Chapter 65
Lilias
WHO WOULD BELIEVE THAT?
Bertyl, the old castle guard who is also the dungeon’s jailer, is very apologetic. Somehow, that only makes me feel worse.
He’s a big man who walks with a limp, and his words come out somewhat mushy, like he’s taken a few hits to the face in the course of his work.
He’s been in charge of Marion’s unused dungeons for my entire life, along with a half dozen other duties.
Now that he actually has prisoners to put in the dungeon, he seems uncomfortable with the whole situation.
Well, that makes two of us.
“Sorry for the smell, my lady,” Bertyl says in his thick voice.
I nod politely. I’m trying to breathe through my mouth and ignore the tight feeling in my chest. The keys in the thick ring around Bertyl’s belt click together as we approach the first iron cell door.
Bertyl unlocks it, then waves a hand at the murky interior as though he were ushering me into a carriage.
Panic screams through my skull. I freeze, suddenly thinking about running. Could I make it to the stairs? Could I make it up the stairs?
Owain’s hand tightens around my wrist. “We’ll get out of this,” he whispers.
“Course you will,” Bertyl says as an oily smile stretches across his lumpy face. “Little misunderstanding is all.”
The cell door looms in the darkness, a monstrous mouth ready to swallow me. I suck in a breath, but it’s filled with the stench of this place, the ghosts of sweat and piss, of blood and despair. I gag, then cough.
I wouldn’t make it to the stairs. Hells, even if I did, what would happen once I ran through the dungeon doors?
Someone in the courtyard would tackle me, of course.
They already think I fled from Vsenrog, giving King Malrik all the pretense he needed to send in the armies he was already massing on our borders.
And if I said I didn’t try to leave Vsenrog? That the letter was a forgery, and Malrik’s invasion was based on a lie?
Well, who would believe me? Wouldn’t a woman say anything to get out of the dungeons?
I hold my breath and walk into the dark cell.
I don’t dare turn around as the door slams shut behind me and Bertyl’s key ring rattles in the lock.
Tears slide down my raw, swollen cheeks.
The sound of Bertyl’s and Owain’s footsteps fades behind me.
Slowly, I sink to the dungeon floor. Quiet and dignified, like a princess should be.
The dark hours pass slowly, like a blade dragged across sand.
Water drips from stone. Small, dark claws scratch from the shadows, and I drift in and out of restless nightmares.
Finally, the sound of a key in the lock jolts me back into consciousness.
I turn toward the door, blinking at the harsh light flooding the cell.
Two figures stand in the doorway, the hulking form of Bertyl and someone else. Someone almost as tall.
“This should only take a moment,” a silky voice purrs to Bertyl.
My body goes cold. I open my mouth, but my throat is dry, and the words refuse to come.
Blayne walks into my cell, a lantern in his hand and his cloak over his shoulders. He hangs the lantern on the wall, then turns to me as if he were about to begin another tutoring session. His lip curls.
“Oh my,” he says. “I do hope they clean you up before you face King Malrik.”
I try to speak, but it comes out as a choked gag. Blayne pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, then wipes his hands on it like he’s touched something dirty.
“I don’t even need to be here,” Blayne says. “I hope you appreciate this for the courtesy it is.”
I drag myself to my feet, trembling all over.
“You set me up,” I say. My voice is hoarse, like I’ve been screaming.
“Now, darling,” Blayne replies. “Who would possibly believe that?”
I spit at his feet. Blayne raises an eyebrow at me.
“I see your brief association with the snake has caused you to forget all of your training,” he says. “We’ll have to start over at the beginning.”
Fear curls around the base of my spine. I take a step back. My shoulders hit the rough stone wall behind me.
“What are you talking about?” My voice comes out in a whisper.
Blayne folds his handkerchief neatly, then puts it back in his pocket. He looks slightly bored.
“I’m talking about your fate. The very least you could do is show a modicum of gratitude.”
“You wrote that letter,” I spit. “You stole my seal, and you planted the letter that made it look like I ran off from my marriage.”
Blayne laughs. It’s a real laugh, soft and warm, and it makes my heart twist in a strange, uncomfortable way. I used to love making him laugh. It always felt like a victory, a flash of the actual man behind his stiff tutor persona.
But that must have been another lie.
“Malrik wants you killed,” Blayne says.
He’s watching me with a mildly curious expression, like he’s just given me a difficult equation and he’s waiting to see how much of the previous lesson I can remember to solve it.
I press my back into the cell wall. My heart thuds inside the cage of my ribs, and suddenly, I think of Zarek. Gods, please, let Zarek be somewhere far away.
Blayne glances at the ceiling, then back to me.
“I told him that would be a waste,” he says in a soft, even voice, like he’s discussing the weather or what to have for lunch this afternoon.
“Tainted though your reputation is, you still have royal blood to pass on to your husband’s heirs. All you need is a husband.”
My gut seizes, but I am not about to give Blayne the satisfaction of knowing how terrified I am.
“I already have a husband,” I reply through gritted teeth.
“Ah, yes,” Blayne says with the smile he used whenever he knew much more than I did.
I saw a lot of that smile. “The legendary snake of Vsenrog,” he continues.
“It’s such a shame he died in the mountains trying to regain his wayward bride.
A surprisingly romantic ending for such a tragic character, is it not? ”
I don’t reply. It’s better if they think Zarek is dead, some part of me whispers. It’s better if they don’t come after him.
“Of course, who would want to marry you after your recent scandals?” Blayne continues. “Certainly no one of noble blood is going to take you.”
He sighs, then glances at the low, rough ceiling like he’s appealing to the gods.
“As luck would have it, I offered to solve that particular problem for the good king,” he finishes.
I blink. Blayne is looking at me like he’s made a particularly insightful argument that he doesn’t expect me to understand.
“You,” I hiss.
Blayne bows modestly. “Of course. Who better to tame the wild princess than her former tutor?”
I snarl at him. Was this always his plan?
Was this why he told me no one would care that I wasn’t a virgin?
Or was this why, years ago, he said it was such a pity I’d never learned how to kiss, that my husband was sure to be disappointed on our wedding night?
Because it was that offhand remark, made casually after a long session of solving complicated equations, that spurred my first clumsy attempts to seduce Blayne.
I thought it was my idea, all of it, from our first kiss to the morning when he bent me over the desk and took my maidenhead. It never occurred to me that Blayne might have been leading me to it, like he walked me through all of his other lessons.
“I won’t marry you,” I spit, although even as the words fall from my lips, I realize how weak they sound.
“Oh, my dear,” Blayne replies. “Why on earth would you think you have a choice?”
He falls silent. Somewhere in the distance, I hear water dripping off stone.
He’s right. I’ve never had a choice. I was betrothed to Prince Laurance of Ethiria as soon as I was born, until my father changed his mind and sent me to Vsenrog instead, like a feast day ham in a fancy gift basket.
And now, apparently, I’m being sold off again, as slightly used and damaged goods. I’ve gone from being my father’s property to King Malrik’s property. And I’ll be Blayne’s property next.
“Why?” I manage to whisper.
I want to say more, to ask why Blayne forged the letter in the first place, or why he tried to make it look like I ran from Vsenrog, but Blayne speaks first.
“Let me be perfectly clear,” he says in his crisp, proper voice. “I am saving you from the gallows. In return, my sons will carry your royal blood. And in time, I’m sure the king will see fit to assign me a position in his royal—”
My fist hits his gut before I can hear the rest of Blayne’s insane plan.
He makes a sound like a sack of wet flour hitting a stone floor. He stumbles backward, smacking the iron bars of the cell door and making them rattle. My fingers sting, and I step back, shaking my hand.
Blayne stands up straight. His eyes blaze with fury.
This is him, I realize. This is the real man behind the uptight tutor’s persona. He was never the man who laughed and smiled; he wasn’t even the man who lost control once I pushed him past the stopping point.
No. This is the real Blayne, this flash of rage and fury standing before me in the dungeons. This is the person he was hiding.
Blayne wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, then shakes his head. “Guard!” he calls.
Then he turns back to me, his mouth pulled as tight as a knife’s edge.
“Bitch,” he growls in a voice that’s almost a whisper. “I’m going to take pleasure in teaching you how to submit to your husband.”
The thud of the jailer’s boots echoes down the hallway. Blayne grabs the lantern off the wall and stands before the gate as Bertyl unlocks it. He doesn’t even look back over his shoulder as Bertyl slams the door closed behind him.
I sink back to the stone floor of the cell as the light from the lantern fades down the hallway.