Chapter 3
Chapter
It is a peculiar cruelty to ask a
princess to save a kingdom that
refuses to love her.
The walk back to the tower is painfully slow. Dread consumes my every step and a single question loops tirelessly through my mind. Which one will be my last?
The last act of the curse was completed years ago, yet it feels like only yesterday.
I had just been born when they took the sharp edge of a blade to my neck to complete the first act.
I was blinded in one eye shortly after, leaving me with the silvery white pupil and iris that remains today.
These were among the first marks to be left on my body, though they were far from the most painful.
My knees nearly buckle beneath me at the memory of the last. I had never known man to be so savage. So cruel. By the end of the night, I was begging for the knife forced into my hands to be run through my own chest. I was certain they had taken all there was for me to give.
I see now I should have guarded that hope more closely. It was foolish to think even that was safe from falling into their hands.
I look to Galahand, who nervously fidgets with his fingers, still hoping to find some shred of reassurance in his tired eyes. The smallest inkling that tonight won’t be my last. But he offers little more than echoing footfalls as we ascend the winding staircase up and out of the undercroft.
He’s completely shut me out.
It’s probably for the best. One less goodbye.
A swift breeze welcomes us as we emerge into the corridor, and riding it are rich notes of honey-roasted boar, lemon possets, and spiced wine. My favorites all blend together to create an intoxicating aroma. Who would have thought the smell of impending doom would be so sweet?
“Princess?” Galahand’s hushed voice creeps over my shoulder, startling me.
I turn enough to see his large form shrinking from the passing torch lights mounted on the walls.
“Yes?” I reply, unsure why exactly we are whispering, or from whom we are hiding our voices.
The castle’s main grounds have barely any stations remaining.
Apart from the skeletal staff that cook our meals, the single handmaiden that tends to both Mother and me, and what’s left of Father’s guard, there’s no one here.
Even the people we rule over are miles and miles away, scattered along the disenchanted border where most of Ruin’s military are kept.
I stop, unsure whether he heard my reply.
“Don’t stop. Keep walking,” Galahand hisses, ushering me forward. “There is something you must know about this curse. About all those it affects. More importantly, how it affects them.”
Beneath his breath he mutters, “if only we had more time.”
My chest squeezes at his grave implication, but I do as he says, slowing my steps under his guiding hand.
“The curse may have set the rot loose across our realm. But it was not the curse that destroyed it. That honor belongs to the real monsters: the royals and their regents.”
Every hair on the back of my neck stands tall as a needle-cold dread spreads through me.
“You can’t possibly believe that. Gally, you mustn’t.” I nearly give him a sharp look, but think better of giving my full attention to such a treasonous idea.
“The kingdoms are not to blame,” I add. “The Evil Queen is. You know as well as I that if she hadn’t been meddling with magic, or the Redhoods—” thinking of the group of well-known anti-royal rebels makes me shudder, “—none of this would have happened. She was found plotting against the King of Riches, her own husband!” I shake my head, tossing a cautionary glance over my shoulder.
“The kings—the people, they are not at fault. Not for the fire. Not for the curse.”
Resolve wavers on my tongue but I bite down on it, refusing to believe that the very people working tirelessly to break us from this curse are the ones that caused it. “And they’re certainly not to blame for the scars I carry,” I add.
Galahand huffs out an exasperated breath, as if I am the one speaking utter nonsense, and it takes everything in me not to turn.
Someone needs to shake some sense into the old man before he loses more than just his mind.
Before I can say just that, Galahand’s long bony fingers curl tight around my forearm and he leans in close to my ear.
“You don’t understand, princess. I don’t believe this curse is what we think it is. I think there is another piece at play here. One far more powerful than death. You must see the first-born son freed.”
I whirl toward him, ignoring the overwhelming urge to sink toward the checkered stones and weep until there are enough tears to drown in.
“You want me to free a dead man?”
Because carving my own heart out is not enough.
“No. I’ve already entertained this conversation for far too long.
I can’t hear anymore. I won’t. This is my life, Galahand.
” I gesture, arms wide toward the crumbling walls that surround us, their once polished faces now split by thorny, cobalt vines.
In some places they’ve burrowed so deeply the plant and stone almost appear fused together.
I stare at the walls of my home, the castle that once stood as a testament of our people’s strength. Now it’s little more than an ancient black monument being slowly devoured by something cold, cruel and rotten.
“This is not a fairytale story for you to twist and turn at your leisure,” I hiss.
“I neither need nor want your false hopes. I refuse to spend what little of this life I have left believing that the people who bore me into this world are the reason I won’t ever get to be a part of it. I just—I cannot.”
Defeat is but a whisper away when a brusque voice rings through the hall.
“My lady?”
Galahand’s fingers drop away, his mournful gaze turning guarded at the sight of my guard running toward us. Gally takes two cautious steps to the side, leaving a wide berth between us where his words now lie.
I quickly follow suit, swiping away the tears of a crushed spirit from the hollows of my cheeks.
“Is everything alright over here?” Rhidland asks, not missing the smudge of black makeup now coloring the back of my hand. His closed fist comes to rest on the hilt of his sword.
He eyes Galahand warily, looking ready to cut him down at a moment’s notice, while the old man does all he can to become as little as possible, shrinking against the damp wall. His hardened gaze locks on the floor despite the shiver of panic rocking his frail bones.
My stomach rolls at the sight of him, cowering and afraid. Why did I shout at him? He’s clearly unwell. Who would it have hurt to just ignore his delusions? Delusions, that if heard by anyone else, will most certainly see him imprisoned. If not worse.
No. I can’t let that happen.
I won’t.
“My lady?” Rhidland presses, taking another slow step toward the old man, his fingers flexing around his pommel.
I think fast, sputtering out the first thing I can think of that might excuse my tears. “I’m bleeding! Down there…I’m bleeding.”
Both men blanch, the despair almost disappearing completely from Galahand’s features as he mirrors the horror overtaking my guardian’s face.
“Galahand was just…well, this time of the month can be so hard for a woman. I was just seeing if he had anything to help with the…you know.” I lower my voice, leaning closer to my statue-stiff guard. “The cramps.”
“Oh! Alright. That is…” Rhidland shudders, making an apologetic sweep of his hand. “Please forgive my intrusion, my lady.” He clears his throat, looking woefully uncomfortable as he slips his half-drawn sword back into its sheath.
That makes two of us. But if a little humiliation is the price I have to pay for peace, so be it.
And thankfully it seems to have worked. The threat of death is no longer a blade’s sweep away.
At least not for Gally.
“Well, if you’re finished here?” My guard nods, gesturing for me to walk ahead of him. “I’ll be taking you the rest of the way.” I don’t miss the lingering suspicion bracketing his darkened eyes, or the way his hand still hovers close to his sword.
He trusts me, but he doesn’t seem to trust Galahand. And that alone is enough to make me put one foot in front of the other, if only for the old man’s sake.
“Goodbye, Gally.”
I expect to see that familiar scowl reappear. But it never does.
His guarded expression remains perfectly in place, but there’s a subtle urgency in his tone as he says, “The next time you fall, may the truth give you wings. For what a wonderful way to pass through the place where flowers once bloomed.”
Another one of his riddles? I rack my brain to solve it, when he does the unexpected. Linking his thumbs together and extending his four fingers on either side, he creates a butterfly at the front of his chest. A gesture I’ve never seen done in person before, one reserved for only two occasions.
The rise of a monarch.
And the fall.
I do my best not to leap from my seat and chase after the old man. To have him decipher his nonsense.
Me? Free a dead man?
I shake my head. It must be a metaphor for something I’ve yet to understand, because that simply isn’t possible. And even if it were, why would I? If, by some miracle, Father hasn’t found a way to see this final act completed, why would I help him too?
I huff out a frustrated breath, dismissing the ridiculous idea entirely. It’s doing nothing but stealing the only hope I have left, and that is something I am not strong enough to live without.
A tap from my handmaiden tears me out of my head back in to my seat, where I quickly slap on a smile and shove my worries deep, deep down.
“How is this, my dear?” Her tired fingers finish pinning my long, thick hair into a low romantic updo. Heavy curls frame my gaunt features, the flickering glow of the rushlight giving my dark black hair an oil-like sheen.