Chapter Two
“It’s about fucking time.”
The king’s voice slices through the room like an arrow, leaving silence and the faltering notes of musical instruments in its wake.
His stare leaves no doubt who he’s addressing.
My bones suddenly ache and turn brittle, shards of ice poking at the delicate underside of my skin.
Is it simply terror spreading from my brain to my flesh, like plague?
Or do the whispered rumors that King Pallan wields forbidden magic carry even a tiny bit of truth?
Beneath my breath, I whisper the mantra from my favorite character in my favorite series of novels. In her darkest moments of despair, Captain Wynona Wavedancer reminds herself:
Storms pass.
Pain ends.
I will never quit.
The words have propped up my faltering courage so many times over the years, no matter the pain or blood or bruising I’ve endured. But now, as I whisper the last word through teeth chattering so hard I have to clench my jaw shut, I realize that the pain a king can inflict might never end.
And I’ve never endured a storm like this before.
The king projects a sense of power and dominance. His deep blue eyes are exactly the color of his rich velvet coat and—funny coincidence—the uniforms of his guard. A king with ego issues, apparently.
Shocking.
The guards around me all bow deeply to the king. I drop into a curtsy, made awkward by Flack reaching over to yank viciously at my braid and knock me off balance.
The king finally turns to Over-Lieutenant Rackness. “Are you sure this is the one?”
“She certainly looks like a nobody,” a silken voice drawls. From behind the throng loosely gathered in front of the throne steps the most beautiful man I have ever seen. Despite the crowd, an open space surrounds him. Courtiers seem to flinch away, as if they’re afraid of him.
Or afraid to be seen near him. I’ve never much understood court politics. But all this flits through my mind in the space of a heartbeat, because this man is so magnificent that I almost forget my terror and the king and my possible impending execution.
He’s … perfect.
Perfect even beyond the perfection of the male courtesans in my mother’s Guild. If the goddess Artemisen herself designed a man, he would certainly look like this.
He’s tall enough to tower over the surrounding courtiers, making me wonder why I didn’t see him the moment I walked through the doors.
Even in his loose-fitting scarlet jacket, I can tell he has broad shoulders.
But it’s his face that startles me out of focus on my imminent death.
Framed by waves of black hair that shine like silk, his face is a portrait of golden-brown beauty.
But it’s the dangerous beauty I associate with the pirate who pursues Captain Wavedancer around the world.
The villain.
He has a strong, straight nose and high cheekbones. The way his black pants fit his muscular thighs must give a lot of people around here some very sleepless nights.
When I dare to meet his gaze, I’m startled to see that his eyes are the unusual dark purple of the finest Valourian wines—if wine were made of solid ice.
I’ve never seen eyes so incredibly cold in my entire life. When I flinch and drop my gaze to the twist of his sensual lips, I realize he’s scowling.
At me.
When he takes a step toward me, taking in my ragged, filthy dress before looking back to my face, something I can’t decipher crosses behind his eyes. Then his expression hardens, and he glances over at the king.
“Is this really the best we can do? Yet another refugee from the pig barns? How can someone this weak possibly be the one?”
Humiliation and rage rush through me in a torrent of heat.
My skin burns from the top of my head to my chest. For the first time since this nightmare began, I’m grateful for the grime that covers me.
At least this arrogant prince won’t be able to see my shame paint itself in vivid colors on the sun-starved, sallow canvas of my skin.
I stare at the ground, clenching my hands into fists in the folds of my skirt, and try to put my mortification into perspective. I’ve been mocked, belittled, and shamed by connoisseurs of the art of condescension. In comparison, this man all but saying I smell like a pig barn is nothing.
Of course, I’ve never been shamed by a man who looks like a god … in a room filled with courtiers … in front of the king of Pyrrh, who may or may not want to kill me.
Perspective is overrated.
I take a deep breath, trying to find calm, and that’s when his final words finally penetrate my shame. The one? The one … what?
He steps closer, but I’m no longer overwhelmed by his presence. I learned from Aislinn Carrolynne’s Flora and Fauna of the Desert Region that the deadliest asps in Altarra, native to the Desert of Sharnon, use their beauty to hypnotize their prey into submission.
But guess what, pretty boy?
I’m. Not. Prey.
Flack’s hand shoots out, and his bony fingers dig into my arm so deeply I know I’ll be bruised. “Bow to the prince, fool,” he hisses, yanking me down so my knees smash into the marble floor. I bite my lip but can’t suppress the slight sound of pain that escapes.
The prince, who must be Prince Kaelen, formerly of Valourian—even I’ve heard of him—takes one long stride toward me.
His fist moves so fast I barely see it. The next instant, Flack flies backward and crashes into the nearest candelabra.
The hateful guard flails his arms but can’t catch his balance, and he goes down in a sprawl of arms, legs, and burning candle wax, shrieking when the wax splatters his face.
The thunk of his head hitting the floor reminds me of a cleaver striking an overripe melon, and I can’t help but wince in misplaced sympathy.
When I look up at the prince in shock, the ice in his gaze is gone, replaced with purple fire.
He bows mockingly and holds out a hand, but I flinch away.
I’ve endured enough pain to know I can survive being hit, but this man knocked Flack across the room with a single blow.
The same force would splinter me like kindling.
Huddled on the floor, I stare at his boots and wait almost numbly for what will happen next.
Storms pass. They pass, and this one will, too, I try to convince myself.
Slow clapping draws my gaze up to the king, who sardonically applauds the prince.
“So gallant, Kaelen. Hopefully, you haven’t damaged my guard, or you may be forced to take his shift tonight.”
Prince Kaelen’s smile is a challenge of bared teeth and narrowed eyes.
“I hate bullies. Maybe you should keep such incompetent wastrels off your guard roster and put them to work more suited for their … skills, Your Majesty,” he drawls, bowing in the king’s direction. “Perhaps cleaning the middens?”
The king stands and walks toward us. “If I needed your help to direct my people, Kaelen, I would have asked you for it.” He doesn’t hide the sarcasm dripping from his clipped words.
Since I’m already on the floor, I bow my head as deeply as I can but stop short of pressing my forehead to the marble. If I’m going to die anyway, I’ll be goddess-damned before I grovel to this man, king or not.
“Elianna!”
A crackle of whispers floats around the edges of the room after the king bellows the name, but nothing happens. I dare to peek up at him and find him staring down at me, scowling.
Does he think my name is Elianna?
But no. The officer knew my name. Elianna must be someone else who’s incurred the king’s rage.
The click of delicate heels approaches from behind me, but I don’t look around. My brief surge of defiance is already gone, sinking into the grayness building at the edges of my mind. I shudder and fight the feeling. I can’t afford to fall over the edge into the abyss.
Not now, not now, not now, please.
I know from hard experience that I can exist in a state of heightened emotional or physical pain for only so long.
When fear, injury, or hunger becomes too much for me to endure, my mind protects me by sinking into a fog of gray nothingness, where no sharp edges can touch me.
Where I don’t hurt or hunger or feel sorrow …
Where I feel nothing at all.
The problem, of course, is that sometimes I don’t come back from the abyss for days.
Or weeks.
Or, during the worst of it—the period that earned me the Inquisitors’ judgment—multiple weeks.
I glance down at my wrist, where my dirty sleeve covers the GM Gray Mind mark.
The visceral memory of that burning iron branding my flesh jolts me out of the fog trying to suck me down into it.
I force myself to focus on the new arrival, looking up from her silver slippers to the white-and-silver robe that marks her as one of the Air Touched.
A bizarre thought pops into my mind—one of my friend Trick’s rude jokes. I have to bite my lip against the grin that, unbelievably, tries to surface.
A king, a prince, and a sorcerer walk into a throne room …
“This can’t be what you meant,” the king says, disbelief underscoring every word. He reaches out one black boot to touch my knee, and I flinch back. “How could the oracles mean to put the fate of Altarra in the hands of the ones already in the dungeon, or this?”
The sorcerer doesn’t cower, but I can tell by the slight tremble in her fingers that it’s a near thing. She clasps her hands together in front of the silver links of her belt and bows her head deeply. It’s not quite a bow, not a curtsy, but nonetheless conveys respect.
“I didn’t say it had to be her. Your Majesty, you told me that the Sister Superior herself recommended this person, which is why you wanted to see her now.
” Her golden-eyed gaze touches on me and skitters away.
“It could be the thief or the apprentice pig keeper. It could be one of the criminals your guards are retrieving in the city as we speak.”