Though I sense no magic in the air, his words work on me like a spell. Shuddering, I stretch out one hand. Slowly, slowly. My fingers tremble with dread as I force myself to touch that flame.
A scream bursts from my lips. In my head, hellfire erupts, consuming walls, consuming flesh. I am back in our cottage, the door barred, surrounded by monsters, while my mother holds me in her arms even as she burns.
I wrench back, staggering. My slippers trip over the long skirts of my gown, and I collapse to the floor at the king’s feet,clutching my hand to my breast. For a moment, the fire in my mind seems to lick up the walls of this very chamber. In the next breath, however, it diminishes, drawn out of my memory to coalesce into a single green flame burning in thatmeorisechalice.
Alderin watches me intently, green fire reflected in the depths of his pupils. At last, a small sigh on his lips, he shuts the lid of the chalice. The snap is loud enough to break the spell of silence in the room. I drag a lungful of air into my chest even as he returns to the fireplace mantel. “I see that you are not yet ready,” he says, setting the chalice back in its place. He stands there a moment, his back to me. Part of me wants to slink away while I still can, before those eyes of his pin me in place once more. But my legs are weak, and my heart beats so fast, I can do nothing but sit where I am, breathing hard, waiting.
Finally, the king turns, takes a single step to my side, and extends one hand. Though I don’t want to, I place my trembling fingers in his. He pulls me to my feet. My knees try to buckle, but somehow I manage to lock them and remain upright. I cannot bear to meet his gaze, so I stare instead at the lacings of his tunic, strained across his broad chest. My burnt hand shudders with pain.
“I understand,” he says with unexpected gentleness. “You are tired. These have been trying times for you. Return to your rooms now and rest.” He tilts my chin back with one finger, forcing me to look at him. “But while you rest, I want you to think of their faces. Think of Rune and Bryon. Think of Durona. Think of all those who suffered and died to bring about this unique opportunity. Think about what you owe them, Roselle.” He breathes hard, his teeth bared in a grimace. “Hear their voices crying out to you from beyond the grave. You must answer them. You must avenge their deaths. You must make whole all that Mhoryga hasdevastated in this world. Promise, Roselle. Promise you will do this.”
Agony ripples from my palm up my arm, exploding in little bursts in my brain. I cannot escape nor can I resist the compulsion in his voice. “I promise,” I whisper desperately. “I…I promise, Your Majesty.”
“Don’t promise me. Promise them.”
My throat thickens, but I force the words out. “I promise them.”
“Very good.” The High King breathes a great sigh, as though he has just battled some terrible foe and come through the victor. “We will show them, my child, my treasure. We will show all the world what you are truly made of. Together.”
20
Rosie
Philippa is strangely silent as she tends to my wounded hand. She does not question how I came to be burned, does not ask what took place between the king and me in our solitary interview. She merely takes a look at my blistering palm and sets to work at once, gathering supplies, arranging them on her little table, then beckoning me to approach. She smooths open my pain-curled fingers and huffs a short breath of surprise. Then, glancing up swiftly at me, she says only, “There, there. We’ll soon set this to rights.”
The leaves of theylyndarplant, when sliced open, secrete a milky substance which is commonly used in the treatment of burns. Though I rather doubt its overall effectiveness on hellfire damage, and wish very much for Mistress Iliyani’s healing touch, it is nonetheless a relief when Philippa smears the spicy-smelling ointment across my palm and fingers.
I try not to look, try not to remember that moment when I touched the green flame. What did I think would happen? I amperfectly aware that I am not flame resistant, despite Alderin’s confidence, despite his elaborate stories. And yet, somehow, while listening to him…with the heady warmth of wine spinning in my head…I had almost begun to believe…
Foolish. Stupid. And this is what I have to show for it.
Philippa wraps a long strip of gauze around my palm, her fingers deft and efficient if trembling slightly. Looking at the stern set of her brow, I wonder suddenly how much about the events of this evening she was aware of beforehand. She may be my waiting lady, but she is Alderin’s servant first and foremost. Did he take her into his confidence? Did he tell her of the impending votyr attack? Would she have warned me if he had? Somehow, I cannot quite work up the courage to ask.
Having finished her ministrations, Philippa turns to fetch a fresh nightgown from the wardrobe. Partway across the room, however, she pauses. “Oh,” she says, and bites her lip. Then, slipping her hand into the front of her bodice, she withdraws a small, folded parchment. “This came for you while you were with the king, Princess.”
“Did it?” Despite everything, I manage to rally a degree of curiosity. “Who from?”
“I don’t know. It…appeared. On your bed.”
Frowning, I take the offered missive, turning to thescintillight as I unfold it and scan the neatly structured handwriting.
Meet me at the pulley lift by the overlook.
Bring the gremler.
It isn’t signed. But it doesn’t need to be. It can only be from Valtar, for who else would think to mention the gremler? My heart thuds in my throat, and my stomach, which has been knottedwith pain and fear and grief, suddenly unspools and reknots in an entirely different sensation. Does he mean for me to meet him tonight? Now? There is no other information, no set time. But how am I supposed to venture out on my own without a trail of guards on my heels? I’m not altogether certain they will even let me leave my room.
“Which one is it?”
I look up to meet Philippa’s gaze. “What?”
“Which champion?” she persists. “Is it Lord Elis?”
I swallow and fold the paper. “It isn’t signed,” I answer primly. “What makes you think it’s from one of the champions anyway?”
At this, Philippa laughs. It’s such an unexpected sound coming from her. She’s so poised, so serious, so composed at all times, I wasn’t entirely convinced until this moment that she was capable of something so spontaneous as laughter. “Who else would be sending you notes in the middle of the night?”
A flush heats my cheeks. I look down at the little piece of paper. It feels warm to the touch somehow, like the words themselves are written in lines of fire. “He…wants me to meet him.”
