29 A Knock
A Knock
Vaelira awoke to the sound of metal scraping on stone. She reached out from where she lay on the floor beneath a thick blanket and found the plate warm.
“Eat,” the guard ordered.
She waited, and only when the distant clang of the dungeon lock echoed, did she scramble upright. She hadn’t eaten in days, and the promise of hot food was too much to resist. She didn’t care that it burned her tongue or that the meat was tough. She licked the plate clean, then her fingers.
She was about to crawl back under the blanket when she heard the lock again. Vaelira sat up straighter, clutching the fabric around herself like a shield. It was too soon for them to collect the tray.
Two guards appeared. One held a lantern, the other reached for the ring of keys at his waist. The cell lock clicked open and Vaelira crushed the sliver of hope that tried to rise at the sound. Elijah wasn’t coming to save her. This had to be something else.
The guard stepped in, grabbed her by the arm, and shoved her into the corridor.
“Where are you taking me?”
The only answer was another shove between her shoulder blades that sent her stumbling forward.
She turned towards the stairs, but they pulled her in the opposite direction, down another hall, through a door, and into a small room.
The sudden glow of a fireplace made her eyes water.
She raised her shackled hands to shield them.
The room was bare, save for a small tub of water and a chair with a plain shift draped over its back. A pair of simple shoes waited on the floor.
“Undress,” one of the guards ordered.
Vaelira didn’t move. The guard tilted his head, eyes dragging down her body. “Undress, or we’ll do it for you.”
The other man laughed, shaking his head. “Come on, Klint. The Prince will have you whipped if you keep that up.”
Klint grunted, giving her a final look before slamming the door shut.
Vaelira exhaled slowly. There was only one reason she’d be told to bathe and change. It was time to meet Queen Mairese.
She crossed the room, passing the tub to check every corner and crevice, but there was no window, no secret passage. Not that she could open one even if it were there.
She reached for the buttons of her filthy shirt, then stopped, remembering the shackles. She’d rather throw herself in the fire than call the guards for help. Her gaze lingered on the flames, and for a moment, she considered it.
Instead, she ripped the fabric, letting it fall to the floor in pieces. She stepped out of her trousers and climbed into the tub, surprised to find the water warm. She closed her eyes and imagined she was back in the barracks after a long day of training.
Lukas’s burned body flashed through her mind. Her eyes flew open. She stared into the fire, her vision blurring. Had she killed him? Why hadn’t she asked Elijah? Had she been so selfish, so consumed, that she hadn’t spared a thought for the man she’d burned?
She scrubbed the dirt from her skin as best she could with her hands bound and stood before the fire to let her body dry. She stood close enough that the heat burned. The searing of skin was a welcome reminder that she could still feel. Still breathe. Still live.
Once dry, she slipped her feet into the shoes and picked up the dress, holding it against her body as she approached the door. “I will need help dressing,” she called, forcing defiance into her voice.
Laughter echoed on the other side. She cut it off. “If either of you thinks of doing it, I’ll tell Prince Elijah that a guard named Klint and his partner treated me most dishonourably.”
Muttering followed and a set of footsteps faded down the hall. Several long moments later, a quiet knock sounded. “Don’t knock,” Klint barked. The lock clicked.
Vaelira stepped away from the door, keeping the dress wrapped across her front. It opened just enough for a small girl to dart inside. She couldn’t have been more than ten. She looked once at Vaelira and quickly away as the door shut behind her.
Vaelira lowered her voice. “You don’t have to be afraid. I won’t hurt you.”
The girl looked up and Vaelira offered a gentle smile. The girl hesitated but smiled back.
“Look,” Vaelira said, raising her shackled wrists.
The girl looked, and so did Vaelira. Now she had adequate light, she could see the metal was etched with strange patterns.
Lines and curves spiralled around her wrists like ancient script.
She’d never seen anything like it. She reached inward again, calling the flame.
For a heartbeat, she thought the markings glowed, but then the metal was dull again. Perhaps it was the firelight.
“What’s your name?” Vaelira asked.
“Gilda,” the girl replied.
Vaelira held out the dress. “Do you mind helping me, Gilda?”
Gilda took it and shook out the fabric, frowning in concentration. Vaelira tilted her head, just as confused by the strange folds and ties.
Eventually, they managed it together. The dress slipped over her shoulders like a cape. The sleeves were split from wrist to armpit, with buttons running up the length so they could be fastened without removing the shackles. The rest wrapped around her front and was tied into place.
When Vaelira spun to let Gilda check their work, they were both grinning. A loud knock cut through the moment of warmth and Gilda flinched. Vaelira squeezed her hand. “Thank you.”
Gilda slipped back into the hall and Klint pushed his way in, the brief reprieve Vaelira had allowed herself to feel draining away with his approach.
There was no sneer this time. He studied her with cold calculation, making sure she was presentable, then he stepped forward.
Vaelira stepped back. He grunted and dragged her into the hall.
The palace was silent. Only the guard's heavy boots echoed through the dim halls. Servants moved like ghosts, their eyes lowered. It was clear she would find no help here.
They reached a set of heavy double doors and Klint knocked. Vaelira’s hand twitched, reaching for a sword that wasn’t there. Her father’s sword. What would he think seeing her like this? What would Jon say, knowing her need for vengeance had led her here?
The doors opened and a different guard took her arm. She didn’t look back as Klint disappeared behind her.
They passed through a grand entryway, through another set of doors, and into what Vaelira assumed must be the Queen’s chambers.
Curtains of deep golden velvet fell around the windows like waterfalls, pooling on the dark stained floors.
Matching velour sofas flanked a wide hearth, and above it, a towering painting dominated the room, depicting two boys standing before their parents, one dark-haired, one light.
At first, she didn’t notice the crown on the father’s head, but as she was pulled up the spiral staircase, the truth struck her.
She peered back over her shoulder, seeing the space below in a new light. Gold was the King’s colour. And it was everywhere.
Her stomach dropped. She hadn’t expected this, not so soon.
She’d thought she would have time to practice, or maybe even talk to Galfri before being brought here.
But no one knew about him. As far as they were concerned, she was the only mage on the continent.
The more she thought about it, the more certain she was that even without Galfri, that couldn’t be true.
If her parents had just told her the truth, she could have found others, learned how to control it, protected Jon… She wouldn’t be here in chains.
They stopped on the landing beside an intricate tapestry. Forests and mountains stretched across the heavy fabric, stitched in painstaking detail, gold-threaded wildcats prowling the woven woods, tiny eyes and sharp beaks peeking from behind leaves and rocks. The creatures of legends and lullabies.
A door opened and a woman stepped out wearing a priest’s simple robes, a circlet of silver resting atop her white curls.
In the centre, two gemstones sat atop one another, creating a single eye.
She closed the door then stiffened as her gaze landed on Vaelira.
Her mouth pressed into a tight line, but she said nothing as she swept down the stairs and out of sight.
The door opened again and Elijah appeared. His hair was perfect. His clothes spotless. His eyes went to her shackles, to her hair, the dress. He gave her half a smile. She gave him nothing.
He gestured for her to enter, and she stepped forward, refusing to hesitate but keeping as much distance from him as she could. The guards followed, the door closing behind them with shuddering finality.
In the centre of the room, a man lay in an enormous four-poster bed. Thick candlesticks flickered on the two tables beside him, casting his face into stark relief. If Elijah had ever looked like his father, it was impossible to tell now.
King Roderic Duremont lay still beneath a thick quilt. His skin was so pale it was almost grey. Sharp cheekbones jutted from his gaunt face, his eyes sunken so deep into their sockets they were rimmed in deep shadows. Wisps of golden hair clung to his scalp.
If it weren’t for the faint rasp of breath, Vaelira would have thought him dead.
This was what they expected her to heal. This husk of a man.
Two figures stood on either side of the bed. She didn’t recognise the man, but the woman was unmistakable, if only for the crown that rested on her head.
Elijah dipped into a bow, glancing back at Vaelira. She bent her knees, doing her best to curtsy without tipping sideways on her sore limbs.
The Queen tilted her head and approached. A sickly-sweet perfume drifted with her, so thick it turned Vaelira’s stomach. “The First Three have granted you great power, Vaelira Tarn,” she said, her voice like thick silk. “Heal our beloved King, and the First Three may yet spare your life.”
She lifted her hand. Vaelira flinched but didn’t move as Queen Mairese touched her cheek lightly, brushing a strand of hair from her face and tucking it behind her ear. She stepped away with a sigh, returning to the bedside.
Vaelira’s cheek burned. She wanted to wipe the caress away but resisted, drawing her focus back to the King instead.
She didn’t know how to heal a scraped knee, let alone whatever this was, but the Queen’s words had not been a request. Bound as she was, killing her would be as easy as a scythe through wheat. She wouldn’t even see it coming.
The man at the King’s side turned. Elijah shifted slightly, as if to block his approach, but the man just gave him an amused smile and stepped past. “Lord Emeric Lereaux,” he said, giving a mock bow. Something about him was familiar.
“Erryn’s father,” Elijah clarified.
She could see it now, the sharp nose, the square jaw. Erryn hadn’t given details, but she knew this man was no good. Her gaze hardened, and that she could still summon rage gave her hope that the essensia hadn’t abandoned her entirely.
The Queen watched, her expression unreadable, but Vaelira could feel the weight of disapproval in the room. The Queen turned to the guards and gave a single nod. There was a knock and someone was dragged through the door. A woman.
It didn’t matter that the woman’s freckles were now covered in long-dried blood, or that her usually light hair now hung in greasy strands. Even with one of the woman’s eyes swollen shut, Vaelira knew what colour it was.
Green.
She would recognise that face anywhere.
She would recognise her friend anywhere.
Freya.