Chapter 12 #3
The platter lids are lifted, revealing an array of tempting dishes.
Until coming to Stromin Palace, I’d not realized such a breadth of culinary options existed.
It’s been mostly cottage bread, goat’s milk, and pottage for me, year after year, and no complaints so long as my belly was filled.
Now, my eyes bulge at the sight of slow-roasted quail, herbed vegetables in all colors of the rainbow, soft breads that melt on the tongue, and, above all, salt.
Perfect little crystals of salt added to everything. Truly the wealth of kings!
Having served our meal, the man in white vanishes once more, leaving the two of us in the dim phosphorescent glow.
Valtar makes no move to touch his plate.
But of course, he must be waiting for me to begin, as I am the de facto hostess of the hour.
Assuming my most dignified demeanor, I stab a bite of carrot.
“Pray tell, good prince, how didst thou successfully procure the assistance of thine fellow princes in accomplishing yon final feat of…of princeliness?”
“Didst?” he echoes.
“You know what I mean.” I pop the carrot into my mouth.
He draws a slow breath, contemplating his untouched meal.
I find my gaze inexplicably drawn to the puckered scar slashed across his eyebrow.
When did he get that? Was it as a child?
It looks old. Who knows how many battles he’s fought, how many life-and-death situations he’s survived under the shadow of Mhoryga?
“What’s the matter?” I ask, swallowing my mouthful. “Gremler got your tongue?”
His black eyes flick to meet mine. “I…find it difficult to describe the final scenario without sounding like a braggart.”
“Oh?” I snort. “Were you simply so magnificent as all that?”
“Almost.” His lips quirk again, and this time I swear I glimpse a flash of dimple.
I put down my fork, cup my chin in my hands, and tilt my head, eyelashes batting exaggeratedly. “Do tell, brave prince! And don’t skimp on the details. I want to know exactly how magnificent you were.”
Is it a trick of the phosphorescence, or is that a flush of color tingeing his pale cheeks? I’m not sure a face like his is capable of blushing. Something inside me tingles deliciously at the notion that I could stimulate such a reaction in him.
“The final challenge,” he says at last, “required teamwork. The pit itself was not as deep as it first appeared, but to cross to the far side, we were obliged to climb down and walk through that darkness without becoming lost in the labyrinth below. The only way to succeed was to join hands, and for one man to serve as an anchor to the others. Once linked, the farthest man, the one to reach the other side, became the new anchor, drawing the others to him across the pitch black. All done blind, of course, dependent on one another.”
“So, you were the first across, then?”
“No.” Valtar shakes his head. “I was the first anchor. Which put me in the most dangerous position as the last to cross. If the other champions had chosen to break the chain and leave me in the dark, I should have been lost.”
I shudder. How many times over the past week have I forced myself not to think of the endless winding passages through dark caverns which might so easily claim me if I ever tried to escape the palace? It’s a truly dreadful thought.
“That’s why you saved Warrick,” I muse softly. “You knew he would not leave you behind.”
“He had the look of a man of honor.”
“And we’ve already established you are a swift judge of character.”
“I am.”
I sit back in my chair, toying with the silk scarf Philippa gave me. “And the king declared you the winner because…?”
“Because it was I who convinced the others to work together—though, if I’m being fair, it would never have happened were it not for Warrick. There were some in the party who would not trust my word. Without the prince of Anfalen, we might have come to blows and slain each other on the spot.”
“But here you are, alive and well. And the winner of the first trial!” I tap my fork gently against the edge of my plate in dainty applause. “Well done. I hope you spent your day appropriately basking in glory.”
“It was really nothing.”
“Is that so? Just because you like to accomplish three glorious deeds before breakfast as a matter of course doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t be duly impressed.”
Another hint of color stains the edges of his cheekbones.
He looks away, fixing his attention on the waterfall.
Would now be a good time to give him the scarf?
Or would it be best not to offer him my colors?
I wouldn’t want him to get the idea that I actually favor him, that I desire for him to continue throwing himself boldly into each new challenge.
Perhaps it would be best if I simply didn’t mention the scarf at all.
“I…” I swallow, my throat suddenly tight. “I didn’t get a chance to express my gratitude before.”
He looks at me quizzically.
“You know. For saving my life?”
“Ah.” He drops his gaze to his plate and finally takes a bite.
“I’m not certain what the protocol is under the circumstances,” I continue, moving pieces of vegetable around with my fork. “Thanks seems rather feeble considering, but…well…thank you.”
He chews. Swallows. Sits a moment, still staring at his plate. Then, lifting his dark gaze to mine once more, he says, “It was an honor to be of service.”
There’s something so…I’m not sure. Something compelling in his tone.
Like there’s more being communicated than mere words can say.
I feel suddenly adrift in a sea of significance, the likes of which I cannot fathom.
Perhaps if I knew him better, if I knew something more of his history, I might be able to understand.
As it is, I’m lost. All I know for certain is that he means it. Means it more than he can express.
“It’s a good thing you had that knife on you,” I say, more to break the pressure of silence than anything. “Was it confiscated after the fact?”
Much to my surprise, he flicks his wrist, allowing a flash of steel to appear momentarily in his hand before vanishing once more.
I glance around nervously, aware of all the watching eyes upon us.
Valtar seems unconcerned. Leaning forward, I whisper, “How did you manage it? I thought for sure they’d strip-search you after… well, you know.”
“It would take a great deal to separate me from my knives.”
Knives. The plural is subtle, but enough to make me shiver.
I sit back again, appetite once more gone, and twist the scarf in my lap.
“I wish I had one,” I say after a thoughtful moment.
“Though I wouldn’t know what to do with it if I did.
Still, I…I wish I’d had some means of…of dealing with matters on my own. ”
“You have your fire.”
My lips twist derisively. “Do I though?”
“You are of dragon blood, are you not?”
“That’s what everyone keeps telling me. So far, I’ve not been able to light so much as a matchstick on my own.
” Part of me wants to admit out loud my own fear of flame, but somehow that strikes me as too vulnerable for this moment.
Instead I simply add, “Even if I could summon hellfire on command, I’m not sure I could use it in… in that way.”
Valtar is silent for a long moment. Then: “Prince Joro was actively trying to murder you. He deserved death.”
“Perhaps.” I sigh, looking at him across the table. “But I’m not sure I deserve to be a killer.”
“No.” His jaw goes hard, and his dark eyes narrow slightly. “Sometimes it’s easier to let that burden fall on another’s shoulders.”
Shame floods my heart. I open my mouth, either to protest or to apologize, I’m not sure which, but he holds up a hand, speaking over me.
“No, no, forgive me, Princess. You are right. The killer instinct comes naturally to some and not to others. Fortunately for me, I’ve never had difficulty taking a life.
” He leans forward then, dropping his voice by an octave.
“It is a skill that can be learned, however. When one wants to badly enough.”
My mouth goes dry. I’ve never wanted to kill.
Not even when…I close my eyes, seeing again the image of green flames, of hooded and bare-chested dracori marching down the village street.
I hear my mother’s screams echoing after me as I flee the burning into the dark shadows of the forest. Not even then had I wanted to kill. Nor afterward for vengeance.
But the sensation of Joro’s fingers wrapped around my throat lingers. My own fingers move to touch the spot, half-convinced I will still find his hands gripping me fast. Perhaps I could learn to crave violence. Perhaps I could even learn to deal it when necessary. Perhaps…
“Though of course,” Valtar’s voice interrupts my train of thought, pulling my attention back to him, “there is no reason why you should need to learn such an unsavory skill. After all, is that not the very purpose of this tournament? To find a champion to fight for you?”
Whatever appetite I had is gone. I stare down at the uneaten food on my plate.
Should I tell him the truth? Should I confess the purpose in my heart, which I have kept very close, very quiet all this time?
Should I admit that I have no intention of remaining here long enough for the tournament to complete, for the champion to be chosen?
Escape—the word burns like a star in the dark of my mind. I must escape. Before more men die, before my false identity is finally recognized. Before I’m forced, one step after another, to march myself into flame and burn alive.
I must escape. I will.
But I dare not tell this man. I dare not tell any of them.
I’m on my own here in this world of shadows and stone.
No one to trust or turn to. Which is better, perhaps.
How long did I let myself believe Iliyani was my friend, only to be disappointed in the end?
Better to know one is alone than to trust false allies.
Unable to bear the weight of Valtar’s eyes, I push back my chair and stand.
He rises at once, ever the gentleman, and his gaze moves to the silk scarf knotted in my hand.
Hastily I hide it behind my back. “Well,” I say, brightly, “this has been a charming interlude. I do appreciate you entertaining me with tales of your triumphs. I will look forward to witnessing future heroic feats.”
“Princess.” Valtar’s face is serious, the lines of his brow and jaw hard. “If I have offended in any way—”
“No, no.” I step away from the table with a rustle of heavy skirts.
“I’m merely tired, that is all. It’s been a most lovely evening or…
whatever this is.” I step toward the doorway, but he moves too fast and stretches out one hand.
He stops just shy of gripping my arm. I freeze, as does he, his fingers mere inches from my skin.
He suddenly seems much too near, and my guards much too far away.
“Princess,” he says.
My eyes flash. “Don’t call me that,” I whisper fiercely.
He studies my face closely, leaning in to discern more clearly in the phosphorescent gloom. “What should I call you then?”
“I don’t care. Just…not that.” Unable to hold his gaze, I let my eyes drop to his mouth instead. His full lips are slightly parted. And far closer to mine than they have any right to be. “I’m not a princess. I’m not who they think I am.”
His expression darkens. “You are.”
I shake my head. “I’m not. And now men are dead. Because of me. Because of some belief about me that couldn’t possibly be true.”
“You are Princess Roselle Pandracor.” The words are hard with conviction.
“And how would you know?” I snap, drawing back a pace. “How would any of them know? I’ve been Rosie Harpwood all my life, and that’s the only version of me I know. So far, they’ve not produced one shred of evidence that I have any connection to this fabled Dragon Princess of theirs.”
I feel his gaze, hot as summoned hellfire, studying me. For a long moment, he simply stands there, saying nothing, and I wonder if I can find the courage to push past him and flee into the passage. Then: “Your eyes.”
“What?” I blink. “Oh, you mean because I can see in the dark? That’s hardly evidence. Those with elf or dwarf blood can see just as well as I. Any number of Utherfolk boast night-sight, all of them much more likely to breed with humans than a dragon. So what?”
But Valtar shakes his head, as though this isn’t what he meant at all.
Before he can say anything more, I glimpse movement in the passage.
Finally my guards seem to have noticed that all is not well between me and my champion.
They don’t barge onto the balcony, but they make their presence known.
My confidence rises at their proximity, and I lift my chin defiantly.
“You would be wise not to waste your efforts on the upcoming trials, Prince. It’s not worth it. I’m not worth it.”
With those words, I make as though to step around him and escape. But his voice rumbles close to my ear, “How do you know?”
“I told you, I’m not the—”
“How do you know what you are worth?”
I open my mouth but stop. No words will come. Not now. Not caught in the focus of that black-eyed stare.
Valtar moves nearer, so near I could very easily close the space between us, lunge up on my toes, and plant my mouth on his. If I wanted to. Which I absolutely do not.
And yet, why does my gaze, entirely against my will, keep drifting back to his lips?
“You do not get to dictate your worth in my eyes,” he says. His voice is low like a threat, yet somehow warms me straight to my core with sparks of tingling electricity. “If I deem the risk worth the reward, that is my business, not yours.”
I grimace. “There is no reward. Don’t you understand? You’ve all been summoned here under false pretenses, and—”
I break off as, in that very instant, a high-pitched screaming fills the air, followed by a deluge of dust and debris straight into my eyes.