Chapter 15 #2
Her thumbs press into my palm, and she traces a circle over the tender joint of my thumb with the pad of one finger. It’s such a small motion, but the pain ebbs. Not entirely, but it’s enough that I can flex my fingers.
“How did you do that?”
“I’m a gifted healer. It’s what I do.” She smiles at me and it’s soft and unguarded like everything else about her. How does she survive in this hard place?
“You don’t act like Princess Rissa,” I blurt out.
“No,” she says. “But then, we were raised for very different purposes.”
“Why didn’t you introduce yourself as Princess Elowen?”
“I’m not a princess here. I’m a healer.”
“Are there other healers here?”
“Kind of,” she answers.
I wing an eyebrow up and my lips curve a little. “You’ll have to explain that one to me.”
She laughs openly. “My little sister is also a healer, though she’s only 11 and has only recently started her training. She won’t live full time at the Synod until she turns 12, which isn’t for a few more months.”
Elowen watches me carefully, and the lines at her eyes crinkle in worry. “You’re in such pain,” she whispers. “Is something besides your hand injured? Do you think you have internal injuries?”
The sincere concern in her tone almost breaks me.
My throat tightens. A confession is on my tongue—I’m going to tell her about the temple, about the goddess and the kiss, about the weapons shoved under my bed.
I want to tell her I think something inside me is broken and it has nothing to do with my body.
But before I can part my lips, the door opens with a deliberate, icy grace—no knocking this time. Rissa steps inside, her entourage of guards behind her. She doesn’t announce herself. She doesn’t have to.
I tug the hood further over my temple. Elowen straightens, her hand withdrawing from mine. Her shoulders stiffen, and the weariness that softened her vanishes. Their eyes meet—Elowen’s quiet and watchful, Rissa’s cool and appraising.
“Still abed?” Rissa taunts me, her voice is mocking. “At high noon.”
I don’t respond. What could I say? I’m sorry to disappoint you, your highness, but being kidnapped, wrecked by a death demon, and then whipped by a goddess is exhausting?
“Rissa,” Elowen starts, a warning in her voice.
“Don’t address me informally in front of the likes of her.” With a flick of her wrist, Princess Rissa dismisses the men standing behind her. “Leave us.”
Their shocked faces stare at her, mouths slightly open. “But your highness,” one begins to argue. “She’s?—”
“She’s nothing,” her voice whips out. She lifts one regal brow. “Leave us now.”
The man who started to argue looks torn, but he acquiesces.
“We’ll be in the hallway, your highness.” He addresses her but his eyes are on me as he closes the door. It’s a warning for me, not a reassurance for her.
Elowen steps forward. “You can’t come into my infirmary to satiate your curiosity and then be rude to my patient.”
“You can’t dictate to me,” Princess Rissa says. The tension in the room is palpable as we take each other’s measure anew.
“I can here,” Elowen retorts. “I outrank you here.”
Something about it, about Elowen coming under fire, bothers me. I put a hand on her arm and step forward. “It’s alright. Whatever she’s come to say, she can say it.”
But Rissa hardens even more. I’ve insulted her by giving her permission to speak with me.
“I’m Princess Rissa, heir to the throne of Faraengard and emissary to the Synod on behalf of King Agis,” she says, closely watching me for a reaction. When I give her none, she snaps out, “Protocol dictates you avert your eyes and kneel.”
I don’t lower my eyes to the floor. That’s what my mother would have done. Veil, that’s what I would have done a few days ago. But the woman standing in front of me has not earned my respect. By her title alone, she’s earned nothing but my wrath. And I’ll be godsdamned before I cater to her whims.
“It’s my understanding, your highness, that Altor bow only to the gods. Not to mere royalty.”
An angry flush spreads from her pale neck up to her cheeks, but when she speaks, her voice is still perfectly controlled. “You’re not a sworn Altor. Not yet. Right now, you’re nothing but an accused. As such, I expect you to avert your eyes and kneel .”
Is it possible to stare harder? I don’t know, but I try out of sheer spite. “Yeah, I can see that,” I say, holding her gaze. “I wouldn’t want to have to look into the eyes of the people I rape, kill, and destroy, either.”
Elowen makes a strangled noise, and Rissa narrows her eyes at me. I expect her to call in one of her guards, to make me kneel. But she doesn’t. Instead, she pulls herself even taller, her back ramrod straight.
“As the emissary to the Synod for the king of Faraengard, Leina Haverlyn of Selencia, I am here to inform you that a volunteer has been selected for your Trial of Last Blood, which will determine the truth of your origins and your allegiance. It will commence tomorrow at dawn,” she says, then arches an immaculate brow as she turns to leave.
“Given that you murdered four of His Majesty’s soldiers in cold blood, I think we all know how tomorrow is going to go. ”
My stomach rolls, but not because I killed those men. My mother’s vacant eyes staring back at me will haunt my memories for the rest of my days.
“Soldiers? Is that what we’re calling the rapists and murderers your father uses to keep his slaves in line?”
She spins back to face me from the threshold.
Her expression is as stone-cold as when she first entered, but there’s a ripple of something else from her—likely shock at my audacity.
It is so faint, it’s hard to pinpoint. The guards shift, their hands twitching toward their weapons, but none dare move without her command.
I don’t think they’re Altor. They move in an uncoordinated way that is distinctly human.
What did the archons call it? Grounded. They’re grounded.
The princess exhales softly, almost amused. “So, that’s the role you’re playing. The righteous avenger. The martyr. I wonder … do you believe it? That you’re the hero in this story?”
But neither of us can answer, as Archon Lyathin steps inside next, with Maxim trailing him.
The chamber seems to shrink as the men enter, and I tense at the sight of the massive red-haired Altor.
Maxim chuckles, a low, guttural sound that makes my skin crawl.
Elowen’s hand tightens on my arm, and even Princess Rissa takes a step back from him.
Archon Lyathin inclines his head at Princess Rissa, but he doesn’t bow, doesn’t drop his gaze. “Princess Rissa. Elowen,” he acknowledges them, but doesn’t defer to either. “I’ll ask you both to leave now so I can meet with the accused.”
Accused .
Well, it’s better than the pejorative way they’ve been using girl .
Elowen squeezes my arm when she walks past, and I’m surprised by how much the simple gesture matters to me—especially coming from someone like her. A princess.
As soon as they’re gone, Archon Lyathin turns to me.