Chapter Thirteen
Turns out provoking a king with a chip on his shoulder the size of a desert isn’t one of the best decisions I’ve made.
Especially when the stick he threatened me with turns out to be starsdamned training.
Though the gods themselves can’t fathom why a man who’s worried that a stranger might be an enemy spy would insist on fortifying said enemy’s skills.
Dejected, I pick at the cuffs on my wrists. I’d banged them hard against the arm of a chair earlier, but all that had done was make my wrists ache. Not a single dent had formed in the metal.
When I get my memories back, I’m going to hunt down whoever put these on me and make them regret it.
Partial flashes of the handsome face I’d seen before—dark hair, full lips, and warm brown eyes—hits me, but the accompanying emotions are bewildering.
It feels as though I should care deeply about the person, but something inside of me recoils with echoes of betrayal and bitterness.
Who is he?
I study the bracelets. Had he put these on?
Repeating the question internally, I concentrate, and to my surprise, another face comes to mind, this one different with markings and . . . a name! Aran. Then the same oil slick of emotions assaults me: love, deceit, pain, bitterness.
Who are these two people, and more important, how do I know them?
The notion that I’d been in Kaldari for some time before ending up in Everlea is starting to seem real, as preposterous as it feels.
But I don’t remember leaving Coban, so assuming I had left, when had I done so?
The black gold-dusted envelope fills that gap in my head—so clearly, I must have gone to the bridal summons despite my scornful feelings on the matter.
I blink as more fragments of memories swirl: the crown prince’s marriage ball .
. . a ruse to find the subject of some ancient prophecy to do with the gods . . .
Now that sounds preposterous!
Pain stabs into my skull, and I cry out. Grasping my temples, I take controlled breaths to calm both the discomfort and my escalating panic at the new jumble of information now rattling in my brain without context.
As the pain slowly subsides, I worry my lip and scowl at the training leathers lying on the bed.
I suppose I should get dressed before His Heinousness stomps up here to dress me himself.
The thought that he might dare to do exactly that is enough to get me moving, as little as I feel like training right now.
I change quickly, pleased that the leathers are a decent fit. I crouch and spring upward, marveling at the suppleness.
“Good, you can follow instructions.”
The shadow that darkens my doorway is my magnanimous host himself.
He’s back in his glossy black-and-gold armor, twin braids coming off his temples.
The low light of the hallway makes him look even more ominous, casting shadows across the harsh planes of his face, and yet my heart gives an unsteady thump at the sight of him.
“Ready to talk?” he asks.
I smile sweetly. “Certainly, Your Majesty, but you clearly don’t want to hear the only truth I have, which is that I don’t remember anything.
” I tap my head. “Your own healers have confirmed that I’m suffering from memory loss due to a traumatic brain injury.
You will be the first person to know if I am indeed here to do away with your surly self.
” I purse my lips. “Though let’s be realistic .
. . I’m probably at the back of a long line of enemies, given your shining disposition. ”
“Your amnesia could be fake,” he says, ignoring my jabs.
I shake my head. “I wish I was that good of an actress. But by all means, keep me in this pretty room until you’re satisfied of my innocence.
” I shrug. “Or use one of your psionic magi, one who can sense lies from truth, to see what I know. Shouldn’t you have one of those? I give you permission, go on.”
“I’ve tried,” he snaps, and my brows rise in concert. “And I failed.”
I blink. He failed? Sands, he’s a mind magi, too.
I should have known he would have been so invasive without my consent.
How many pillars can a person be proficient in?
Ani had said it was rare to possess an affinity for all three, but maybe the king does.
I glare at him, grateful for whatever windfall had kept him out of my most private thoughts.
“What of your mysterious, mythical azdaha? Is the beast sentient? You could interrogate it, since it supposedly brought me here in the first place, though I’m not entirely sure I even believe that.”
“Razulek has not yet awakened. Azdahas take to an intense slumber when they are gravely injured,” the king says.
My heart gives an odd pang and I rub my chest, flashes of emerald-green scales, an enormous wingspan, and intelligent eyes filling my vision. Oh, oh. My knees nearly buckle as the memories rise. Razulek . . . Grayheart, he’d called himself. He’d even told me of a mate who was here in Everlea.
Holy gods. The creature is real . . .
I don’t realize that I’ve uttered the words aloud until the king speaks.
His voice is so cold when he replies that I swear I feel hoarfrost cover my skin.
“Yes. He was weakened from severe torture, his wings frail from disuse, and some of his wounds were internal. It was a marvel either of you even made it here.” The king’s gaze hardens as I struggle to make sense of my utterly impossible memories.
“Were you his prisoner, or was he yours, coerced to fly you here by your will?”
“I don’t have magic,” I say, “or psionic affinities.”
His mouth flattens. “You blocked me, so you have some ability.”
I let out a frustrated hiss through my teeth. “When will you understand that I am telling the truth? No one in Oryndhr has magic, least of all me!”
Momentary confusion glitters in his obsidian gaze before it goes blank. We glower at each other in a silent standoff, but I hold myself stiff with my head high, unwilling to give any quarter. Show no weakness . . .
“Follow me,” he commands brusquely, and walks away.
Anger swirls through my chest, though it’s frustration with myself that intensifies my feelings of utter powerlessness. I wish I hadn’t lost my memories. If by some long stretch of the imagination I had come here to assassinate him, I’d do it with relish.
No, you wouldn’t, because you’re not a killer . . . though that didn’t save you from committing untold horrors in the name of a man you loved.
I clutch at my temples, sinking into a crouch with a whimper of agony. Where had that thought come from?
Images burst into my brain: gleaming silvery ribbons of magic, fresh blood on my hands, raw pain brimming through me.
I see myself on a dais, without my cuffs, standing next to a crowned but faceless monarch as he addresses his people.
I dig deeper for his face, sensing that I know him, intimately in fact, and it slips away, but not before a name winks into existence.
Roshan.
Designations crash through my mind in response: bastard, savior, lover, betrayer, foe. But I don’t recognize the name at all. Which is he? One of them or all of them?
Sands, Suraya, remember!
But the images start to bend and fold into one another until they’re unrecognizable, only the faces of grotesque ghouls staring back at me, swallowing me whole with their gaping mouths. I scream until my throat burns, crumpling into myself . . . tumbling into the yawning abyss.
Eventually, a deep, commanding voice pierces the thick haze of my thoughts: “Suraya!”
How does he know my name? It’s my first sluggish thought. The second is that he’s touching me. The king’s hands are gently gripping my face, and as I stare into his mesmerizing obsidian eyes, I see concern and what looks like fear.
But he hates me. Why in the realms would he look so fearful? Fear of me? For me? My eyes roll back as the endless void threatens to tug me back under.
“Follow my voice, Starbright. Come back to me.”
Somehow in the throes of agony, I listen. I claw my way out of the suffocating, viscous pit until I’m lying shuddering on a solid polished floor, curled into a ball. “What . . . happened?” My voice is a raw whisper.
The king rolls back to his haunches, his expression still haunted. “You tell me.”
“Memories,” I whisper. “Nightmares.”
He stares at me, but something like compassion bleeds through that glacial jet gaze. I hate the fact that he caught me in such a vulnerable position. “Painful ones?” he asks softly, surprising me.
I swallow and wrap my arms around my body, feeling the hideous sensation of being consumed from the inside out. “Horrifying. I . . . I think I might have been . . . a monster.”
I feel his eyes on me, but he doesn’t say anything or probe for more explanation. “We’re all capable of monstrous things,” he says eventually, and so gently that it makes tears spring to my eyes for no reason at all. “Some more than most. But that doesn’t make us monsters.”
“I am,” I blurt out, and lift my arms, staring blindly at the cuffs. “There’s so much blood on these, and I don’t know how they even got there. I don’t know what I did because I can’t fucking remember!” The last words turn into a choked sob.
The king stands and walks a few steps. “Here,” he says, returning with a filled goblet. “Drink this.”
I do as he says, grateful for the coolness of the water calming my sore throat, and then give him the empty cup with a quavering hand. Those midnight eyes of his miss nothing. My skin itches with discomfort at feeling so exposed. “Why are you being so kind all of a sudden?” I blurt out.
“I can’t be kind?”
I frown, abandoned walls rising with alacrity. “Let’s be honest, Your Majesty. I’m your hostage. You probably didn’t want me dying on your hands, causing a diplomatic incident that might start a war or something disastrous.”