Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
Elina
In her chambers inside the royal residence at the heart of the province Sen Dunai, Elina DuMarin lounged upon her feather-soft bed, staring at the sky-blue gossamer duvet high above.
Outside, rain was pounding the roofs of the city, a rhythm that had always set her on edge, with the way it tended to draw forth images of lush vegetation and spacious, white marble rooms with wide windowpanes spanning entire walls.
It called forward the scent of blossoms and ripe fruit, sweet and delicious, and her stomach always complained, and her heart constricted with the sort of melancholy her adopted father would never allow for her to show in public.
Once. Once she’d let a tear slip during a ball, when a lady from the south had approached her, curtsying and offering her a gift from the woman’s homeland—Criulias.
A waft of the same scent had climbed up her nostrils, and the heaviness in her heart had spilled onto her cheeks. She still bore the scar from that night on the side of her hip, where Ulder had a hooded man carve a line with a rusty nail.
Absently, she rubbed the spot, ignoring the phantom pain.
The other scars, those around her wrists, were from the day the fire wielder almost burned down one of the army camps.
Ulder had shoved her into the desert rose bushes that day upon receiving the missive about the havoc the flames had wreaked.
Those scars were older than the one on her hip.
Ulder had never once mentioned the man’s name, but his moods had gotten worse since.
Gingerly, she shifted on her bed, wincing as the metal of the shackle around her ankle dug into her raw skin.
Ulder had apologized for it, had told her it was the only way to keep the fire wielders from taking her in the night. Then, he’d had the servants carry this new, luxurious bed into her chambers and a feast ordered to her dining area.
The chain had clinked along the stone floor when he’d guided her into a cushioned chair and served her the fresh fruit and sweet goat yoghurt with chopped nuts and honey himself.
Served by a king.
That had been a few days after the fire wielder destroyed the army camp.
It was the only way to keep her safe from the Flame-born rebels wreaking havoc on Dunai.
It didn’t take a genius to know she was target number one on their list. As Ulder’s ward, she’d make a fine hostage.
Guards followed her everywhere she went in this palace these days, replacing the shackle on her ankle with a more metaphorical one.
A knock sounded on the door, and the king strode in, graceful and dignified in his white and gold robes.
He wasn’t wearing a crown outside of court events, but it was clear he owned this palace, this kingdom, and every last subject within it.
A true ruler of strength in times of upheaval.
Elina lay very still, hoping he didn’t come bearing more bad news that would warrant for a new scar or an additional manacle, perhaps a collar and a leash.
“You look better.” He turned his deep-set brown eyes on her, studying her as she rolled off the bed. His face wasn’t unkind, merely set in the mask of the king. “Have you eaten?”
Elina managed a smile, the melancholy grasping her these days spreading heavily in her chest. “Yes, Father.” A glance at the table in the corner, where she liked to take her meal, watching the endless-seeming yard between the palace and the pyramid on the other end, where black-clothed men and women came and went day in and day out.
Ashthorn Ward. She’d overheard Lord Ycken and Lord Cann one day before she’d had the shackle attached to her leg. An academy for Ulder’s military elite. Rumors had it, some of the fighters from Ashthorn had magical abilities.
Sometimes, when she was still a child, she’d dreamed what it would be like to have magic of her own, but when she’d asked her adopted father, he’d told her that she’d be executed.
So she’d ignored the dreams and the flickers of what the world could look like. She ignored the images assaulting her when she hid in the peace and quiet of her rooms.
“I’ll need you for the ceremony tonight.” Not a question, but a fact. She was part of the celebrations for the Tears of the Gods every year. There was no reason it should be any different this time.
Running a hand over his beard, he studied her slow gait, her slender figure. “Another attack happened last night.”
Elina’s hand stilled mid-motion to the cup of rose-scented water in front of her. “Where?”
“Toward the coast this time.”
Forcing her hand to grab the cup and lead it to her mouth, Elina nodded.
“How many?” The aftermath of those attacks was always gruesome.
Her father’s guards needed to ride out into the heat of the desert to reach the affected regions.
The rebels responsible usually had disappeared back into hiding, and all that was left was death and destruction.
Corpses over corpses for them to bury and mourn.
“Twenty-three,” Ulder said, chin lowered and gaze cast to the floor. “Seven of them were children.”
Elina stifled a sob. Every time news of attacks reached the palace, she dreaded to hear how many of the good people of Sen Dunai had been killed.
Except for those few loyal men and women training with General Ycken, they all belonged on the butchering block, especially the Flame-born who kept causing such uproar.
“I’ll say prayers for all of them,” Elina promised as her father walked the length of the room to pull on the purple velvet cord beside her bed. A breath later, a guard entered the room, bowing low before the king.
“Unlock the anklet,” Ulder ordered, and the guard—a fine man who often stood watch in front of her chambers—knelt down in front of Elina, who lifted her lilac silk skirts a few inches to give him access.
She didn’t wince as the metal grated against her flesh, but the taste of salt and iron filled her mouth as her teeth cut the inside of her cheek.
“The general found some of the rebels hiding here in Dunai,” Ulder said as he watched the guard free Elina’s foot.
Elina cocked her head, dreading to hear what would happen to the people in question. “Flame-born?” It was all she really needed to know.
Ulder shrugged. “Perhaps. But most of all, Criu.” His face turned into a grimace at the last word.
The Criu were almost as bad as the Flame-born, their rebels still fighting to regain control over trading routes and territory. Thank the Guardians, Ulder had replaced their duke years ago with a man he could trust. Couldn’t those rebels see they were tearing this kingdom apart?
The entire Criulian nobility had abandoned their province.
Sometimes, when she was little, Ulder had told stories about the former Criulian rulers, the Pervailles.
They’d led their people into ruin with their favoritism of the magically gifted, and their hunger for power had nearly destroyed Brestolya.
When they left the room, the sun had almost set, and the usually light sandy color of everything she could see from her window was now a murky, wet brown.
The air tasted of hope and despair, and of a new year that would only bring her more misery.