Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
The next morning, I’m informed that my training will be starting later than usual.
I’m ecstatic about this, of course, because it means more time before I have to see Gareth’s scowling face. Even better, though, is that it gives me and Briar a chance to have brunch together.
She looks much better after a full day of rest. She’s eager to stretch her legs, so we leave our rooms behind and make for a small, sunny parlor that I’ve breakfasted in a few times before.
I’m still met with suspicious, borderline cold looks from most of the palace staff.
After the pleasant smiles and greetings I received while strolling with the king and Arlo yesterday, it stings a little more than usual.
But even if their bows are slightly stiff, and usually accompanied by a tense glance at the ring of favor I wear, they still do as I ask, putting together a mouth-watering feast for Briar and me to enjoy.
And I can’t find it in me to complain about their attitudes as I lounge on a sun-dappled chaise, enjoying my fill of fruits and pastries.
Servants continue to come and go as we eat, and more than one armed guard paces regularly by the door, but the space is private enough that we eventually risk talking more freely.
I quietly catch Briar up on my latest trial, sharing Gareth’s words—which she can’t make sense of, either.
We spend plenty of time discussing the upcoming Sun Harvest Feast, too, and all the ridiculous, wasteful energy and money that’s being spent on it.
“We could feed the entire Burn for three months with the amount of food they’re preparing for one night,” Briar laments. She scrunches her nose up at the plate that she’s just piled high with eggs and smoked meats, looking like she’s suddenly lost her appetite.
“Marta would want you to eat it,” I reassure her, even though my appetite is quickly waning as well—and it goes away completely when I start to tell Briar about the next thing I endured yesterday: The walk that Reave and I took along the creek.
“So you managed to get him alone?” Briar sits up straighter, scooting to the edge of her chair, like we’ve just come to the climax of a book she’s been reading.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“It was…interesting.” My cheeks heat. I bury my face in one hand, while the other tightly clutches my empty drinking glass, which was filled with juice and some sort of sparkling wine; I’m going to need more of the latter to get through this conversation.
“Did you end up getting any more useful insight about him?” Briar presses.
“I…I ended up exposing my breasts to him.”
“That’s an admittedly bold strategy.” She grins as I lift my head and takes my glass, pouring more wine into it before handing it back. “Did it loosen his tongue, at least?”
“Not really. We ended up in another standoff, neither of us agreeing to elaborate on what atrocities our respective bodies have been through.” I slowly sip my drink. “His scarred arms, the prince’s hands, the dragon-scale pieces that Kestrel always wears…”
“You think some sort of sickness runs through the entire royal family? I mean, aside from the diseases we already knew they had—of greed and whatnot.”
“I’ve tried asking everyone I dared. I’ve learned that the former queen died giving birth to Arlo, but that’s about it.
The cause of the former king’s death is apparently a matter of debate within these walls, too.
Some say he was sick. Others say he just disappeared one day and was found dead in the woods several weeks later. ”
“Rumors back home said he went mad and threw himself from the bell tower in the middle of the city,” Briar says with a shrug.
“Yes; that’s what I’d always heard, too. But now I’m questioning everything.”
“Me too,” she says, her eyes glazing over in thought.
“I’ve been given some access to the library here,” I say, after I finish my drink. “But most of the history that’s central to Mouren—including records of the royal family—is in a section I haven’t been allowed into.”
She blinks, a slight smile curving her lips. “Well, maybe I can get us into those restricted archives by flashing my breasts at the librarian?”
“She’s a sweet, ancient little old lady,” I deadpan. “Somehow, I don’t think she’ll be swayed by this tactic.”
“Why not? Old people can appreciate beautiful things, too.” She grabs her breasts and hoists them up, giving them a little shake for emphasis. “You and I both know I’ve won a lot of people over with these.”
I throw a decorative pillow at her face.
She catches it, laughing.
I sigh. “I’ve missed you, idiot.”
“Of course you have,” she says, winking.
The conversation dissolves into teasing and jokes and bittersweet reminiscing for a while before Briar’s face turns serious again.
“How are you faring, though—really? The bruises are nasty enough, but what about the rest of it? The fact that you’re apparently…you know, divinely-chosen and all that.”
I tense at the question, realizing how my relative calmness must look to someone on the outside looking in. Someone who doesn’t know that I’ve always suspected and feared I had ties to dragons.
I force a shrug, a weak smile. “The insanity of it all hasn’t set in yet, I guess.”
Briar gives me an understanding, sympathetic look, but it doesn’t stop the self-loathing that my own words have ignited in me.
I hate everyone in this palace for keeping so many secrets from me.
I’m not any better, though.
But if I’d told her everything, would Briar still be here beside me? Would anybody in the Burn have allowed me to stay among them if they knew the truth?
A small, frightened part of me wonders if Briar would run, even now, if given the chance. If she knew the reality of who I am, what I might become, the mistakes I’ve made and the things I’ve kept hidden even from her…
Would she go back to our old life without me?
It would probably be better if she did.
This isn’t the job she signed up for, after all.
“Knock it off,” she says, suddenly.
“…What?”
“You’ve got that look on your face—the one you get when you’re overthinking things.” She takes a sip of her drink, peering at me over the glass with knowing eyes. “Knock it off.”
I try to force another smile. I’m not sure I manage it.
“We’ll be fine,” she insists. “We always are.”
“You’re right,” I agree. And even though it feels like a lie, I smile brighter, reach for another pastry, and steer our conversation back toward simpler and safer things until it’s time for me to face my dragon once more.
Gareth is not in the arena when I arrive.
A few servants have just finished up tending to Blight. They bow hastily to me before exiting, leaving me standing alone before the dragon. I’m still debating what to say to her when I hear footsteps, followed by a familiar but unexpected voice.
“Good afternoon, Ashwalker.”
I turn to see the king approaching. He's dressed more simply than I’ve ever seen him—as if he’s here for training as well. Just dark pants and a fitted shirt that accentuates his muscular form far more than the usual layers of regal attire he has on.
But he still looks like a king, and likely would even if he were dressed in rags; it’s something about the way he moves, the way he carries himself, as if he expects the very air to part for him.
Blight's emotions hit me like a wave as Reave draws near: her usual wary protectiveness, a hint of fear…but beneath it is a curiosity I’ve never felt from her before.
Or is that my curiosity?
I don’t know, but I don’t want that dangerous feeling pulsing through me, either way.
“Your Majesty,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “I was expecting Commander Gareth.”
“Gareth has other business this morning.” He stops a few feet away, studying me through those oddly pale eyes of his. “I'll be conducting your training today.”
I force myself not to grimace. “How exciting for me.”
A smile ghosts across his lips. “I thought you'd be pleased.”
I glance at Blight. She's now watching the scene unfold without any more emotion or any body language I can read, almost a mirror image of the stone dragons that recline atop the wall protecting Lucindris.
I expect her to warn me to be wary, as she did yesterday. But she’s silent, even as Reave walks past me and begins sizing her up instead.
“I heard you were attempting magic,” he says, looking back over his shoulder. “So I thought I might offer some...insight.”
I bristle, embarrassed to think about what else he might have heard—what sort of report his advisors gave him. But I try to keep a level head.
“I could use some insight, I suppose,” I say evenly.
That little smile is back on his face. “It’s hard for you to accept help, isn’t it?”
“I’m used to being the helper. Not the helped.”
“I see.” He holds up his hand and allows Blight to nuzzle it, to fully breathe in his scent. As she does, his eyes cast about, taking in the targets that are still set up from yesterday. Angling his face toward me, he says, “You do realize you can’t manage this particular task on your own, though?”
“Of course I realize that.”
He nods toward one of the targets. “Show me what you can do, then.”
An order that oozes with arrogant authority, just like yesterday.
Show me the worst of it.
Gritting my teeth and rolling the tension from my shoulders, I push all the memories from our last meeting down. I move closer to one of the targets, reaching out a hand toward it while mentally grasping for Blight and her magic.
Unlike during our last session, I feel her respond immediately. Showing off for the king, I guess. Warmth flares through my body, hot enough that it makes me draw in a sharp breath, leaving me momentarily light-headed.
But as soon as I try to shape it into flame, to push it outward…
Nothing.
Frustration swells in me, and my insides go cold.
“Interesting,” Reave murmurs, his eyes on my outstretched hand, which is shaking. “You're holding back.”
I clutch that hand against my chest to hold it still. “I am not.”