Chapter Twelve
The darkened quarters I awake in are not the same as the healing wing before.
Mortified by the strange oblivion that had gripped me, I flush at the thought of whether the aptly named nightmare king had carried me here when I’d fallen unconscious, but then shake my head.
He probably had one of his lackeys do it.
I inhale and exhale a long, slow breath.
I am alive and breathing. The pressure in my chest is gone. My head feels clear.
And said king is nowhere in sight, thank the gods.
The chamber I’m in is a bedroom fit for a princess.
The enormous bed is deep and wide, with a thick mattress and soft pillows.
It sits on a raised dais with filmy burgundy curtains hanging over the top.
Comfortable but luxurious furniture accents the room: a pair of armchairs near the window, a mahogany dresser and vanity, and a handsome carved mantelpiece near the fireplace.
The carpet is a delicate blue with intricate gold flowers.
The room is feminine and beautiful, and far more extravagant than I’m used to, but I’m more concerned with my current state and whether I can fight my way out of here if I have to. The king certainly did not leave me with a sense that I was welcome.
Slowly, I roll my neck, wincing at the sound of crackling bones, and then glance beneath the blanket to the simple shift I’m clothed in.
Under the thin garment, I can see that clean bandages are wrapped around my torso as well as one of my thighs.
Scrapes and faded yellow bruises cover my skin.
But shockingly, most of the wounds look like they’ve been healed for weeks.
I haven’t been here that long, have I?
My gaze drifts to the cuffs on my forearms, and I study the shimmering bands that are no longer glowing red.
They don’t hurt, and anyone would think they’d been crafted for me, fitting my wrists perfectly.
I lift one, studying the plethora of runes carved into its surface.
I’ve never seen anything like them in my life, and I’ve forged plenty of runic blades for Lord Vasha, a powerful Jaxxian noble.
That gives me an idea: if there’s a forge here, maybe I can cut the cuffs off myself.
But first, I need to get myself out of this room, because no one’s coming to rescue me. And if the king of this realm has his way, getting tortured for information I can’t remember is the least of my worries—I’ll likely be in an unmarked grave before day’s end.
Gingerly, I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed and belatedly realize I’m not actually alone as I’d thought.
A young woman I don’t recognize is on the other side of the room, sitting at a table and hunched over a thick volume while making notes.
A half-eaten sandwich rests on a plate next to her, and my stomach gives an obnoxious growl even as I yank the blanket up over my short, sheer shift.
She glances up at the noise and smiles shyly. “Oh! You’re awake!”
I put her in her twenties or thereabouts, younger than me, though looks can be deceiving.
I wonder if she’s the older healer’s apprentice or some kind of guard, though if I’m truly suspected of being an assassin or a spy sent from Oryndhr, then why aren’t there more guards than just her?
She’s so lean, I’m sure I could overpower her if I had to.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“I’m Ani,” she says, and then scrunches up her brow. “I mean, it’s Anahima, if we’re being formal, which I hope we’re not.”
I lift my brows. Anahima, as in the goddess of wisdom, fertility, and war? The only reason I recognize the name is because it was in one of my mother’s old books on ancient gods and the Royal Stars. That’s a substantial weight for any woman to carry. No wonder she prefers to shorten it.
“Well met, Ani. Are you a healer?”
She shakes her head, her long, dark hair swinging. “More of a scholar, but I enjoy learning about all the different magical disciplines, including the healing arts.”
The casual reference to magic has me gawking, but maybe I have their supposed magic to thank for the fact that my various cuts and bruises are healing in short order.
It would make sense. I still can’t get my mind around it .
. . and how easily the king had moved me on the bed in the blink of an eye, without lifting a finger.
“So you’re not here to make sure I don’t covertly murder your obnoxious monarch like the assassin he thinks I am?” I ask before I can help myself.
Blue eyes sparkle as she shoots me an amused look. “I volunteered to keep an eye on you out of curiosity. No one wants to come near the spy from Oryndhr.”
“I’m not a spy.” But even as I say it, I’m filled with doubt. Am I?
Suddenly, she lifts a finger, and the lamp on the table next to me flickers to life. Well, I suppose that answers my earlier question about guards—since she can wield magic, that probably means she can defend herself from any threats, including me.
“You can do magic like your king also?” I ask warily.
Her brows rise. “Everyone in Everlea can.”
“Everyone?” How is that even possible? Magic is practically extinct in Oryndhr. It’s the reason King Zarek is so overly protective of the remaining jādū mines.
Ani nods. “Yes. The numena of each magi are dependent on their level and talent, of course, but this realm is rich in akasha. Our people are born with magic.”
Does that mean everyone here is a magi? Do they even use jādū? And what are numena?
The questions spawn like sandworms in my head, but I’m suddenly painfully aware of my very full bladder. I suppose that takes precedence instead of bombarding her with my curiosity. “May I use the, er, privy?” I ask. “And, um, where are my clothes?”
“Oh—of course!” A blush stains her cheeks as she hurries over and hands me a neatly folded pile. “Your clothing is being mended and cleaned. The water closet is behind that door over there.”
Gratefully, I take the bundle and shuffle over to the small room she’d pointed out to take care of my needs as well as wash my hands and face. I switch out the see-through shift for the borrowed dress. It’s too tight, but beggars can’t be choosers.
I can’t help it that I’m a healthy eater—Amma’s cooking is much too delicious to resist, though my body is far more muscular than I remember it being. Like my hair, the differences are notable. Sands, how much time have I lost?
“Are you hungry?” Ani asks when I emerge, tugging on the snug bodice, as she brings over a plate holding another sandwich.
I sit back down on the bed and accept the food, idly wondering if I should be eating anything, but I suppose if Ani wanted to kill me, she could have done so easily while I was sleeping.
I crane my neck to peer up at her—she’s like a tall, thin reed, much lankier than me. Come to think of it, this dress, which is tight and long on me, is probably hers. “Thank you.”
Suddenly too ravenous to worry about poison, I take a huge bite, the flavors of roasted meat, fresh tomatoes, greens, and dressing bursting over my tongue, but force myself to chew slowly even though I want to inhale the meal like a starving beast.
“Slowly,” she cautions, and then stares curiously at me. “You don’t have magi proficiencies where you come from?”
“We don’t have magi,” I say through a second mouthful. “Or magic. At least natural magic that comes from akasha, anyway.”
She nods. “I read that in our history books about Oryndhr, but I didn’t actually believe it was true,” she says. “I can’t fathom a world without magic.”
“Oh, it’s true.” I finish the sandwich and sip the glass of water she offers, waiting for my brain to catch up with my stomach that it’s no longer starving. “I suppose we stopped believing in the old gods and paid the price.”
Ani lets out a cynical sniff as if what I’ve said is preposterous. “That’s not—” she begins, and then breaks off.
“That’s not what?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
Clearly, it’s something, because her lips are pinned tight and she won’t meet my eyes. I wonder if she’s been given instructions on what to share with me by the tyrant king.
“My friends call me Sura,” I say, hoping that my affable tone will convince Ani that I have no ill intent toward her.
Right now, I need to arm myself with as much information as possible before I take any action .
. . especially before the royal dick-tator returns to ruin the day.
“Do you know how long I have been here?”
“A few days,” she replies in a slightly livelier tone.
“Your wounds were extensive, but the king had the best healers in the realm trying to save you, including his own personal physician.” She points to my side and my thigh.
“The healer said you took two poisoned bolts and the infection had spread. You were lucky to keep your leg, but your body took care of itself.”
Strange choice of words on her part. She sounds impressed for some reason. Once more, I try to remember exactly what could have happened to result in such an injury, but the gaping hole in my memory hasn’t disappeared and I bite back a frustrated curse. “I don’t remember any of it,” I admit.
“They said when you crashed with the azdaha in that field, you shattered several ribs as well as your collarbone and arm, but those look like they’ve already healed.”
Already? I frown—if I’ve been here only a few days, any kind of injury that involves broken bones would hardly be fully healed.
Then I remember that I’m not in Oryndhr, where a sling and a turmeric poultice would be our best option.
Here, they have magic and mystical beasts.
I bite my lip. “So it’s true then about the creature? Do . . . azdahas exist?”
She graces me with a quizzical look. “Yes. How else would you have gotten here?”
But for some reason, my brain cannot even begin to conceive of something so outlandish. Azdahas belong in fairy tales. Maybe if and when I see one, I’ll believe it.
“Do all your healers use magic?”