Chapter Nineteen
Xandril
I want out. I’m in the basement again. I don’t know what I did this time, but it’s dark and cold, and I want out. I need sunlight. Warmth. Freedom.
I can’t climb the stairs, though. I try, step after step, the door always beyond my reach.
And each time, I climb higher, never growing any closer.
I hear a voice on the other side, “rotted beast,” then the stairs vanish.
I fall. I hit the ground. Again and again.
“Cursed,” I fall. “Left to the Wilds,” I fall.
“Worthless bastard.” Each fall is longer than the last. Each impact harder.
I want out, but I can’t leave.
I’ll never leave.
The frozen ground beneath me takes all the warmth from my body. All the fight from my soul. The voice keeps going, even after I’ve stopped climbing and curled into a ball to conserve my heat.
I’ve heard these things before, I’m not worth the cost to feed me, I’d be more use to the reach as a meal for some beast in the Wilds. That’s where I’m from and where I belong. The voice should be more muffled here, though. Not booming louder and louder, echoing through my bones.
“Stop,” the whine of an adolescent comes from my mouth. “Stop talking. Just stop.” Covering my ears doesn’t help; those voices are as much a part of me as the lava under my skin.
I look up the stairs, tears in my eyes, desperate to escape. I can’t make it, though. The staircase has grown so long that I can’t even see the door anymore. If I fall from that height, there’s no way I’ll survive.
There’s nowhere for me to go. Nowhere to hide, and the pain—so much pain—from falling again and again has me feeling like I’m already shattered beyond repair.
A broken sob rips from my chest, and I see white as a slice of pain lances through me.
Only, the light doesn’t fade. And it’s not quite white, more yellow-gold, like the sun.
It can’t be.
Using every bit of effort I can muster, I prise my eyes open just enough to let in the light.
It’s real.
Down at the bottom of the cellar, the glimmer of light from the top of the stairs makes me feel like I’ve fallen down a well. But that light is more hope than I can remember having. Ever.
Why now, though? After suffering so long, why would the door open for me now unless it’s a trap? An ambush waiting on the other side, maybe.
At least I know what’s in store for me down here. At least if I stay put, I won’t have to fall again. If I let the cold take me, I won’t have to hurt anymore.
But that golden light promises warmth and safety, and I’m powerless to resist. Like a moth to flame, I’m compelled by instincts beyond my understanding.
I pull myself up, legs trembling, breaths shaking, and move toward the stairs.
The plank underfoot is steady, but my balance isn’t.
I move up another step, and through the darkness above, can make out the shape of the doorway.
My heart beats faster, eyes locked in place.
Any moment the light will disappear, or change.
The door will slam shut, or the stairs will fall from under me.
I stay still, braced for it, then take another step.
One after another, the stairs feel solid, but I’m not loosening my grip on the railing, not even when my knuckles ache from the pressure.
About halfway up the staircase a shadow cuts through the light, stopping me in my tracks, my heart seized with panic.
The shadow twists and curls, growing larger and larger until a dark, sinister-looking vine snakes through the crack in the door, its tendrils spreading along the wall with terrifying speed. A predator after its prey.
Retreating a step, I don’t take my eyes off of the vine. It grows up over the door, closing off my only exit with a thick wall of growth, the tendrils growing down the wall and the railing both, searching for me, spreading a noxious scent that makes me gag.
More and more of the vines cover the walls, reaching for me, regrowing as fast as I’m able to rip them down or slice them with my claws. Already I’m feeling winded, chocking on the awful stench, ready to give up. The vines show no signs of slowing.
I yank down another mass of tangled vines, and through the overgrowth, I see a glint of that golden light. It sparks something in me—if that light can find its way through the vines, maybe I can too. I have to get out of this cellar, or it’s going to wind up my grave.
I have to keep fighting.
I’m not ready to die.
It’s a surprising realization after wallowing at the bottom of the stairs feeling sorry for myself, but it’s one I can latch onto. With the leaves and searching tendrils of the vine tickling my ankles, I know I’m out of time.
Without another thought, I rush up the stairs, slicing through vines and focusing on that golden light.
There are hundreds of steps now, and when I chance a look down, the floor is lost in shadows, so far below.
A vine wraps around my wrist, tightening, and before I’m able to slice through it with my claws, I hear, “Should’ve left him to die,” and the stairs are gone.
I’m falling again, and then suddenly, I stop, yanked back upwards by the vine still holding my wrist—now the only tether keeping me from falling to the ground.
I have no idea what’s happening, but instincts take over, and I start climbing the vine, still doing whatever I can to reach that golden light.
The vine stays firm around my wrist as I climb past sweet-smelling flowers, up hundreds of feet until I’m scrabbling my way through the doorway into the golden warmth of sunshine.
Laying on the grass, a warm breeze drying the sweat of exertion from my brow, I take a long, slow breath and exhale.
Freedom.
I wake to the sound of a crackling fire, the smell of something warm and meaty, and feeling remarkably better. Perhaps better than ever, the power of the throne reaching out to me, feeding me healing energy while also making me stronger and more alert.
My bedclothes are damp with fever sweat, snow falling outside—how long was I out?
I start to look for clues, then stop, eyes landing on Ingrid, asleep at my bedside, a half-knitted blanket slipping off her lap. She’s not snoring but breathes deeply, a spot of drool gathering on the arm of the chair she’s claimed. What is she doing here?
Extracting myself from bed as quietly as possible, I wrap myself in a cloak and head for the door. Val’s on the other side, a tray of food between us, both surprised to see the other.
He cranes his neck, looking past me to where Ingrid’s sleeping, his tail twitching as he arches a brow. “And where are you off to, Your Highness?”
I know he’s trying to get a rise out of me, but I can’t help but bristle at the way he says that.
“How long have I been down?”
Val frowns, nudging me back into the room. “A little over a week,” he says, voice low. “Do you remember me bringing you reports?”
“It’s all a blur,” I admit reluctantly. “I’m not sure what I remember.” I look to Ingrid, and Val answers my question without me having to ask.
“She’s been here the whole time. Only left when Morwen or I forced her to take care of her own needs. You should thank her.”
I grumble, forcing myself to look away from her. I didn’t ask for her to sacrifice her own wellbeing for me. In fact, I told her she didn’t need to be present. If she neglected herself for my sake after that, it was her own foolish choice.
“Take another day or two before you jump back into your duties,” Val adds, depositing the tray of food next to my bedside. Before he leaves, he gives Ingrid another pointed look, trying to tell me something I don’t fully understand.
“We’ll see,” I mutter, focus turned entirely on the food as Valenar exits.
He pulls the door closed softly, but it’s still enough to startle Ingrid awake, gasping when she sees me.
“You’re up!” she exclaims.
“I am.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Much improved,” I say, slurping the thunderroot soup Val left behind.
“That’s good, you had us worried,” Ingrid says, twisting the knitted blanket between her fingers.
“I told you I would heal.”
“Yes,” she says, the softness in her tone turning to hard, clipped edges. “But then you didn’t. You didn’t improve for days and days.”
I grunt between slurps. “Healing can take time.”
“Especially when you’re refusing the power available to you because you have to do everything unassisted,” she snaps.
There’s an argument on the tip of my tongue, but I stop it. The assertion might be right, but I don’t think that’s a conclusion she would have come to on her own.
Val, I curse him in my mind, vowing to make him pay in the sparring ring.
“Yeah,” Ingrid says, waspish. “Val told me you were probably being dumb and stubborn about it. How could you?”
I have no response, only clenching my jaw as I rip pieces off the loaf of bread, sopping up what’s left of my soup.
Ingrid huffs, standing and wrapping the blanket around her like a cloak as she moves to the frosted window.
“I am glad you’re feeling better,” she says, her voice gentler now, the fight drained from it. I don’t like it. Ingrid isn’t the type to be meek and submissive. I’ve grown so used to her being fiery and challenging me that even though this should be a victory, it feels…wrong.
Food forgotten, I stretch my sore, underused muscles, crossing the room to be closer to her—not nearly as close as I’d like, but I don’t think she’d welcome my arms around her right now.
Or ever.
“Val tells me I owe you thanks for staying by my side.”
“Does he?” she asks, close enough to the window that her breath fogs the glass.
“Mmm.”
“You know that’s not actually a thank you, right?” She turns to look at me over her shoulder, the familiar spark of challenge in her eyes that I both welcome and dread. I’m not used to being questioned, as a rule, but Ingrid without that light in her bronze eyes just isn’t right.
And as it often does, that spark in her ignites an answering one in me.
“I didn’t ask you to stay with me.” I regret the words the moment they’re spoken, but it’s too late to take them back.
Her face falls, the light in her gaze dimming. “You did, actually,” she says, making no effort to hide her irritation. “And I was glad to do it, for what it’s worth. Thanks or no.”
“I…”
She shakes her head, not interested in whatever I have to say.
“If this is going to work at all, you’re going to have to accept that you can’t do this all on your own.
I know you don’t like asking for or accepting help.
Maybe that’s because you’ve never had someone really be there for you, but me?
Val? The throne? You’ve got to let us in. You can’t run a kingdom by yourself.”
I stare at her, open-mouthed and speechless. All this time I’ve been so certain that my bride has regretted her contract with the Dealmaker… But here she is talking about making it work.
Have I misjudged her?
Would someone uninterested in being wed stay by my sickbed for more than a week?
I don’t know what her motive is. Is she waiting for me to lower my guard so she can take everything I’ve fought so hard for?
Ingrid spends another moment looking at me, waiting expectantly, then sighs, turning back to the window while pulling her makeshift cloak tighter around her. Her small frame trembles with shivers, icy winds working their way through the gaps of the castle as the snow falls in thick drifts outside.
“This storm came out of nowhere,” she says, making my stomach sink.
It’s my fault. My healing took too much power from the throne and now the lands will suffer for it.
Some ruler I am.
“Do you think the calf will be okay?” she asks, genuine concern in her voice.
I’d all but forgotten what landed me in my sickbed, the ifrak’s troubled labor and the baby’s shaky start.
“They’re hearty animals,” I assure her. “Made to survive the cold.”
Of course, our winters have never been so long and brutal before. There’s really no saying, but Ingrid has concerned herself with others enough.
“The mother’s milk will keep the calf warm,” I add, seeing she’s not convinced. “You should set aside your worries for others for a time and get some rest.”
“Yeah,” Ingrid agrees. No argument. No further questions.
I’ve grown so used to her pushing back against me that the lack of resistance leaves me off-balance, reeling and trying to make sense of this woman as she exits, the blanket cloak trailing behind her.