Chapter 3 #2
As we stop, there’s a confrontation outside the carriage between our footman and a couple of soldiers.
My mother pushes the carriage door open and steps out, shutting the door behind her as more muffled quarrels ensue.
I rub my palm over the cool window, clearing the condensation, then press my forehead firmly against it.
Mother faces two soldiers who look down at her, their postures rigid.
“What are they saying?” Arionna whispers.
“I don’t know, Arionna. I can’t read lips.” I try to keep the frustration out of my voice; it’s not her fault we don’t know what’s going on. I push the door open ever so slightly, allowing more sound to flood in, along with the acrid odor of smoke clinging to the air.
“We received an official summons to visit Sir Eurig of Barr na Cahar,” Mother is saying. Her voice is steady, but from the way she’s clasping her hands, she’s certainly not calm.
“No one is permitted beyond the boundaries, Madam,” a soldier responds.
“But it was an official summons.” She rummages within her cloak, looking for said summons, but the soldier holds up a large hand.
“Our official orders are that no one goes beyond this gate.” He gestures to the large gate of beautiful iron work, the royal insignia—a crown turned on its side, the sun eclipsing it—clear within the geometric design.
“Turn back or I’ll have to respond with force.
” The heart-dropping click of his crossbow resounds as he snaps the weapon into place.
I gasp. Could my magic steer the bolt away fast enough if the soldier acts on his threat? With haste, I push the carriage door open more. “Mother, we should go,” I say, my voice quiet as to not make a bigger scene, yet firm enough that she hopefully gets the clue.
Mother’s withering gaze snaps to me, but right now is not the time for stubbornness.
“We can try again tomorrow,” I offer.
Turning back toward the soldier, Mother says, “Please, if you can get word to Eurig. Tell him that his wife and daughters came to visit.” She unclasps a necklace, her locket, and holds it out to the soldier.
“He gave me this as a lucky charm years ago. He needs it more than I do now.” To my surprise, the soldier takes the necklace, looking at it before pocketing it.
“May I write to him?” Mother’s voice wavers, vulnerable in a way I don’t ever remember hearing it.
“You may.”
She nods firmly, then gathers her skirts. I sit back as our footman opens the door and offers a hand to help her climb in.
Suffocating silence fills the space as the carriage begins taking us back home. It isn’t until we’re on the cobblestoned streets of the city that Mother speaks up again, her voice like the crack of a whip. “You had no right to address me like that.”
I blink. “The man was going to shoot you.”
“He wouldn’t have. I am highborn. Your father is a knighted Queen’s Guard.”
“That soldier was going to shoot you. In cold blood,” I add. “He doesn’t give a damn about your birthright.” Beside me, Arionna’s eyes widen, but ire fuels Mother’s glower.
“I will pardon you tonight because I am certain you worry for your father. But don’t ever speak to me that way again. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mother.”
The wagon creaks as it rocks with nauseating irregularity, the rumble of the wheels over the road filling the silence.
By the time the wagon pulls up in front of the Pendry manor, my eyes are stinging, and I’m sick with worry.
What could’ve caused such a conflagration at Paramount last night?
Why are there so many soldiers about? My mind goes to words I heard last year when I was shamefully a willing member of the Purists, a group with many contradictory ideologies. All of it is utter poppycock.
The fall of power shall herald the revival of the gods, but the Daughters of Agryna and Ehlach will prompt their permanent fall.
The Heirs of Dusk and Embers must be killed so that the gods can rise.
It was this philosophy that we’d been indoctrinated into with clever stealth. They believe the princess of Erleya is one of the Heirs. That she’s an evildoer to be eradicated so balance can be restored and the blight concluded.
I highly doubt killing these so-called Heirs will stop the blight upon this land. A blight that most Mainlanders refuse to acknowledge. But what if one of the fanatics made it through Paramount’s barriers to enact their wild mission of a mass Cleanse?
By infiltrating from the top down.
My pulse is erratic, sending a rush of dizziness to my head by the time I bid my sister and mother farewell.
The dreaded, accursed ache settles into my bones, reminding me that the night is far from young—that I’ve been irresponsible with my elixir.
I step out of the carriage and bite back a cry from the pang that shoots up my leg.
Each step feels more agonizing than the last, the throb traveling up to my hip, lancing through my abdomen and causing me to double over as I step over the threshold and into the mansion.
The pain in my middle threatens to snap me in half. I clutch my forearm against my stomach and compel myself to remain upright. Half hobbling, half jogging, I retreat through the sitting room, the dark, empty kitchen, and finally out the back door to the garden.
A small network of hedges greets me, providing some privacy as I drop into a bed of limp shamrocks.
I reach underneath a bush of wilting violets, my bracelets digging into my wrist, and press my hands into the cool soil.
Through the dizziness of this ill-fated nightly relapse, I force my magic into the ground.
My powers draw the chest hidden beneath the surface upward until the smooth stone meets my fingertips.
The chest is far from ornate—a simple box with metal latches that flip open with the flick of my fingers.
Tiny vials of shimmery lilac liquid are organized in neat rows inside with a small satchel of rescue tea beside them.
I hope I won’t have to resort to drinking this tea.
Made of wormwood, foxglove, and poppy with a pinch of zilla and valbane, it has less than half the potency of the elixirs.
It lessens the pain enough for me to function, but in high doses or with frequent usage it’s poisonous.
Even with occasional use, the aftereffects are unpleasant.
I snatch one of the vials from the box and relatch the vessel, sending it back into the earth far below with a firm press against the lid.
Only a few weeks left. Damn …
I need to somehow find a way to get to Radika, my potion maker, before I run out. I watch the soil beneath the shrub knit itself seamlessly back together, and my hands shake as I uncork the vial. My back to the entrance to the house, I ingest the bitter liquid in one gulp.
I shove the empty vial and the cork into the pocket of my dress as I hear footsteps approaching. “Lady Gwyneth?” a voice calls.
“One moment,” I grit out. I’m still on my hands and knees, fighting back a dry heave. Warmth and coolness spread through my body simultaneously. I shiver and swallow the excess saliva gathering in my mouth.
An airy voice speaks behind me. “Are you alright?”
I swallow again then sit back on my heels, suddenly aware of the moisture that’s seeped into my knees.
“I’m alright,” I say. I drag in a breath, and the tremors slowly recede along with the nausea.
“The news about my father wasn’t great.” I push myself to my feet, still mildly unsteady but improving. Thank the realms for magical potions.
The kindly servant, Sage, tucks her short brown hair behind her ear. Her cheeks are flushed pink as always, her eyes wide as saucers. “I am very sorry, Lady Gwyneth,” she says.
“Thank you, Sage.”
Her face grows even redder as she tugs on her apron, fisting her fingers in it. “Apologies, Lady Gwyneth, but Lord Gruffud awaits you in your chamber.”
Nausea returns afresh, slicing across my stomach almost as intensely as it had before the elixir.
“Thank you,” I say. She curtsies and retreats into the house, leaving me standing in the garden amongst whispering bushes and swaying trees.
For a heartbeat, I seriously consider walking away from the Pendry household, but instead, I walk right into the place I’m forced to call home.
Toward the man I’m forced to call husband.