Chapter 22
Rosie
When Joro was killed, he was actively attempting to kill me in turn.
When Bryon died, it was distant. Part of a challenge he entered into with full knowledge of its dangers and potential consequences.
Both were horrible, but I could separate myself from them to a degree.
Rune, however…
He died while trying to defend me. He gave his life in exchange for mine. And in the aftermath, I’m supposed to cheerfully venture out with Lord Elis to celebrate his victory?
I stare moodily at my own reflection as Philippa prepares me for my interlude with the winning champion.
I didn’t get much sleep last night, between my rendezvous with Valtar and the tricky business of returning to my rooms unseen.
In the end, I didn’t manage it at all, but was apprehended by Captain Norlan himself and forced to offer excuses and explanations I wasn’t at all prepared to give.
I babbled some nonsense about sleepwalking before Philippa arrived and made herself imperious, threatening to report the captain for his negligence if either he or his men made trouble for me.
In the end, I was allowed to return to my chambers to catch a mere three hours of sleep before Philippa roused me again.
Now I must not only face the coming appointment with Elis but also concoct some plan for meeting Valtar tonight as agreed upon. Norlan and his men will be particularly keen not to let me out of their sight, but I’m not giving up on my chance to breathe fresh air again.
There’s also the small matter of my escape. In light of Rune’s death, I cannot continue putting it off, cannot continue to endanger these men. But I am still no closer to coming up with even the most harebrained of schemes. Alderin has created a perfect prison for me here under the mountain.
I drop my gaze to my hand, contemplating the ugly blisters.
Philippa changed the dressings first thing this morning, and the pain has subsided to little more than a dull ache.
I close my fingers, forming a fist. A chill twists the pit of my stomach.
He will try again. Of course he will. Alderin means to make me into the dragon and savior he needs, and he will stop at nothing until his end is accomplished.
He will sacrifice me and any number of champions in his quest to bring about Mhoryga’s demise.
It’s up to me to put a stop to it. Up to me to remove myself from the equation, sparing the lives of these determined fools. But how?
I chew my lower lip. In my mind’s eye, I see again the little gremler kit, scurrying away into the shadows, vanishing over the edge of the stone platform. It probably didn’t even survive the night out there on the open mountaintop.
“You seem low in spirits this morning, Princess.” Philippa’s nimble fingers tug the hair above my temples just sharply enough to drag my attention back to her. “Was your meeting last night not satisfactory?”
“Hmmm?” I blink, looking up to meet her gaze in the glass. “Oh, no, it was…it was fine.” I shrug. “I’m just tired, that is all.”
She narrows her eyes slightly but does not press me. Instead, she asks, “And how are you feeling about meeting with Lord Elis? I understand he gave a good account of himself at the trial last night.”
“He did, yes,” I answer rather dully. “Elis is…very charming.”
“Is he?” Leaving me in my seat, Philippa steps to the wardrobe and returns a moment later with another rose-hued scarf. She presses it into my hands. “And will you give him your colors?”
“I’m not sure.” I twist the scarf in my fingers, watching the play of scintil light on its shimmering folds. “Probably.”
Philippa makes a soft, ladylike but distinct noise that can only be described as tut.
“What?” I demand.
“Nothing,” she replies. “It’s just interesting. That is all.”
I make a valiant effort not to rise to the bait. But after ten breaths, I cannot help myself. “What is interesting, Philippa?”
“Only that I was wondering who you met last night,” Philippa says, coiling a lock of gold hair around her fingers before pinning it in place on my scalp.
“I rather suspect now that it wasn’t Lord Elis, for the prospect of seeing him does not bring the color to your cheeks I saw when you received that note.
This narrows the field down rather significantly.
” She tips her head, pretending to be focused on her work, though I suspect she’s watching my reflection from the tail of her eye.
“I don’t think it can be Taigan, considering—”
“He’s a horse’s arse?”
“—considering you have never shown him any preference that I have discerned, despite his many desirable attributes. Which means either Prince Valtar left a greater impression on you during your last one-on-one encounter than I supposed, or Prince Warrick is maneuvering to curry favor outside of regularly scheduled interactions.” She looks at me then directly, her gaze rather too incisive.
“Warrick is the handsomer of the two. A brave warrior and a leader of men with a sterling reputation throughout all Belanor.”
I frown. “Is he though?”
“Is he what?”
“The handsomer of the two?”
“I should have thought that was obvious.” Philippa blinks, momentarily nonplussed. She quickly recovers her usual poise, however, and asks smoothly, “You think Prince Valtar is handsomer then?”
I don’t answer. In all honesty, I’m not sure. Prince Warrick probably is better looking if taken feature by feature, and, like all the champions, he is large and strong, radiating intense masculine energy.
But there’s something so raw about Valtar.
An almost primal force that is simultaneously frightening and alluring.
One could easily imagine being caught up in the embrace of such a man, swept away in a maelstrom of power far beyond any mere mortal means to control.
He is like the very soul of fire itself, hot and unpredictable and consuming.
My mouth is suddenly dry, and the memory of his lips on mine is rather too present.
I can almost feel the pressure of his hand sliding from my waist to the small of my back, pressing me into him.
I recall the way his mouth moved, as though sparked to sudden life, and the heat which had poured through my senses in response.
At the time, I’d been more surprised than anything, taken aback by my own boldness, not to mention his unexpected response to it.
In retrospect I find my heart fluttering with an altogether different sensation—something akin to, but not quite, terror. Delicious, delightful, delectable terror.
“Interesting.”
I flash a glance Philippa’s way then scowl at her. “Now don’t go speculating,” I say, pointing a finger at her nose. “Wasn’t it you who told me speculation is the playground of an idle mind or some such rot?”
She merely smiles. By the grace of one god or another, I’m spared further prodding by the arrival of my escort, come to take me to the assigned meeting place with Lord Elis.
I flounce from the room, holding my chin high and channeling all the hauteur I can muster…
but suspect Philippa isn’t fooled in the least.
My escort takes me to a wing of the palace I have not yet seen.
At the end of a passage, we come to a doorway, and the guards hang back, indicating that I am to go on alone.
Expecting to enter some chamber—hopefully a breakfast room, if the gods are kind—I push the door open and step through.
But there is no welcoming breakfast to greet my startled eye.
Instead I find myself unexpectedly in a sunlit garden.
It’s so bright, so green and full of color and light, it stops me in my tracks.
I’m obliged to stand where I am and gape for a full minute, maybe two, before my brain finally comprehends what it is I am truly seeing.
The light is more of that prism-directed glow such as I’d seen in the cavern at the first trial.
It gleams off an exquisite array of flowers: delphinium and hyacinth, foxglove and liaxina, and bounteous displays of roses…
all sculpted and crafted out of gold and silver and exquisite gemstones of the purest, richest hues, so vibrant they look more alive than living blossoms. The effect is stunning; my eyes struggle to accept that I am not actually strolling through a lush and sunlit garden of the upper world but am instead still buried in the bowels of the earth, far from any living greenery.
“According to legend,” a voice says, speaking suddenly from my right, “this place was built in honor of the human queen of this realm by her adoring dwarf husband.”
I turn, startled, to find Lord Elis coming toward me along a narrow garden path.
He smiles and offers a graceful bow. “I can give you some exact dates and specifics on the construction of this space, if you like. I may or may not have researched in advance, in hopes of impressing you. Say the word, and I’ll dredge up the driest of bone-dry facts, as fed to me by the illustrious Master Gormon, whom I swayed to my favor over an expensive bottle of Khylmirian wine just last night. ”
“Indeed?” I say, tilting my head. “Then pray tell, my lord, what year was this garden constructed?”
“The eighth year of Saint Darfyn, in the thirteenth cycle, begun under the Moon of Huetha.”
“Is that true?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Did you not pay any attention to what Master Gormon had to share?”
“Certainly not.” He flashes a grin, bright enough to rival the light reflected off the nearest cluster of amethyst violets.
“In all honesty, his speech was a bit slurred by the end of it there, and my brain might not have been at its sharpest. Khylmirian wine is excellent for the loosening of tongues, but it loosens the faculties as well. Rest assured,” he adds, pulling his features into more serious lines, “under other, less inebriated circumstances, my mind is like a steel trap.”
“Nothing in or out?” I suggest.