He’s had less time than that to rest.
Straining one’s gift can have severe adverse effects on the body. Not that I’d expect Emperor Tarquin to care about how his demands might harm anyone else.
My gaze flits over the growing crowd too. I don’t spot Lorenzo’s darkly handsome face, but the other three princes are standing nearby.
Neven is saying something to the other two with obvious anger. Raul puts a hand on his shoulder, and Bastien tips his head closer while he replies with a solemn expression. Neven scowls, but he follows them the rest of the way to their seats without further argument.
The older princes protect their younger counterpart as well as they can, don’t they? I only fully recognized it yesterday when Raul intervened in Neven’s planned assault.
Raul didn’t care that much what the teenager might do to me. He didn’t want Neven to have to face the consequences if he was caught overtly harassing me.
Looking after his younger “brother” mattered more to him than whatever animosity he still holds toward me.
Emperor Tarquin sighs. “I’ll speak to him when he arrives.” He continues on to his seat—and treads on a spoon that must have fallen while the table was being set.
His balance wobbles before he grasps the edge of the table to steady himself. With a grunt, he kicks the spoon out of the way. It’s a totally understandable lapse—even a man half his age would have lost his footing momentarily.
From the neighboring table, I catch a murmured comment. “You see—he really isn’t quite himself.”
Ah. My remark the other day about his tremor must have entered into the palace gossip.
When I glance toward the nearby doorway to see if everyone has finally arrived so we can get this meal over with, the last of the princes is just stepping over the threshold. Lorenzo still looks a bit weary, some of the richness dulled in his deep brown skin.
A twinge of sympathy runs through me despite my own discomforts. Before I can think better of it, I catch his attention with a twitch of my hand.
Remembering the signs he showed me in the library, I swivel my thumb like a crown over a forefinger to indicate the emperor, flick my finger toward Lorenzo, and then jerk my fingers tight like claws in an effort to indicate discomfort to come.
Lorenzo blinks at me. I can’t tell whether he’s drained enough to have trouble concentrating or simply startled that I’ve adopted his surreptitious means of communication.
Then the message appears to sink in. He stiffens, takes a backward step toward the hall?—
Too late. Emperor Tarquin’s voice carries over the court chatter. “Prince of Rione! Come delight us with more of your musical talent.”
Lorenzo’s jaw tightens as if he’s suppressed a grimace. With a resigned air, he stalks past me to the corner of the room the emperor indicated, where a page is waiting with what seems to be his other preferred instrument: a gleaming lyre.
Marclinus straightens in his chair. He waves to the nine of us ladies gathered nearby and calls out his announcement. “My hopeful brides will be demonstrating other kinds of self-control and devotion at our last meal of their trial. They’ll each help serve me my food.”
A few giggles and guffaws pass through our audience. Now he wants his noblewomen to play servants?
I don’t really care about being humbled. From the looks of my companions, they’re too wrung out to be embarrassed by this new development. Even Fausta’s posture has started to droop, though she’s keeping her chin rigidly high, her eyes darting over the rest of us.
Various staff circulate the room, bringing meals that are already portioned. One carts a wooden stand holding a platter with a large serving dish and sets it up next to Marclinus’s spot at the table. She moves around him and poses at the opposite side of his chair, ladle hovering over his bowl.
The imperial heir beckons the closest of us ladies over to the serving dish. “Hold it up so I can receive my soup. Prepare yourself—the dish is hot.”
His words set off a peal of warning in my head. I bite back my own plea for caution as the noblewoman reaches for the porcelain sides.
The moment she grasps the dish, her features twitch with a flinch she can’t suppress. A tiny gasp escapes her lips.
Marclinus raises his eyebrows at her. “Get on with it, then.”
With her lips pressed so tightly the skin around them pales, she hefts the serving dish off the platter and holds it within reach of the woman with the ladle. Her arms tremble, and the whites of her eyes look starker with every passing second.
The other woman calmly spoons three dollops of the soup into Marclinus’s bowl, and the lady yanks the serving dish back to the platter. When she wrenches her hands away, dark pink blotches of burns show against her palms and fingers.
My gut lurches with a sensation very different from hunger. The first victim retreats to the back of our cluster, her shoulders trembling and her hands tucked close to her skirt.
We wait in tense silence as Marclinus eats his soup while exchanging dry remarks with the nobles closest to him. I can’t decide whether his cool cruelty is more disturbing when he’s in a calmer mood like now or when he’s more animated in his antics.
The next course to arrive is roasted vegetables in a similarly sized serving dish. Lady Leonette moves to hold it up to the serving woman’s tongs, her curvy frame going rigid, a breath passing through her teeth with a soft hiss.
Rochelle stirs restlessly at my side and stiffens when she starts to sway. Her face has already turned wan beneath her freckles.
I touch her arm, deciding it’s worth straining my throat to see her make it through. My voice comes out in a thin whisper. “Distance your mind like we did with the knives. Like you’re not in your body.”
I’m not sure I conveyed my meaning as clearly as I’d have liked to, but she makes it through her turn with only a few shakes and shudders. Then comes a dish filled with risotto, and I’m the next in line.
Following my own advice, I detach into a meditative state as I step forward.
I’m not really here. I’m floating somewhere above my body, unaffected by its pains.
My hands lift to the sides of the dish. The heat sears through my skin, yanking at my consciousness. Tears would well behind my eyes if I had the moisture to spare.
The rich savory smell fills my nose, and a tiny bit of saliva manages to form around my tongue. I separate myself from that sensation too, holding the dish firmly and lifting it to the server.
I will survive this agony. I will not be broken.
What is this discomfort compared to the weeks of brutal labor endured by the common folk the empire forces to convey the bream cedar logs across the continent? To the slashes of swords and pelting of arrows faced by those compelled to fight along the empire’s border?
Some part of me can’t help wondering if the pain that’s being inflicted on me is some kind of punishment for ever daring to wish I’d never end up in a position like this at all. For imagining I deserved any kind of freedom while the people of my kingdom suffer.
The server lowers her spoon. I set the dish back on the platter and peel away my stinging hands.
Marclinus looks up at me with a crooked grin. “The steadiest of them all so far. You do know how to carry yourself as more than a lady, Princess Aurelia.”
His compliment leaves me cold. There’s a faint snort behind me that I’d imagine comes from Fausta.
Who edges a little out from our cluster just as I’m passing by. She whips out her foot and snags my ankle.
My weakened body stumbles, my capacity for balance dwindled with my thirst. It’s only thanks to Rochelle’s hasty grasp that I don’t fall face-first to the floor.
When I glance back at my rival, she smirks at me for the two seconds it takes before Marclinus lifts his voice.
“Lady Fausta, are you hoping to win my hand by your own merits or not? ”
I hadn’t realized he was paying attention—and clearly, neither did she. She whirls around with a flush splashing across her delicate features. “I’m so sorry, Your Imperial Highness. It was an accident. I wasn’t thinking about where I set my feet.”
From the imperial heir’s narrowed eyes, I don’t think he believes her any more than I do. As he beckons to the next lady, Fausta shoots a glare over her shoulder at me, as if it’s my fault that he chided her.
She handles her own turn steadily enough, with just a brief quiver of her arms and a stifled whimper. I’m just starting to think that we’ll all make it through without significant incident when the seventh lady hefts up her serving dish—and yelps.
Her hands spasm against the porcelain sides. The dish slips from her grasp and crashes onto the floor. The chunks of curried meat it contained splatter the rug in the midst of the chunks of broken pottery.
Marclinus glowers at her. “I was looking forward to enjoying that course. It seems you value your own comfort over mine.”
The lady cringes. “No, Your Imperial Highness. I wasn’t totally prepared. I got dizzy. I’ll try again.”
“There’s nothing else for you to try with. Pray your showing isn’t the worst.”
The staff are already scrambling to collect the mess. The noblewoman ducks away to the back of our cluster, her whole body trembling. She looks as hopeless as I feel.
What can I say to her? What can I do that will make any difference?
There’s nothing. The last two ladies manage to hold their serving dishes. Marclinus polishes off his dessert and flicks his hand toward one of his guards. “You know who failed. Bring the others to the medic to see about their burns.”
The blisters on my fingers are still throbbing, but I clench my hands all the same when the guard draws his knife. When he slashes it across the woman’s throat like so many before.
The pain means I’m still here. The pain means I’m alive, no matter how little any of our lives matter to my husband-to-be.