Chapter 4 #2
It doesn’t hurt. Not anymore. It did when Mistress Iliyani first found me, a small, half-feral creature staggering out of the forest, weeping for pain and fear.
Years of the old healer’s ministrations have long since reduced that pain to an ignorable numbness.
But the scars remain. And the memory of flesh burning.
The stink filling my nose. The wild frenzy, the need to escape, to somehow separate my soul from my body, to no longer inhabit this existence of agony.
It’s always there, lurking just in the background of my mind.
“Dragons don’t burn,” I whisper again, staring at the spread of that raw, wrinkled flesh. “But I do.”
Philippa pauses, nail file in hand. She looks up from her work, catching my eye in the glass. “Pardon, Princess?” she asks. “Did you say something?”
“Nothing.” I hastily drop my gaze to my lap.
Philippa continues to study me for a count of five breaths before shrugging prettily and returning to her work.
Scrape-scrape-scrape goes the file. My nails tend to grow very long, very fast, with sharp points.
Ordinarily, I chop them short rather than risk inadvertently tearing my own flesh when I go to scratch my bum.
But Philippa tells me that a lady’s nails must be shaped into delicate half-moons and polished to a shine.
She is nothing if not determined to make a princess out of me.
“I really must emphasize,” she says now, continuing a conversation I entirely lost track of sometime in the last few minutes, “how utterly inappropriate it was for you to interact with a strange man. Especially under the circumstances.”
Oh gods! Are we still harping on that theme?
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “He was hardly a strange man, Philippa. He was one of my guards.” I won’t bother to mention that I’d never seen this particular guard before.
Most people around here seem to treat the guardsmen as a single entity made up of various armor-clinking parts anyway.
“Do you think that makes a difference?” Philippa finishes my left-hand pinkie with a flourish before immediately taking hold of my right and starting in on the thumb.
She is so swift and efficient in every movement, one might suspect she was raised to be a lady’s maid and not a lady of high birth herself.
The High King appointed her personally to be both my companion and caretaker, a role into which she has thrown herself with all the fervor of a warrior marching into battle.
Barring the king himself, I’ve never met such an intimidating person; the fact that she is near my own age makes her all the more terrifying.
“Have you so little idea, Princess,” she persists, her expression rather grim, “just how important you are? Have none of the precautions taken over your care, none of the secrecy and security surrounding your arrival and stay here in Stromin Palace, impressed upon you the absolute necessity of your protection?”
“I hardly think an isolated conversation with a single guardsman is going to interfere with me fulfilling some great destiny or doom.”
Philippa sniffs. She does it most elegantly, as she does all things, communicating her disapproval with searing grace.
“When it comes to soliciting the aid of the gods, one cannot be too careful.” She tilts her head, inspecting her work on my thumb.
Satisfied, she moves to the index finger.
“I shall have to report that to Captain Norlan,” she mutters.
I glance up at her face in the glass once more. “What do you mean?”
“When you did not meet me at the library as planned, I could find none of your guards anywhere!” Her lip curls faintly, not enough to mar the smoothness of her countenance, but just enough to make her feelings plain.
“When I finally found them, they were all crowding the lower hall where the—you know—the private chambers are located. Clutching their stomachs and complaining of the flux. Every last one of them, the captain included!”
My brow puckers. “Those poor men. Did they say what brought it on? Was it something they ate? Or do you think they caught the bowelerous flu? It’s the time of year for it, at least back home.”
“I don’t care if they’re dying,” Philippa replies with the coldness of one who has never known a day’s sickness in her life. “It is their responsibility to oversee your safety. There’s simply no excuse for abandoning their posts.”
While I’d never dare contradict Philippa, under the circumstances, I would prefer the men make a mad dash for the privies than remain in place, doubled over in malodorous agonies.
It’s not as though I was ever in any danger.
While the corridors were certainly bereft of my usual bevy of valiant guards, one man, at least, was still on the job.
A small smile tilts the corner of my mouth.
Memory of a poorly fitted cuirass stretched across a massive chest appears unbidden but not unwelcome in my mind’s eye.
I should make a point to commend my solitary protector to his commanding officer.
What was his name though? I don’t think he ever mentioned it.
I suppose I’ll see him again soon enough, trading watches with the other fellows.
Would Philippa be completely scandalized if I sidled up to him and asked his name directly?
“If it pleases the princess to stop smirking at herself in the glass and stand?” Philippa suggests in a tone carefully poised between irritation and deference. “It is time to prepare you for the Presentation.”
I obey immediately, rising and lifting my arms as my lady wraps a set of stays around my rib cage and abdomen.
I’m unused to wearing such fine undergarments but have found I rather like them.
Aside from providing support and structure for the voluminous gowns I’m now required to wear, there’s something armor-like about all that quilting and boning.
I wonder if this is how a knight gallant feels when his squire prepares him for tournament.
My stomach knots. All day I’ve put off as much as possible thinking about this evening. Now that the hour draws near, I’m loath to meet more of the champions. What if they’re all like Prince Taigan? Handsome, arrogant, possessive…A shudder ripples down the back of my neck.
“They say the last prince arrived today.” Philippa’s voice breaks through the roiling thoughts in my head, drawing my attention back to her.
She gathers petticoats from the wardrobe and shakes them out, making certain they’re entirely free of cave mites.
“There was some concern that he would not make it, and the tournament would be short one champion. But Prince Joro of Rassumen is now safely welcomed to Stromin Palace. I will warn you though”—she looks up, her eyebrows slightly puckered—“he’s a ginger. ”
“And that is a…” I study her face and make a wild guess, “bad thing?”
She shrugs. “It is or it isn’t. It depends on who you ask.”
I suppose I’ll reserve judgment for the time being. “What of the other champions?” I ask. “Have you heard any news of them?”
“Oh, they say Learned Majestic Rune and Lord Elis were sparring in the practice yard today.”
“Really?” I can’t help wondering what exactly constitutes a yard down here under the mountain but hold my tongue. Instead, I stand quietly as Philippa pulls the petticoats over my head and ties them into place, all the while recounting the tale of Lord Elis’s triumph over the Learned Majestic.
“It was rather a significant moment, you understand,” she finishes.
“Why?” I ask, squirming a little to shift the heavy petticoats into a more comfortable position.
“The animosity between the kingdoms of Albhia and Senland has been brutal for positively centuries!” Philippa replies.
“Were it not for the dracori, they would be at each other’s throats still, but as it is…
” Her voice trails off. A lingering sort of silence settles into the space between us.
The dracori, servants of Mhoryga, are a threat across the known world.
Though once human like the rest of us, and still appearing human to the naked eye, they are now creatures of darkness, twisted by their mistress, dragon blood flowing in their veins.
Astride the dragon spawn, they fly where they will, wielding the green hellfire of Mhoryga’s own realm, incinerating all who stand in their way.
No one has been entirely untouched by their flame.
“And what about Prince Valtar?” I ask after a moment, eager for that silence to end.
“Prince who?”
“Valtar,” I repeat. “You’ve not mentioned him yet. I’ve heard you speak of all the others: Elis and Rune, Bryon of the Ulyon Isles, the Ranger Prince of Anfalen. But you’ve said nothing about the prince of Inithana.”
Philippa frowns. “There is no Prince Valtar among the champions.”
“Really?”
She shakes her head. “No, Princess. There are only six champions. It is a holy number, sacred to the gods. No seventh champion would be permitted to join. And Inithana is not one of the Unified Kingdoms of Belanor. Why should they send a champion in the first place?”
I open my mouth to protest, to repeat everything my kissing partner of earlier in the day had related to me.
Something tells me, however, that it would be wise not to bring up anything that man had to say in Philippa’s presence…
not unless I’m willing to endure yet another round of scolding.
“Are you quite sure?” I ask instead. “Maybe he arrived in secret.”
“Impossible,” she replies, her tone final. “The wards protecting this palace are powerful. No one comes or goes without the High King’s knowledge or consent.”
She turns me to the mirror once more. I frown at my own face in the glass. Perhaps the guardsman was simply mistaken. He had spoken with such confidence, but how much could he possibly know about the matter?