Chapter 2
Damia
“Where is he?” Respen shouts.
The king’s words crackle with power, and I’m expecting it when a spike of paranoia splits through my mind.
Respen’s usually more subtle with his sensic gift, but when he’s this furious, it can hit like a hammer.
I’m still working to shake it off when Fairon overtakes me.
The prince had been waiting outside Leon’s chamber, listening to the healers argue, but now he strides toward the sanctuary entrance to head his grandfather off.
I let him. He’s the best person to waylay the king right now, and I have somewhere else to be.
I head deeper into the sanctuary, to one of the smaller chambers.
“Move him,” I bark to the dryad currently muttering healing spells over Wadestaff’s bare chest. I blink briefly at the sight of all that naked skin before my idiotic brain starts working again. “Now.”
Corrin sits up quickly, and I note with relief that this time he doesn’t wince. Instead, the human grabs his shirt as the dryad clasps his hands together, clearly flustered.
“What’s happening?” the healer asks.
“We have company,” I explain. “Take him out into the grounds if you have to. Just don’t let the king find him.”
The dryad pales. “His Majesty is here?”
“Yes. And I can’t imagine he’ll take kindly to us using the Claerwyn’s sacred healing site for a human.” I jerk my head toward Corrin.
“Charming,” Wadestaff mutters, but he has the sense to hurry as he pulls his shirt on. “Come on, we’ll use my shadows to slip away,” he says to the dryad as they move swiftly out into the corridor. Right on cue, darkness swallows them.
When I return to the sanctuary’s entrance hall, His Majesty is exactly as furious as I imagined, but there’s something about his appearance that surprises me.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s the one who’s spent sleepless nights rushing across the country.
He’s thinner than when we saw him last—haggard, with sunken eyes and disarrayed hair sitting messily beneath his crown.
“Don’t give me your lazy excuses, Fairon,” he spits.
“That good-for-nothing left this kingdom knowing I would forbid it—and now his idiocy has gotten him murdered.” He adjusts his ocher robes, which now sit awkwardly on his thinner frame.
“You lied to me like a dirty rat, knowing full well where he’d gone with that filthy Trovian whore, and now I hear that—”
“You called, Your Majesty?”
I spin around to see the princess emerging from Leon’s chamber. She’s pale as snow, with the same dark circles ringing her eyes that she’s had since Qimorna, but her back is straight and her chin held high. There’s life in her expression that was totally absent just a minute ago.
She moves forward into the entrance hall until she’s facing the king.
The men he’s brought with him, including that walking pustule Velrir, line up in front of the outer door while my fellow soldiers fan out behind Morgana.
If the time came when we’d need to move against His Majesty’s men, I don’t know what we’d do, but the tension hangs like a knife edge above us all.
Normally, I don’t have much patience for diplomacy, but right now, even I think it’s the better option. I look meaningfully at Fairon, hoping he can stop this from escalating. I’m honestly surprised he hasn’t spoken up before now. Why is he hesitating?
“Your Majesty,” he addresses his grandfather at last. “Princess Morgana has traveled a long way, leaving her kingdom behind at a crucial moment to ensure that Leonidas was safely transported here.”
I’m sure it’s no accident that he emphasizes her title. Best to remind the king that he once considered her position an asset.
His Majesty stands taller, Fairon’s words bringing a degree of control to his features. But as he looks past the crown prince to fix his gaze on Morgana, my instincts go on alert. This version of His Majesty isn’t necessarily safer than the one who was shouting and raging moments ago.
“Your Highness,” he says to Morgana. On the surface, he’s calm as the eye of a storm, but I can see the rage shining in his sunken eyes.
“I want to make something very clear to you. If what I have heard about Leonidas is true, then I hold you responsible. If you have robbed Filusia of one of its princes, I will consider you an enemy of the kingdom forever.” His eyes narrow on the final word.
Morgana listens patiently, but a hint of color enters her cheeks, and a light flickers in her hazel eyes. My hope flickers with it.
“I couldn’t take Leon away from Filusia, Your Majesty,” the princess says.
Her voice is quiet but firm. “I couldn’t steal him from you, because Leon isn’t a dog to be ordered around or an object to use however you please.
He had every right to leave—and you can’t blame Fairon for his brother’s choices, either. ”
“You presume to tell me what to do, Princess Morgana?” the king replies.
“Me, who has seen dynasties rise and fall before you were even a twinkle in your mother’s eye?
You think you can walk in here after killing my grandson and scold me for how I treated him when he was alive?
” A cold, angry smile plays on his lips.
“Clearly, there’s no end to your arrogance. ”
The princess doesn’t flinch. If anything, the king’s rage lit a fire under her. Maybe it’s a relief to have an enemy she can look in the face. Whatever the reason, I’m glad for it.
“The good news,” she says, “is that Leon is not dead. And he won’t be dying anytime soon. Not on my watch. I will find a way to bring him back,” her gaze grows fiercer. “Even if I have to personally march into the Eternal Realm to do it.”
She seems so certain, a core of steel wrapped up in what the king might have once thought was an unimpressive package. We fae are known to underestimate humans, but only a fool would doubt her words in this moment.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, Your Majesty,” the princess says and turns her back on the king to return to the captain’s side.
The king watches her go with an icy stare.
I look to Fairon once again, but the crown prince is silent.
It’s strange. His defense of the princess was pretty weak before, and now he says nothing.
His Majesty may be formidable, but I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve seen Fairon stand up to him to argue this point or that one.
He’s used to trying to persuade the king to a softer point of view.
So for him to not back the princess up now…
“Velrir,” His Majesty snaps, calling his head of guard forward. It seems Velrir didn’t stay demoted for long after we left. I have no doubt the king is about to order him to drag the princess out of here, and that’s not going to end well for anyone.
I start to speak, my mouth moving before I can stop myself.
“If you’d please, Your Majesty.”
I’d ask myself what I’m doing, but the answer is obvious: getting shit done. I may be a warrior, not a politician, but if everyone is going to stand around and let this happen, someone needs to do something.
The king turns his gaze on me.
“What is it?” he demands.
I bow, frantically trying to organize the words in my mind.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Your Majesty, but I believe Her Highness may be right when she says there is a way to save Prince Leonidas.”
The king tilts his head, eyes narrowed in suspicion as he takes me in.
He’s never felt particularly warm toward our unit—he sees us as a bad influence on his grandson, even if we are useful to the King’s Sword.
But not even he can doubt how loyal we are to the captain.
He knows I have the prince’s best interests at heart.
“And what makes you say that, Lady Rhymis?” he asks.
“I’ve listened to the dryads and an expert on Ethiran legend talking these past few hours,” I say, glossing over Lafia and Mal’s true origins. “And they have devised a plan I think could work.”
“Your Majesty, I must protest.”
I stiffen as Healer Yanda strides forward, full of indignation. She’s going to ruin everything.
“What that expert and her half-blood friend have proposed is against the laws of nature,” the healer snaps. “It shouldn’t—mustn’t—be done if we’re to maintain the sacred balance of life.”
The king, I notice, doesn’t look entirely convinced.
“With all due respect, Healer Yanda, Agathyrian ways are not our ways,” I say. “I’m not sure we should let your religious concerns interfere with a workable plan.”
Not when I don’t believe an ounce in this “sacred balance” stuff the dryads like to spout. Their beliefs might not look as dangerous as the Ethirans’ on the surface, but they’re every bit as dogmatic. They’re just sneakier about it.
“But the risk—” Healer Yanda begins.
“The risk is surely worth taking if it might bring back one of our kingdom’s princes,” I say forcefully. “Especially as you’ve told us he will certainly die anyway if we do nothing.”
His Majesty strokes the ends of his hair, considering it all.
“You make a compelling point, Lady Rhymis,” he says eventually, before turning to Healer Yanda. “We pay you to heal, not preach. You will assist with whatever plan the Ethiran expert has proposed. I don’t care how dangerous it is. The prince’s survival is the priority.”
I must admit I’m impressed by his firmness. There was a time when he didn’t seem to give a mouse’s fart—as Eryx used to say—for the captain’s fate. But that was back when he was secure in having Fairon to rely on. Maybe the time he spent without the crown prince around has changed his attitude.
“Make sure this is fixed, Fairon,” the king says sharply to his grandson, then turns and sweeps out of the sanctuary, his security scrambling after him. Velrir glares sourly over his shoulder. He’d be more than happy if the captain never woke up.
“Well, now you’ve gone and done it,” Alastor says when the king’s out of earshot.
“Meaning?” I demand. Most of us are gathered in the entrance hall now, though some of the healers stay in the captain’s chamber along with Tira and the princess.
“Meaning that now we have to come up with a damn good reason to change the king’s mind about this harebrained scheme.”
“It’s not harebrained,” Mal says, his green complexion flushing darker. “I don’t see any of you coming up with a plan to save him.”
“Alastor’s right,” Phaia says, her eyes fixed on me. “You were wrong to present their idea to the king as a viable solution. If His Majesty had any idea how extreme it is—”
“You really think it’s not a chance worth taking?” I ask her, surprised.
“You don’t understand what it’s like to be moored,” she says, and I stifle a groan.
Here we go again with her mysterious sawlamoor claims. “Every moment she spends linked to the captain without his soul is painful enough. But this plan requires huge sacrifice on the part of the bound partner. What Morgana will have to go through is unimaginable.”
“I don’t see that consideration changing the king’s mind,” I point out.
“No, but that’s the problem,” Fairon replies.
He doesn’t sound annoyed with me, just strained.
“He doesn’t care about the princess’s wellbeing.
If he hears she’s the only way to help Leonidas, you can bet he’ll ensure she makes that sacrifice—whether she wants to or not, and with no concern for the cost. It would’ve been better if we’d stalled him some other way. ”
A voice comes from beside one of the sanctuary’s large incense bowls to my left.
“I didn’t hear any of you leaping forward to deal with him.” Corrin emerges from the darkness, and I scowl.
“How do you know?” I ask. “I thought I told you to hide.”
“And I did,” he says lightly. “While I listened in from the shadows.”
He looks a lot healthier—there’s a glow to his skin, and his dark eyes are bright in the lamplight.
That dryad must’ve done his job well, and I hope it’s the last time I have to feel that awful, biting fear where Wadestaff’s concerned.
It was the same terror that gripped me in Qimorna when he was injured.
Gods, I hated that feeling and how vulnerable it made me after a century of nothing breaching my walls.
“What I heard from my eavesdropping was Damia doing everything she could to placate that tyrant,” Wadestaff continues, pausing only to incline an apologetic head at Fairon for his choice of words. “While the rest of you stood around and said nothing.”
“I don’t need you defending me, Wadestaff,” I snap. Then, unable to meet his eye, unwilling to see the hurt or disappointed expression I’ve no doubt put on his face, I focus on the others.
“If saving the captain requires the princess to make a sacrifice, then she deserves to be the one to decide whether or not we try it,” I say.
Now that they don’t argue with. It’s clear even to Phaia that the choice has to be up to Morgana.
After all, she has the most to lose. Because even if she wins, and Mal’s plan works, what we’re asking her to give up might still destroy her.