Chapter Three
Over-Lieutenant Rackness takes my arm in a firm grip, guides me to a small door behind the throne, and escorts me inside. “Someone will bring you wash water.” Her gaze whips over me, and I feel another dull rush of shame. “And a clean dress. You can’t meet the goddess like that.”
“What?” I all but shriek the word. “Meet who?”
But she shakes her head and departs, leaving me alone in a tiny, bare, windowless room. Two sconces allow me to see that there’s another door opposite the one I entered through, but that one is barred and locked with a heavy chain.
Only a few minutes pass of me frantically trying to interpret what “meet the goddess” could mean before two servants bring in a small table, a basin of water, cloths for washing, and a green dress.
“Best hurry, lass,” the man murmurs, but the woman with him just clucks her tongue and rushes back out of the room.
They close the door behind them, and I’m alone, so I take a deep breath and do as I was told.
I quickly exchange my filthy dress for the green one, which is plain but well-made and easily the finest dress I’ve ever worn.
Then I scrub dirt off my hands, arms, and face.
I even use a clean corner of one towel to wipe dirt off my hair as best I can.
Then I unbraid my hair but for the single plait next to my face, clench my hands together, and try to remember if I’ve ever read a book where a prisoner uses a towel to escape a locked room.
This futile train of thought doesn’t distract me for more than a minute or two, and then the door opens again. A snarling guard pushes a girl into the room and shoves her so hard she falls to her knees.
Then he pulls the door partially shut behind him and points at me. “I’m a friend of Flack’s. He asked me to give you a little thank-you.”
Before I can fumble through an answer, he strides across the room and backhands me so hard I smash into the wall behind me.
“Here’s hoping we get to see a bonfire,” he says, sneering. Then he studies both of us for a moment before walking out of the room.
Laughing.
My mouth is on fire. He split my lip; I can feel the blood running down my face and know my mouth will swell up in minutes. The bruising will be bad, too. With my fair skin, I always bruise when they hit me in the face.
I sigh, grimly resigned, and grab one of the cloths to wipe my face again. I’m gentle, but still wince at the pressure. Out of habit, I start to wash the blood out of the towel in the basin but then defiantly throw it on the floor. I’m not going to clean up after they beat me this time.
Not here.
The girl is still on the floor, and she’s crying, despite not being hurt much. When I glance at her tear-stained face, though, I immediately lose any impatience.
She can’t be more than ten and six.
She’s clean and looks well-fed, unlike me. I don’t see any scars or old bruises on the skin that’s showing, though I know that can be deceiving.
Some abusers are expert at only leaving marks where they won’t be seen.
“Are you okay? Here, let’s get you up off the floor.”
“Why would he do that to us?” She lets me help her up, then wraps her arms around herself and whimpers. “Why are we here? What’s happening? Do you know?”
“I don’t actually know,” I have to admit, the words meet the goddess still reverberating in my mind. “I’m Soli.” This unleashes a wild storm of sobbing and a jumbled explanation of who she is. I can’t understand much beyond her name, Lil.
I retrieve the only clean cloth left and hand it to her to wipe her face, which calms her down somewhat.
“I was giving the pigs their tea-time mash—they don’t get tea, of course, but we call it that because we feed them that meal just before our tea—and two guards came to get me.
Two guards!” She sits back and scrubs her face with her hands.
“My da said I must have done something terrible for them to send guards, but I didn’t!
Not ever! I mean, I kissed a boy I wasn’t betrothed to yet at Harvest Fest. But we’re close!
He’s saving for our very own cottage. Anyway, they don’t send the king’s guards for that, do they? ”
She yanks at her long, thick blond braid and stares at me with pale blue eyes. “Do they?”
“No. No, they don’t, Lil. I’m afraid we’re caught up in some plot of kings and sorcerers, through no fault of our own.”
The door opens again, and Sergeant Neville enters, his face grave. There’s a young guard with him, and this one’s reddish-brown hair, blue eyes, and freckles make him look as young as Lil.
When she catches sight of him, she jumps up and cries out. The guard—with a quick glance at Neville, who nods—crosses the room and puts an arm around her.
“Oh, Bern, why am I here? Is it because we—” The guard, who I’d bet ten silver pieces has been saving for a cottage, presses a kiss to her lips before she can finish her sentence.
“Why did that man hurt Soli?” She’s sobbing again, and the guard does his best to comfort and shush her at the same time.
All eyes turn to me, and I swallow hard. “I’m fine. He—”
“You’re not fine,” Neville growls, his eyes on my mouth.
I touch my lip and flinch. When I bring my hand away, my fingers are stained red. “I’m well enough. A friend of Flack’s had a … message … for me.”
Neville whips a handkerchief out of his pocket and hands it to me. “Should we call the healers?”
“No. I just want to go home.” I realize I just called the library home, but compared to this, my pallet would feel like a warm hug. Maybe I can even get there in time to scavenge a few bites of what’s left of dinner.
“There’s no going home, lass. It’s time,” he says heavily. The sorrow in his eyes sends an icy spike of terror down my spine. “The king wants you in the throne room. Now. He’s having the Amulet of Artemisen brought to him.”
Lil wraps her arms around herself and shivers. “But isn’t that the gemstone that’s supposed to unlock the goddess’s crystal tomb? The gem that sets people on fire if they touch it?”
I, who have read every Cycle of the Oracles, feel the room spin around me and hear my voice as if it’s coming from far, far away.
“Yes, Lil. That’s the one.”
Of all the ways I never want to die, burning alive just soared to the top of the list.
Guards line the perimeter of the cavernous room, and Prince Kaelen stands a few paces in front of the throne, his face set in grim lines. When his gaze snaps to mine, I dare to nod a hello. His eyes widen as he takes in my appearance. He’s probably shocked to see me clean.
Cleaner.
My waist-length hair at least looks red now, instead of dirt-gray, and the single braid near my face shines purple. My blue eyes are the same, but my skin, while still desperately pale, is at least clean.
But his body language changes. One moment, he’s all graceful elegance.
The next, every muscle in his body tenses, beginning with those in his jaw.
His purple eyes flare hot, and I realize his gaze is locked on my mouth.
He straightens so quickly, hand on the ceremonial sword sheathed at his side, that I freeze like the prey I swore to myself I wouldn’t be.
Because I instantly know with complete certainty that there’s a deadly predator in this room, and he’s heading straight toward me.
In three fast strides, Kaelen is so close I can feel his breath on my face.
“Who hurt you?” His voice is a low growl, shocking me. Where is this protectiveness coming from?
He stands so close to me that I’m forced to inhale his deliciously subtle scent of sandalwood and cedar.
Forced. I scoff inside the privacy of my broken mind. Oh, no, don’t force me to smell this delightful aroma on my way to a horrible death.
Sergeant Neville, with a speculative look on his face, bows to the prince. “A friend of the horse’s ass who … fell into the candles, my lord. Believe me, he’s being dealt with.”
Kaelen turns that flashing purple gaze away from me to the sergeant, and I inexplicably feel a sense of loss. “Bad form, sergeant,” he snaps.
Sergeant Neville tightens his lips but nods. “You’re not wrong. He’ll pay for it.”
“I’m fine. Thanks for your concern,” I say, daring to touch his arm.
Kaelen stares at my hand, and I flush, trying to yank it back. But he wraps his fingers around my wrist with steady pressure, preventing me from moving.
“What is wrong with you?” I hiss, uncaring of the protocol.
A dull flush rises in his cheeks. “I wish I knew,” he mutters, releasing me.
I don’t know how to take that. I guess he’s never met a commoner bold enough to touch him before.
But when the king calls Elianna’s name, the prince steps closer to me instead of backing away.
“Should I call a healer?” His voice is a murmur, oddly intimate in the crowd, and I’m sure only I hear him, since everyone else is listening to the sorcerer respond to Pallan.
“It’s not that serious,” I whisper. “I’ve had far worse.”
Kaelen starts to reply, but the king’s voice lashes out.
“Stand ready,” Pallan orders.
The soldiers step back, revealing a line of water-filled wooden buckets.
“The amulet,” I whisper through desert-dry lips. “No. He can’t mean to make us touch it.”
“He won’t, if I have anything to do with it,” the prince says. “The vilest of the criminals—or at least the strongest—should be the ones.”
The strongest? I remember what he said about me not surviving a journey and flinch. Whatever Kaelen’s motivation is right now, I seriously doubt protecting me has anything to do with it.
Neville, hand on his sword, steps over to stand next to Kaelen. “You won’t have anything to say about it, son. You or me, either,” he mutters.
Neither seems to realize that a mere soldier just called the crown prince of Valourian son. We’re bound up in far more important matters than etiquette now.
“Bring up the rest of the nobodies,” the king calls out.