Chapter 20
Rosie
Philippa is strangely silent as she tends to my wounded hand.
She does not question how I came to be burned, does not ask what took place between the king and me in our solitary interview.
She merely takes a look at my blistering palm and sets to work at once, gathering supplies, arranging them on her little table, then beckoning me to approach.
She smooths open my pain-curled fingers and huffs a short breath of surprise.
Then, glancing up swiftly at me, she says only, “There, there. We’ll soon set this to rights. ”
The leaves of the ylyndar plant, when sliced open, secrete a milky substance which is commonly used in the treatment of burns.
Though I rather doubt its overall effectiveness on hellfire damage, and wish very much for Mistress Iliyani’s healing touch, it is nonetheless a relief when Philippa smears the spicy-smelling ointment across my palm and fingers.
I try not to look, try not to remember that moment when I touched the green flame.
What did I think would happen? I am perfectly aware that I am not flame resistant, despite Alderin’s confidence, despite his elaborate stories.
And yet, somehow, while listening to him…
with the heady warmth of wine spinning in my head… I had almost begun to believe…
Foolish. Stupid. And this is what I have to show for it.
Philippa wraps a long strip of gauze around my palm, her fingers deft and efficient if trembling slightly.
Looking at the stern set of her brow, I wonder suddenly how much about the events of this evening she was aware of beforehand.
She may be my waiting lady, but she is Alderin’s servant first and foremost. Did he take her into his confidence?
Did he tell her of the impending votyr attack?
Would she have warned me if he had? Somehow, I cannot quite work up the courage to ask.
Having finished her ministrations, Philippa turns to fetch a fresh nightgown from the wardrobe.
Partway across the room, however, she pauses.
“Oh,” she says, and bites her lip. Then, slipping her hand into the front of her bodice, she withdraws a small, folded parchment.
“This came for you while you were with the king, Princess.”
“Did it?” Despite everything, I manage to rally a degree of curiosity. “Who from?”
“I don’t know. It…appeared. On your bed.”
Frowning, I take the offered missive, turning to the scintil light as I unfold it and scan the neatly structured handwriting.
Meet me at the pulley lift by the overlook.
Bring the gremler.
It isn’t signed. But it doesn’t need to be.
It can only be from Valtar, for who else would think to mention the gremler?
My heart thuds in my throat, and my stomach, which has been knotted with pain and fear and grief, suddenly unspools and reknots in an entirely different sensation.
Does he mean for me to meet him tonight?
Now? There is no other information, no set time.
But how am I supposed to venture out on my own without a trail of guards on my heels?
I’m not altogether certain they will even let me leave my room.
“Which one is it?”
I look up to meet Philippa’s gaze. “What?”
“Which champion?” she persists. “Is it Lord Elis?”
I swallow and fold the paper. “It isn’t signed,” I answer primly. “What makes you think it’s from one of the champions anyway?”
At this, Philippa laughs. It’s such an unexpected sound coming from her.
She’s so poised, so serious, so composed at all times, I wasn’t entirely convinced until this moment that she was capable of something so spontaneous as laughter.
“Who else would be sending you notes in the middle of the night?”
A flush heats my cheeks. I look down at the little piece of paper. It feels warm to the touch somehow, like the words themselves are written in lines of fire. “He…wants me to meet him.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Philippa studies me closely by the scintil light, reading possibly more in my face than I care to reveal. I make a valiant attempt to mimic her own serene countenance but doubt it’s enough to fool her. At last, however, she says only “You must be careful.”
I blink, surprised. “You…will let me go?”
She shrugs. “Well, I don’t think a lovers’ tryst can hurt anything. You are supposed to marry one of them by the end of all this, aren’t you?”
“But aren’t the gods meant to determine which one?” I counter, choosing not to debate the nature of this impending meeting.
“Who’s to say they won’t pay attention to your preferences?”
“What if I have no preferences?”
Philippa sniffs delicately and indicates the note with a jut of her chin. “If that were the case, why did reading those lines bring such color to your cheeks?”
Another rush of telltale blushes floods my face. I turn away from the scintil light, too late I suspect. “Has anyone ever told you that you are an impertinent busybody?”
“Yes, but so long as I am your impertinent busybody, what’s the harm?”
I shouldn’t trust her. I know where her true loyalties lie. And yet…“There’s a whole slew of guards just outside the door,” I point out tentatively.
Philippa considers this for a moment. Then: “Is it true what they say? That you can see in the dark?”
“Very nearly.”
“So, if I were to venture out on some errand,” she continues, “and if, while on said errand, I were to accidentally knock over the nearest scintil…and if that were to cause a chain reaction among all the scintils up and down this passage…and if the guardsmen and I were temporarily distracted trying to fetch them and get them lit once more, leaving your door unwatched…”
My lips part in a short huff of surprised laughter. I shake my head. “My dear Philippa, I never realized just how devious you are.”
“There are many things you don’t know about me, Princess.”
It’s a simple matter to avoid the palace guard once I escape the passages close to my own chambers.
The farther out I go from that central point, the less security is posted for the long, quiet stretch of the night watch.
I’m still not entirely convinced Philippa’s plan worked as well as it seemed to—part of me suspects I’m being followed even now.
But if so, no one makes his presence known, and the echoing passages of Stromin Palace feel empty and vast as I make my way on silent feet through the shadows, avoiding scintils where I can, dousing them when I must.
Every now and then the gremler in its globe squeaks.
Its tiny voice seems to echo in the huge dark, but in reality it’s quite a small sound.
I’m jumpy, however, and nearly drop the globe each time.
“Hush, please!” I whisper. My heart thuds in my ears, and I cannot decide if it’s due to fear of meeting another bat demon in the winding passages or the prospect of once more being in Valtar’s presence. Alone.
Why did he ask to meet me? There must be some purpose behind it; Valtar does not strike me as the kind of man to act on impulse.
He must have known it would be risky for me to attempt slipping away from my guards.
Is it possible…I bite my lip, reluctant to let myself hope. But is it possible he found a way out?
The thought no sooner pushes its way to the forefront of my mind than I discover I’ve arrived at the pulley lifts.
So, my mental map of the palace was accurate after all.
Pleased at my own success, I search the shadows for some sign of Valtar.
He isn’t here. I frown. Is he late? Or was it never Valtar to begin with, and this is all some diabolical trap?
I’m just turning to retrace my steps and hasten back to the safety of my chamber, when my eye is caught by a glimmer of eerie heatless light.
Phosphorescence—the word appears in my head.
A few small strips of lichen, gleaming faintly, lie on the floor close to the wall.
Carefully arranged in an arrow, they point to the nearest lift.
The message is clear enough: I’m to enter the lift, go where it takes me.
And will Valtar be waiting for me there?
I set my jaw. No point in dithering, waiting for someone to find me and drag me back where I came from. I’ve made it this far; best to see this little adventure through to the end.
Adjusting my grip on the gremler’s globe, I step into the lift and pull the lever, which the guard had pointed out to me yesterday.
The door slides shut. I bite back a scream as gears clank and clunk, and the floor underneath me begins to rise, leaving my stomach somewhere below.
It seems faster than it was yesterday, and the journey lasts far longer.
Am I not returning to the waterfall overlook then?
Perhaps I was too quick to trust that message, too eager to escape the confines of my chamber and my ever-present guard.
The journey lasts so long, I have ample time to regret every decision I’ve ever made that led me to this point.
Tired of standing, I sit in the middle of the small, boxlike space, the gremler’s globe cradled in my lap.
My burnt hand troubles me, and with nothing to distract from the pain, I find it nearly intolerable.
Tears threaten, and I try to pray—but it’s been so long since those years of my early childhood when Mother sent me to chapel regularly to learn my prayers.
Mistress Iliyani did not think much of human modes of worship and practiced her own form of devotion to the gods.
A practice which she did not see fit to teach me.
I was left to muddle through on my own, attending services now and then, dredging up the occasional memory of Durona’s stern piety.
Here in this dark, tiny box, whirring and clanking on a rapid ascent to some unknown destination, I can’t help feeling that a little godliness would go a long way.