Chapter Thirty-Seven
Aren
It’s a rude awakening, going from dreams about Dietan holding me in his arms to the shriek of the cell door opening.
“Come on,” Dietan says as he helps me to my feet while a fully armored, gruff-faced guard waits impatiently.
I comb my hair with my fingers, trying to put it in some semblance of order, undoubtedly failing spectacularly.
Once it’s wound into a bun on the nape of my neck, I shake out the skirts of my desert linens and meet Dietan’s gaze.
He smiles, but I can see the shadows under his eyes. He didn’t sleep a wink.
He takes my hand and links his fingers through mine. “Ready?”
I nod, and hand in hand, we follow the guard up and out of the dungeon.
The words of the prisoner across the hall last night still echo in my head. He’s certain he’s going to die, and my mouth goes dry as I wonder if we are walking to our end.
Dietan says nothing, his gaze steely and focused as we are led back through the golden palace. Then his eyes meet mine, and they brighten just slightly, making my heart rate quicken. His eyes are sea green today, like the ocean near his home that I so desperately want to see for myself.
My mind returns to last night—the taste of his kiss on my lips, the feel of him when I boldly reached into his smallclothes.
He was so hot, so large. Just the thought of what could have happened if he hadn’t stopped—if we hadn’t been in the damned dungeon.
What could happen once he persuades King Osian to help him with the Rings so he can finally live without fear of his own power.
It makes my knees weak.
He kissed me and meant it. And even in our shitty situation—imprisoned and now on our way to meet a king who could end our lives—my heart feels full because I know I’ve finally found a man worth waiting for all my life.
I never imagined it would happen.
In this moment, full of the promise of death, Dietan’s love is worth all of the hardship.
Whether he has said the words or not, he does love me.
I know it. I know him. And to be honest, I probably fell in love with him the night he wandered into the Beak, thinking he could fool everyone into thinking he was a commoner.
When he drank our strongest ale without complaint.
We arrive at a staircase that leads to the throne room.
“Shall we, my darling?” he asks, kissing the back of my hand. The way he says it feels different now than when he said the exact same words at every stop of the Wedding March.
“Yes, my prince,” I reply, just as I did then, but I don’t say it with my customary mocking tone. Instead, the words feel like ownership.
He is mine. My prince.
I slip my arm through his, and a handful of armed and armored guards lead us up a series of stairs.
The metallic clanking of the men’s armor and the glint of sunlight off their halberds are stark reminders of why we’re here and who we’re going to see. My palms suddenly grow clammy. Dietan must feel it, too, because he puts a hand over mine and gives it a small, reassuring squeeze.
I focus on Dietan’s confidence, absorbing some of it for myself. I pull my shoulders back and hold my head high, trying my best to imitate him, trying to feel worthy of him, of being a princess.
He watches me out of the corner of his eye as we reach the top of the stairs, and his lips quirk up into a small smile. “Everything is going to be okay,” he says. “I promise.”
I can only hope it’s not an empty promise, but hope is all I have.
Hope and Dietan.
The throne room is a grand hall that looks to be made of solid gold. The nave is bordered on either side by gold columns holding up a ceiling so high, I wouldn’t be surprised if a flock of birds could fly through it.
One by one, the guards escorting us take positions against the wall, standing at attention.
They rest the butts of their gleaming halberds on the marble floor.
I notice the grates at the outer border of the hall.
The very same grates through which Dietan and I heard all manner of mysterious and unnerving sounds.
Before the great throne, a long table bisects the hall, resplendent with golden tableware and laden with so much food, I wonder who else might join us.
As far as I can tell, we’re the only people in attendance.
I feel tired and rumpled in our unwashed desert clothes and would like nothing more than a hot bath and a chance to wash my hair—to look less common before this king.
“Welcome to the king’s court,” the liveried butler says, standing tall in front of the table.
My stomach rumbles at the sight of such a feast. The last full meal I had was at Katharine’s house, and as welcome as her hospitality was after our ordeal in the desert, it doesn’t compare to the spread before us.
There are platters laden with delicacies that couldn’t have been easy to procure here.
Roast pork and duck, grilled chicken and lamb, mountains of peeled and cut fruits, vegetables glistening in glazes, and soft bread shaped like animals line the center of the table.
And even this far away from any ocean or lake, there are scaly fish and shelled oysters and other sea creatures in thick sauces.
I wonder for a moment if it’s a magical mirage, like the glass city. It seems impossible that there’d be such variety and abundance in a barren place like the Great Waste.
Sparkling pitchers of water glimmer in the bright sunlight filtering through the open archways, and my mouth is suddenly parched.
“May I ask where the king is? We were told he was ready to see us,” Dietan says.
“Yes, in due time,” the butler answers. “His Majesty is occupied with other matters at present, but he will only be a moment. Please, help yourself to breakfast.”
“Thank you,” Dietan says politely. “I think the last time I had a good meal was in a tavern called the Raven’s Beak.”
He catches my eye, and a warm flush spreads across my face, putting me a little more at ease.
Dietan guides me to the far end of the table and pulls out my chair. After I’m settled, he takes the chair to my right, closest to the head of the table.
I feel awkward, sitting at a table in the king’s court without the king present, but the butler doesn’t seem bothered by it.
He gestures to servants who come out of nowhere, like they’ve melted from the walls to start filling our plates.
They set so much food in front of us that the decadence makes my stomach churn.
I think of the desperate faces of the starving villagers we saw on our travels, like in Alba.
The butler, satisfied with the presentation, leaves. The servants move quickly, keeping their gazes down. I try to catch one of their eyes, but no one dares look up. They seem skittish, and my nerves remain on edge, every instinct telling me to get the hell out of here.
Dietan appears completely calm and begins to eat, so I follow suit, though my hands shake and the decadent meal tastes like ash in my mouth. My heart is pounding so hard, I can barely swallow.
Then the doors open again, and a familiar face walks in.
“Good morning,” the emissary says, his voice echoing around the nearly empty room.
He pours each of us a crystal goblet full of water.
I hesitate for a moment, wondering if it’s safe.
Then I notice the emissary takes a long sip of water from the same jug as he walks around to the head of the table.
I glance at Dietan, who nods, and so I take a sip as well.
The emissary flops into the king’s throne, settling in comfortably and cradling his goblet of water close to his chest, grinning. When no guards make any movement to stop him, I feel like I’ve been struck over the head with my own skillet. My ears ring. The emissary— He is actually—
Dietan raises his goblet to the emissary. “Hello again, uncle.”
I goggle at him. Uncle?
“Hello, nephew. You’re not as dumb as reported after all.”
“Ha.” Dietan smirks. “It’s good to be underestimated, Uncle Namreth.”
Uncle Namreth. I’ve heard that name before. Of course! It’s the name of King Elgar of Alarice’s younger brother—Dietan’s granduncle. This is Prince Namreth, the one who disappeared, banished for some reason or other.
“I suppose Osian suits you better,” Dietan says. “More ominous. Who’d fear someone called Namreth?” He says the name like it’s an insult.
Dietan and Namreth stare at each other with open hostility, the tension radiating from both of them so thick, I’m certain they’re going to come to blows.
I eye the knife at my place setting, but before I’m forced to do something stupid, Namreth’s shoulders relax.
He leans against the back of the golden throne wearing a smug smirk.
Dietan sits back in his seat as well, and I let out a discreet sigh.
And now I know why the emissary looks familiar. I can see the family resemblance. There are clear echoes of Dietan’s face in his uncle’s.
“The years have been kind to you, uncle,” Dietan says. “Extremely kind. What is your secret?”
“Take a guess,” Namreth says.
“The Whisting,” Dietan answers.
I hold my breath. He stopped the sandstorm. Does that mean the Whisting can stop time as well?
Namreth arches an eyebrow. “Indeed.”
So, the Whisting keeps him young, slowing down the aging process. Is that what will happen to Dietan if he doesn’t get the Rings out of his body? He’ll remain young forever, while I grow old?
My gaze lingers on Dietan’s face in profile.
He looks like he’s been hewn from stone.
I suppose that’s why we’re here after all—because Osian has knowledge of the Rings of Fate and can maybe help Dietan remove them.
But why didn’t he tell me he suspected Osian was his uncle?
I stare at my plate, my already-meager appetite completely gone. What else has Dietan kept from me?
“Come now, nephew. Why so grim? Let’s celebrate your engagement like family!” Namreth laughs.
Dietan doesn’t.