“No longer wish to kill me?” he teases. He circles the archway, coming into my field of vision. Some time between us entering this room and now, he’s removed his shirt and stands before me in nothing but a pair of cream-colored breeches and tall black boots. I’m still fully dressed, thank the gods, but it is little comfort, restrained as I am. His elven body is truly disgusting, with what appear to be extra joints and ribs, long and bony. He reminds me of an insect, a gelatinous thing in an exoskeleton.
I shiver at the sight and dry heave.
“Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. Not feeling well? I’m afraid the herbs we put in your food to weaken you sometimes have that effect.”
“You poisoned me.”
“I did.” He laughs and places the tip of the cane under my sagging chin. He lifts my head with it until I’m looking him in the eye. “Does that make you want to kill me?”
He repulses me. I do want to kill him. But I say nothing. I go inside myself. I pretend he’s not even in the room. My shallow breaths are silent as I hang my head again.
“Hmm. Maybe you ate too much tonight,” he says in a low, husky voice. “Have I doused your fire? Can’t find your voice, pet? Don’t worry. We’ll find it together.”
His boots thump slowly, heavily on the floor behind me. The way he walks is meant to unnerve me, and it’s working. A tear runs down my cheek as cold fingers grip the zipper between my shoulder blades, and he slides it down, exposing my bare back. “I’ve never seen a tattoo like this before. Such an odd choice. You know, the War of Plagues and Arrows started as a fight over a dragon and her egg. While we were killing one another for her magic, the dragon took her egg and hid deep inside Mount Damocles. Most believe she died there. She was never seen again. Damned beast likely starved to death protecting her young. What a waste.”
He releases his hold on my dress. His boots tromp on the floor behind me again, this time to my left as my dress slowly falls off my body.
My only warning is the whistle of the cane flying through the air before it slices into my back with a resounding smack.
Despite myself, I hiss, but I refuse to scream. I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
“You bleed red like them,” he says.
What color do elves bleed? I try to remember the color of Ferida’s blood in the bottom of the goblet, but I’d been starving and disoriented. I didn’t notice the color before I drank it. I’m curious, but I keep my face impassive. I don’t say a word.
“Are you ready to kneel before me and swear your unending loyalty to me, pet?”
I lift my head and look at him over my shoulder, allowing all the murderous rage I’m feeling to show in my eyes. “You can go fuck yourself.”
The cane whistles again. This time, I scream.
32
The War of Plagues and Arrows
DAMIEN
“Mother?” I hold out my hands to her, disbelieving what I’m seeing. Is she a ghost? A conjuring of the witches?
She hands Catarina a large bundle of burlap, and the witch leans it near the door. Then my mother comes to me and wraps her fingers around mine. She’s real. As alive as I am. “Damien. My son. My prince.”
I stand and draw her into my arms and then grab Karyl, who waits quietly behind her, and hug them both at the same time. Tears stream down their smiling faces, but I don’t feel my own until I draw back and one skates over my cheek.
“We thought you were dead,” Karyl says between sobs. “The witches said you would come, but?—”
“Brahm told me you were dead,” I say.
“He thinks so, as does most everyone in New Stygarde.” Karyl glances toward our mother, adjusting her simple wool dress. Both of them are wearing the wardrobe of witches and not the shade textiles I’m accustomed to seeing them in. “Mom? Maybe you should?—"
“It was essential everyone truly believed we were dead,” Mother says.
I back up a step and sit down slowly, a heavy weight settling in the pit of my stomach. “The king… Father… He didn’t die of any wasting disease, did he?”
Mother shakes her head and turns to Karyl. “Help Catarina in the kitchen. I need to speak with Damien alone.”
Karyl curtsies and kisses me on the cheek, then follows Catarina into the adjoining room.
“You should finish your stew. You need your strength.” Mother picks up my forgotten bowl and hands it to me.
