Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
I sit in the tub for hours, picking dried flecks of blood out from beneath my nails.
The sweat and blood that coated my skin were so thick that I thought it would never come off.
My legs and hips are sore from riding for days, and my head is still tender.
I soak in the bath long after the water turns cold, not wanting to move.
I eventually will myself to stand and dry my skin.
I pull on a light linen dress, the only clean piece of clothing I have left.
Traitor. They called me a traitor in Liora.
A soft knock at the door startles me. I open it to find a tall, slender woman carrying a woven basket against her hip.
A few stray pieces of black hair frame her round face, the rest pulled into a long braid.
Her blue eyes flow like endless ocean waves, contrasting her thick, dark brows.
Her features remind me somewhat of Wrath’s, but I can’t precisely place them.
“Hello there,” I say hesitantly.
“I am Rowena Bainbridge of Myragos. I am a seamstress. Would you like me to make some gowns for you?” She smiles warmly at me.
“Yes.” I blink in surprise at the woman. “Thank you.” Rowena steps into the room, sets down her basket, and pulls out a notebook. I close the door and face her. “Did—”
“The king told me to visit you,” she replies. “What colors do you prefer wearing?”
I don’t reply at first. A few moments of quiet pass as I watch the woman work. I often had a tailor in Cathros, but I realize I won’t be wearing the red and gold of House Valantis. I will appear as a traitor to the Elvarrans if I don those colors; I wonder if I should wear their colors instead.
The woman turns over her shoulder. “Princess?”
“What do you think will look best?” I ask.
“We can start with a few colors—forest green, black, silver… perhaps a slate blue?” Rowena digs through her basket and pulls out a few fabric swatches. “Come, please.”
Walking to her side, she places the swatches over my shoulder. “Too bland,” she says under her breath. She swaps to a new color, a walnut brown. “No…” Then another, a slate blue. “Lovely.” Another swatch, this time a dark mauve. “Yes, I think these are best to start with.”
“Agreed.” I go along with her suggestions.
Rowena appears confident enough to make anything look good. If she is the king's tailor, she can be mine. She smiles, puts her swatches away, and writes notes in her notebook. Tucking it away, she pulls out a dark forest green gown with silver accents on the long sleeves from her basket.
“I prepared this before your arrival without knowing your measurements ahead of time. I will have to make some adjustments,” Rowena says. “Hopefully, it will fit you.”
“Of course.” I nod, stepping closer to her. I am accustomed to tailors taking my measurements.
Rowena quickly measures parts of my body, writing them down as she goes.
I change into the dress, and Rowena pulls the laces in the front to tighten the corset.
I huff a breath as she yanks one last time, the bones closing around my ribs.
Stepping back, Rowena adjusts the fit on my sleeve, her fingers moving nimbly and confidently as she works.
She doesn’t make any mention of the mark on my arm, which I’m grateful for.
“Has anyone ever told you that you look like the king, Rowena?” I ask curiously.
She giggles. “He’s my cousin.”
“Really?” Surprise fills me. “He never told me that.”
“I’ll make sure to scold him for not informing you,” Rowena says playfully.
The dress is quite beautiful. The thick, dark brocade fabric hugs my body before flaring out at the bottom.
The silver embellishments are surprisingly detailed, and I can only imagine how long it must have taken her to complete.
After some alterations, Rowena helps me into the gown one last time.
Stepping to the side, I look at the dress in a tall mirror leaning against the wall.
I must commend Rowena on the precision in her work, not a detail out of place.
“Perfect,” she breathes, standing before me.
“Thank you, Rowena.”
She gives me a polite curtsy. “The pleasure is mine, Princess.” Rowena gathers her things and packs them away in her basket.
“Please call me Raelys.” I smile at her.
I hold no titles here. No one needs to address me in such a manner. While in this unfamiliar kingdom, I need every friend I can make. Rowena is perfect. She is close enough to the inner circle to share some gossip with me and keep me informed on what is happening in this court.
Rowena smiles at me. “What about Rae?”
“Only if I can call you Ro.”
“It’s settled, then.”
I feel downright pathetic as I struggle with the simple task of making my bed.
I’ve rotated the blanket several times, one end longer than the other, but I can’t figure it out.
My pride won’t allow this to continue much longer, so I yank the messy sheets across the top and cover it with the blanket, tossing the feather pillow at the headboard.
With an annoyed sigh, I grab the one dress that Rowena thankfully gave me and put it on.
I walk out the door, on the hunt for food.
I turn down the small corridor and try to backtrack my way to the main halls.
Each passage confuses me more than the last, so I start keeping track of the paintings on the walls to ensure I don’t double back to the same place.
The castle's labyrinthine corridors seem to twist and turn with every step I take, as if mocking my attempts to find my way.
As I turn the corner, I bump directly into someone.
Strong hands clasp my shoulders, steadying me from falling over.
“My apologies.” I quickly step back.
Standing before me is a man. He is broad-shouldered, with a slim yet powerful physique.
I can see the outline of his corded muscles through his finely tailored coat, the shining buttons matching the gold rings on his fingers.
His skin is smooth and sun-kissed, and his eyes are piercing sage green.
Pointed ears peek through medium-length hair that cascades in waves of warm brunette to his cheekbones.
“Who are you?” His voice is light like a fresh summer breeze.
“My name is Raelys.”
“Lady Raelys.” He repeats my name like a prayer. “Sebastian Black of Ashvarin.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” I smile, finding him quite charming. “Do you know where the kitchens are? I seem to be lost.”
“This way.” He gestures to a small corridor, waiting for me to go first.
It is foolish to ask a stranger for help, but I desperately need something to eat. If I don’t get something soon, I fear I may faint from starvation. I walk alongside the Elvarran and see if I can gather some information from him.
“First time in the castle?” Sebastian asks curiously.
“Yes,” I reply. “Are you a member of the king's guard?” I know the answer is no; he’s too well-dressed. One thing I’ve learned growing up in a castle is that men love to explain how their rank works.
“No, I’m a duke,” he says without a hint of ego or pride in his words.
“A duke from Ashvarin…” I muse. “I’ve never been there. What’s it like?” I stroll effortlessly alongside him.
“You’ll have to visit sometime.” Sebastian gives me a saccharine smile.
I giggle. “Now, now, Sebastian,” I reply sweetly, wondering if he is attempting to flirt with me.
His face lights up, and I take note of how my words affect him. Sebastian can prove useful in this court of adversaries. If I want to survive, I need people in my corner.
“What are you doing here in Khalessor? It’s nearly snowfall.” I pivot the conversation.
“I’m working on brokering a peace treaty for Dratheria,” he explains. “My king has tasked me to speak with Wrath first, as he’s the primary aggressor.”
I nod. “Why is that?”
“I heard he recently killed the King of Avelisar.” Sebastian’s expression turns sour. “A senseless loss of life.”
News travels fast around here, as it did back home in Cathros. The highest currency available is information. It is worth more than gold, jewels, or land. Those with power wield information as a blade, using it to strike at the correct time to get ahead.
“So you recently arrived?” I linger with an open end on my question, hoping he will help me fill in the blank.
“About three weeks ago, but the King has been away until two days ago.” Sebastian slows his steps. “When did you arrive?”
“Today.” I lie, hiding my identity for now.
Sebastian gestures to a door. “Here you are.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” I say with a small curtsy.
“Of course, my lady.”
He departs, and I open the door leading into the kitchens.
A wall of scent hits me: roasted meats, freshly baked bread, and fragrant herbs.
I see several women moving quickly throughout the space, kneading bread, stirring large pots of stew, and washing newly picked berries.
They all work in perfect sync, holding a light conversation among the chaos.
“Need something?” A tall, muscled woman with pointed ears asks as she walks past me, carrying a tray of pastries. She has a bandana around her head, her curly red hair tied in a low bun at the nape of her neck. The Elvarran wears a white tunic and taupe pants, covered by a stained apron.
“Do you have anything I could eat?” I ask, unsure of why I feel hesitant.
“Here.” The woman shoves a small bowl into my hands as she strides past me.
I look down at the contents. “Do you—” She plops a fork into the bowl as she passes. “Thank you,” I say graciously.
“Bryn Eldrin of Myragos,” she says, walking over to me and stopping. “And you are?”
“Raelys.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “It’s impolite not to offer your full house.”
“My apologies.” I quickly try to rectify my mistake. “Raelys Valantis of Cathros.”
I look down at the food. It’s a meat pie with a flaky crust and well-seasoned vegetables. My stomach growls at the sight of it. It looks delicious. After eating stale rations while traveling, I will devour any hot meal.
“Hmm…” Bryn’s gaze narrows on me. “The King told me about you.”
“He did?”
She nods, taking something out of the oven. “Any food preferences? Things you dislike?”
“Oh.” I blink in surprise. “That’s very thoughtful. I’ll eat most anything except for venison.”
Bryn nods. “Anything else?”
“Would you happen to have any pumpkin scones?”
She plucks something off the steaming tray, tossing it at me. “We got those comin’ out of our ass.”
I grab it, the piping-hot pastry burning my hand. I suck in a breath, trying to hold it, but eventually give up and sit in the bowl before my skin starts to blister. Score. I haven't had the delight of a pumpkin scone in years.
“Thank you, Lady Bryn,” I say with a curtsy, moving to leave.
“Just Bryn.” She corrects me with a slight scowl.