Chapter 8 #2
Valtar moves faster than the rest of them. He catches my arm, slips his other hand around my waist, and draws me to his side. I recoil from him, my heart jolting with fear.
“Norlan!” Alderin barks, stepping forward to take me from Valtar’s grasp.
My bodyguards close in, led by the mustached captain.
“Take the princess back to her chambers,” the king says.
“We must clean up this mess and begin preparations for tomorrow’s trial.
Selecting a worthy champion is all the more imperative now.
But at least,” he adds, with a glance Valtar’s way, “we may safely say the gods have sent us a sign. Six champions will compete in the tournament, even as holy writ dictates. And perhaps, Prince Valtar, you will find your place within divine will after all.”
I do not see or hear whatever response Valtar makes. I’m hustled from the hall, so densely surrounded by guards, I catch only glimpses of the pale, shaken courtiers, who part ways to let us pass. Their faces are hollow, solemn, and yet their eyes fix on me with such hope, it almost hurts.
I cast only one backward glance, just as we reach the far door of the chamber.
My gaze is caught by Valtar’s. He watches me being led away, his black eyes full of dreadful intensity.
I feel suddenly as though every speck of red blood splashed across my skin burns, and I think to myself: Is he a champion? Or a monster?
Then I am hastened out into the passage beyond.
“Here, Princess. Drink this.”
I look askance at the cup Philippa holds out to me. Years as an apothecary’s assistant have taught me to be wary of other people’s tinctures. “What is it?” I ask, my voice still raw from both strangulation and tears.
“Dried holabella leaves mixed in goat’s milk,” she replies with her usual briskness. “It will help you sleep.”
I sniff suspiciously; the heady notes of holabella are hard to miss. My lip curls at the prospect of that bitter brew, but it is an effective remedy for sleeplessness. And something tells me I’ll need all the help I can get tonight. I take a sip, wincing at the taste.
“It is to be expected, you realize,” Philippa says, gathering up the torn ball gown where I left it in a pile on the floor.
She inspects a rip in the skirt rather sadly before her dark eyes flick to mine.
“Even with all the security measures in place, there’s no way to fully protect against those determined to infiltrate Stromin Palace.
We all have done and will continue to do our best, but…
” Her voice trails away. She looks ashamed.
As though she were somehow directly responsible for the Rassumen pirates’ attack.
“I simply don’t understand,” I say after forcing down another swallow, “how one of the champions could possibly be an assassin.”
Philippa moves her shoulders, a helpless gesture.
“There was some resistance among the kings and queens of Belanor against allowing the pirate nation to participate in the tournament. Some have speculated that Mad Melarue may have secretly sworn allegiance to Mhoryga to protect her interests. Or Prince Joro may have had his own agenda all along.”
I shudder at mention of the prince’s name. His eyes, illuminated by that swinging scintil, will haunt me forever, no matter how much soporific goat’s milk I drink. “But what about the truthseer?” I persist. “How could he have let someone like that through the gates?”
With a sigh, Philippa takes a seat by a large scintil lamp.
She has already washed away the blood spatters, combed out my tangled hair, dressed me for bed, and tucked me in like a child.
Now she takes up her watch, as devoted a nursemaid as anyone could ask for.
“The truthseer does not see all truth, you know,” she says patiently.
“And the king must make his own best judgments based on the information he’s given.
Depending on how desperate he is to appease Mad Melarue and continue to court her help in warding off the dracori warships, he might be willing to take a risk he would prefer to avoid.
” She takes out her sewing box, selecting needle and thread.
“We do not fully understand the burdens of kingship. We must simply trust and obey.”
I look down into my cup, at the little floating flecks of holabella swirling in white foam.
It’s all so great and complicated and terrible.
I can still feel the shape of Joro’s fingers closed around my throat, the hot gush of his blood on my skin.
Worse still, I recall the sensation of heat inside me.
Down in my core, building, growing. So much hotter than I would have believed possible.
And what was it, exactly? The first sign of this supposed dragon nature they keep telling me I bear?
Surely not. Surely it was nothing more than adrenaline coursing through my veins.
But it had felt so wrong, so evil, so…inevitable.
I squeeze my eyes shut and gulp down the rest of the sleeping brew. Setting the cup on the small table beside the bed, I pull my blankets up to my chin, like they’re a shield against the whole mad world.
“You must be brave, Princess,” Philippa says, draping the beautiful rose gown over her lap as she feels for the torn seam. “You will have many terrors to face before everything is done.”
Everything. The word weighs in my head: everything.
That journey across the sea into the wilds of Khylmira…
the Dracor Flame…the final confrontation with Mhoryga…
Until tonight, it had all seemed like part of a wild story, some troubadour show played for my entertainment.
I hadn’t expected danger to beset me before the trials have even begun!
Before my champion is chosen and I’m married off to one of those six strangers.
I thought I was safe for a little while at least. Safe enough to plot my escape and get away from all this before anything too dire could happen.
My eyes grow heavy. Philippa’s voice sounds a little blurry and faraway when she asks, “Shall I sit awhile longer, Princess?” I nod and let my head drop to my pillow.
While Philippa may be only one more of my many prison keepers, she is nonetheless a comforting presence.
It’s good to know I’m not alone. A buzzy, heavy sensation fills my body as the holabella takes effect, blotting out memory of strangling fingers, spurting blood, and green flames. I sink deeper into my pillow and…
Suddenly, my eyes flare open. The world around me has changed, the scintils all shuttered, leaving the bedchamber in deep, nearly relentless shadow.
I look at once to the chair where, but moments ago it had seemed, Philippa sat.
It is empty. I can see the mound of my mended ball gown draped across the back of the chair, but Philippa herself must have retired at last for the night.
How long was I asleep? And why did I wake?
The blankets feel heavy, as though weighed down by mountain stone. With a struggle, I pull one hand free and rub both bleary eyes with the heel of my palm. Then I look again into the darkened chamber.
A figure stands beside my bed.
My heart jolts. A rush of fear floods my veins, not quite strong enough to break the numbing effects of holabella on my system.
Though every instinct tells me to throw back these blankets, to scramble from the bed, to put whatever distance I can between me and that dark form, I can do nothing but lie where I am.
Staring up into that featureless shadow.
Finally, my dry lips manage to form a soft breath of sound. “Who are you?”
The figure does not move. Does not speak. It stands before me with absolute stillness, so that I must wonder if I’m imagining it. Is this the demon which hovers on the edge of all human consciousness, only perceived when caught between sleep and dreams?
“I’ll scream,” I say, though the tightness of my throat betrays the lie. “They’ll come for me. You won’t make it out of here alive.”
Is it my imagination, or does the shadow tip its head slightly to one side? My heart jolts again. I’m as helpless as I was when Joro had me pinned to the floor. And this time, there is no strange fire erupting in my gut.
“What are you waiting for?” I demand after what feels like an interminable silence. “Do what you’re going to do, damn you!”
Another long silence full of nothing but the hideous awareness of presence.
Then the figure takes a step, drawing nearer to the head of the bed where I lie.
A swath of shadow separates from the rest, like a limb.
At the end of that limb, a delicate object shines in the dull glow of the fireplace embers.
A rose. Crushed, missing a number of its petals. Gold.
I stare at that blossom, the same one the High King gave me to offer to the champion of my choice.
I’d lost it somewhere in the mayhem and not thought of it since.
I stare at it now, like it’s the key to some great revelation, and it seems to shine with inner light of its own.
Though my arms are leaden and my heart feels as though it’s being slowly crushed in my chest, I manage to extend my hand, to take hold of the stem.
For an instant, shadow fingers brush mine. And they are warm, alive. Real.
I gasp, blinking hard as I withdraw, pulling the rose to my heart. There’s a brush of air, a whirl of motion, silent and swift. Chest rising and falling with quick breaths, I look to that space where, moments before, the shadow had stood. But it is empty.
I lie for some while in the dark, staring at nothing. Holding the rose to my breast.