My throat thickens. Deep in my heart, Arun’s voice echoes:It’s a fool’s hope at best.
She looked so frail, caught in Joro’s grip. So small, so helpless, and yet…and yet was I mistaken to think I caught the whiff of hellfire burning in her heart?
I didn’t wait to see what would happen, to learn whether or not she possesses the capacity to summon the flame which is her birthright. Black rage came over me; my body acted without thought. It was so simple—my fingers in his hair, the wrench, the slice, the flow of blood. Like a dance I have practiced until it is as natural to my being as the drawing of breath into my lungs.
But there was more to it than bloodlust, wasn’t there? Something deeper, something more primal even than life and death.
I shake my head as my gaze once more seeks out her face, lying peacefully now on her pillow. Perhaps this is but a variation on the bond of servitude which grips my soul. Every desire in me has been subjected to Mhoryga’s will. Is it possible that Mhoryga’s likeness might inspire a similar compulsion? How else can I explain this bizarre draw I feel? This need to be in her presence, to breathe her air? This urge to protect her from all danger—first the prince laying hands on her in the hall above the stairs, then the pirate as he throttled her on the dance floor. In both instances, I was overcome with unexpected murderous fury. But that is not who I am. I do not rage. I do not fear. I do not feel. Feelings are the luxury of a man, and I am no man, not anymore. I am what Mhoryga has made of me, birthed in her flame. I kill without a thought: old and young, men and women, and yes, children too. Whatever my goddess bids.
But ever since this girl pressed her lips to mine something has changed. Something vital.
My fingers close around the hilt of a hidden dagger in the dark. I must be careful. I cannot afford to put a foot wrong,especially now that I have revealed my presence. I must court her favor, win every trial, and appear to be above reproach. A worthy, truehearted champion.
And I must feel nothing. Until the moment I end her life. Until the moment I hold her heart in my hand.
10
Rosie
I wake to thescintilshades being abruptly lifted, filling the gloomy chamber with silvery glow. “Good morning, Princess!” Philippa’s voice bursts across my senses before my sleep-heavy eyes have had a chance even to open. “You slept so deeply last night, I trust you’re feeling refreshed? You’ve a busy day ahead.”
With a groan, I turn on my pillow, only for my nose to end up buried in rose petals. Startled, I draw back, blinking blearily. The golden rose lies beside me, a little crushed and rumpled, but…not a dream. No, it’s absolutely real.
Does this mean the shadowy figure standing beside my bed was real as well? I frown. The image feels so hazy, more like a nightmare than anything.Holabellabrew is known to bring on vivid, semi-lucid dreams. That must be the explanation. And the rose itself? I must have brought it back with me and simply not remembered.
Philippa bustles over to my bed, prepared to roust me bywhatever means necessary. “Oh, did you not hand that out last night, Princess?” she asks upon spying the rose.
I pluck up the stem. “There wasn’t much opportunity.” A handful of petals fall from the flower head, littering the pillow. There’s little left of the actual blossom.
“A pity.” Philippa reaches out, briskly sweeping the fallen petals into her hand and depositing them on the side table. “The first rose is an important part of any young woman’s Presentation. Why, the man I gave my first rose to ended up triumphing across the tournament. He claimed it was that single token of my favor which inspired him to victory.”
“Oh?” My ears prick. This is all news to me. “You had a Presentation and tournament too?”
“Of course.” She smiles. “It is the traditional means of selecting a husband for any lady of high birth. After all, the favor of the gods must be ascertained before an alliance can be entered into. Granted, the tournament trials are generally not so…shall we say, rigorous? Certainly nothing like what your own champions will face.”
“And…are you married then?” I realize suddenly that I’ve learned very little about my waiting lady over the last week. Taken up with my own strange circumstances, it simply never occurred to me to ask.
“I was betrothed,” she answers, neither her voice nor her face betraying any particular feeling on the topic. “But he died. Dracori attack. He was in the first line of defense.” When I open my mouth to offer condolences, she shakes her head and simply throws back the blankets and tugs me out of bed. “Come, Princess! We have work to do and we mustn’t keep the king or his court waiting.”
Her words weigh on me, however, even as she strips me of mynightgown and sets about her usual fuss of preparing me for the day. Philippa is from the coastal kingdom of Albhia—the same as Lord Elis. I knew, of course, that Albhia bore the brunt of dracori sea attacks, defending Belanor from outright invasion. But to my mind, this was all simply information, not reality. At least not in any way that directly affected me.
But for Philippa, it’s all too real. She’s lost someone…possibly many someones. This trial, and my own supposed role in the ongoing strife with Mhoryga, matter deeply to her. Why else would she leave her home and family to travel to this gloomy place, devoting all her energies to the care of one reluctant apothecary-turned-princess?
The burden of expectation fills my chest with lead. People have died for my sake—both the Rassumen pirates, determined to end my life, and the guardsmen determined to save it. And what will today bring? The first of five trials—but surely it won’t be particularly deadly. Just a warm-up for the champions, something to get their blood moving.
Something tells me I shouldn’t fall for wishful thinking.
Food is brought, and I breakfast in fits and snatches while Philippa styles my hair, files down my already too-long nails, and dresses me up like the living doll I am. Part of me had hoped there would be time to process everything that took place last night, but apparently, the trial is to begin at nine bells sharply. And I must be prominently displayed as the prize I am—inspiration and motivation for the six brave souls who’ve risked so much to come here.
“There,” Philippa says, pinning my last curl into place. She has yet again worked wonders to disguise my burn scars without covering any more skin than absolutely necessary. “What do you think, Princess?”
I study my reflection in the tall mirror glass. Philippa has laced me up in a gown even more fantastic than the rose ensemble of last night, this time all gold with intricate black beaded detailing in the shape of flames around the dropped V front of the bodice. The effect is stunning—seductive and alluring, a true temptation. Designed to make a man forget all common sense and hurl himself into greater and greater risk for the sake of achievement and possession.
Did you really think all these mighty men were here for you?Joro’s words burn in the back of my brain.It’s the fire you carry inside they are interested in.
My mouth goes dry. Because I know the truth: There is no fire. Sure, I thought I felt something building in me last night, but…that was only brought on by the stress of the moment, a surge of adrenaline, nothing more. What if more men die only to discover I was never what they needed after all? An illusion, painted and primped, but ultimately hollow. I chew the inside of my cheek, staring into my own eyes. There must be a way to stop this. There must be a way to prevent more of these needless deaths, but…how?
“It’s lovely, Philippa,” I say at last, unable even to describe the object in that mirror as me.Itis just that—a vision, a mask. A falsehood. But I meet her gaze in the glass and offer a little smile. “You’ve performed miracles yet again.”
