Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Aurelia
A s the cleric’s baritone reverberates through the imperial temple, Rochelle and I lean against each other as discreetly as we can, since we’re not meant to sit beneath the expansive marble dome overhead.
I can’t help feeling that Emperor Tarquin is rubbing salt into the wound. He called us to the temple that adjoins the palace while the sun was sinking toward the horizon, forcing us to stay on our feet through the last half hour. And he appears to have instructed his cleric to lecture us.
The silver-haired man pivots beneath the peak of the dome, his multi-colored robes that represent all of the godlen and the All-Giver who made them swishing around his plump form. “Let us remember that greatness can come from both submission and struggle. When the plague of scourge sorcerers challenged the gods with their twisted magic centuries ago, our Great God rained down fire for our arrogance and then abandoned these realms. But from those ashes rose our empire, faster and stronger than the rest. We must humble ourselves before the gods who still watch over us but also honor authority when our fellow mortals earn it.”
Worship the gods and the emperor… just make sure not to worship the emperor quite as much. So very helpful.
I find it difficult to focus on his words—to think about much of anything other than getting to wet my throat and fill my belly again.
When he stops with an air of finality, Rochelle and I manage to stir ourselves to join the rest of the assembled audience in tapping our hands through the gesture of the divinities and then respectful applause. The last strains of daylight beyond the stained-glass windows fade away.
A servant’s voice calls out. “Proceed to the dining room!”
My heart skips a beat, but I turn toward the doorway carefully. As we tramp down the hall and up the stairs toward the dining room, a burning sensation fills my throat from the back of my mouth all the way down to my collarbone.
Melisse finds me before I even reach the room, clutching a glass of water. “They said we could bring this right away—I thought you’d want it?—”
I manage to rasp a thank you and yank the cup to my lips. The water is lukewarm, but no beverage has ever tasted as refreshing as this one does right now.
After the first gulp, I force myself to slow. My deprived stomach might rebel if I fill it too quickly.
With each swallow, relief spreads through my limbs. I still feel weak, but already steadier.
As Rochelle’s maid hustles over bearing similar cargo, I gather my voice. “Moderate yourself as much as you can. Taking in too much all at once after a fast can end up making you sick. ”
Rochelle nods and all but wrenches the glass from her maid. Her throat works with a few large swigs before she gets her frantic thirst under control.
We’ve continued walking as we drink. The smells of creamy sauces and roasted meat drift from the doorway before we reach it, and my stomach shudders eagerly. Now that I’ve got the moisture to allow it again, my mouth floods with saliva.
Rochelle wets her lips. “This is going to be the most incredible meal in existence, no matter what they feed us.”
I let out a rough laugh. “Agreed.”
The dining room’s layout has changed again, with a few tables pushed together in the center of the room holding a buffet of platters and bowls. Servers poised around the spread hand out plates and set various delicacies on them.
Before I’ve made it to the table, Prince Bastien appears in front of me, holding a plate that balances a small bowl of stew with a slab of buttered bread on the side. When he offers it to me, my lips part to express my confusion. Then a glint of gold catches my eye.
He’s nestled my ring between the bowl and the bread. A simple but surreptitious way to return my stolen jewelry as quickly as possible. He couldn’t exactly sneak into my bedroom while I had the imperial guard watching over me last night.
I snatch the plate from him and dip my head in thanks before hurrying to the head table where Marclinus’s ladies have always sat. The second I drop into my chair, I slide my ring back onto my finger. Then I grab my spoon in one hand, the slab of bread in the other, and throw myself into my meal.
I intend to moderate my pace, but my hunger rears up like a savage creature, and for the first several seconds I can’t seem to do anything but shovel stew and bites of bread into my mouth. My bowl is already half empty when a mocking laugh carries from farther down the table.
“The wild princess has become outright feral tonight,” Bianca says in an arch tone.
I glance up to see her sitting next to Fausta, who’s popping morsels of roasted chicken off her fork into her mouth much more daintily than I was. She slants her gaze toward me with a sniff of disdain.
The reminder that I am supposed to be acting like a princess, that my betrothed will be watching me, reins me in. I finish the bowl of stew and every crumb of bread at a more measured pace, draining another cup of water in frequent sips between bites.
By the time I’m finished, my stomach feels oddly bloated, even though this is my first meal in two days and only a fraction of what past dinners included. It seems wisest to listen to my body’s signals.
I can catch up more tomorrow. And if I find myself starving later in the evening, I’d imagine Melisse can slip down to the kitchen to scrounge up some sort of snack.
With the gnawing hunger sated, a restlessness creeps over me despite my fatigue. I’ve spent the past two days cooped up in the palace, constantly monitored, never allowed a moment alone.
What I’m most craving now is fresh air and space to move around unimpeded.
The nobles around me are immersed in their feasting. I get to my feet and amble toward one of the doorways, and no one speaks to stop me.
After several bends in hallways and a couple of wrong turns, I emerge from the palace into the back gardens. The lanterns along the back wall of the immense building cast a glow through the darkness over the grounds.
The flowers in their rectangular beds drift in the breeze, which is still warm from the day but not unpleasantly so. A fountain burbles to my right, where a statue of Prospira, godlen of fertility and agriculture, appears to summon water from her hands to course down over the mass of vines she’s standing on.
I let the cool spray fleck my skin and then meander onward. Gradually, despite my still slightly wobbly steps, my shoulders ease down.
There are no judgmental stares here, no guards, no games. The knot of held-in tension in my chest gradually unwinds.
A few flowering trees stand amid the gravel paths, and an orchard in spring blossom sprawls to my left. But my gaze is drawn to the taller trees that form a semi-circle farther ahead and to my right: the palace woods.
The oaks and ash trees stretch nowhere near as tall as the evergreens back home, but they’re the closest thing I’ve got here. I drift toward them, called by the pang of homesickness I can never quite shed.
The woods are hardly wild. It’s clear the paths between the trees are carefully maintained, the shrubs kept trimmed and brush culled back to make for easy riding—or even walking. The shadows thicken, but enough moonlight filters through the leaves overhead that I continue onward, not yet ready to return to the stuffiness of the palace. The earthy scents in the air invigorate me out of the lingering weakness from the trial.
I’ve barely moved all day. My limbs are aching as much from disuse as fatigue .
As I meander on, a faint strumming reaches my ears. It lilts in a scrap of melody, halts, and then starts up again.
Who else would be out here in the dusk?
I hesitate and then ease along more cautiously than before, peering in the direction of the music. Several paces farther, a gleam of lanternlight comes into view.
I pad on until I make out the tall, well-built figure leaning against a tree trunk, lute tucked under one arm, long fingers dancing nimbly across the strings.
Prince Lorenzo might have played himself ragged on the emperor’s orders earlier today, but it looks as if he’s still able to take some pleasure from his talent. Although the tunes spilling from the lute’s strings don’t sound as vibrant and assured as his past performances that I’ve heard.
From the way he’s pausing and restarting, I think he’s getting used to the instrument. Learning how to work with it rather than already sure of his skill.
That doesn’t make the music he’s producing any less enjoyable to listen to, though. His rambling practice has a rawness to it, a sense of discovery that sends a little thrill over my skin.
Does he feel the same way I do when I’m assembling a new potion or ointment for the first time?
Maybe it’s that sense of connection that brings me forward. Maybe it’s the memory of how he moved to comfort me two days ago when the princes stole into my bedroom in the middle of the night—the only one who showed any concern about my grief.
Or maybe I simply know I have to take every chance I can get to win over my most likely allies.
At the rustle of my feet through the scattered leaves, Lorenzo’s head jerks up. His hand stills over the lute’s strings .
I come to a stop a few paces away. “I think I might like hearing you play like this even more.”
He raises his eyebrows at a skeptical angle. After a moment, he wiggles his hand over the strings as if to say he was shaky.
I shrug. “You still brought a better melody out of it than I could have managed. Why are you practicing all the way out here?”
He jabs his thumb in the direction of the palace, touches the instrument, and pulls a grimace.
“They wouldn’t appreciate it?” I can believe that easily enough. Emperor Tarquin wants his pet princes performing to the best of their ability.
Lorenzo nods in confirmation. He pauses, taps the lute, and then points to himself.
I can’t quite follow what he’s getting at. “You like to play it?”
With a shake of his head, he casts around. Setting the lute against a tree, he picks up a stick long enough that he can drag it across the ground without bending over. He sweeps the debris away from a flat stretch of dirt and draws a series of letters. It IS me .
Before I have to ask what that’s supposed to mean, he motions toward the palace again and mimics the swaying of a vielle’s bow. Then he rotates a finger against his shirt, over the spot where his godlen sigil will be branded into his deep brown skin.
Understanding clicks in my head. “What you play in there feels like it’s your gift more than your own abilities. You come out here so you can get back to how it was when it was just you?”
A hesitant smile crosses Lorenzo’s lips. He gazes at me for a moment, his expression turning graver .
He mouths a couple of words alongside a curl of his hand, but I can’t decipher the shape of them. At my look of confusion, he picks up the stick, wipes away his previous statement, and replaces it with a simpler one.
Sorry.
My gaze snaps back to his face—to his solemn, dark eyes. “What for?”
He sputters a choked sort of laugh. I guess the question is kind of absurd.
I spread my hands. “I’m just trying to narrow down the possibilities.”
My wry tone brings back a trace of his smile. He draws a finger past his throat, an echo of what he did to mine in the library.
“Oh,” I say. “I can overlook that. I realize none of you were very happy about me showing up.”
Or should I say none of them are very happy? Lorenzo isn’t giving me a hard time right now, but he didn’t at first in the library either.
His attention has shifted to my hands as I’ve spoken. Abruptly, he beckons me closer.
At the same time, he sets down the stick and strides to meet me. He grasps one wrist and turns my palm toward the lantern light.
The medics worked their healing magic on this afternoon’s burns, but their magic isn’t powerful enough to erase an injury in an instant. Pink marks remain on my skin—from past experience, I’d expect them to take a few days to vanish completely.
Lorenzo scowls and jerks his fingers in his gesture that indicates the imperial figures. He halts as if catching himself, his hand closing into a fist .
“It’s over now,” I find myself saying, as if he needs the reassurance. “The burns don’t even hurt anymore.”
He lowers my wrist and lets go. His chest rises with a strained breath. Then he seems to gather himself.
He makes a questioning gesture, points to me, and then indicates the woods around us.
“Why am I out here?” My own smile falters. I look up at the trees looming overhead. “I needed a break. And this is the only part of the estate that feels just a little bit like back home.”
Lorenzo grasps the stick again. You miss it a lot.
Not a question. He saw how I reacted to losing the small piece I still have left of Accasy.
I drag the cooling night air into my lungs and feel as if I might burst with how much I miss my kingdom. “Yes. I try not to think about it, but if I let myself, it’s always there. I guess the homesickness must get better with time.”
My companion should know something about that, but his gaze has gone distant. He starts another series of motions that I interpret to the best of my ability.
“You… when you were small… when you first came to the palace?”
He forms an anguished expression and streaks his fingers down his cheek like tears.
My gut twists. “You were awfully homesick too, were you?”
I can interpret his next gestures clearly enough. More than the others. A long time.
“Eventually you’ll get to go back to your kingdom, won’t you?”
Lorenzo makes a face as if to say, Who knows? With another swipe of his foot, he scrawls his stick across the cleared earth. What do you miss ?
“Gods. Everything?” My laugh snags in my throat.
Images of home swim up through my mind. “People aren’t totally wrong in the way they talk about Accasy. There’s so much that feels free and wild—vast forests with ancient trees, fierce rivers, perilous cliffs. It’s not the easiest place to survive, but that means we celebrate the surviving together instead of fighting about who’s doing a little better than anyone else. I haven’t gone this long without talking with my parents or my sister in my whole life. And silly things, like the fresh sap syrup we’d have on our pancakes…”
Just talking about it makes the lump of loss expand. I will my grief down and focus on Lorenzo. I’ve only overheard a little talk about where he came from. “What do you miss most about Rione?”
He considers, a current of emotions rippling across his face, and sketches out a list.
Ocean close by
Family
Other music
Exploring cities and hills
Coconut jam
I have to smile at the last one. “I’ve never tried any kind of coconut. Not something we have in large supply up north.”
Lorenzo lets out a sound of disbelieving horror and makes a gesture I can understand well enough. Not okay.
My amusement at his hyperbolic response is bittersweet. “Maybe I’ll have the chance to fix that oversight before much longer.”
The prince lowers his head, the shadows shifting across it with the flickering lantern light. I think of the pain knotted deep inside me after just a few weeks away from home. Of him arriving here at age seven, just a kid who hadn’t had time to come to terms with the role he needed to play to ensure his family’s safety.
My next words come out quiet but vehement. “I know I’m lucky that I got to have a life of my own for as long as I did. I promise you, if I can make it through these trials and marry Marclinus, any way I can help you—or Raul or Bastien or Neven—I’ll do whatever I can.”
Lorenzo jerks his gaze up to stare at me. There’s nothing playful about his shock now. His stick wobbles for a second before he draws one word. Why?
Is it really that hard to understand?
I swallow thickly. “We came from the same place, in a way. We’re not the heirs, just the extras who had to accept whatever bargain was offered, let ourselves be traded away for our country’s security. You all deserve more of your own lives than you’ve gotten. And I came here… I came here because I wanted to help everyone who deserves it.”
I can’t tell if he believes me. An odd sadness comes over his face even though I was trying to offer hope.
Abruptly, he picks up his lute with one hand and catches my elbow with the other. At his tug, I follow him through the woods toward the gardens. “What…?”
He lets go of me long enough to make a simple message clear. Wait and see.
We skirt the edge of the gardens and approach the orchard. Toward the back of the rows of hunched trees, one stands in a secluded plot, its silvery leaves quivering in the breeze.
The moonlight glints off not just the leaves but the pure white fruit nestled between them, like the palest of apples. My lips part in awe.
“Twilight pumellos. I didn’t realize?— ”
But of course the emperor would have the rarest of all edible fruits growing on his grounds.
Lorenzo brings his finger to his lips for silence and reaches up to pluck one of the fruits. The give of its skin looks more like a plum than an apple, despite its size.
My eyes widen. “Are we supposed to…?”
The prince shrugs with a hint of a grin and motions as if to say, It’s just one.
He takes a small bite from one side, closes his eyes with a dreamy expression, and then hands the pumello to me.
I sink my teeth into the pliant flesh on the opposite side. A buttery sweet and yet delightfully tart flavor washes over my tongue.
I have to press my hand to my mouth to hold back a moan of satisfaction. Lorenzo watches me, looking utterly pleased to have given me this little gift, even if it’s a stolen one.
As I offer the fruit back to him, our fingers brush with a brief tingle. “I suppose now that we’ve started, we’d better finish it.”
He gives a soft chuckle, his eyes never leaving mine. Something in his gaze makes my heart flutter.
He steps forward and lifts his hand to my cheek. The gentleness of his touch sets off another flutter. I can’t look away from his stunning face.
When I don’t jerk back, Lorenzo leans in and kisses me.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been kissed. The prince’s lips are tender but fervent against mine, the incredible flavor of the twilight pumello lingering on them. A surge of giddiness sweeps through every inch of my body.
I might as well be an instrument left to gather dust, and he’s strumming me to life with the deepening of the kiss, with the stroke of his fingers down my neck .
I don’t know if I’ve ever been kissed like this.
That last thought sends a jab of guilt through my gut.
This is good. He’s warmed up to me in one way or another. But I ease back a step, ignoring the frenetic beat of my pulse and the longing coursing through my veins.
“Thank you,” I say softly. “But I—we really shouldn’t?—”
Lorenzo makes an accommodating gesture as if to indicate he understands. No sign of dejection shows in his expression.
He might have thought less of me if I hadn’t drawn a boundary.
Another pain lances through my belly. This one I can’t blame on my stirred-up emotions.
I frown, my attention drawing inward. My stomach has gone unusually tight. As I notice that, the sickly chill of nausea seeps through my limbs.
It can’t be the fruit I just ate—twilight pumellos aren’t remotely toxic, and Lorenzo looks fine. Perhaps my stretch of starvation is catching up with me in an unexpected way.
Not a way I want him seeing me, not after the progress I seem to have made.
I gather myself and smile, pretending sweat hasn’t started beading on the back of my neck. “Thank you again. For talking with me. For sharing this. It’s been a long two days. I think I’d better finally get to bed.”
Lorenzo frowns and swivels his hand. Are you okay?
“Yes. Just very worn out.” I reach out and squeeze his forearm for emphasis. “All I need is some rest.”
As I set off for the palace building, I hope to all the gods who might be listening that’s true.