Chapter 42
Carys
In the morning, I’m able to make it to the infirmary.
It’s suspiciously empty, especially as I’ve asked Callum to wait outside of the chamber for me.
But it gives me the opportunity to peruse the shelves for the vial that Alys instructed me to take.
I lift each vial, one at a time, reading the names on them.
St. John’s Wort, Chamomile, Patchouli, Belladonna—this one is written correctly—Henbane, Hemlock, Lavender, Wormwood, Mint … and, at last, BelLadonna. Found you.
I slip the vial into my pocket just as the door shuts behind me, and I jump so hard that my shoulder nudges the shelf, a few vials falling out and shattering on the floor. “Shit,” I mumble. I turn to the healer who’s just walked in. Bloody Briony … I wish I could throw a vial of Belladonna at her.
“Your Highness,” she says sweetly, curtsying. “I’m sorry, but Lady Alys isn’t here.”
“I know,” I say. “I just came to get something for a headache.”
“Oh, let me get that for—”
“No need. I’ve gotten what I came for. You may”—I’m already heading to the door—“get back to whatever it is you need to do.”
She curtsies again. “Thank you, Your Highness.” Her overly sweet voice grates on my nerves, but I smile tightly at her and walk out of the infirmary, joining Callum.
“Got your tincture?” he asks.
“I did.”
Once back at my bedchamber, I head to the balcony and fish the vial out of my pocket. It’s tiny, fitting in the palm of my hand, so I have no clue how Alys claims to have left a letter in it. Smash it, she’d said. So, I do, dropping it onto the floor of my balcony.
The glass breaks, leaving behind a rolled parchment that is too large to have been inside the tiny vial. My eyes must be deceiving me … I crouch and wrap my hands around the parchment. It is real, full-sized. My heart stutters in my chest.
With shaky hands, I open the parchment and smile at Alys’s beautiful, elaborate penmanship.
Dearest Carys,
I cannot apologize enough for telling you all of this through written word.
I waited for the right moment but ran out of time faster than anticipated.
Your mother thought it was important that you remembered certain details on your own, and I regret not disobeying her requests because there is so much that you need to know.
My dear, magic does exist. Mages are not extinct. They are hiding in plain sight. As history often repeats itself, there are forces at work, attempting to purge our people from this realm.
I pause. Our people?
Your mother’s illness is incurable. I believe if it were not for whatever potion or enchantment is keeping her alive, she would have passed from this realm.
I am not sure why they’re keeping her alive, but it may be because they’ve somehow discovered her powers.
Luckily, they don’t seem to know about yours.
What?
Someone in the fortress may be able to detect magic.
For that reason, you need to be very careful.
The amulet around your neck is a power dampener and may be keeping you shielded.
As much as your mother wanted you to remove it, don’t.
I’ve taught you grounding in hopes that I could eventually help you learn to control your flamewielding, but we never got the chance. I am very sorry for that.
Images flash in my mind. The space around me burning, my mother’s hand on mine, quelling the fire within. My breath catches in my throat, and I swallow thickly. Icy dread snakes down my spine. It can’t be … I hurriedly absorb the last paragraphs of Alys’s letter.
I wish I could explain more, but this is the best I can tell you for now.
As for your marriage, choose someone outside of Erleya.
Someone less likely to give in to Iywan and the Council’s ways.
If you fall into danger, speak to Angharad, the brig guard.
She’ll know how to get you out of there, but it would have to be a last resort.
Dear one, dark times are upon us, but you can be the light.
With unyielding love,
Elviera A.
My blood runs cold, and my hand flies to the amulet around my neck. It warms to my touch as it always does.
Because I have damn flames coursing through my veins.
It should be farfetched, but deep down, I know it’s true. The air becomes too thin, my breathing too quick. I stride back into my chamber and toward the fireplace. Moments later, the paper curls and disintegrates in the fire, burning all evidence of Alys’s words.
Remember what happened to Aneirin. My mother’s voice plays in my head.
My mind reels, and I’m five years old again.
“Toss me a sword!” I yell to Aneirin.
He chuckles, the sound deep in his chest. I wasn’t used to his deep voice just yet, but he was getting older. Occasionally, it still cracked, but I hated that he was growing up and leaving me behind to be treated like a weak little girl. “What?” he asks.
“Toss me a sword, come on!”
He tosses me a wooden play sword.
I jump aside and let it clatter to the floor. Annoyance burns through me as I stare at him. “A real sword.”
“Why on earth would you want a real sword, sweet sister?”
I hold my head up proudly. “Because I’m going to be a warrior.”
Aneirin laughs again. “You most certainly will not. You will be a queen.”
I march toward him, rage flaring. “Take that back!” I shove him as hard as I can, my hands connecting with his middle, but he barely budges.
He holds his sword out, his arms wide open, afraid he’ll accidentally hurt me. Or more likely, that I’ll hurt myself. “Are you having big feelings again?”
Big feelings—it was a patronizing euphemism for my mood swings. “I am not!”
He regards me as though I’m a wounded pet in need of tending to. “Are you cross with me, then?”
It’s not him in particular that I’m cross with.
It’s the conversations I’ve overheard: the talks of my future marriages, strangers plotting my betrothals to outsiders.
It’s my tutors insisting that I learn embroidery and harp, and that I ride sidesaddle in a stupid dress.
It’s the pressure to be a perfect, demure princess who wouldn’t be able to defend myself against Dark Mages and Shadow Wielders like the heroes in my book.
Instead, I’m only allowed to watch my brother as he trains. He’s the best in the fortress. So fearless. So fearsome. I want to be just like him. I want to feel strong and fearless and fearsome. Not weak and angry and sad all the time. Not useless.
I snatch the sword from him, ready for him to take me seriously, ready to prove I’m a worthy adversary.
But the sword is heavier than I anticipated and though I grasp the hilt with both hands, the blade dives forward, pulling me with its weight.
I nearly lose my balance, but I manage to right myself.
I beam at Aneirin with pride, and he laughs. Laughs! His head thrown back, the free, taunting sound fills the training room. The sound infiltrates my mind. Heat prickles my skin.
My brother, who I adore and admire more than anyone else, doesn’t take me seriously.
I’m sick of it!
“Enough!” I scream. With all the pent-up emotions of the entire day, I throw my arms out, pitching the sword.
Flames burst from my hands, a wide sweeping arc consuming everything and sending me flying backward.
The last thing I remember is Aneirin screaming in agony.
I find myself on the floor of my bedchamber, plopped back into my present reality. My body trembles with the effort to expel the memories along with the contents of my stomach, and I dig my nails into the floor as I dry heave uncontrollably.
The realization tears at my heart, guilt and revulsion clawing up my throat. I retch again and dissolve into sobs that I can’t stop.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t—
A series of knocks from the door sound in my ear, and it’s so urgent, I’m certain it’s not the first time they’ve knocked. A voice calls to me, distant through the roar of my pulse in my ears. Then there’s an arm around me and Ellynne’s soothing voice. “Carys, what is it? Are you hurt?”
I lift my face to Ellynne’s, and my sight is so blurry that I can only make out her fiery hair.
Fiery …
I pull away from her and scurry back on my arse, my chest heaving. “No,” is all I can grind out.
She holds her hands up. She’s harmless, only wanting to help. “Talk to me.”
What can I possibly say to her? That I’m an abomination? A monster? That I killed my brother and that I’m a danger to everyone around me?
“Let me just … give you a hug or something. You look a fright.”
Unable to respond, I stare at her. But her arms wrap around me again, her hand gently rubbing my back. “Whatever it is, you can tell me. Did someone hurt you? Is it Callum? Eefa? I’ll gut the bastards.”
In another time, I would’ve laughed. But I just shake my head. “No,” I say, my voice sounding raw. “It’s me. It’s always been me.”