Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Briar is sleeping when I return to the palace, and even though I’m eager to catch up on lost time, I decide not to bother her.
Instead, I spend the afternoon soaking in my tub, wondering if I’ll ever be able to make sense of anyone in this godsdamned palace.
The bruise Gareth left with that particularly brutal blow to my collarbone is impressive, a sprawling patch of gruesomeness that makes every deep breath hurt.
After bathing, I try to cover it up as best I can with powder and strategic clothing, but a few sickly branches of bluish purple still peek out from underneath everything I try on.
Between this, my pale eye, and all the other scrapes and bruises I’ve picked up, I look less like a divinely-chosen dragon-rider and more like a corpse come to life.
There’s nothing to be done about it, though, so I dress comfortably, slide the ring the king gave me over my scraped knuckle, and I carry on.
I briefly visit the library after leaving my room, eager to research more about dragon abilities related to reading the emotions and intentions of people. I don’t know how seriously I should take Blight’s warnings from earlier; can she really tell me who to trust and who to be wary of?
It doesn’t seem out of the realm of possibility, if she was truly shaped by the gods. And I do find one interesting passage about a former divinely-bound pair that served a king of Ormyth; allegedly, they could read minds, and they used the ability to uncover countless traitors and conspiracies.
There aren’t many details about how they did these things, though—which is frustrating. I want to be able to gather information like I always have for every other mission I’ve undertaken.
The difference, of course, is that I didn’t actually take on this mission. This bond, this apparent destiny…it was thrust upon me.
And it still doesn’t feel real.
There are no others like me here, leaving signs and marking safe paths for me to follow as my fellow Ashwalkers once did. Touching the brand on my arm no longer gives me a rush of purpose and direction. It just makes me feel overwhelmingly lonely.
The head librarian—Lady Elspeth, I’ve learned—has set up a separate study off the main archives for me, a place where I can collect and organize the texts I’m studying without having to haul the heavier tomes up to my room.
It’s quieter here. More private, too, shielding me from the endless questioning and judgmental stares of the palace folk who filter in and out.
Even so, I find it hard to focus with everything that’s happened today. I don’t last long before I’m back to walking the halls, trying to find some sense of balance.
Preparations for the Sun Harvest Feast continue, taking over more and more of the palace. This is how I know the king is on the premises—because I catch several conversations between the servants, anxiously discussing how he might show up at any moment to inspect their work.
So I’m not surprised to cross paths with him when I make my way into the main gardens. He’s strolling alongside his little brother. Arlo is riding his giant dog, and Ruffus seems thrilled at the opportunity to play horse, trotting happily along, tongue lolling and tail wagging.
A dozen confusing, conflicting feelings rush through me as Reave’s gaze meets mine.
Gareth’s strange warning was entirely unnecessary. It’s not as if I want to speak to the king any more than I have to. Especially not after our tense encounter last night. And I’m certainly not letting my guard down around him.
But I can’t exactly run and hide every time I see him.
Besides, it’s been far too long since I’ve had a chance to visit with Prince Arlo—who immediately tumbles off his dog’s back when he spots me, laughing and running toward me with his arms stretched wide.
I’m wincing inwardly at the thought of lifting him, as sore as I am, but he’s so light—so frail—that it’s no trouble at all to pick him up. I fight off a worried frown as I hug him against me, trying not to focus on how easily I can feel his ribs through his shirt.
As usual, he’s more concerned with me than himself, gingerly tracing the bit of bruise showing along my throat—the only part I couldn’t cover with the coat I’ve wrapped around myself.
“That looks like it hurts,” he says, frowning.
Only when I breathe, I think.
But what I say, with a bright smile and a wink, is, “You should see the one I was fighting. He’s in much worse shape than me.”
The prince smiles a bit at this. I melt, as usual; his warmth almost balances out the chill of his brother looming in the background.
Almost.
“We’re on our way to check on the decorations in the Grand Pavilion,” he tells me as I set him back on his feet. “Come with us!” He reaches out his hand which, once again, is covered by gloves. Whatever his mysterious illness is, it must affect his skin in some way.
My gaze flicks to the king, who seems to be doing his best to ignore me. Maybe he doesn’t know what to say after last night, either. The thought that I might have truly unsettled him makes me feel strangely powerful—like maybe I can survive an afternoon walk in the gardens with him.
I take the prince’s hand, letting him drag me along and point out all of his favorite places. He keeps up a running commentary on all the various plant and bug life we see, too, and I pretend I’ve never heard of any of it, because I love how excited he gets when sharing his knowledge.
His brother trails behind us, silent except when he has to reprimand the dog, who repeatedly attempts to roll in nearly every flowerbed we pass.
The afternoon is beautifully warm, so there are countless people outside simply enjoying themselves.
Every time we pass someone, I brace myself for the usual tense stares and gossipy whispers.
But it seems they don’t dare to do these things in front of the royal family; I receive nothing but friendly greetings today.
It’s all strangely…pleasant.
It feels like I’m assimilating, anyway—and that’s the goal, isn’t it? To convince the king and the rest of this palace that I belong here, strolling along these paths. That I can be trusted, even if that’s the furthest thing from the truth.
We follow a route through tall hedges, climb a wide set of stairs, and eventually find ourselves overlooking more stairs that cascade down to our ultimate destination.
Grand is a bit of an understatement, really.
The pavilion is set along the banks of the wide creek that snakes along the western border of the palace grounds.
Claw-footed pillars support a sweeping copper roof that’s shaped like outspread wings—two great curved spans arching from a central peak and swooping down on either side.
The area it covers must be several hundred feet long.
All around and underneath this massive structure, countless servants are already at work even though the feast is still days away.
Some are constructing a raised platform at the head of the pavilion.
Others are beginning to string garlands between pillars, hanging lanterns, testing how ribbons will drape, or marking where tables will eventually stand across the pale marble floor.
King Reave walks ahead of us, stopping to examine almost everything. His inspection seems less like party planning and more like he’s comprising a battlefield strategy.
Arlo is gifted a ribbon from a smiling servant, which he ties to a stick. While his brother continues his inspections, the prince entertains himself by racing in between the pillars, the ribbon streaking through the air and Ruffus tumbling after him, trying to catch it.
I keep close to them, watching servants rush past with arms full of supplies. At a glance, all those servants just seem to be cheerfully going about the preparations.
The closer I look, though, the more stressed they seem. It’s as if they're trying to prove the same thing their king insisted upon last night: that life goes on, that the palace is untouchable, and that a few rebel attacks won't stop them from throwing their usual extravagant celebration.
But underneath their smiles, something is clearly starting to crack.
It’s…unsettling.
I focus on Arlo instead, trying to soak up some of his more genuine joy. This only lasts a few minutes, though, before a slightly-frazzled woman appears from the direction of the palace, informing the young prince that he’s late for his bath and dinner preparations.
Arlo looks as if he’s thinking of making a run for it, but his brother rejoins us before he can, his face stern.
“Go on,” Reave tells him, nodding toward the frazzled woman.
The woman holds out her hand, only to have the prince dramatically crumple against his dog, as though his legs have spontaneously stopped working at the mere thought of bathing.
It’s an affliction that affects all children, it seems, regardless of whether they’re royalty or refugees.
Reave sighs.
I grin, because I know how to deal with this particular ailment. Kneeling, I beckon Arlo toward me, pulling him into a hug and whispering a promise to make him another shiny dragon figurine if he behaves.
He grins back at me and nods before turning and skipping away, his legs having made a miraculous recovery.
Once he’s out of sight, Reave asks, “How did you do that?”
“An ancient magic that’s been passed down by the parents and caretakers of my home town for centuries.”
He tilts his head toward me.
“It’s called bribery.”
“Ah. Of course.”
The slight smile he gives me sends a shiver down my spine that isn’t altogether unpleasant. I try to shake it off, but it persists. Worse, I can feel people watching us—witnessing him smiling at me—even if they’re trying to be discreet about it.