Chapter Four #2
She touches his shoulder as she passes him. “Rise. How many times do I have to tell you not to bow to me?”
“At least once more,” he says with the respect he doesn’t always show the king.
It has the feel of an oft-repeated exchange between them, but they’re both watching me.
“What’s next?” the king demands, also staring at me.
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty. Majesties. I have no idea.” I offer a smile that feels like a grimace. “You heard everything she told me.”
The queen is not what I expected. She has dark-brown hair, light-brown skin, and eyes that are nearly black.
She’s dressed in deep red silk, and her full-skirted, beaded gown must have taken a dozen seamstresses several weeks to make.
She wears a simple gold circlet in her upswept braided hair instead of a weighty formal crown like the king’s.
And she’s beautiful.
Rumors say that theirs is a loveless match, and that’s why they have no children. Certainly, she’s looking at him without affection now.
I can’t believe I’m thinking about royal children when a goddess just took over my body. I start shaking again.
“Well, Pallan? Elianna? What is this brave child to do?” the queen asks.
Suddenly, my hand cramps around the amulet, and my knees feel weak. “Sorcerer? Please, tell me what to do. I’m afraid I’m going to drop this box.”
Everyone but Kaelen and the sorcerer takes a step away from me.
“You can put the box down but hold the amulet.” She takes a thick cord from a pocket and holds it out to me.
“The amulet has a link you can place this cord through, so you can wear it around your neck. I think … I believe you should wear it continuously, beneath your clothing, so it doesn’t accidentally touch anyone else before I can spell it into a containment case. ”
I take the sturdy velvet cord and finally pull my hand, still clutching the amulet, out of the box, which I leave on the table. It takes every ounce of willpower I possess to unfold my fingers, though I’m relieved to find I can actually move them. Finally, I get a good look at the murderous object.
It’s a large, green gemstone, fully the size of my thumbnail, in a silver filigree setting.
I clumsily thread the cord, tie a secure knot, and lift the makeshift necklace over my head.
Then I close my eyes and, holding my breath, drop the amulet down my bodice, half expecting it to set me on fire when it touches my skin.
It doesn’t. It doesn’t even warm up this time.
Slowly, I exhale and open my eyes to see Prince Kaelen’s dark-purple gaze on me.
“It’s fine,” I tell him.
Tell everyone.
“Soli!” comes a shout from over by the wall, and I wrench my attention from the prince to Trick, who’s conscious again. I give him the best smile I can manage, but a guard steps between us.
The king and queen converse in low tones and beckon the Air Touched to attend them, leaving me standing with Kaelen.
“I’m glad you survived the amulet,” the prince says, but he rasps out the words as if they’re being torn from his throat. “And the goddess.”
When I glance up at him, he’s shaking his head and staring down at Lil’s ashes on the floor. Her loss stabs me anew. “I wish …”
But what do I wish? What could I have done? Maybe it’s just that I wish not to be powerless, though that’s a wish of long standing in my life.
“I know,” he says quietly. Somehow, I believe him.
Now that the immediate crisis is over, I shove my shock and pain deep down inside, so I can focus on my current reality. It might be the only way to stay alive.
I force myself to breathe slowly in and out, then scan the room and see two people I didn’t notice earlier.
First, leaning against the wall just inside the door, there’s a tall, muscular Sylvan with delicately pointed ears who wears the jeweled braids of the aristocracy.
The Sylvan, a race of immortals who serve and protect the goddess Artemisen, are rarely seen outside of her domain without specific purpose. He meets my gaze with amused arrogance.
I’ve read Honor, Etiquette, and Guest Right Amongst the Sylvan, authors uncredited, more than once, so I touch the fingers of my right hand to my chin and then lower my hand, palm out, and nod deeply toward him.
What could a Sylvan lord possibly be doing in the Pyrrhan throne room?
I almost laugh at the faulty logic in that question. I’m proof enough that King Pallan’s guidelines for inviting people to visit are wildly arbitrary.
I realize I’m still staring rudely at the Sylvan lord when he offers a deep nod, almost a bow, in my direction, startling me. But then I remember reading that the Sylvan people highly respect courage.
“A courageous enemy is more honored than a cowardly friend,” is one of their sayings.
I hope I’m not his enemy, but I did reach into that box and pick up the amulet, so at least I’m no coward, friend or not.
I wonder if he can see that I’m still shaking.
Next to the Sylvan stands a lean, muscular woman a few inches shorter than me.
She has light-brown skin and a windburned face.
Her pale hair is cut into short curls and pulled back from her face, and her black eyes shine like obsidian.
She wears traditional desert garb—beige linen trousers and a matching vest. She’s staring at Kaelen with narrow-eyed intensity.
“Do you know her?” My voice is nearly a whisper, but the prince hears me and follows my gaze.
“No.” He nods to the woman, who makes a subtle hand motion at her side.
Kaelen tenses so slightly that most people wouldn’t notice it, but I’ve spent my life being very careful of body language. It’s easier to avoid being hit or kicked when the would-be assailant’s body gives clues that their words don’t.
“What—” I stop, shocked at my boldness. What in the past few hours has given me leave to think I can dare question a prince, even one exiled from his kingdom?
Well, there was that part where a goddess spoke through you, a quiet but not weak part of me says.
I catch myself reaching up to touch the amulet through the cloth of the green dress but force my hand down. Better to avoid contact as much as possible, as ridiculous as the thought is.
The king clears his throat. “It’s decided, then. No use waiting. You’ll leave within three days.”
He’s looking at me.
“I … I beg your pardon?” I curtsy so deeply I’m almost afraid I’ll fall over. “I’ll leave? Where am I going? The library …”
“We’ll send for your things from the library,” the sorcerer says in what’s probably meant to be a soothing voice.
My things? I don’t have things. Only one remaining set of brown work clothes, one brown dress suitable to wear to festivals, and one very worn pair of boots.
The only thing I’d miss is a wooden snow leopard Trick gave me, carved to look like the extinct species of giant cat that lived long ago in the Panterran Mountains. That, and a few precious pages of my favorite book, saved from the fire when the Sisters ordered the old editions burned.
Servants are not allowed to own books, not even those meant for the pyre.
Finally, there’s my tiny collection of parchment scraps. When I clean, I collect any bits the scribes or Sisters discard that have words I want to keep and twine in my hair for inspiration. Blank scraps are good, too, since Trick occasionally secrets me ink to write my own words.
“You’ll follow Artemisen’s directions,” the king says.
“I—What?”
He scowls at me. “Which word didn’t you understand?”
“All of them after ‘you,’ Your Majesty,” I say faintly, and the room spins around me. “I … All alone?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! The prince and a few of my soldiers will accompany you. The thief will go as a backup nobody, in case you don’t survive. And our Sylvan and desert-born guests demanded to be part of this.” He glances at the two of them, clearly suspicious of their motives.
The Sylvan lord’s eyes narrow, but the woman next to him only smiles. Neither speaks.
I’m still stuck on in case you don’t survive.
“But—” the sorcerer begins, only to be interrupted by a squawking sound I’ve never heard Trick make before.
“What? I don’t—” My friend’s voice cuts off suddenly, and I glance over to see him bent double and clutching his abdomen.
“Don’t dare speak to the king, you low-life street thief. Even your Guild disowned you,” the guard next to him growls, pulling his fist back.
What? That’s not true. Trick himself told me he’s high in the Guild, practically its leader.
“That’s not enough to give us a chance, and you know it,” Kaelen snarls. “We should take a full battalion, as I suggested.”
“We’ve had this argument before! Do you think we haven’t tried?” The king shakes his head in disgust. “The Fell immediately swarm any party of measurable size.”
“But—”
“I know you want to take back your country from Corvynne’s army,” the king says, sly superiority on his smirking face. “But you won’t do it with my soldiers. Complete this task. Find the keys. Then we can talk.”
I don’t understand this, but I’m not trying very hard.
My brain is snagged on the idea of being swarmed by the Fell.
The prospect makes me shudder so hard my teeth chatter.
It’s whispered the mutant creatures were once human men and women, but Corvynne transformed them into monsters—hideous amalgamations of claws and teeth and terror.
“You’ll go as a party of mercenaries protecting a rich trader,” the king announces.
Everyone looks at me with varying measures of disbelief, and I know what they see. A weak, pale young woman who could never, under any circumstances, be mistaken for a mercenary.
“Soli, you’ll be an expert in poisons and a food taster,” the Air Touched clarifies.
Now everyone nods, even me. Most poisoners spend their lives on the verge of death from testing their wares. My emaciated appearance fits that role perfectly—a fact I decide not to examine too closely.
“And you’ll play the part of the trader, Prince Kaelen,” Pallan says in an ugly, gloating tone.
“No!” The shriek rings out. A girl maybe a year or two younger than me, all black hair and deep purple eyes, races across the room to throw herself at the prince. “Please, Your Majesty, don’t send my brother away.”
Kaelen’s eyes meet mine over the top of her head, and I see a split-second glimmer of pure anguish in them.
He hides it when she looks up at him, though, as if he’s drawing a mask over his true emotions.
Living in this court for ten years, he must have a great deal of practice at hiding anything he feels.
Maybe the prince doesn’t have more than one personality, mercurial though he seems. Maybe he simply has to hide his real self from everyone around him.
This, I understand.
“You were told to stay in your rooms, Kee,” he murmurs, holding her tightly.
“I escaped my guard,” she says defiantly. “What is happening? Why was there a fire on the floor? Why are the servants whispering about Artemisen, may she be restored?”
Queen Isabella, who’s remained mostly silent, walks forward. “Come with me, Karrina. We’ll have tea and cakes while your brother talks to the king and our … guest.” This last with a glance at me.
The princess, with some effort, stops crying and drops into a perfect curtsy. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
Kaelen bends to kiss her forehead. She clings to her brother for a moment, then turns to the queen.
As the two of them walk toward the door, I happen to glance at the Sylvan, whose hot gaze follows Karrina all the way out of the room.
When he eventually turns back to the king, our eyes meet.
I see his expression of utter shock before he quickly schools his face to bland impassivity.
I have no idea what that was about, and I can’t find the strength to care.
Kaelen bows to the king. “You will remember your promise, Your Majesty,” he says, more a demand than a request.
The king’s face is a study in arrogance. “I’d think you’d be eager for the chance to avenge your parents.”
“And I am, but I also have a sworn duty to care for my sister.”
“The queen will care for your sister, and you’ll save her future if you succeed in this quest. Isn’t that more important?” Pallan’s cruelty drips from every word of what’s clearly a trap. How could Kaelen say no to that?
I’m suddenly alight with fierce desperation to force this king, who plays with others’ lives, to take hold of the amulet and see what happens to him.
As soon as the thought forms, though, I recoil from it.
This entire turn of events is impossible while also starkly, painfully real, but I can’t let it turn me into someone I’ve never been—someone who wishes harm on others.
Beside me, the prince bows. “As you say, Your Majesty. I agree and obey.”
If I hadn’t seen his expression before, I’d almost believe the facade of humility.
Maybe.
“I don’t agree!” Trick, still in chains, yells from the side of the room.
The king holds up a hand when the guards next to Trick raise their fists to beat him. “Although the agreement of a petty thief is of no concern to me, I’m inclined not to send you on this quest if you … disagree.”
Trick falls to the floor, bowing. “Thank you, Your Majesty! Thank you. I’ll do anything—”
The king’s lip curls, and he points at Neville, then Trick.
“Sergeant. Kill him.”