Chapter 78 Hunger
Hunger
Iwake to hunger. It rises quickly and refuses to soften, a low pull that insists on being acknowledged. I lie still at first, listening to the quiet of the chamber, to the faint rasp of wind against shuttered wood, hoping the sensation will dull if I ignore it. It does not.
The hearth has burned down to a faint red glow. The air smells of ash and cooled iron. When I sit up, the room moves slightly, as though I have stood too quickly after too little sleep. I steady myself with one hand against the mattress.
The bread rests where I left it, wrapped in linen on the small table near the window.
I cross to the table and lay my hand over the linen.
For a moment I consider unwrapping it, but the servant who pressed it into my hands had flour on her sleeve and fear in her voice.
If someone saw her give it to me, there would be questions.
If she gets caught, I can tell him I stole it.
He will see that the bread was never eaten, that no rules were broken.
She will not suffer any punishment. I pull my hand back.
I almost laugh as I wonder what punishment he could give me. There are no more privileges left to remove. The hunger deepens, but it is easier to endure than the thought of someone else called before him to explain a kindness.
I try the door first, but the handle does not move. I test it again, more carefully this time. Locked. He has said he sleeps better when it is so. The realization brings no anger, only a quiet reshaping of the night.
I turn to the window, and the latch lifts without resistance.
The air outside is damp and colder than I expect.
I do not change or search for shoes. I ease myself over the sill and lower myself to the ground, the hem of my nightgown catching briefly before I drop.
The cold cuts through skin and bone, clearing the last of the haze from my mind.
I do not look toward the palace again. Instead, I turn toward the trees and begin the path to the forest.
Beyond them, through the dark, the Baron’s house glows. Music spills from the upper windows. Laughter follows, loud enough to carry through the branches. I pause and watch the movement of light behind glass. What sort of parties is Mysin hosting, believing his father rests peacefully on holiday?
I move into the forest, not to train, not tonight. The hunger presses in as I walk, and the currents I usually sense feel distant, as though I am reaching through water instead of air. My steps lose some of their usual precision, and I compensate without thinking.
Arven waits in the clearing. He looks me over once, from bare feet to wind-tangled hair. “You are late.”
“I am not.”
“You are not dressed to fight.”
“I did not come to fight.”
He glances down my bare feet, then back to my face. “You are shivering.”
“I suppose I am.”
“When did you last eat?”
“At dinner.”
“And before that?”
“I do not take luncheon anymore.”
“Why?”
“The King has moved dinner earlier. The portions are larger.”
“And?”
“He prefers that I eat properly.”
He turns without comment and retrieves food from his pack. Dried meat. Coarse bread. He presses it into my hands. “Eat.”
The scent reaches me at once. My body responds before I do.
“How many bites?” I ask quietly.
He stills. “What?”
“How many?” I repeat. “I do not wish to spoil my appetite.”
The silence stretches.
He crouches in front of me. “You are hungry.”
“Yes.”
“Then eat.”
“May I?” The question leaves me before I can reconsider it.
“You may eat whenever you choose,” he says evenly.
I take a bite. The food is harder than I expect. A sudden warmth spreads too quickly, and my vision blurs faintly at the edges.
“Slowly,” he says, touching my wrist.
I lower myself to the ground without protest.
“You did not come here for training,” he says.
“No.”
“You came because you were hungry.”
“Yes.”
Warmth turns into something almost heavy.
“What was the weather like today?” I ask.
He watches me closely. “Cold. Clear.”
“Were the red brethil birds still near the river?”
“Yes.”
“They leave when the air shifts. They dislike early frost.”
Silence.
“And the ash groves? Have they shed?”
“Not yet.”
“I have not seen them,” I say.
“You have not been outside during the day?”
“It is easier this way. The King prefers routine.”
His expression shifts, but he does not argue.
I take another bite. “I once met Prince Tamal of Yorali,” I say after a moment. “At the Baron’s ball. He had just returned from Kisernia. He told me the trees there rise so high you cannot see their tops.”
Arven smiles faintly. “I have been to Kisernia. They do.”
“I would like to try the white fruit they grow one day.”
“Yaforins?”
“Yes.”
“Indeed, they are delicious,” he says.
“They bruise easily,” I add. “The flesh stains if you are careless, I have heard.”
“You have researched much about fruit,” he says.
“Fruit is interesting.”
We are quiet for a moment.
“There is a silver ash in the palace courtyard. It drops its leaves all at once with the first frost. I would like to know if it has.”
“I thought I might see it myself,” I add. “But I would be content simply to know.”
Colsar had placed my carpentry table in the south gallery so I could see it. I had imagined watching for the first frost, seeing the leaves fall all at once. I had imagined carrying that small excitement through the day, waiting to tell him over dinner.
He would have been pleased. The things that pleased me always seemed to matter to him.
I had never had someone to tell about my day before, never dared to think it was something I was meant to have.
After he left, I had been content to watch for it myself, so that when he returned I would be able to tell him.
But the south gallery was forbidden, and now I would be content simply to hear if they had fallen.
Arven’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “You need only walk outside and see for yourself.”
“The courtyard is overlooked.”
“You are not permitted?”
I do not answer directly.
“Can your maid bring you food?” he asks.
“No. She is permitted to see me once a day. She brings his instructions and the gown for the evening. She must leave at once.”
“And friends?”
“I do not receive letters. Or visitors. It is temporary.”
“Temporary,” he repeats.
“If I behave, perhaps letters will resume. I would like to know where Colsar is. Or if Junis has found trouble at sea. Or whether Nyara has been able to attend the theater. Perhaps there have not been performances while the ports have been closed.”
“The theater?”
“Yes.”
I describe it quietly: the lamps along the balcony, the scent of wax and perfume, the hush before the curtain lifted.
“And after,” I say, “we went to the tavern. That is where I met Nyara.”
“You speak of that as if it mattered.”
“It did.” I smile. “Not too long ago she declared me her best friend.”
“Nyara?”
“Yes. She was the first person I met who felt a little like me. We wrote to each other. Small letters.”
“And now?”
“Letters are not permitted.” I pause. “But perhaps when the ports open, or when the King is more at ease, she and I can visit the theater together.”
“The theater would make you happy.”
I smile. “Yes.”
“I already know what I would wear,” I add, unable to hide my excitement. “I have not chosen my own gown since Colsar left.”
Silence.
I miss Colsar. If he were here, he would have asked which gown, just to witness my pleasure in describing it.
“May I ask something of you?”
He watches me carefully. “What is it?”
“If I bring you toys, could you deliver them to the orphanage?”
His mouth twists as though I’ve just requested poison. “Toys?”
“I carve animals, trains, boats. Then I paint them.” I shrug. “I enjoy carpentry.”
Arven appears bored, though I do not think he is. “Do you usually deliver them yourself?”
“Yes. I know the children by name.”
“Name one.”
“Orsan. The orange boat is for him.”
Before he can respond, a voice cuts through the trees. “Princess.”
Arven draws steel instantly.
“Stand down,” I say softly. “We do not know what he wants. Hide.”
He slips into the trees without argument.
A man steps into the clearing. “Princess, I am Iavis. The King had requested a guard be stationed outside your window. I was on patrol and missed you slip out.”
Something in me goes cold. If the King learns I have left, he will seal the windows, and my lessons will come to an end. “I slipped out for air.”
He bows his head slightly. “I requested the position. I serve in the prince’s personal guard.”
He looks at me and I understand. I am on your side.
Something in me loosens.
“There are rumors,” he continues carefully. “That you are deprived of food and sunlight. I assumed you came here to your childhood home for comfort.”
I almost laugh. If only he knew how little comfort the Baron’s house holds.
“These woods are not safe, Your Highness,” he says gently, removing his cloak and placing it over my shoulders.
“I know.”
“I will be forty paces past the Baron’s house,” he adds quietly. “I assume you are here for reflection.”
“I miss my husband,” I say. My voice trembles as I say it. I want Colsar.
His expression softens. “Yes. I know.” He lowers his voice.
“You are loved by many. Many are worried for you. There is not a servant in that dining room who has not held vigil hoping the prince returns alive. Every servant who has spoken too boldly on your behalf has lost wages. Some have disappeared.”
I am aware of Arven listening from the trees.
“Wait for me, Iavis,” I say. “I will return shortly.”
“My wife loves to cook,” he begins. “She could prepare something for you—”
“No,” I interrupt quickly. “There are too many eyes. Too many searches. If anything were found, there would be consequences. I am fine. I am not hungry.”
He studies my face. “You look like a shadow of what you were just weeks ago,” he says softly. “When you returned rosy with the prince. Everyone knew the King envied his brother. No one believed—”
“Please,” I say. “Go wait for me.”
He bows and withdraws.