Chapter 30
Durvla
With the dress finally off my plate, I can breathe a little easier. Even if I awoke this morning from a nightmare full of flames.
Choosing not to dwell on the strangely real fear that lingered from the dream, I begin packing for my return to Cluain Baile.
Having gotten permission to take whatever I want, I pack the plainest dresses—I shouldn’t take a lot of fancy attire—some underclothing, a woolen coat to keep me warm, and some fabric.
These new clothes will give me time to make Taig new clothing.
I’m sure he’s grown in the time I’ve been here.
One month … It’s felt like a lifetime. So much has happened. But soon, I’ll be able to reclaim my identity. To live in the familiar comfort of my own home, in my own village, with my own people.
I’m too excited to be confined to my room, so I take to wandering the castle. Each step is more eager than the next, until I’m standing in front of the grand entrance to the royal library. I have just four more days here, and I can’t leave without taking advantage of this opportunity.
Yanking the doors open, I hurry in and nearly jump out of my skin when I spot someone else standing there. The young woman whips her head around so quickly that her blond braid hits her in the face, and she flinches. She shuts the book in her hand and grins at me. “Durvla! You startled me!”
Eefa. “My apologies. I didn’t expect anyone to be in here. I didn’t mean to barge in like that.”
Eefa laughs and hugs the book to her chest as she approaches me, hips swaying.
“I’ve heard you’re leaving us after the Feast. Such a pity.
I’ve grown quite fond of you.” She pouts, but something in her large eyes isn’t quite sad.
They almost seem to challenge me. “It’s great here, you know.
I didn’t grow up in the castle, but I could never go back. ”
That piques my interest. “Are you also from the Grounds?”
“Worse. I’m from Darragh, west of here.”
Worse?
She throws her head back and laughs like it’s the funniest thing ever. I’m torn between laughing along falsely or just staring at her. It ends up being a strange mix of both.
“So, you’re …”
“The daughter of a noble. La. Di. Da.” She sighs heavily and twirls one finger in the air.
“There was no freedom in my household. Always ‘elbows off the table, Eefa. Straighten your back—you’re not a troll, Eefa. Lower your voice; shouting is unbecoming of a lady, Eefa.’ Thank the gods for my apprenticeship with Master Steffan, who happened to be the head cook here.
I couldn’t believe it when I was given the opportunity to work in Paramount. It’s been an absolute dream come true.”
People in Darragh are clearly thankless and entitled. Eefa, at least. “I’m glad your dream came true,” I say. Hopefully my voice doesn’t come out as flat as I feel it does.
“If you play things well here, you can rise in the rankings, save your wages, and acquire enough wealth to live out your elderly days on a large estate of your own. Imagine having servants doing your bidding. With your skill, that is absolutely possible. Mark my words, Durvla. I hope the same for myself. I’ll be saving my wages once I supersede Master Steffan. ”
“Is … that happening soon?”
“Eventually.” She twirls the loose end of her braid around her finger and smiles coquettishly. “Anyway, I must return to the kitchen. Nice to see you. I hope you decide to stay with us.”
She walks away, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. If Eefa thinks that living in a wealthy village in Mainland was terrible, she would’ve never survived life in the Grounds. Though, admittedly, her life in Darragh sounded void of love while mine was full of love even in the midst of hardships.
Once Eefa leaves, I stride toward the very back of the library, through the archway and along a dusty row of nondescript books.
The strangest sensation reverberates in my body as I home in on one of the leather spines closest to the wall.
Four symbols glow along the spine, but when I blink, there’s nothing there.
A trick of the light, I suppose. Or too little sleep.
The floor vibrates slightly and I whirl to find Princess Carys leaning heavily against the door. My heart leaps as I move quickly back through the archway and closer to Carys. Her face is contorted, her chest heaving with forceful breaths.
The door shakes very slightly in rhythm behind her, and Carys shouts something in response, her hands flying to cover her ears against whoever is pounding on the door. Is she being chased or something?
As her entire body starts to crumble, her gaze locks on me. She stiffens for the briefest moment before folding in on herself, sliding down to the floor with her forearms in front of her face, her fists in her hair.
I recognize her struggle.
I’ve been the one huddled on the floor, lost in the labyrinth of unrelenting panic, desperate for relief.
It’s so uncomfortably familiar that it takes me a split second to get my legs moving toward her.
I gently touch the back of her hand, and she pulls away so hard that her hand slams into the door behind her.
Pain flashes across her face and she swears, rubbing her knuckles.
I hold up my own hands in surrender. “I just want to help. What can I do?”
Her chest heaves, tears streak down her reddened cheeks, and I stand there like a fool, completely useless. I gather my skirts and sit carefully beside Carys. I don’t touch her or speak to her—I just sit there, existing in her space.
She pulls her knees up to her chest and her shoulders shake with sobs.
Behind us, the door thuds three times against our backs. Someone is knocking. My guess is that it’s Kilkenny. “I’m here with the princess,” I call out. Maybe not the smartest thing to say. “It’s me, Durvla.” I wince at the even more worthless phrase, but the knocking subsides.
Carys is still sobbing, and I hesitate before resting my hand on her back lightly. “I am here if you want to talk.”
She doesn’t react, but she doesn’t pull away either. I’m at a loss for how to calm her down. By memory, I start reciting one of my favorite stories from the book we both love. Sometimes telling myself these tales has helped me when I’ve been in such a state.
“Osha was the weakest of them all,” I begin, and there’s a brief pause in her tremulous breathing beneath my hand.
I continue. “Born fragile, she was prone to illness. Her bones easily fractured, and her stomach often rebelled. Osha showed little aptitude for magic unlike her siblings and cousins who were incredibly powerful. No one dared to spar with her in fear of snapping her bones, and they teased her for her delicate fingers emitting only tiny tendrils of light during wielding practice. But what she lacked in physical strength, she made up for in spirit.”
Carys lifts her head, and her gaze finds mine. Her face is still a splotchy mess of tears and snot. Wiping the sleeve of her dress across her face, she says, “Osha is my favorite.”
I smile at her. “Mine too.”
She closes her eyes and slumps back against the door, her face tilted up slightly toward the ceiling. I remain silent for a moment, letting her gather her composure.
“Do you want to talk about whatever’s bothering you?”
She gnaws on her lower lip and the weariness on her face increases tenfold. I regret asking.
“You don’t have to—”
“My mother is dying. The whole nation is going to mourn their queen, but I am going to lose the only person who has always loved me for all that I am. Volatile emotions and all.”
The queen is dying? I’m aware that she is ill but … I stifle the surprise and focus on the ache of sympathy for Carys. “I’m sorry.” I hesitate. “Has someone called you volatile?”
She sighs. “Who hasn’t? They’re not wrong, but aside from Alys, everyone dances around the subject.
I know there is something different about me.
I’m aware that sometimes I’m not the easiest person to put up with.
Gods, I can barely put up with myself at times.
” Her eyes flick up with annoyance. “I could use Osha’s cloaking abilities.
It would be remarkable to put up a force field and block out the rest of the world. ”
I can’t help but chuckle. “I’ve never heard a more relatable statement.” I would love to be a Lightweaver. I would put a force field around Cluain Baile, destroy the fears that lie in the shadows, block out the evil Forayers. My sweet Taig and all my people would have freedom.
If only such powers still existed.
Princess Carys tilts her face into my line of view, and I startle. I wince as blood rushes to my cheeks. “Apologies, Princess.”
She raises a brow, mild amusement creeping into her features. “You are such a daydreamer, Durvla. And drop the formalities. I believe we’ve moved past that now.” She gestures to herself in a dramatic, downward sweep of her hand.
A small smile buds on my face, and I nod before my lips tug down again.
“I have episodes too,” I say. Two different types of episodes, or whatever other euphemisms that have been used to diminish the sheer magnitude of the experiences.
One is physical, and the other deeply rooted in my mind.
“It’s awful being at the mercy of your own mind and body, isn’t it? ”
Carys’s eyes are wide as she nods. “Gods, yes.”
“Also, I am very sorry about your mother. I know what it’s like to lose a parent. Both parents.”
Compassion softens her face, and she says, “Condolences.”
“It happened a couple of years ago. I’ve learned to cope.”
“Does it still hurt?”
A plea fills her wide eyes, but the truth is that it hurts to some degree every day. Sometimes I want to tell Ma about my day or ask her for advice, and when I remember that I can’t, it wounds me all over again. I slowly nod and the tiny bit of hope burns away from her.
She inhales slowly, then with the next exhale, she paints a mask of calm on her face. “Well,” she says. “I suppose I’ll have to learn how to cope too.”
“You will,” I assure her. “Just think about all the people who will rely on you. That’s what keeps me going.” I had Taig to keep me going after Ma’s passing.
Color drains from her face as she wets her lips.
“People often say ‘listen to your heart,’ but how does one do that when they don’t know what their heart wants?
” Pain is evident in her gaze despite the smile she deliberately forces onto her lips.
“Every bloody day I’m confronted with so many feelings that I don’t know what to make of them.
I don’t know what’s a farce and what’s truth.
Underreaction or overreaction? Euphoria or despair?
I can’t even decipher between love and lust, hurt and anger.
It all feels like one giant cauldron of emotion soup. ”
Images of her and Callum flash in my mind and, along with it, so many emotions. “You’re conflicted about Sir Callum.” My words slip out, unbidden, and I flinch as if Carys is about to strike me.
Her immaculate brows raise, her lips pursed. For the briefest moment, I expect a flare of her temper, but the tension in her jaw loosens and she very slowly pushes loose strands of her raven hair back from her face.
Say something.
“I’m … that was out of line. My apologies, Car—”
“Explain yourself.”
Bewilderment competes with my rising pulse, my sweaty palms. My hand moves toward where my bracelet once circled my wrist before I remember it’s no longer there. Shakily, I slide my sweaty hand over my sleeve.
Carys’s brows are raised. “How are you so sure that I’m conflicted about Callum?”
It just came to me. An inkling that is oddly like a memory. But I can’t say that without sounding mental. “I’ve seen the looks exchanged between the pair of you.” I choose my words very carefully. “Sir Callum stares at you constantly.”
“He’s my guard.”
“Yes, but the look in his eyes isn’t obligation. It’s … adoration.”
She goes still, her mind calculating. “Go on,” she says after a pause.
My teeth graze my lower lip for a moment, and I inhale deeply. “When you look at him, it’s … flirtatious, playful. You do seem to care for him, but you’re not sure if it goes beyond that …”
A laugh bubbles out of her, taking me by surprise. I blink and my anxiety unfurls. She rubs her hands over her face and mutters something before turning her gaze to me again. “You’re an even better oracle than Ellynne thinks she is.”
I smile—I’ve heard Ellynne’s visions.
“Callum is … tantalizing,” she says.
I was expecting her to say something profound, so when she finishes the sentence, a snort bursts out of me, drawing laughter from Carys. I cover my mouth, embarrassed by what was no doubt the most unladylike sound ever.
Carys continues, unbothered. “Have you seen that man? Those blue eyes, that jawline, the blond hair, and all those rippling muscles.” She tilts her head back against the door and laughs. I can’t resist smiling at the sight.
The sorrow is hidden for now, replaced with joviality that warms me all over. I have a sense of having helped her. That I’ve made the tiniest difference in someone’s life—or day, at least.
“So, what about you, Durvla?”
I frown. “What about me?”
“Do you have anyone you’re fond of? A certain broody guard perhaps?”
Not her too … “No,” I say far too quickly.
Her eyes sparkle. “I knew it!”
“No, no, I—”
A series of knocks reverberate through the door behind us, and I all but jump out of my skin.
Carys huffs out a harsh breath. “Magdin’s tits! Keep your knickers on!” She gets to her feet—I follow far less gracefully—and yanks the door open.
Kilkenny stands there, a fist raised in midair. He lowers his hand, the agitation on his face replaced with his typical mask of indifference. His focus darts between Carys and me and he asks, “Is everything alright?”
“No,” Carys says. “But Durvla helped me calm myself. For now.” She smiles softly.
Something in Kilkenny’s eyes softens as they settle on me. There is no stoic indifference left.
“Let’s go,” says Carys, starting down the hallway.
Kilkenny hangs back for a moment, giving me a subtle nod.
He then lifts his hand and signs “thank you;” before leaving me behind with my mouth gaping open.