Chapter 80 Maridale
Maridale
Iwake late, closer to midday than I intend, the forest still clinging to me, a heaviness lingering in my limbs that sleep does not quite ease.
I tell myself it is only the accumulation of too many sleepless nights.
For a few moments I lie still, remembering the calm certainty in Arven’s voice when he said the ports reopening meant movement, not safety.
Then the palace closes in again. By midday the chamber has begun to feel smaller.
The air is warmer than it should be for the season, trapped behind shuttered windows opened only when the King permits it.
Light presses faintly at the seams of the wood but does not enter.
I have grown accustomed to marking time by footsteps in the corridor rather than the movement of the sun.
When the knock comes, I am already standing.
Maridale enters with the gown folded over her arms. She keeps her expression composed until the door closes behind her. Only then does the strain show, faint but unmistakable.
“You are to remain in your chambers until dinner,” she says in the tone expected of her. “His Majesty wishes for quiet while the delegations prepare.”
“Of course,” I reply.
She lays the dress across the chair, smoothing the sleeves with careful precision. As she passes behind me, something presses lightly into my palm.
A folded cloth, though I do not look at it yet.
She moves toward the hearth, adjusting a log that does not need adjusting. “The King is occupied this afternoon,” she says.
When her back is turned, I open the cloth just enough to see what rests inside. Bread. A wedge of cheese. Dried fruit wrapped in linen.
The sight of it does not shock me. It simply confirms what others believe.
“You should not risk this,” I say quietly.
“You should not need it,” she answers, without bitterness.
I sit by the window as though to mend a seam and unwrap the food fully in my lap. “Has there been news?”
Her hands still for a moment. “General Rorin left several days ago. Edrin and I made certain he carried word north.” Her voice lowers.
“Others in the palace have gone to him too, asking him to retrieve the Prince. Your cousin Nyara reportedly arrived uninvited and kicked his study door open, demanding that he leave for Shalvar.”
“To the Prince.”
“Yes.”
Guilt presses in slowly rather than striking. Rorin rides dangerous roads because the servants fear for me. I am fed, clothed, and not beaten. The King speaks of protection and believes it. That should be enough.
Maridale moves about the room, adjusting curtains and folding linen. “You must hold on, Your Highness,” she adds, and this time the title carries more hope than protocol.
I think to myself that perhaps this is an overreaction, that none of this is that severe. Yet something beneath the surface has shifted, and others see it clearly enough to risk themselves.
“He is trusted by the prince,” she says before she leaves. “Rorin would not ride if he thought it unnecessary.”
“I know,” I answer.
After she goes, the chamber feels even smaller for having briefly held kindness. Rorin rides north. Word travels toward the mountains. I tell myself that this is excessive, that the King does not intend harm, that I can endure a few weeks of ordered dinners and closed shutters without all this.
I am not starving. But when I think of Colsar reading whatever message they have sent, of him turning the page and going still in that quiet way of his, I feel something close to longing that I do not try to discipline.
By evening the gown is laced tightly around my ribs. I smooth the silk and study my reflection. I look composed. Regal. Entirely in control.
I prepare to dine.