“Roselle!” Alderin bellows again.
“I-I’m here.” The words can scarcely crawl up through my bruised throat. I try to take a step but sway heavily, my knees threatening to buckle.
Valtar is at my side in an instant. He steps over Joro’s body, extending a hand to me. The same hand which, moments ago, held that bloody knife, which has somehow disappeared once more. I stare at those extended fingers then slowly lift my gaze to his. His expression is no longer the snarling animal I’d glimpsed mere moments ago. His features are stone hard, inhuman, but for an instant, when my eyes meet his, there’s a flash—a brief flicker like fire. There and gone again.
I do not take his hand.
“Princess!” Alderin appears at my elbow. “Princess, are you hurt?”
“No, no,” I manage, even as Prince Warrick and Lord Elis close in behind the king, eyes round with worry in the waveringscintilglow. “I’m all right. I’m not hurt.” My voice sounds ghastly, but I can get the words out at least.
Alderin puts an arm around me, sheltering and solicitous as he turns me away from the corpse on the floor. He looks down at Joro’s upturned face, twisted in an expression of shock and pain. The pirate’s red hair is darkened by the pool of blood in which he lies. “So,” the king says at last, “the truthseer saw correctly. There was an assassin in our midst.”
“What?” My head jerks up. “An assassin?”
“What do you mean, Uncle?” Taigan’s voice rings loud in that stricken hall. He still grips his lance, and his gaze swings aggressively toward Valtar.
The king shakes his head, his expression almost musing. “Seer Tamnaeth,” he says, “saw a vision earlier today and spoke it to me mere moments before the Presentation began. He said anassassin had arrived in Stromin. That he was here for the princess.” He glances at Valtar now. “I thought we had our suspect—”
“No!” The sound bursts from my lips, a blunt little bark. It hurts, but I force the words out anyway. “No, he saved me! It was Joro who tried to kill me, not Prince Valtar!” I cannot even look at the Inithana prince as I say it. I cannot bear it, knowing now what he did, knowing what he is capable of doing again. But I won’t stand by and hear him accused like this.
I needn’t have worried, however. The king turns to me, offering a kindly look. “Of course,” he says, “the assassin was Joro. This attempt on your life was obviously well planned. He must have had his men sneak in all the components of that anti-magic bomb on their persons, small enough parts that would not be detected by our wards. Indeed, this was a carefully orchestrated attack.” He shakes his head and sighs. “It remains to be seen if he acted on Mad Melarue’s orders. We may not have an ally at sea after all.”
My head whirls. I look around the hall again. Dead bodies everywhere, some of them guardsmen. The Rassumen delegation did not go down easily. The ballroom has become a battlefield, carcasses strewn across the floor where I was dancing and laughing mere minutes ago.
My knees start to buckle.
Valtar moves faster than the rest of them. He catches my arm, slips his other hand around my waist, and draws me to his side. I recoil from him, my heart jolting with fear.
“Norlan!” Alderin barks, stepping forward to take me from Valtar’s grasp. My bodyguards close in, led by the mustached captain. “Take the princess back to her chambers,” the king says. “We must clean up this mess and begin preparations for tomorrow’s trial. Selecting a worthy champion is all the more imperativenow. But at least,” he adds, with a glance Valtar’s way, “we may safely say the gods have sent us a sign. Six champions will compete in the tournament, even as holy writ dictates. And perhaps, Prince Valtar, you will find your place within divine will after all.”
I do not see or hear whatever response Valtar makes. I’m hustled from the hall, so densely surrounded by guards, I catch only glimpses of the pale, shaken courtiers, who part ways to let us pass. Their faces are hollow, solemn, and yet their eyes fix on me with such hope, it almost hurts.
I cast only one backward glance, just as we reach the far door of the chamber. My gaze is caught by Valtar’s. He watches me being led away, his black eyes full of dreadful intensity. I feel suddenly as though every speck of red blood splashed across my skin burns, and I think to myself:Is he a champion? Or a monster?
Then I am hastened out into the passage beyond.
“Here, Princess. Drinkthis.”
I look askance at the cup Philippa holds out to me. Years as an apothecary’s assistant have taught me to be wary of other people’s tinctures. “What is it?” I ask, my voice still raw from both strangulation and tears.
“Driedholabellaleaves mixed in goat’s milk,” she replies with her usual briskness. “It will help you sleep.”
I sniff suspiciously; the heady notes ofholabellaare hard to miss. My lip curls at the prospect of that bitter brew, but it is an effective remedy for sleeplessness. And something tells me I’ll need all the help I can get tonight. I take a sip, wincing at the taste.
“It is to be expected, you realize,” Philippa says, gathering up the torn ball gown where I left it in a pile on the floor. Sheinspects a rip in the skirt rather sadly before her dark eyes flick to mine. “Even with all the security measures in place, there’s no way to fully protect against those determined to infiltrate Stromin Palace. We all have done and will continue to do our best, but…” Her voice trails away. She looks ashamed. As though she were somehow directly responsible for the Rassumen pirates’ attack.
“I simply don’t understand,” I say after forcing down another swallow, “how one of the champions could possibly be an assassin.”
Philippa moves her shoulders, a helpless gesture. “There was some resistance among the kings and queens of Belanor against allowing the pirate nation to participate in the tournament. Some have speculated that Mad Melarue may have secretly sworn allegiance to Mhoryga to protect her interests. Or Prince Joro may have had his own agenda all along.”
I shudder at mention of the prince’s name. His eyes, illuminated by that swingingscintil, will haunt me forever, no matter how much soporific goat’s milk I drink. “But what about the truthseer?” I persist. “How could he have let someone like that through the gates?”
With a sigh, Philippa takes a seat by a largescintillamp. She has already washed away the blood spatters, combed out my tangled hair, dressed me for bed, and tucked me in like a child. Now she takes up her watch, as devoted a nursemaid as anyone could ask for. “The truthseer does not seealltruth, you know,” she says patiently. “And the king must make his own best judgments based on the information he’s given. Depending on how desperate he is to appease Mad Melarue and continue to court her help in warding off the dracori warships, he might be willing to take a risk he would prefer to avoid.” She takes out her sewing box,selecting needle and thread. “We do not fully understand the burdens of kingship. We must simply trust and obey.”
I look down into my cup, at the little floating flecks ofholabellaswirling in white foam. It’s all so great and complicated and terrible. I can still feel the shape of Joro’s fingers closed around my throat, the hot gush of his blood on my skin. Worse still, I recall the sensation of heat inside me. Down in my core, building, growing. So much hotter than I would have believed possible. And what was it, exactly? The first sign of this supposed dragon nature they keep telling me I bear? Surely not. Surely it was nothing more than adrenaline coursing through my veins.
But it had felt so wrong, so evil, so…inevitable.
