Chapter 27
Rosie
If I had prayed for Elis instead of Valtar, would the gods have spared him instead?
The thought plagues me throughout the silent journey back to my rooms. I’m scarcely aware of anything or anyone else. All the relief which had flooded my being when I looked into Valtar’s face and knew he had survived has long since vanished, leaving me numb and cold.
I prayed so earnestly for Valtar to live. Did the gods hear me? That’s what everyone has been telling me all this time. That my preference may be enough to sway divine will. I didn’t much credit the notion, but now…now…
Oh gods. Oh gods, oh gods, Elis is dead.
Down there in the dark, in the heat, in the horror.
That bright spirit, that bereft son and brother, that determined hero with the heart of a young lion.
He’s dead because of me. Because I failed to plead for him in my fear for another.
Because I failed to escape this wretched mountain and put an end to these trials. It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.
I see their faces before my mind’s eye. Elis with his quick smile and roguish wink.
Rune with his focused intensity, that simmering energy which emanated from his being.
Bryon with his brawn, his courage in the face of challenges utterly unsuited to his strengths.
Even Joro. Joro with his determination to do what was right in his own eyes, to bring about the end of yet another dragon enemy. Me.
They were all, in their own ways, heroes. Men with goals and ambitions, hopes and dreams. Men who were loved by their own people, who each bore the unique potential to become more than what they were. A potential which is now lost forever.
I blink once, twice. I find I’m standing in my own room again, though I have no memory of how I came to be here.
Philippa bustles around me, silent and busy, removing my outer garments, unpinning my hair.
I feel like a doll, spiritless, without even enough self-determination to crumple to my knees and weep.
Dolls don’t do such things. Dolls stand where they are put, limbs arranged as ordained by their masters.
Dressed and undressed and propped on display.
Lifeless things, without use or purpose in this world.
But then Philippa begins laying out a gown: a frothy thing, all lace and beading, draped across the foot of my bed.
And she places a rose-hued scarf beside it.
The sight of that scarf sends a shock through my spirit.
I shake myself, dragging my gaze from that little bit of silk to my lady-in-waiting.
“Philippa.” My voice is so hollow, I hardly recognize it. “Philippa, what are you doing?”
Despite her own relief, Philippa’s complexion is very pale, and grief simmers in her dark eyes.
Lord Elis, after all, hailed from her own homeland of Albhia.
She may have known him before coming to Stromin Palace; they moved in similar circles, after all.
They may have been friends. Gods, he may even have competed in her own championship for all I know.
“You are to be prepared to meet with the winner of today’s trial,” she says, her voice cool and composed as always.
My teeth set on edge. “No.”
“Princess—”
I shake my head, fists clenching. I want to pound something, tear something, wreak havoc and rage.
But I am also strangely frozen, straight down to my core, and can manage no more than a whispered “I won’t do it, Philippa.
I won’t smile and congratulate and fawn.
” I swallow painfully and force out the words. “I won’t be the prize.”
Philippa looks at me, her expression unreadable. “I thought perhaps, as it was Prince Valtar—”
“Get out.”
She blinks, surprised both at the words and at the sudden force with which I speak them. “Princess,” she says gently, “you know I am only here to help you. You know I am—”
“Get out,” I say again, and can almost swear I taste ice on my tongue. “Get out, get out, get out of this room. If I’m to be paraded and presented and prodded along every step of the way, at least grant me a moment’s peace first!”
Philippa looks as though she’s going to protest. She even draws a breath, preparing to speak again, preparing to force me to do as everyone else has determined I must do.
But something in my face must affect her, for she pauses, bites her lip.
Then, without a word, she turns and marches from the room, shutting the door behind her.
I’m alone.
Alone and still trapped. Still a prisoner. But now…
My heart lurches, struggling through the mire of sorrow and guilt which threatens to pull it under.
Now is my one and possibly only chance. I have no idea how long Philippa will give me before she returns to wrap me in that hideous gown and propel me out the door.
It won’t be long; she dares not gainsay the king’s will.
I must escape. Now. Immediately.
Some part of my brain screams that I am utterly unprepared, no proper garments or supplies or weapons.
If I even manage to find an air shaft leading to the surface, to climb it, to emerge out into open air, how do I think I’ll get down the mountain?
How do I think I’ll navigate that wild tangle of forest?
And all the while Alderin and his men will be hunting me.
There’s no real escape to be had. Not now. Not ever, if I’m honest.
But I’ve got to try. For Elis. For Bryon and Rune and gods-blighted Joro. For the remaining three champions. I’ve got to try.
I throw on the simplest gown I can dredge up from the depths of the wardrobe, wishing all the while for trousers and a stout jerkin.
Valtar’s knife I strap to my thigh, and the weight of it there gives me some comfort.
I pull my hair out of the elaborate style Philippa fixed it in and bind it in a simple braid, tight and out of my face.
Any second I expect Philippa to burst back into the room, guards following at her heels.
Anxiety thrums in my veins. Even as a cruel, whispering voice in the back of my head reminds me how hopeless, how foolish this all is, I drag a chair beneath the grate, climb up onto it, and stretch my fingers overhead.
I can just reach it, just slip the grate from its frame and inch it a little to one side.
But now what? How am I supposed to get up there?
Last night, I had Philippa’s assistance, boosting me from below.
Sadly, I haven’t grown a miraculous six extra inches since then.
Cursing through my teeth, I look around the room, seeking some fresh means of elevation.
And it is in this attitude that I am caught when Philippa abruptly reenters the room.
She takes one look at me, and her eyes flare wide.
Hastily, she pulls the door shut behind her, but not before I catch a glimpse of several members of my escort standing in the passage just beyond.
I don’t jump down from the chair. I don’t pretend I wasn’t up to anything.
Neither do I offer excuses or explanations.
I merely stand there on that seat, beneath the partially shifted grate, and fold my arms. “If it is so imperative that I must meet the champion immediately,” I say, my voice still frosty and distant, “he will have to receive me as I am. I will not have you beautifying me any more today, Philippa. I’m done with that. ”
She looks me up and down, taking in the simple blue gown, the sturdy shoes. I’m thankful my knife is hidden beneath my skirts and petticoats, safe from her gaze. She blinks once before lifting her eyes back to mine and breathes out slowly.
Then: “It’s the king.”
My heart performs a painful little flip in my breast. I open my mouth to speak, but no words come.
“He has canceled your meeting with Prince Valtar and requests you attend him in his chambers.”
At once, I grip my left hand with my right, pressing it to my breast. Philippa does not fail to notice the gesture.
Her lips thin, and her brows tighten ever so slightly.
Then she steps forward, holds up a hand to me.
“Come, Princess,” she says, her voice trembling only a little.
“You know this is what must be. We all have our roles to play, remember?”
I stare down at her. At this woman who I had begun to think of as my friend.
What kind of a fool am I, fancying friendship in the face of one of my many prison keepers?
She is Alderin’s creature. Just as we all are.
So she will send me to be burned, and she will treat my wounds when I return, and she will reassure me that this is how it must be, that pain is part of some great, gods-ordained plan for me.
That I must submit, must obey, must hope that the gods may be glorified in my small suffering.
And what will I do? Will I resist and rebel?
Will I fight? No, for I am too much of a coward.
I like to think I am fierce and brave, a woman of strong spine who speaks her mind.
But I am just as enthralled to the will of the king as any of them, no matter how I hate this weak and simpering part of myself.
So I place my fingers in Philippa’s hand and let her help me down from the chair. And when she leads me to the door, opens it, and ushers me out among my guards, I utter no murmur of protest.
“Enter,” Alderin’s voice rumbles in response to my knock at his door.
I stand in the passage outside his chambers and draw a deep, steadying breath. Aware of the eyes of my guardsmen watching me, it’s all I can do to put out my hand, turn the heavy gold latch, and push the door open. Head bowed, eyes downcast, I step into the firelit chamber and drop a curtsy.