Chapter 20
Twenty
Three days and multiple apologies from Klara later, I have little to do before tomorrow’s meeting. At Balor’s insistence, the council plans to discuss training me to develop my powers.
But I can’t dwell on that.
Every time I do, the wind lashes against me, and I tumble from the turret once more, only amplifying the dread and insecurities surrounding my magic.
Although I had a memorable time the night of my coronation, Rett’s warnings about the missing womenfolk weigh heavily on my conscience.
The scouts were sent as promised, but it feels like I’m not doing enough.
I desperately want to confide in Klara about it—about everything.
I’ve probably attempted that clumsy conversation a hundred times, but each time it ends with my courage faltering before I can expose what a villain her father truly is.
Because what if she doesn’t believe me and I lose my only friend in this castle? What if I shatter her world and I’m wrong, all because Rett is setting me up to create discord? How can I trust him without question when he vanished like that?
There are too many what-ifs.
Between the missing womenfolk and removing Balor and Metalla from the council, it’s too much.
My thoughts spin until it gives me a headache, and I need to lie in bed, pretending the world doesn’t exist. My body folds into the soft mattress, but I toss and turn, unable to find relief.
Releasing a sigh and deciding to make better use of my time, I roll over to the bedside table. The neatly stacked library textbooks I’m working through sit there. I pick a book off the top and flip through the pages, stopping to read:
Two hundred and forty-five years ago, the Kingdom of Ashland laid siege to Alexandria Castle for three months before abandoning the attempt due to a lack of supplies. Their trebuchet attack on our highest turret was their parting gift.
There are too many endless descriptions of battles to keep my attention. Closing the textbook, I set it aside for later.
After starting another text, I call for the maids to bring dinner. As I settle in for the night, I slip out of my gown, leaving on only my circlet, shift, and stays, before draping a knitted shawl around my shoulders.
After the food arrives, I happily indulge in roasted goose and far too much cake, emptying the wine from my goblet and letting its flavor warm my belly as I read in complete privacy.
The sun sinks into darkness as I light the nubby candle on my desk. The newest textbook lacks any helpful details about the Kingdom of Ashland, listing only names and biographies of the Alexandrian military.
With hopes for something less dry, I pick up a petite leather-bound book wedged between two enormous tomes. I turn to the first page and read the handwritten, feminine, loopy letters:
90 days until my return.
Mother bought me a new journal to make up for another summer spent in Ashland.
“Don’t fret,” she said. “It’s only for a few months, and you’ll regret it if you fail to build a foundation for your future marriage. So smile and be nice to him—maybe even laugh at his jokes.”
“If I laugh at his stupid jokes, the only foundation I’ll build is one constructed on bad humor,” I told her.
“I quite pity your betrothed if this is what he must endure. Must you always be so contrary and unpleasant?” And she wondered why I’d skipped embroidery lessons with her.
My mother might have wrapped my father around her finger, but so did his Lady Courtesan and a half-dozen other mistresses, all of whom my mother blissfully ignores. I believe we have different tolerance levels for what we deem acceptable, so her opinions hold little significance for me.
It’s absolutely odious that I’m expected to go to my betrothed’s royal court to learn their customs—and never once do they make him come to Alexandria. No, it is I who must endure the carriage sickness and the unrelenting heat of travel from which I now suffer.
The Kingdom of Ashland may be known for being cold and rainy, especially in winter, but summer still bears down, making my legs stick together under my gown.
Throughout the entire journey so far, the leather bench has been hot and uncomfortable, and my maid takes up most of the space with her wool knitting and suffocating flatulence.
And once we arrive, I’ll be forced to spend three mind-numbing months with a dull and proper prince before the journey back. To be fair, it wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t want to be outside all the time, every minute of every hour.
Don’t get me wrong; I love a stroll through the garden, especially the one he designed—he’s quite talented in that regard.
But he takes it to an unreasonable extreme.
He’s always on some critical mission to save dying plants in the middle of the forest. Outfitted with his circular glasses and carrying a notebook inside his leather satchel, he heads out every morning after nicking a bite from breakfast. Apparently, he does as he pleases because he is the heir. If only I could have that luxury!
Prince Aros will become the Witch-King someday, and I’ll be his lady wife, destined to be devoted to this strange man and even stranger kingdom, never to my birthland. I would have to be okay with him doing as he pleases—just like my father.
Except I don’t want to.
Sometimes I daydream of stealing away to a different life, but the thought of leaving behind my library is the only thing stopping me. It’s still a work in progress, and I refuse to leave it unfinished.
Grandfather is letting me expand the main gallery when I get back.
For a while, I thought guilt was the reason he’d been so generous, until I overheard Grandfather talking to my older brother in the throne room.
The king said, “Look to your sister as an example of sacrifice. Your wastrel-princeling father has emptied our coffers yet again. Cliodna knows what she must do to ensure the survival of our Metalla reign. It’s about time the men around here did the same. ”
My brother laughed good-naturedly at first. “We don’t need Cliodna to fix Alexandria.” Then his voice grew low and serious. “But we should deal with Father before he does any more damage. Once that’s taken care of, we can draw up an economic plan.”
My heart swelled. I knew I could count on Tam.
But reality crashed down when the monarch made the decision of a king rather than a loving grandfather. “We’ll do both and revel in the gold this union will bring. Perhaps we should convince them to agree to a Bonding Betrothal—for assurance.”
That’s why I simply have no remorse about the money I pour into my library. The carpenters have already started the expansion while I’m away. Perhaps I should even start hinting to my betrothed that I would like to construct a new library at Ashland Castle as a wedding present.
But I grow weary of writing in this bumpy carriage.
—Cliodna
I close the diary and feel the worn cover under my fingertips. With a deep breath, I inhale the scent of leather.
What did I just read?
Did Wella mean for me to have this?
I thumb through the pages belonging to Princess Cliodna. I don’t know who she is, but I want to learn more. Her private thoughts and secrets fill every inch of the journal—even the margins contain scribbles and doodles.
Night truly sets in, the darkness pressing around me. I leave the diary on the desk and fetch another candle. Before I can reach the box of tapers, a burst of wind smashes the window, sending the pages flapping.
Help help help: comes the whisper’s plea.
My shawl drops to the floor as I sprint across the chamber and look out the window.
Floating from the empty garden, the whispers persist: help help help.
Worried the wind will rip the pages from their bindings, I snatch the diary and slide it snugly beneath my stays, cursing my lack of pockets. My pulse pounds in my throat; I grab the sharpened letter opener Phyrne gave me from the desk.
I run from my chamber to find my sentry sitting in his chair, snoring loudly, his double chin wobbling with each grunting breath.
Shaking his shoulder does nothing to wake him.
Even slapping his face does little to rouse him.
My foot hits an empty goblet, which rolls beneath his seat with a loud clang. I curse at him and the cup—
And then it comes again: help help help.
I’m wasting time.
Down the hallway, I sprint, looking for assistance. Have I made a mistake about how late the hour is? My footsteps echo through the vacant corridors. The castle is deserted.
Where is everyone?
It must be later than I realize because my vision blurs when I reach the entrance hall. Running becomes laborious. I brace myself against the wall as I gasp for air.
The letter opener clatters onto the floor. I clumsily pick it up, clenching it tighter in my fist.
Help help help.
I have to move. I have to find someone.
Anyone.
Fear lurches in the pit of my stomach, and my head pounds with great wallops.
I don’t know where I am until my toes sink into the bare blades of grass. Had I not put shoes on? I turn around and look up at the castle. Not a single light is on in any of the windows.
I keep moving.
A pebbled path twists and turns inexplicably under my numb feet.
After passing by the spot twice, I grab hold of the naked body of the Spirit Goddess statue next to a gurgling stone fountain, the water sounding distorted and distant.
Something is wrong. My thoughts swirl and tangle with one another. Where am I going again?
Help help help.
Oh… yeah, I have to help… someone. I stumble and stumble and stumble until I collapse in front of a garden bench.
On the ground, I sit and clutch the hard stone of the seat, hoping it will anchor me.
The world tilts and whirls until I think I might become sick.
I lay my forehead on the cool stone surface, breathing for a second and trying to figure out what is happening.
But thinking hurts.
My ears prick.
Out of the shadows of the bushes—
Growls. Angry growls. Growls that feast on flesh.
Snapping my head up, I tighten my grip around my makeshift weapon as my feet try to regain their balance.
Yellow eyes gleam through the foliage. Something primal takes over. I don’t think.
I run.
But the castle is getting farther and farther away.
And the growls grow closer and closer.
Through the thicket of dying rose bushes, a wet nose and the scrape of teeth skid across my calf. My heart pounds like it’s trying to attack me from the inside out.
I lurch forward against the tall barrier wall separating the castle grounds from the moat. With my breath held, I focus on forming fire in my palms—anything to scare the beasts off.
Perspiration trickles over my eyebrows and down my temples. Weak licks of flame fall from my outstretched hands—useless.
My back presses against the wall as I search for something to help me. The wolflike eyes reflect a soulless yellow, their smoky-black bodies inching closer and closer.
Putrid breath skitters across my skin.
The tips of my fingers lace into the ivy.
There’s no other choice. I’m unsure if the vines will hold me without Klara’s steadying help, but I refuse to discover what will happen if I don’t try.
I pull with every muscle and ounce of strength I possess.
My bare toes look for any grip, any indentation in the stone, to lift me.
I let out a shriek as pain shoots through my body. Teeth rip into the skin of my left foot. I kick wildly with my other leg, but it meets only shadowy air. Panic seizes me with every ticking second. I dig deep for the willpower to finish pulling myself to the top.
This time, being on the wall is different. There are no trees to aid my descent in this part of the garden—only a sheer drop to the moat below. My breath tears from my burning lungs.
There’s no need for me to wait to see if these beasts can climb because they are already on either side of me, stalking along the narrow stone ledge.
A flash of lightning illuminates them. They resemble giant wolves, and around their black edges, smoky shadows puff and curl, blurring their form except for their canine teeth.
I do not think.
I jump.
Down.
As the moat slaps into my body like a million little cuts, I’m pulled under, and the letter opener slips through my fingers into the swirling depths.
I grasp and clutch for it in the cold, relentless dark, but it sinks out of reach.
I cry for help, but nobody hears me over the rumbling fountains pouring from the battlement walls.
The moat sweeps me away as fat raindrops fall from the stormy sky with such force that the water splashes up into my mouth and nostrils, making breathing almost impossible as the current threatens to take me under.
Lightning shatters above, and thunder cracks as I flinch from the overwhelming violence. I try to swim out of the rapid current, but every time I grab at the bank, the soil breaks away in my hands, and the water pulls me in all over again.
I reel with confusion, ache with exhaustion. My limbs grow heavy like lead, sinking me. Slowly, I realize I can’t feel the frigid temperature anymore. Everything goes numb.
So numb.
Pressure mounts from below, lifting me to the top. Air strikes my skin viciously. I sputter and breathe.
I float along the waterway, not caring where it takes me anymore.
Something with silken scales grazes the back of my hand. With my ears beneath the water, I listen to a haunting song. The melody comforts me as the moat empties into the Hetaira River.