Chapter 32
Rosie
My limbs feel as though they’ve been hollowed out with a chisel.
I lie on my back, staring up at the ornate ceiling of my chamber, aching in every part of my body as the holabella slowly fades from my system.
At least the physical ache gives me something to focus on.
Something other than the images of violence even now trying to play out in my head.
Images of flashing swords, of severed heads, of…
I groan and try to roll onto my side. My body won’t obey me, and the best I can manage is to turn my head just before acid and bile pour from my lips onto the lacy pillow. Somewhere, distantly, I hear a gentle voice utter a little “Oh! Oh, dear.”
The next moment, Philippa is at my bedside, wiping my face with a soft cloth, removing the soiled pillow and blankets.
Her touch is tender, her murmuring voice soothing.
And I hate her. I hate her so much in that moment, with all the force I can summon in my bleary, stomach-roiling, bone-aching state.
I hate her for dosing me, for serving Alderin.
For pretending to be my friend and ally.
For playing her part in all these little games which led inevitably to the deaths of my two brothers.
Tears stream silently from the corners of my eyes.
Nothing makes sense anymore; my mind is all tangles and snarls.
Why should I weep over the death of dragons?
I should hate them, not Philippa. It was dragons who burned my childhood home, dragon flame which devoured my mother and left me scarred.
Who knows what atrocities those two young dragon men have committed at Mhoryga’s command?
They were not innocent—I was in their heads enough to know that much.
How many fiery deaths did they bring about in the name of their goddess-mother?
But then…who is innocent in this world? I certainly cannot claim such a banner.
After all, if I had been braver, cleverer, stronger, faster…
if I had not wanted to see Valtar again…
I might have escaped before my brothers were dragged into this dark place and made to be sacrifices on the altar of this gods-ordained championship.
Through poking, prodding, and gentle insistence, Philippa gets me upright at last, leaning against the headboard and propped on pillows.
When she brings me a drink, however, I shoot her such a dark look, she backs up a step.
“Don’t worry,” she says, her voice quavering a little. “It’s not holabella.”
I allow her to hold the brew under my nose and sniff delicately. There’s no telltale scent of the sedative, but even so, I’m not willing to try. “If I don’t drink,” I ask, shooting her a sharp look, “will you force it down my throat?”
Philippa turns away, chagrined. She doesn’t look like herself—I’ve certainly never seen her so disheveled. Her hair is partially undone, her eyes sunken and hollow, her skin a ghastly gray. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the strain of this last week was getting to her.
“Princess,” she says, setting the cup down on the side table, “I hope you know that I only did that because you were in pain.” She bites her lip and shoots me a sideways glance but cannot hold my gaze. “Please believe me. I only want what’s best for you. I only want to help you.”
My throat burns with bile so thick, I cannot speak.
How many times has she repeated those same words to me?
Over and over, like a spell to cloud my reason.
I’ve heard it so often, I’ve begun to believe it, begun to trust Philippa, forgetting the truth: that she is just one more of my prison keepers.
Unable to look at her, I shift my gaze into the low-lit room.
Immediately, my vision is overwhelmed by a dressing dummy, standing before the tall mirror so that the gown it displays dominates the space in reflected glory.
A wedding gown. White and gold and dazzling, the massive skirts unfurled to take up almost the entirety of the floor space in this chamber.
It could never have fit inside the wardrobe but must have been brought in while I was sleeping.
I stare at it. Like an apparition of horror suddenly manifest before my view.
Philippa, seeing the direction of my fixed gaze, bites her lip. Then, in a whisper: “Prince Taigan was declared the winner.”
A bitter smile curls my lips. “So, though he lost every other challenge, the only one that mattered in the end was this one.” I shake my head at the bitter irony. “Kill a dragon—wed a dragon.”
“He is the only surviving winner of any trial,” Philippa says softly. “Prince Warrick has not won, and the others are all…all…”
Ice shoots through my veins. I turn sharply to Philippa again. “Dead?” I spit the word out in a cold blast. “Are they all dead?” I cannot bear to voice my next question. I cannot bear to demand, Including Valtar?
Tears shimmer in Philippa’s eyes. She presses her lips tightly and exhales through her nostrils. “I don’t know,” she admits at last. “There are rumors—”
“What rumors?”
“It is said hellfire was seen erupting in one of the side passages. Last night. By the river.”
“Hellfire?” I echo.
She nods. “It proves he was dracori all along.” She meets my eyes then and this time manages to hold my gaze. “He’s not been seen since. He’s certainly not being held prisoner in the dungeons. I fear he is…”
She can’t finish her sentence; she doesn’t have to. My mind fills in the rest for her: He is…a liar. A treacherous liar. A dracori bastard, bent on my destruction.
My head shakes as though it doesn’t belong to me, as though some rebellious alternate self rears up in protest against this hideous reality.
None of it makes any sense! Tears stream from my eyes, but I don’t bother to wipe them away.
How can Valtar have been the villain all along?
How can he be one of Mhoryga’s minions? I cannot reconcile the idea with the man I know.
The man who climbed a wall to rescue a gremler kit just because it mattered to me.
The man who taught me how to wield a knife in self-defense, sparring with me under moonlight far from any protective eyes.
The man who kissed me the way he kissed me last night.
It isn’t true. It can’t be true. These two realities cannot exist in the same space, which means that one must be an illusion. But…but which?
Philippa reaches for me, her hands offering comfort. I smack her away. “Don’t touch me!” My voice is a harsh snarl, almost dragonish.
She leaps back several paces, her eyes wide.
I’ve never seen her look like that. Like she’s afraid of me.
“Princess, please,” she says, “try to see the truth. Try to accept that all has happened as it was meant to. Mere mortals can neither thwart nor shape the will of the gods. We must simply discern as best we can, and—”
“Rutt that.”
Philippa gasps at the harshness of my tone, one hand flying to her lips.
I glare at her furiously—or as furiously as I can muster while still lying half-propped on a pile of pillows.
“Rutt that,” I say again with venom. “What has this whole debacle of a championship been other than one big attempt to manipulate the will of the gods? Even now Taigan is named the victor, despite his inability to successfully do anything other than slay dragons. And I’m to marry him?
Based on that singular qualification? The dragon and the dragon slayer—what a perfect couple! ”
“You must remember what all this is for,” Philippa persists. “It’s not about you or Taigan. It’s about the fate of the world.”
“And the fate of the world required the brutal deaths of those two young men today?”
Her face goes hard. “They were dragons.”
“So am I.”
The scintil globes rattle on their chains, their lights dimming.
The air is suddenly hot, steaming, and shadows deepen in every corner.
Philippa backs away from me, her eyes white ringed in their shadowy sockets.
She trips over her own skirts and goes down hard to the ground, crouched there, her hands wringing.
I sit up in the bed, feeling simultaneously powerful and sick to the very pit of my stomach.
My teeth are clenched, my lips rolled back, and for some moments, I feel if I dare to open my mouth, all that pent-up fire in my soul which has been seeking opportunity to rise will burst out of me, consuming everything in this chamber, leaving behind nothing but charred ash.
Then I breathe out, slumping. And whatever tension that held the room captive dissipates.
Even the scintils brighten once more, and a cool breeze wafts down from the air grate.
I lie back on my pillows, once more staring up at the ceiling, breathing deeply until my heart rate begins to steady once more.
Philippa rises. To my surprise, she doesn’t flee the room but approaches my bed once more.
Her face, though still limned with fear, is strangely subdued.
She bows her head. “I…I will admit,” she says at last, “the trial today was harder to observe than I anticipated. I had not expected the dragons to appear so…human.”
“They are human,” I point out, my voice sad and weak and small. “Just like I am. Whatever else we are doesn’t negate our humanity.”
Philippa nods. “I understand. I think.” Then she reaches out, the gesture sharp and a little impulsive, and takes hold of one of my hands. “But that doesn’t change what Mhoryga is. It doesn’t change what must be done.”
Two final tears escaping and streaking down my cheeks. “It doesn’t change that I must kill her?”
Philippa shakes her head, her eyes sad. “If you don’t, what hope do any of us have?”
I close my eyes as though to protect myself from her words.
But it’s no use. In my mind’s eye, I see again the hellish light that lit the sky the night Durona was slain.
There’s more to that image now, however.
I hear not only the screams of the other villagers, or my mother’s voice crying out from the burning cottage for me to climb up, to get out, to flee for the forest. I hear as well the growling desperation in the voice of the dracori who bowed over me.
Run, he’d said, pushing me away from him.
What happened to him after that night? After he gave me that chance to escape? I’ve never stopped to wonder what punishment he endured for failing to kill me. His fellow dracori may have slain him on the spot for all I know. But it is because of him I am alive today.
From there, my mind turns to the three dragons in the pit.
I remember how the older two sought to reach their youngest brother as he was dragged away.
I remember as well how the darker fellow tried to protect the fair brother, even as the latter accepted his fate and refused to fight.
Refused to shed blood even in self-defense.
From there, my mind turns inevitably to Valtar.
Always back to Valtar. So dark, so full of secret pain.
Could it be that he really was nothing more than an agent of Mhoryga, sent to kill me and bring an end to these trials?
If so, he had countless opportunities to do it.
Why, the very first time I saw him, I was utterly and completely at his mercy!
But he didn’t harm me. Not once. And now he’s… he’s…
Oh gods. Gods above and below, I want to crumple up in a tiny ball of misery, to let the horror of my circumstances swallow me. To wallow in heartbreak and helplessness more paralyzing than even the highest doses of holabella. But I can’t.
Because, for the first time since my arrival here in Stromin Palace, I know what I must do. And it sure as hells isn’t putting on some elaborate confection of a gown and marrying Prince Taigan.
I sit up in bed. Though my body still aches beyond reason, I force myself to rise, teetering a little, but locking my knees.
I turn to face Philippa. I know I shouldn’t trust her; she must and will betray me the instant Alderin asks anything of her.
But she is the closest thing I’ve got to an ally in this place, and I desperately need allies right now.
“Philippa,” I say, my voice heavy on my tongue, “there is something I must do. Now. Tonight. And I need your help.”
She looks at me long and hard. “Does it involve sneaking through the air shafts again?”
I lift my chin firmly. “You must lock the door from the inside. And then you must take a dose of holabella yourself. Tell them I forced you to drink it. I am an apothecary’s apprentice, after all—I know a thing or two about drugs. It will give you an alibi.”
She licks her lips. “Princess,” she says, “I know you cannot marry Prince Taigan—”
“Gods right, I can’t.”
“—but you won’t abandon us.” She blinks, and a tear slips down her cheek. “Will you?”
I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what I have to offer her that will make any difference now.
So I take her hand in mine, tilt my head to catch her gaze.
“I will fight, Philippa,” I say. “I will fight with all I have in me to end Mhoryga’s reign.
I will fight and I will die trying to be whatever it is I am meant to be: savior or sacrifice or plain stupid fool.
I swear to you, I won’t run away from my destiny.
But”—and here I squeeze her fingers—“I cannot do it the way Alderin has decided. There’s another way.
At least, I think there might be. And I’ve got to see if I can do it. For you. For him. For…all of them.”
For Durona, who used the very last of her strength to push me to safety, even as she herself burned.
For Joro and his dead pirates, who gave their lives to stop another dragon from ruling them.
For Bryon and Rune and Elis, who risked everything for a chance to wed me and walk with me into hell.
For my two dead brothers, slain before my very eyes.
For Valtar.
For Valtar…
No. I won’t think of him. Not now. I will fall apart if I do. So I stifle those thoughts and feelings down as firmly as I can and simply meet Philippa’s gaze.
My lady breathes out a sigh through quivering lips. “But how can you thwart Alderin’s will, Princess?” she whispers, as though afraid of being overheard even in the privacy of my chamber.
“I must escape,” I reply simply.
She shakes her head. “No one can come or go through the gate wards without the High King’s permission.”
I set my teeth in a grim smile. “I will have to find myself a pair of wings.”