Chapter Thirty-Two
Dietan
Aren and I are carried, bound, into a small dwelling. The space is a modest living room, with pillows and blankets surrounding a small hearth. A fire crackles despite the heat of the day. Even with the hearth, it’s much cooler inside. The stone walls keep the outdoor heat where it belongs.
We are both shoved onto the pillows, and the woman walks around us. Pacing the room, she empties her pockets and unties her sword belt. Her weaponry looks familiar, but my dry eyes could be deceiving me.
“You can leave us,” she says to the others who brought us here so roughly. I scowl as they make their exit.
Aren seems unhurt but frightened. She’s breathing hard around her gag. I wish desperately that I could touch her, comfort her, but I can hardly move an inch.
My arms ache, my head still hurts, and my legs are throbbing.
I try to shrug my shoulders to loosen my bindings, but the ropes around my wrists dig in even more tightly with every small movement.
I want to assure Aren that we’ll survive this, but all I can do is meet her gaze and plead for her not to panic.
Casually, the woman pours two meager cups of water and places them on a small table beside us. It’s barely a sip, but even that small amount is the equivalent of gold right now. Aren stays still, waiting, and so do I.
The woman watches us for a moment, seemingly satisfied. She moves behind us and unties our hands. Aren and I rip the gags out of our mouths, and we nearly knock over the cups in our haste to drink.
I wonder if water always tasted this sweet. I close my eyes and swallow it all.
“Slowly,” the woman says. “Or it’ll come back up.”
I try to obey, but it’s difficult. I want more. The water is cool all the way down to my stomach.
“Please, we mean no harm,” I finally say.
“So you claim,” the woman replies matter-of-factly. She takes a seat on the floor across from us, peering over the crackling flames.
Everything about her screams warrior—the broad shoulders, the muscular forearms, the steady gaze. Now that I’m no longer quite as parched, I can feel my wits returning, and with it some recognition of who this woman might be. There have been rumors of her over the years. Most assumed she died.
Is that the same nose, the same jawline from the portraits? I study her face with watering eyes, just as she inspects us both.
“Who are you?” she finally asks.
“Dietan Cornwallis Arthur William Maximillian Conrad Barclay-Bruce Armandale-Macrae, Crown Prince of Loegria and heir presumptive to Alarice.” The truth spills out of me before I can stop it. I don’t even realize what I’ve said until Aren glares at me, her eyes wide.
“And you?” the woman asks Aren.
“Aren Bellamore of Evandale,” she answers dutifully.
Her reply surprises the woman. She raises a curious eyebrow and then turns back to me. “Are you two really married?”
“Engaged but not really,” I admit, unable to stop the truth from slipping off my tongue.
“We’re only pretending,” Aren says. She looks surprised at her own honesty and clamps her mouth shut to stop herself from saying more.
My eyes flick to the cup. Whatever the woman gave us wasn’t just water.
“So, a prince and a…” she starts.
“Barmaid,” Aren supplies.
“A prince and a barmaid. How curious. And not a married couple as you claimed to be.”
“We didn’t mean to deceive you,” I say quickly. “We were desperate for help. We didn’t want to look suspicious.”
“Heh. A Loegrian prince wandering the Great Waste, suspicious?” The woman chuckles. “Can’t be. So, what business do you have here? What brings you to the remains of Estyrion?”
I try to come up with a lie—something easy.
That we got lost, that we were kidnapped and abandoned, that we were separated from our party.
But the words refuse to form. I try to say anything but the truth, and my tongue feels like cement in my mouth.
I fight desperately for control over my own mind, closing my eyes, focusing like I’ve practiced for years to quell the Rings, but the impulse to tell the truth is still overwhelming.
“We’re here to solve my problem,” I finally blurt out. My heart thunders in my chest. I know that if she asks, I’ll tell her the entire truth—and I can’t. “Don’t ask me to reveal any more than that, I beg you.”
She raises her eyebrows, then looks at Aren, who’s fighting so hard against her own honesty that her whole body is shaking.
“Please,” I say, to draw her attention back to me and spare Aren. “It’s my problem, not hers.”
“What problem?” she asks.
Of course she would.
Anyone would, after hearing my answer.
I wince as I am compelled to speak. “I seek help from the one who calls himself King Osian of Engel.”
At that, her eyes darken. “What for?”
I clench my fists, fighting my own tongue. The longer I remain silent, the more it feels as if my mind is melting. I can’t stop myself. I answer, practically gasping as the pain disappears the moment I spit out, “To stop the coming war.”
The woman smiles. “That may be your truth, but no one can stop the Usurper of Penrith from marching on the rest of Albion. And I doubt Osian wants to stop him. The King of the Waste is in league with the Usurper.”
Well, this is…terrible news.
I meet Aren’s frightened gaze, and it takes everything in me not to reach over and take her hand.
“Now tell me the truth,” the woman says. “Why are you here?”
This time, the words tumble out immediately, as if pulled by a string. “Because I have the Rings of Fate.”
The woman goes very still.
She watches me with a look I can’t decipher, as if she’s peeling back my skin with her eyes, examining my insides and finding me wanting. “Tell me everything,” she says.
No. I won’t. I fight against the magic, sweat pricking at my forehead, my whole body trembling as pain grips my head like a vice—but in the end, the poison wins.
I tell her everything she wants to know.
I tell her about the Whisting, about the Rings in my back, about my fear that Loegria will march against Penrith without them, and about how I need to find a way to remove them before I kill everyone.
About how Engel is our only hope, as I’ve been told Osian has arcane knowledge of the Whisting.
“We’ve been wandering the desert for days,” I say, finishing my story. “No food. No water. Until you found us.”
“Please,” Aren says to the woman. “We’re just trying to save him and everyone else in Albion. Just let us go. The less you know, the safer you’ll be.”
“The Kilandrar are after us—after me,” I correct. “The sooner I find Osian and get the Rings removed, the sooner I can stop the war. I can stop everything.”
No one speaks again for a long while.
The woman rubs her jaw, her eyes fixed on the fire, her gaze distant as she contemplates all I’ve told her. I clench my fists on my lap, praying I haven’t gotten us into even more trouble. Oddly enough, though, her wariness has started to ebb. I relax my hands as she lets the silence stretch on.
Like any diplomat, she’s waiting for us to fill it, to offer more information unasked. I keep my mouth shut and let my eyes wander to the sword and belt on the table. I wonder if it was her birthright or if she has a collection of stolen treasures to which she will soon add my royal knife.
“You’ve gotten our names,” Aren says. “Now tell us yours.”
“I know her name,” I say. It’s a gamble.
Aren starts, looking at me in confusion.
The woman’s eyes meet mine, and I don’t shy away. After a moment, her gaze softens, and she relaxes back into a pillow, propping herself up on her elbow. “Who am I, Prince Dietan of Loegria?” she asks.
I cough. “You are Princess Katharine of Penrith, daughter of the last true king and ruler-in-exile of that kingdom.” I think for a second. “And my second cousin once removed, I believe.”
Aren’s eyes grow wide.
“I know my history,” I say with a proud smile.
“I saw your sword and the sash you wear. There were reports that you might have escaped. That you were in exile amassing a small army. My father sent emissaries to find you after the Usurper first took your father’s throne.
We’ve been looking for you for a long time.
I’m glad to discover you’re still alive. ”
“Good work, cousin. Yes, we fled Penrith and settled here, in the Waste, for our safety. Not that we’ve been at all safe, and to be honest, both of you should probably go back where you came from.”
“You survived,” Aren says, ignoring Katharine’s warning. “Everyone said you were killed when the Usurper took the throne.”
“I had to let the world believe I was dead so I could live. I thought to make a stand from here to retake Penrith, until this Osian fellow came and claimed the Waste for himself. Ruined my plans.”
Another woman enters the room and nods a greeting. “She’s right, you know. You both should go back to wherever you came from.” She’s smaller and gentler-looking than Katharine, though she’s dressed in the same fine linens as Katharine.
“This is my wife, Jingu,” says Katharine.
“Trust me,” I say, “I would rather not be here, either. But I have no choice.”
Katharine sighs. “The land itself is hostile and unfit for even the most prepared travelers, which is exactly how Osian wants it. He may not have created this environment, but he has taken advantage of his kingdom’s isolation to exert unnatural control over his people.
I doubt he will help you. You are a fool to seek his counsel. He cannot be trusted.”
This is exactly what Veteria said, lifetimes ago, but neither she nor Katharine seem to have a better solution.
“Perhaps not, but I don’t know how else to get the Rings of Fate back in the hands where they belong. I’m running out of time. Please, let us go so I can see this through.”