CHAPTER EIGHT
J olivet was silent all the way to Marivent. The carriage took side roads, avoiding the main streets where the celebration was now in full swing: Lin could hear the sounds of it—distant shouts blending together like the roar of an unseen waterfall.
Since he was ignoring her, Lin felt free to stare at the Legate curiously. He really did look like a raptor up close, with his curved nose, receding chin, and nearly unblinking eyes. No wonder the people of the city called him the Eagle of the Fall, though she had never been sure which Fall they meant exactly—the fall of the cliffs away from Marivent? Or a more metaphorical fall, the fall of the Empire long ago? For there had been Legates back then, too, enforcing Laws for Emperors.
Jolivet seemed to relax minutely when they reached the Palace. Kutani flags fluttered from atop the North Gate, and inside the walls of Marivent, red-liveried staff were hurrying to and fro, carrying pots of flowers in brilliant shades of coral, peach, and tangerine. Wires bearing golden chimes were strung between balconies; gold bunting hung above the doorways. Had all this been done this morning? Or last night, when she was sitting up with a patient in the Sault?
The carriage drew up in the courtyard of the Castel Mitat. Jolivet helped Lin descend and hurried with her into the small palace. It seemed deserted, quiet enough inside that she could hear the faint carillon of the chimes outside, shimmering on the air.
When they reached the door of the Prince’s chambers, Jolivet knocked, and there was a flurry of sound behind the door; it cracked open slightly and a woman in a white mobcap appeared. Lin remembered her—one of the hurrying servants she had caught a glimpse of the night she’d come to Marivent to heal Conor after he’d been whipped bloody.
It all seemed an age ago, now.
Clinging tight to her physician’s satchel, Lin followed the mobcapped servant into the Prince’s chambers while Jolivet remained outside. The chambers themselves did not seem to have changed much. There were the same two beds, the same marble tables and crumpled-silk divans—though there was now a heavy desk pushed against one wall, covered in a white hill of ink-scrawled papers.
A whirlwind of activity was happening in the center of the room. And in the center of the activity stood Prince Conor, almost completely naked.
Lin dropped her satchel. Luckily, no one seemed to notice; it hit the floor with a soft thunk as she stared. She knew, of course, that the very rich had servants to help them dress, but she had never pondered what that would actually look like before—or that it meant that, of course, they would clothe you from the skin out.
Not that the Prince was entirely nude. He was in his smallclothes: short breeches of fine linen, cut on the cross to be close fitting. Fluttering around him like anxious birds were a group of servants: a tailor, carrying thread, needle, and seam-ripper, another—the woman who had greeted Lin at the door—taking various garments from the wardrobe to hold up for the Prince’s approval, and a third holding open a velvet box inside of which rested a variety of glittering ornaments.
At the eye of the hurricane, the Prince stood calmly, utterly unselfconscious about his lack of attire. In fact, he looked half asleep, his eyes heavy-lidded, his black hair tousled and still damp from the tepidarium.
He did not seem to notice that Lin was there at all. No one did. And she realized, as if at distance from her own self, that he had put himself there for her to look at him. She knew him enough to know that. He meant to unsettle her. No doubt he imagined her as prudish—and indeed, compared with those on the Hill, she was, with her modest dress, her scuffed shoes, her plain unbound hair.
But she would not let him see she was bothered. She did not look away, but stared straight at him. She had seen Conor’s bare skin before, when she had healed his whip wounds. But she had been a physician then, concentrated on the mending of torn flesh.
This was different. He was perfect, healthy, unmarred. His skin was a light brown, polished and unmarked. Lin was used to looking at human bodies dispassionately. Perhaps she had forced herself to forget how beautiful they could be. The lines of him flowed smoothly into one another—broad shoulders, a waist that tapered to lean hips, muscles that moved dexterously under his skin when he turned.
His skin looked as if it would be soft to touch, fine-grained as silk, but his body was hard and lean, doubtless made so by years of riding and hunting. And sword-training. Kel had said he was always training, and one could see the results. The muscles in his stomach were as clearly delineated as if their shape had been drawn onto him with ink. He had been blessed with his mother’s beauty, too. Full lips, high cheekbones, and long fingers like poetry. Fingers that had touched her once— finding the edge of her dress’s neckline, where her breasts rose to press against the material...
As if he could read her mind, Conor flicked his gaze toward her for the first time. He caught her eyes, and she could feel her cheeks burning as his mouth curled up at the corner.
“Delfina,” he said, his voice low and lazy, “not that one. The black, with the silver buttons.”
The mobcapped servant—Delfina—deftly switched out the garments in her hands and went to hold the shirt up against the Prince. He frowned into the pier glass that hung inside the wardrobe door and shook his head. Water dripped from his damp hair onto his bare clavicles as Delfina removed the rejected garment.
A body is just a body, Lin reminded herself fiercely as he stepped into a pair of sueded gray trousers. “Perhaps you could choose something in gold, or cinnabar,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “The colors of Kutani. It might be appreciated.”
The group of servants looked at her in alarm, as if she were a child who had poked a stick into a tiger’s cage. Conor’s gaze flicked over her as he drew down his shirt, covering—much to her relief, she told herself—his naked torso. “Oh,” he said in a careless tone. “You’re here.”
It was a tone calculated to make her feel like a small pebble that had fetched up under his shoe.
“Well, you seem to have brought me here to watch you get dressed,” Lin said. “I assumed you wished my opinion on your choice of outfit.”
“Believe me,” said Prince Conor, letting his hands fall to his sides, “I do not seek your opinion on sartorial matters.”
There was a small whirl of movement as Delfina attended to his cuffs. There was a frill of lace on each one, shot through with gold thread. A gold waistcoat, thick with brocade, went on over the shirt. The lace at his throat foamed over the waistcoat in a cascade.
You wanted my help, Lin nearly said. You asked me for it at the party.
She didn’t say the words aloud. Somehow she knew—just as she knew he was doing his best to unsettle her—that he did not want her to mention that.
The tailor had darted in now to make minute adjustments to the fit of his shirt. Delfina was carrying over a pair of boots, which looked to Lin to be nearly as tall as she was. “I asked Jolivet to pick you up while you were on your rounds, so you’d have your satchel with you. Although I see you have dropped it on the floor. How careless.”
Lin glared at him, but he was studiously examining the velvet box of jewelry held out to him. After dithering between rubies and sapphires, he held out a languorous hand for rings to be slipped onto his fingers.
“Indeed, I assumed it was a matter of urgency,” said Lin, “not a choice between red and blue.”
He opened his eyes in mock-hurt. “Clothing is often a matter of urgency. Do you know what would happen if I wore orange in front of the Shenzan Ambassador? An international incident.”
“No doubt,” said Lin. “Speaking of political necessities, isn’t there somewhere else you’re supposed to be?”
Clink. The servant with the velvet box had dropped a ring. There was a scramble to retrieve it, during which the Prince regarded Lin steadily over the kneeling servants’ heads.
“Delfina, my dear,” he said as she rose with the fallen ring in her hand, “Alois, Ivèta—leave us. I would speak with my physician alone.”
Delfina set the ring back in its box, and the group of servants melted away silently. As the door closed behind them, the Prince threw himself onto the nearest divan, boots in hand. As he began to lace one up his calf, he said, “As far as the world is concerned, I am at the docks, greeting the Kutani ship. Indeed, most of the Palace is there. This is as empty as Marivent is likely to be for quite some time. Which is why I asked you here now.”
Surely he wasn’t saying he’d sent Kel in his place so he could meet Lin at the Palace? She rejected the idea as ridiculous.
“You said at the party that you needed my help,” she said. “And that it was not you that was ill. I think you’d better tell me what it is you do want. It may not be within my ability to grant it.”
Having laced his second boot, Conor rose to his feet. He was not wearing a circlet, and black locks of hair fell over his forehead. She thought of his swan cloak, how the feathers had kissed his skin. “I have every faith in your ability.”
“The Exilarch—”
“Ah, yes,” he said. “Your preferred Prince.” His voice was light as the notes of a satirical song. “I considered that. So I am giving you a royal order. You will help me, and you are not permitted to tell your Exilarch about it. Which relieves you of any responsibility there. A neat solution, don’t you think?”
Lin felt a rushing in her ears. She could hear Mayesh’s voice, over the pounding of her own heart: A royal order is a formal demand made by the Blood Royal. The punishment for disobeying it is death.
But he wouldn’t, she thought. Conor wouldn’t. She searched his face for some sign that he was joking, but she saw nothing there. He was as unreadable as a message written in cipher.
“You’re serious?” she whispered.
His expression did not change, and Lin did not notice his hands. They had clenched at his sides into white-knuckled fists.
His gray eyes were cool and distant. “You have not seen me for the past three months. I have become a far more serious person.”
He is really doing this, she thought, incredulous. But why had she thought he wouldn’t? In the end, he would always do as he liked.
In a dry voice she said: “You are telling me I must defy one of my Princes.”
“So it seems. Obviously, I would rather it not be me. Now fetch your medicines, and I will take you to your patient. We have not much time.”
Within seconds, Kel found himself seated, facing Anjelica. He gripped the sides of the woven basket as the elephant rose and they sailed together up into the air.
There was a great deal of yelling as the Arrow Squadron tried to circle around to follow the elephant, which had already started up the harbor path toward the city. The animal moved at a slow, stately pace, flanked on either side by the Bloodguard. The roar of the crowds rose; the slips between the wharves were full of flowers, floating on the surface of the tide.
Now, Kel thought, I am Conor. Now I am the Prince, greeting my bride. Kel might wish to be kind, but Conor needs to be gracious. Gracious and clever. Kindness is not a part of politics, and this is a political alliance.
Across the basket, Anjelica Iruvai regarded him through wide dark eyes. Kel inclined his head. “Be welcome to Castellane,” he said. “I am glad to see you arrived safely.”
“Yes, thank you, Ufalme. ” The word for “Prince” in Kutani.
Her voice was soft and distant; she was even more beautiful up close. Her lids were painted with gold powder, her high cheekbones dusted with it. She had slender arms ringed with bracelets of copper and bronze; her hands were folded tightly in her lap. Kel, used to reading body language, could tell that the tension had not left her, though the harbor was rapidly receding in the distance.
He pitched his voice low. “ Ayakemi. ”
Princess.
A flash of gold. She was looking at him in surprise; she had not expected him to know any Kutani. It was a complex language, having developed out of the lingua franca of spice traders. Indeed, Kel had struggled to learn even a little of it.
“Someone has taught you how to speak properly,” she said. “I am all amazement.”
Kel grinned. Perhaps she was insulting him, or Conor; he didn’t mind. He had never seen anyone so beautiful, and he was rather enjoying being on top of an elephant with her. As they turned onto the Ruta Magna and approached the thick of the crowd, he thought: They will not be disappointed. They cannot fail to love her.
So different from the arrival of poor Luisa, which had been a scandal. A shaming. Not so now.
“You are smiling,” she said. Her Castellani was perfect, accentless. “What has pleased you?”
The crowd that lined the streets was roaring ecstatically. Roaring and hurling yellow roses and chrysanthemums. Some fell into the basket, scattering yellow petals.
“The people of the city love you,” he said. “That is a good thing. Castellane was holding its breath, waiting to see its next Queen. They are relieved that you are beautiful.”
Anjelica did not change expression, only regarded the wild crowds lining the streets with solemn gravity. The air was full of thrown blossoms; many had fetched up on balconies or tangled themselves in existing trellises. “That should not matter.”
“It does, to them,” said Kel. “Your elephant seems to know where he is going. Has he visited Castellane before? Avid sightseer, perhaps?”
“ She is indeed clever. Her name is Sedai. She was a gift to me from a Prince of Hind.” She reached to stroke Sedai’s back. “She follows the Bloodguard. They know the way well enough. We have maps, you know, in Kutani.”
They were passing the closed doors of the Sault. Kel thought of Lin’s Ashkar prayer: How shall we sing our Lady’s songs in a strange land? Anjelica, too, was a stranger here, in the place she had come to rule.
“ Ufalme. ” Anjelica held a small woven box. In it was an arrangement of nuts lacquered with sugar. She took one and popped it into her mouth, then offered the box to him. “There are those who say Conor Darash Aurelian carries ill fortune with him,” she said, looking at him from beneath her lashes. “That he was glad when the little girl from Sarthe died, for Sarthe had shamed him by sending her.”
Kel blinked. What she had said was not rude precisely, but it was unusual for royals to be so direct. He bit into a nut to buy himself an extra moment.
Then he swallowed and said, “Luisa did not die of bad luck.” Why not match frankness with frankness? “She died because someone wished to cause war between us and Sarthe, and they may still succeed. I mourn the Princess’s death, for her own sake as well as for the sake of Castellane.”
Her eyes were fixed on his face. “Spoken like a clever Prince,” she said. “But you are not the Prince, are you?” She studied him as if he were an interesting puzzle to be solved. “Conor Aurelian cannot tolerate walnuts. They make him sick. But you appear to be suffering no ill effects.”
Kel felt the shock like a dull blow. She had offered him a walnut, and he had not remembered to refuse it. How could he, after his years of training, have made such a tremendous mistake?
I fear you cannot fold all conflicting things within yourself. Being a Sword Catcher, and also this.
He had never failed so badly at his sworn task. He said, “The allergy can take time to come into effect. I may be quite sick when we get to the Palace.” He made a noise he hoped indicated oncoming stomach trouble.
She smiled slightly. “You forget your own magic,” she said. “Those who know who you really are can see you as you really are. There is no purpose in lying to me, Sword Catcher.”
In the hall, Lin and the Prince rejoined Jolivet, who clearly knew their mission; he led them down the curved stairs, through a narrow door, and down a second set of stairs, this one lit by lanterns. There were no windows, and the stairs opened out at the bottom into a long, stone-lined tunnel. Lamps blazed bright lines along the walls. They were underground, Lin guessed. She recalled Kel having said that the Hill was honeycombed with passages beneath Marivent.
If Jolivet was bothered by the chilly silence of his companions, he certainly did not show it. His boots clicked on the stone floor as they went, and the Prince’s embroidered frock coat swirled around him in the faint breeze that blew through the tunnel. The lamps along the walls caught the gold embroidery at his wrists and made it shine.
Like manacles, Lin thought. But he was not a prisoner. She was. To break a royal order was treason. It meant the Trick, and the Trick meant death.
The Prince must know I will never trust him again after this, Lin thought. But then he already believed she did not trust him—did not even like him. She had refused to say she would help him, so he had chosen to compel her to give him that help. He was a Prince; what else had she expected? The anger she felt was bitter as a poisonous herb; she was furious not just at Conor, but at herself.
As they moved down the tunnel, Lin noted multiple doors set into archways along the wall. When they reached the correct one, Jolivet unlocked it with a large key that seemed to appear in his hand as if by magic.
They were once again at the foot of a staircase, this one spiraling upward. As they ascended, they passed several casement windows, and Lin began to realize they were inside one of Marivent’s towers. The staircase ended finally at a metal door, hammered with a pattern of stars and constellations. Light spilled from around the door’s edges, providing the strange illusion that it was floating in space.
Jolivet knocked in an odd sequence—three, then two, then three again. The door was opened by a Castelguard, who stepped out of the room to let them in. Prince Conor went first, gesturing for Lin to follow. The moment she was inside, Jolivet shut the door behind them.
Lin found herself in a brightly lit chamber. It was wide and circular, the roof above rising into shadow at the tower’s point. Small, diamond-paned windows were set high up; the furniture was Valdish chestnut, gleaming a warm brown in the light of many candles.
A gold-and-silver orrery, displaying the position of the planets, rested on a desk; the walls were lined with books regarding astronomy, the positions and histories of the stars. A cabinet held a sextant and telescopes of varying sizes—some made of ivory or studded with gems. Finely drawn wheel charts and maps, showing the position of the stars and the paths of the planets, hung upon the walls. Everywhere were papers, covered in notes made in a close, dark, scribbled hand. Something gleamed among the papers, and for a moment Lin thought they were gems, scattered on the surface of the desk, but a closer look told her they were shards of broken glass. Odd.
As her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw Conor cross the room to a high-backed wooden chair by the window. Lin had taken it to be empty, but she realized as she followed Prince Conor with her eyes that they were not alone in the room. The chair was occupied. It was only that the man sitting in it was so still, she had not reacted to his presence. He did not seem to be moving at all—not even a twitch of muscle, or a breath. Despite the number of candles in the room, he was in shadow.
The Prince had stopped before the chair. Lin could not read his expression as he looked down at the man sitting before him. His face was still as a mask.
“Father.” The Prince’s voice was even and low. “I have brought a physician to see you.”
Lin was too surprised to move. Her patient was his father ? The King?
And why was the King so still, so silent?
“She is the granddaughter of Bensimon,” added Conor. “You know, the one he speaks of often.”
Still no response. The Prince beckoned for Lin to come closer. She found herself moving reluctantly to join him, facing the King in his great carved chair.
King Markus Aurelian. She knew what he looked like, of course, and not only because his face was on the half-crown coin. When she was younger, the King had still made public appearances. She recalled seeing him in Valerian Square—a tall blond figure, broad-shouldered, resembling his Northern mother. A bear of a man, her father had said.
He was a big man still. Yet somehow his skin seemed too tight on his bones. His hair was bone white, long, reaching past the blades of his shoulders. His veins seemed too close to the surface of his skin; she could see the spidery map of them, stark at his temples. Though he sat slumped, as if half paralyzed, his shoulders hunched, his black-gloved hands clasped the arms of his chair with a force Lin could feel in the pit of her stomach. It was as if he were gripping on for dear life, but who could hold such a grip very long? Yet he had been doing it since they had entered the room; she was sure of it.
Strangest of all was the look on his face. Not quite expressionless, not at all; his eyes were wide and seemed to stare fixedly past them, as if he saw something horrible in the distance. Lin almost wanted to turn around and look behind her.
“Don’t bother,” said the Prince bitterly. “He is staring at nothing. He is always staring at nothing.” He waved his hand in front of his father’s face, his mouth twisting. “Now you know,” he said. “The King of Castellane, my father, has become a waxen, drooling doll. Vacant as an empty heart. All his great strength gone to ruin.”
Yet this is the man who had you whipped till you bled, Lin thought. But she knew better than to say it; her own experience with her grandfather had taught her you could easily hate and love someone at the same time. Especially someone who was supposed to love you.
“Who else knows?” she said instead. “About your father’s condition?”
“It is known that my father is unwell. That is what Kel would tell you, if you asked. Few know more than that. Bensimon and Jolivet. A few of the guards. My mother, the Queen.”
The King stirred suddenly, a restless gesture. Lin looked quickly at Conor, but he did not seem surprised. He bent over his father, reaching as if to take his hand—
The King’s arm came up with incredible speed, his gloved fingers curled into a fist. He swung at the Prince as if he meant to break his son’s jaw, but Conor—clearly practiced at this—caught his father’s wrist and held it tightly.
“Father,” he said. “It’s me. It’s your son.”
The King’s blank eyes slewed in Prince Conor’s direction. Lin could see red, angry-looking skin at the edge of his gloves, where they met his wrists. Years ago, she recalled, his hands had been burned horribly during an official ceremony; he had worn the gloves ever since.
“ Ryura hini, ” Conor said softly, and Lin realized she knew the words. They were Malgasi. Mariam had murmured them to her, years ago, stroking her hair as Lin screamed through nightmares. Ryura hini. Ryura. Calm yourself. Calm.
The King’s arm lowered slowly to his side. Conor released his grip on his father and took a step back. The King was still expressionless; bright-red spots burned high on Conor’s cheekbones.
Lin thought of the broken glass on the desk. “How—” How often is he violent? she almost said, but changed her mind. “How long has he been like this?”
“Since the Shining Gallery,” said the Prince. “That night, after the bloodshed, my father walked away from the Carcel and entered this tower. He has not left it since. He has barely spoken since. He has been”—he waved a hand, his rings winking brilliantly in the candlelight—“as you see. Most of the time.”
“But he understands you, you think. You spoke to him in Malgasi.”
“Would that I understood more of it. But yes. He fostered at the Court there when he was a boy.” The Prince sounded impatient; the shadowlight threw the sharpness of his features into cold relief. The angles of his cheekbones seemed cut there by knives. “I cannot have Gasquet examine my father; Gasquet has no skill. Besides, he cannot be trusted. The world cannot know the King is ill. We have been at the verge of war with Sarthe these past months. If they knew—”
“But surely the Charter Families must have noticed he has not communicated with them, not appeared at meetings or communicated with Ambassadors?”
“I have forged all his letters,” the Prince said dispassionately. “With your grandfather’s help. Fortunately, we have not had to deal with Ambassadors coming in person. After the Shining Gallery, they have stayed away out of respect. Or fear, perhaps.” He smiled a twisted smile. “I will stand beside you if you wish to examine the patient. If he tries to raise a hand to you, I will stop it.”
“I have treated violent patients before. You need not worry.”
His gray eyes raked over her before he turned back to the King. “Father. She is going to examine you now.”
Clinging to the strap of her satchel, Lin advanced slowly toward the King. His eyes did not move to follow her progress, even when her shadow was cast across him. Conor stood close by, arms crossed, watching her as she fetched her auscultor.
Taking a deep breath, she leaned in close to the King. A faint scent rose from him, like old paper and char. Up close, she could see a little of his resemblance to Prince Conor. His eyes, too, were gray, clear as seawater, though the skin around them was seamed with fine lines.
Placing the auscultor against the King’s chest, she listened. It was unnerving to have a patient who did not even seem to know she was there, but his heartbeat was steady, his breath sounds normal. The King’s glands were not swollen, nor did his skin bruise when firmly touched. His eyes did not track the movements of her fingers, but that she had expected. He seemed far away again, and it was difficult to remember that moments ago he had lashed out at his son.
“He seems healthy enough, in body if not mind,” she said, drawing back. “I assume he eats and sleeps?”
Prince Conor nodded. “There is a small apartment through there.” He indicated a door, near invisible, set in the wall paneling. There were odd marks on the door, Lin noted. Black, like scorch marks. Perhaps the result of some old experiment. “The Queen sees to him, bringing food and water. Jolivet sometimes. I trust no one else.”
“Could it be simply the shock of the events in the Gallery, affecting his mind?” Lin asked. “I have seen it before, in sailors who have survived shipwrecks but seen their friends drown. The mind can be wounded as well as the body—”
“It is not that,” said the Prince. “You asked me before about his fostering at the Malgasi Court. My father did not return from there alone. He brought a man named Fausten with him. A strange little companion. He and my father spent hours locked in this tower, claiming to be unraveling the secrets of the stars. In his more lucid moments, my father asks for him. But Fausten is dead. My father had him executed months ago.”
Lin said nothing. There were times when she knew she needed to let her patients and their families talk; they would tell her what she needed to know, given space to do it. This seemed one of those times.
“I wondered why he seemed to want to see a man he had distrusted enough to condemn to the Trick,” Conor went on, naming the black tower where convicted prisoners of the crown were held before execution. “Then I realized it was not Fausten himself he was asking for, but rather something Fausten provided for him.”
The Prince looked once more at the unmoving shell that was his father, then crossed the room to the desk and returned with a glass flask. In it was a few inches of dark-brown liquid. He held it out to Lin. “He calls this his medicine, ” he said, his lip curled. “It seems Fausten was giving my father this brew regularly. One of the guards told me. There is no more of it, though; I have searched Fausten’s quarters, but it seems to have gone with its maker.”
“And what is it?”
“That is what I wish you to discover. You are an Ashkar physician; you have knowledge of herbs and medicines. I wish to know what this is. A medication, a poison, or—something else.”
Merren would say the difference between a remedy and a poison is only in the dosage. The thought of Merren brought the image of his laboratory to her mind: mechanisms to distill, to separate and concentrate ingredients...
“Something else?” she echoed. His gaze caught hers; she was aware again of how much his eyes were like Kel’s, and yet how different. The same shade, but there were different patterns inside the iris. In his left eye, Conor had a small white spot, like a star, near the dark rim of his pupil. “If not a medicine or a poison, then what?”
“That can be addressed when we know what the mixture is.” He held out the flask. Lin took it, and for a moment her fingertips brushed against his. The hard jolt of it went all the way through her as if an arrow had split her rib cage.
She snatched her hand back. Stupid, she thought a moment later; stupid to let him see how much he affected her. How ridiculous he must find her, she thought, and indeed his mouth had settled back into a hard, uncompromising line.
“Get word to me as soon as you discover anything,” he said as Lin slipped the flask into her satchel. “You can send a message through any of the Castelguard you see in the streets.”
“Thank you,” Lin said tonelessly. “I would like a carriage. To take me back to the city.”
“Now?”
“That is up to you,” said Lin. “I wait on your pleasure, Monseigneur. You have made that very clear.”
He grinned. It was a hard flash, like a knife in the dark. “You’re angry at me,” he said. “Good.”
Lin looked at him in surprise. “Good?”
“It will keep you sharp,” he said, and brushed past her, on his way to demand that Jolivet find a carriage to remove her from Marivent.
For a moment, Lin was alone in the tower with the King. It was like being alone with a statue, she thought, slinging her satchel over her shoulder. He was so unnervingly silent, without even the rustle of a sleeve as he moved, or the scrape of his boot against the ground.
She slipped the flask into the satchel and was about to go when the King gave a sudden, deep gasp. She whirled, her heart pounding. “Your Highness—?”
Still staring past her, hands gripping the arms of his chair, the King said in a low, toneless voice, harsh as the buzzing of a bee, “ Hollazekyer di niellem pu nag. ” His gaze flicked toward her. “ Hollazekyer di niellem pu nag. Hollazekyer di niellem pu nag. Hollazekyer di niellem pu nag. ”
“Your Highness—” she began again, but it was clear he neither saw nor heard her. He was repeating the same sentence over and over now, as if he could not control the words spilling from his lips.
Unable to help herself, Lin fled.