Chapter Eight
True to the king’s word, my door is unlocked by the next morning.
Or at least I don’t hear the lock click when the handmaiden leaves after delivering the silver salver with a steaming pot of tea and a basket of pastries to the table near the window. I shake myself awake, feeling oddly worn out from the dreams that had plagued me.
My skin feels numb and tight as if I’d spent much of the night shivering with cold. I remember snatches of a terrible storm over the ocean and that my dream companion had made an appearance but refused to stay.
I’d begged him.
Swallowing hard, I squash the instant feelings of self-contempt.
It was a dream, nothing more—my own inner consciousness echoing the actions of those I trusted.
But still, deep down, even his rejection leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, as if I’m not even worthy of a figment of my own pathetic imagination.
Forget him, too, then.
Stretching my sore muscles, I rise and stare at the undisturbed other side of the bed.
Roshan did not sleep in the bedroom, nor was I informed where he’d spent the night.
Truth be told, I was glad to be alone, because I probably would have suffocated him in his sleep.
Then revived him so I could do it again.
I huff a self-deprecating bark of laughter. As angry and vengeful as I feel, I know I could never hurt him. Not as much as he’s willfully hurting me. Even as I revile the unrecognizable rigid monarch he has become, my heart mourns the gentle lover I lost.
When I pad over to crack open my door, six armed guards are standing in silence in the hallway, and I sigh in defeat.
I’m sure there will be six more waiting for when I step foot outside the palace.
These walls that had started to feel like home now feel like a gilded cage.
Despite Roshan’s words, I am a prisoner here.
The starsdamned cuffs are a testament to that.
Betrayal surges anew. I’d felt so sorry for Razulek, seeing him restrained like a wild beast, and now, the same has been done to me.
Like him, I’m unpredictable and dangerous—not just to enemies of the crown but to the crown.
If, for some outlandish reason, I decide I want the throne myself, there’s nothing any of them will be able to do about it.
Roshan and Aran can claim that keeping me here is for my own safety all they want .
. . but these magical shackles are for them.
Despair fills me as I pace the bedchamber.
Gods, I need to get out of here, and if I can’t do so with magic, I need to come up with something else.
I’m strong and somewhat fit, and this bedchamber is not too far up.
In fact, I’m certain I saw a trellis near my balcony.
Exhaling with newfound resolve, I try those doors, half expecting them to be locked.
To my surprise, they are not, though the sight of more soldiers training directly on the lawn below throws a wrench into my plans.
Clem is front and center in the middle of them, running the drills.
I clench my teeth hard at the sight of her, her perfidy still fresh.
I’d thought she was my friend, but at the heart of it, she’ll follow the king’s orders without question.
She told me as much, after all. Help won’t be coming from her.
As if feeling the weight of my stare, Clem’s eyes glance up, colliding with mine, and I see the raw guilt on her face before she shutters it, but I can’t bring myself to care. I harden my gaze and turn away.
She and Roshan have both mistaken my forgiveness for weakness.
I walk back into the room to my now cold tea.
My appetite has disappeared, so I head into the bathing room, where I perform my morning ablutions and reach for my forging gear.
If I’m not a prisoner, I might as well try to get in some exercise and hammer the shit out of something.
The sooner I get back to my usual activities, the sooner I can find a way to escape my cage.
“Lady Suraya.” I turn, recognizing one of the guards. “The king commands your presence immediately in the throne room. The traitors have been found.”
I peer owlishly at him, anger slivering through me at the brusque order. Can I risk ignoring an official summons? How furious would Roshan be? But then I nod. Being sullen or peevish won’t prove a thing. I intend to show my warden of a king that I’m not cowed . . . that he hasn’t beaten me.
When I arrive in the throne room, the silence is ominous.
Roshan is seated on his throne, his face inscrutable.
My heart jumps at the sight of him before my brain can catch up, and I steel myself.
Aran stands beside him. There are three men kneeling, two dressed in the house colors of Antares, one in the Imperial House colors.
Sands, is that the spy? The boy looks much too young to be a palace guard.
I glance around the room, noting that the aldermen of many of the houses are also here.
“Your Majesty,” I greet, and bow my head. I take my usual place next to Aran, who shoots me a small smile that I ignore.
“Good, my Starkeeper is here,” Roshan says. His face seems harsher and more draconian, all angles and scraped hollows, nothing like the man I know. The possessive emphasis on my doesn’t go unnoticed, but I keep my expression blank.
His sentiment is not out of affection—it’s a declaration to those in attendance that I serve at his whim.
But if the king expects me to perform like a trained monkey, he’s in for a rude awakening.
I grind my jaw as his voice rings through the hall.
“These men are convicted of treason and betraying their solemn oaths to Oryndhr by spying on the king’s movements for an enemy known as the oracle, and they will die by the Imperial House’s swift justice. ”
Every eye in the hall settles on me. I frown. We’re not even offering them a chance to speak in their defense? Has Roshan even found out who the oracle is?
I lift my brows and hold up both hands. “I’m not sure what you expect me to do,” I say in a low voice. “My magic is bound, remember? Remove these and I’ll consider it.”
The king stares at me, brown eyes baleful, and I force back a shudder at the heartless expression on his face. As long as I’ve known him, I’ve never seen such a cruel, viperous look. He reminds me so much of Javed.
Roshan nods to his cousin, who steps closer. Aran sketches the rune for incinerate and my cuffs ignite with power. I feel the magic gather inside me even though I’ve done nothing to summon it. Ribbons of iridescent heat curl around my fingertips beyond my own volition, and my eyes widen in shock.
It feels as though I’m watching from a distant vantage point while someone else controls my body. One of the men starts sobbing, and the stench of urine permeates the hall as a woman screams out for mercy—the boy’s mother, is my guess.
“Continue,” Roshan says, grim and implacable.
“Aran, what is this?” I gasp, trying to move and finding my legs glued to the floor. I’m an automaton, my will not my own, and the feeling is terrifying.
He doesn’t answer, his face furrowed with concentration, and I watch in utter disbelief as my magic envelops the men, evaporating them in seconds. I slump backward, numb to the wails and cries permeating the hall, staring at Aran with horror.
It’s an abomination . . . a gross perversion of my power.
“What have you done?” I whisper.
The answer comes from the king. “What needed to be done. Peace must be secured. The Starkeeper is a subject of the crown and your gifts belong to the crown.”
I shake my head, unable to believe what I’m hearing. My magic is mine. “Roshan, what has come over you?” I ask. “I’m not a thing to be controlled.”
“No? What do you think we just did?” His reply is gutting.
In shock, I lift my hands to ward him off.
My throat clogs with dread as his guards all raise their weapons in unison, pointed at me.
I feel so backed into a corner that I try to fight back, try to use my magic to incapacitate them so that I’m not in their crossfire, just long enough for me to have a window to escape.
But my magic doesn’t respond.
As if he has all the time in the world, the king nods again, and Aran obediently sketches another rune.
This time, however, instead of pain, it’s one of torpor that sends me to my knees, curling into myself as lethargy overtakes me.
Dimly, I recall Aran saying something about a suppression rune yesterday in my chambers.
It takes only a few breaths before I give in to the silken embrace of slumber.
***
I SLIP IN and out of consciousness, light and dark taking turns behind my eyelids.
Sitting up, I fight the onslaught of dizziness as a handmaiden presses a chalice of cool liquid to my lips. I drink thirstily, but not so fast that I expel it. “Thank you,” I murmur when I’ve drained the glass. “How long have I been here?”
“Three days, my lady,” she says.
My body feels sluggish as it recovers. The one thing I know is that my magic works fine inside my body.
Vaguely, I remember Roshan being here at one point, sitting on the bed, his beautiful eyes glossed over with regret and contrition.
But I can’t trust myself or my memories when it comes to him, not anymore.
What if I’d imagined his presence, his tender words?
Fabricated his sorrowful apologies? All out of self-preservation?
I’m so sorry, my starling . . .
It’s not for too much longer . . .
Do you hate me? Please don’t hate me . . .
I love you, Sura.
The last one burns like an open wound, because this isn’t love. It’s like dealing with two different entities occupying the same body: the man I chose to give my heart to and the tyrant king who stole my magic.