Chapter 64
Lilias
ANOTHER LETTER
Itry to ignore the strange looks Owain and I get as we walk through the halls of the palace of Marion.
I was taught to ignore the castle attendants, although I never quite managed to do so.
But tonight, I try. I keep my head up and my expression regal as I follow Owain toward my father’s throne room.
The door opens, swinging inward on hinges that sigh as we pass, and there he is.
The king of Marion, sitting on his throne, wearing a heavy silver crown with scarlet jewels.
He almost never sits on the actual throne, an uncomfortable hunk of metal and hard wood; someone must have warned him that we were coming.
His guard, Mel, stands next to him, frowning in a way that makes me feel like my skin is crawling. And beside Mel, there’s another man, wearing another uniform.
The blue and scarlet of Vsenrog.
My breath catches, and my steps falter. Owain pauses beside me, then clears his throat.
“Your Highness,” Owain begins. “The princess has an urgent message for you.”
No one speaks. I keep my gaze focused on my father’s scowl, ignoring the scurrying whispers from the people gathered in the throne room.
I don’t recognize the broad-shouldered man wearing the uniform of Vsenrog.
I also don’t recognize the older man sitting near him, who is wearing a formal coat studded with golden medals and watching me like I’m something the dog just vomited onto the floor.
He looks like a diplomat. But why would Vsenrog send a diplomat?
My father shakes his head, then comes to his feet.
“Lilias,” he booms, making my name sound like a curse.
He steps off the throne, and Mel rushes forward to take his arm. My father pulls away from Mel.
“What in the hells are you doing?” my father hisses to his attendant.
“Sire, your health—” Mel begins.
“Damn it all, I’m healthy as a horse!” my father booms.
He steps off the dais, then crosses the polished tile floor toward me, his face like a thundercloud. I want to turn, to run out of the door, but that’s not how a princess should behave—
My father hits me across the face. My head snaps back, and my vision goes white.
My ears ring; blood spreads across my tongue.
The room swims behind a veil of tears. Some strange, distant part of my mind whispers that this wasn’t how this was supposed to work.
This isn’t at all what was supposed to happen.
“Whore,” my father says.
He doesn’t shout. He just says the word, almost like he’s bored with me already. My cheek burns as I open my mouth.
“F-Father—” I begin.
He hits me again. This time, I stagger backward. Owain catches me. My eyes sting with tears.
“Sire,” Owain says. His voice trembles. “It is urgent that we speak with you.”
“I have no words for you,” my father thunders. “You traveled with my son, did you not? You’re all a bunch of traitors!”
Owain’s hold on my arm tightens. When he speaks again, his voice is much lower.
“What are you talking about?” Owain says.
My father turns to me. Through the haze of my tears, his eyes burn like a forest fire. I feel like I’m sinking into the polished stone floor.
“You,” he growls. “Wretched whore of a daughter! The kingdom of Vsenrog wasn’t good enough for you, was it? The match I made for you wasn’t enough?”
My father reaches into his robe and pulls something out. It’s a piece of parchment, neatly folded, and sealed with a blot of red wax. He shakes it open and waves it like a flag.
“The emissary of Vsenrog brought this,” he says, thrusting it into my face. “Proof of your indiscretion.”
I can’t read all of the letter, not while my father’s waving it around under my nose.
But I already know what it says. Gods above, I’ve read it before, sitting at the worst pub in Vsenrog with my husband, reading by candlelight the letter he’d just taken from Blayne.
I miss you terribly, it said. The snake violates me every night.
Blayne. My tutor. My lover.
He wrote another letter. The realization sinks into me like a block of ice on my chest. The letter Zarek took from him was just one of many.
And this is why. To frame me for infidelity.
I open my mouth to say it’s not my handwriting, but nothing comes out. My eyes trace the blob of red wax on the back of the letter, and I wonder if it’s in the shape of my seal. Or maybe it didn’t even matter.
Maybe my father would have believed the letter no matter who wrote it.
“But to leave Vsenrog for Ethiria?” my father continues as he thrusts the forged letter back into his robe. “For Prince Laurance?” He snorts, then turns his back on me. “I never knew my daughter was such an idiot.”
His steps echo hollowly as he walks back to the throne.
My mouth hangs open. My chest is tight; the words still refuse to come. Some part of me must realize there’s nothing I can say that will change my father’s mind.
My father turns to the older gentleman with the elegant jacket. And then he bows. The king of Marion, bowing before an emissary.
“This is all,” my father begins, in a very different tone of voice, “a terrible misunderstanding. Your King Malrik must understand how foolish these young people can be. Just as I can fully understand why he sent his troops into Ethiria to retrieve my idiotic whore of a daughter,” he says, as he waves his hand at me like I’m a lump of cheese in the marketplace.
“But now, we can resolve this. I have the whore. He’s welcome to take her back. ”
The room falls silent. The emissary comes to his feet. He’s taller than he looked, and stronger. He sniffs.
“Perhaps,” the emissary replies. “I will arrange a meeting with His Highness King Malrik. He may be interested in whatever it is Marion has to offer.”
My father nods, then turns to Mel.
“Lock her up,” he says, without looking at me. “The prince’s soldier, too, if he was ready to abdicate with my worthless son. And be ready to travel on my command.”
Mel turns to me with an almost apologetic look on his battered face. He takes my arm. I try to blink away the flood of tears as he leads Owain and me toward the dungeon.
“What in the hells is happening?” Owain whispers, once we’re out of the throne room. “Why did he say Elrick abdicated? Prince Elrick isn’t abandoning his kingdom.”
Mel grunts. We walk past the banquet hall, past the kitchens, and out through the servants’ entrance. The cool night air of the courtyard feels soft against my burning cheeks.
“Vsenrog invaded,” Mel says. His gruff voice takes me by surprise; he’d been silent for so long, I didn’t think he was going to reply.
“Their emissary said this one—” he yanks on my arm, “—ran off to be with her lover in Ethiria. He said the Vsenrog troops are just passing through, going to Ethiria to get her back. But then they set up their tents. Some here, some there. All over the damn kingdom,” Mel adds in a growl.
“And they said Prince Elrick left Marion. That he ran off to Ethiria, too. Left us to our fate.”
“Bullshit,” Owain hisses under his breath.
Mel doesn’t respond. The door to the dungeons looms in the darkness before us, and fear skates across my skin like a creature with many small, sharp legs.
I’ve never actually been down here. Gods, I don’t think these dungeons have ever been used, at least not in my lifetime.
As a child, the dark, narrow door alone terrified me.
I stumble, and Mel tugs me forward.
“They think our king is weak,” Mel continues in that rough whisper. “On account of his ill health. They think all of Marion is weak.”
“His ill health?” I manage to stammer.
That was what King Malrik said in Vsenrog, that my father was too ill to travel to the wedding. But it wasn’t true. I turn to Owain just as Mel drags me toward the mouth of the dungeons. The light of the courtyard lamps washes over Owain’s face. He looks terrified.
“He may be sick,” Mel mutters. “But we ain’t weak. We’ll show ‘em.”
I swallow hard. And then Mel pushes me into the dungeons of Marion.