Chapter 20 Lilias
Lilias
THE WORST IN THE KINGDOM
My hands are shaking. I’m holding the piece of parchment so tightly that its edges crease, and it’s still trembling like a leaf.
None of this makes any sense.
Why did Blayne have a letter in his vest? Why is it marked with my seal? I’ve never sent Blayne a letter. I would never be so foolish. And, even if I were a fool, I would never put my seal on it.
A memory bursts through the numb, shocked fog engulfing my brain.
Another golden seal, knocked to the floor.
Pools of hardened crimson wax on the table, on my hands.
I’d seen my father use his seal, and it called to me in the way powerful, forbidden objects call to all children. I just wanted to try it.
My father picked up the seal and hit me with it, over and over, until blood seeped through my blue dress. For weeks afterward, I’d run my fingers over the scarlet and violet bruises, tracing the stylized M for Marion and the crown that signified the king.
“This is not a toy,” he yelled, again and again.
I’ve been half-terrified of signets and seals ever since. Gods above, I’ve only used my own seal a half dozen times, and usually that was to add my congratulations to official messages sent by my father.
Zarek’s hand closes around my wrist. I try to flinch, to pull back, but his grip only tightens. Slowly, and with my heart racing like a wild bird trapped in a cage, I meet his gaze.
“We can’t talk here,” he says in a rough whisper.
He glances at the mirror, and what’s left of my heart sinks to the polished stone at my feet.
He warned me, didn’t he? Don’t expect privacy in this room. What was I thinking?
The room swims as he tugs me toward the door to the garden.
I’ll have to go back to Marion, now. Perhaps Blayne was right about Prince Laurance, that he wouldn’t care if I’d had lovers before, but I just watched Zarek hold a knife to a man’s throat, and somehow, I don’t think the snake feels the same way.
How in the hells am I going to explain this to Anura? To Elrick?
To my father?
“My lord?”
The voice startles me. I’ve been following Zarek blindly through the gardens, trying to hold back the flood of panicked tears and crushing the piece of parchment that somehow bears my seal to my chest. I didn’t even watch where we were going.
And now we’re at the castle gates.
“The lady and I are spending the day in town,” Zarek says to the guard at the gates.
His voice still holds that knife’s edge of barely suppressed anger. The guard must sense it too, because he backs away before nodding. The castle gate swings open for us. Zarek pulls us through.
Perhaps he’s leading me to Marion right away. Maybe he’ll shove me into the closest carriage. Or tie me in the back of a cart like livestock.
Father will be apoplectic.
The realization sits like a stone on my heart. I remember every threat he ever made. I’ll never be allowed in the stables again. My room will be taken away, and I’ll sleep on the floor. Or, gods, I might never leave my room again.
“Zarek,” I say. My voice comes out thin and tight, like a whisper. “Zarek, please.”
He stops. He’s pulled me down a tight alleyway, dark with last night’s shadows that still cling to the sides of the building. It smells like piss and manure. He frowns, then pulls at the cloak on his shoulders.
“Please—” I say again.
Zarek shoves his cloak into my arms.
“Wear this,” he says. “Fasten all the clasps. Don’t let anyone see the dress under it.”
I swallow hard. I tuck the letter into my pocket, then pull Zarek’s cloak around my shoulders and fasten the clasps in the front. The thick, dark cloth smells like sweat and horses, and some part of me realizes I probably shouldn’t find that scent so comforting. Zarek grabs my arm again.
“Keep your hood up,” he whispers.
I pull the hood up. We emerge on the far side of the alley.
Zarek keeps his head down as we thread through streets that get narrower and more choked with debris.
Barefoot children run past us, screaming to each other.
Stray cats flick their tails and narrow their eyes at us.
Dogs bark from inside most of the buildings we pass.
Finally, Zarek turns down an alley and pulls me into a darkened stairwell.
We descend, the low buzz of conversation growing thicker with every step.
I have enough time to wonder if he’s going to sell me into a brothel when he pushes aside a tattered curtain, and we enter something that looks almost like the common room of an inn.
It’s smaller, darker, and smellier than any inn I’ve ever seen.
Still, there’s a long bar at one end of the room and a collection of tables spread around a massive hearth.
Zarek nods at the woman behind the bar, then leads me to a booth tucked into the far wall.
He gestures for me to sit. I do, and he slides into the opposite side.
I raise my eyes, and the two of us regard each other in silence. I open my mouth to ask what he’s going to do with me now, but the words refuse to come.
The woman from behind the bar walks toward the table. She walks with a significant limp, and one of her eyes is milky white.
“The usual?” she asks in a grunt.
“Please,” Zarek replies.
A moment later, she smacks two foaming mugs down on the table. Zarek pushes one toward me, then lifts the other to his lips. I only hesitate for a heartbeat; it’s not even afternoon yet, but hells, it’s not like this is an ordinary day.
An acrid, bitter scent rises from the foamy ale in the mug. I hold my breath and take a sip.
I gag. Zarek sets his mug down. The ghost of a smile passes across his lips.
“Worst ale in the kingdom,” he whispers. “That’s why no one from the castle ever comes here.”
I stare at my mug. The foam has an oily sheen that makes my gut shift. Zarek takes another sip, then sets his mug down with a hollow thud.
“Do you love him?” he asks.
That’s so far from what I was expecting to hear that it takes me a moment to realize what he’s asking. I wrap my hands around my mug, then force myself to take another slug of the bitter ale. This time, I manage not to gag.
“Do I love Blayne?” I reply.
Zarek looks at his mug with a sad smile. “That’s his name?”
I nod. My cheeks burn, and my heart hammers like it wants to get away from this horrible place. Or maybe just this horrible conversation.
“I— I don’t know,” I admit. “I’ve never thought about it. It doesn’t matter, does it?”
Zarek’s shoulders roll as he shrugs, and then he finishes his mug of terrible ale. He looks tired. For the first time, I wonder if where he’s been and what he’s had to do has taken a toll on him.
He meets my eyes.
“Are you going to run away with him?” he asks.
I snort. It’s not very dignified, but I can’t help it. Zarek frowns, like maybe I didn’t understand the question.
“Do you want to give this all up to be with him?” he says, waving a hand at the table like I’d be giving up this shit tavern with its shit ale if I ran off with Blayne.
“No,” I reply. “Definitely not. I’m not running anywhere.”
His shoulders drop somewhat. I take another gulp of ale, just to have something to do with my hands.
“I was happy to see him,” I say, speaking slowly as the words take shape in my mind, “but, really, I think that was because he made me think of home.”
I chase my words with the bitter ale in my mug. I did enjoy the kissing, and the feeling of pushing up against something forbidden, doing something I was never supposed to do.
But would I want to run away with him? Gods, no. I imagine listening to Blayne’s lectures over the dinner table every single night and shake my head. Zarek spins his empty mug between his palms, then glances up long enough to catch my gaze.
“When is the baby coming?” he asks.
I almost spit my ale all over the table.
“What?” I finally choke.
“Do you not know?” he says. “How long has it been since you stopped bleeding?”
I stare at him. Behind us, there’s a heavy clop of feet on the stairs. Someone calls out a greeting to the woman behind the bar.
“I’m not pregnant,” I finally say. “I bled on the journey to Vsenrog.”
“That must have been uncomfortable,” he replies.
I blink. I’ve never known a man to react with anything other than awkward silence or an attempt to change the subject when a woman mentions the pain and blood she has to suffer through every month.
“So, you and, uh, Blayne,” Zarek continues. “You took precautions? Or you’re just lucky?”
I finish my ale, then stare like an idiot at the oily slick in the bottom of the mug.
“He gave me something to drink afterward,” I say, remembering the thick, bitter potion. “A kind of tea. It started my bleed right away.”
Zarek snorts. His dark eyes meet mine.
“So, he told you it was your fault,” Zarek says. “That you pushed him past the…what? The stopping point? And then he had absolutely no control over his own dick, right?”
My throat feels tight. I nod.
“But he just happened to have that exact potion with him?” Zarek finishes.
I know a trap when I see one. I don’t say anything, even though my mind is screaming.
Men can’t hold back, Blayne said. Not after you push them past the stopping point. He warned me not to keep pushing, but I wanted one more kiss. I wanted to know what it felt like to touch the hard rod between his legs.
He asked me not to push him. Hells, he begged me not to.
But I pushed him anyway. I forced him past the stopping point, time and again. It was my own fault I lost my maidenhead, that I was no innocent bride. I did it to myself.
But Zarek is right, too. Blayne did have that potion in his bag. Every time. And he made me drink it every time I pushed him past the stopping point, even though it made me bleed so heavily I was dizzy for a week.
Zarek shakes his head.
“Fuck that guy,” he declares.
I swallow. The woman with the milky eye shows up at our table with two more mugs of bitter ale, and I take a long swig. This mug tastes better than the first, for some bizarre reason.
“Okay,” Zarek says, brushing his hands together like he’s getting rid of something. “Let’s see the letter.”