When Joro was killed, he was actively attempting to kill me in turn.
When Bryon died, it was distant. Part of a challenge he entered into with full knowledge of its dangers and potential consequences.
Both were horrible, but I could separate myself from them to a degree.
Rune, however…
He died while trying to defend me. He gave his life in exchange for mine. And in the aftermath, I’m supposed to cheerfully venture out with Lord Elis to celebrate his victory?
I stare moodily at my own reflection as Philippa prepares me for my interlude with the winning champion. I didn’t get much sleep last night, between my rendezvous with Valtar and the tricky business of returning to my rooms unseen. In the end, I didn’t manage it at all, but was apprehended by Captain Norlan himself and forced to offer excuses and explanations I wasn’t atall prepared to give. I babbled some nonsense about sleepwalking before Philippa arrived and made herself imperious, threatening to report the captain for his negligence if either he or his men made trouble for me. In the end, I was allowed to return to my chambers to catch a mere three hours of sleep before Philippa roused me again.
Now I must not only face the coming appointment with Elis but also concoct some plan for meeting Valtar tonight as agreed upon. Norlan and his men will be particularly keen not to let me out of their sight, but I’m not giving up on my chance to breathe fresh air again.
There’s also the small matter of my escape. In light of Rune’s death, I cannot continue putting it off, cannot continue to endanger these men. But I am still no closer to coming up with even the most harebrained of schemes. Alderin has created a perfect prison for me here under the mountain.
I drop my gaze to my hand, contemplating the ugly blisters. Philippa changed the dressings first thing this morning, and the pain has subsided to little more than a dull ache. I close my fingers, forming a fist. A chill twists the pit of my stomach. He will try again. Of course he will. Alderin means to make me into the dragon and savior he needs, and he will stop at nothing until his end is accomplished. He will sacrifice me and any number of champions in his quest to bring about Mhoryga’s demise. It’s up to me to put a stop to it. Up to me to remove myself from the equation, sparing the lives of these determined fools. But how?
I chew my lower lip. In my mind’s eye, I see again the little gremler kit, scurrying away into the shadows, vanishing over the edge of the stone platform. It probably didn’t even survive the night out there on the open mountaintop.
“You seem low in spirits this morning, Princess.” Philippa’snimble fingers tug the hair above my temples just sharply enough to drag my attention back to her. “Was your meeting last night not satisfactory?”
“Hmmm?” I blink, looking up to meet her gaze in the glass. “Oh, no, it was…it was fine.” I shrug. “I’m just tired, that is all.”
She narrows her eyes slightly but does not press me. Instead, she asks, “And how are you feeling about meeting with Lord Elis? I understand he gave a good account of himself at the trial last night.”
“He did, yes,” I answer rather dully. “Elis is…very charming.”
“Is he?” Leaving me in my seat, Philippa steps to the wardrobe and returns a moment later with another rose-hued scarf. She presses it into my hands. “And will you give him your colors?”
“I’m not sure.” I twist the scarf in my fingers, watching the play ofscintillight on its shimmering folds. “Probably.”
Philippa makes a soft, ladylike but distinct noise that can only be described astut.
“What?” I demand.
“Nothing,” she replies. “It’s just interesting. That is all.”
I make a valiant effort not to rise to the bait. But after ten breaths, I cannot help myself. “Whatis interesting, Philippa?”
“Only that I was wondering who you met last night,” Philippa says, coiling a lock of gold hair around her fingers before pinning it in place on my scalp. “I rather suspect now that it wasn’t Lord Elis, for the prospect of seeing him does not bring the color to your cheeks I saw when you received that note. This narrows the field down rather significantly.” She tips her head, pretending to be focused on her work, though I suspect she’s watching my reflection from the tail of her eye. “I don’t think it can be Taigan, considering—”
“He’s a horse’s arse?”
“—considering you have never shown him any preference that I have discerned, despite his many desirable attributes. Which means either Prince Valtar left a greater impression on you during your last one-on-one encounter than I supposed, or Prince Warrick is maneuvering to curry favor outside of regularly scheduled interactions.” She looks at me then directly, her gaze rather too incisive. “Warrick is the handsomer of the two. A brave warrior and a leader of men with a sterling reputation throughout all Belanor.”
I frown. “Is he though?”
“Is he what?”
“The handsomer of the two?”
“I should have thought that was obvious.” Philippa blinks, momentarily nonplussed. She quickly recovers her usual poise, however, and asks smoothly, “You think Prince Valtar is handsomer then?”
I don’t answer. In all honesty, I’m not sure. Prince Warrick probably is better looking if taken feature by feature, and, like all the champions, he is large and strong, radiating intense masculine energy.
But there’s something so raw about Valtar. An almost primal force that is simultaneously frightening and alluring. One could easily imagine being caught up in the embrace of such a man, swept away in a maelstrom of power far beyond any mere mortal means to control. He is like the very soul of fire itself, hot and unpredictable and consuming.
My mouth is suddenly dry, and the memory of his lips on mine is rather too present. I can almost feel the pressure of his hand sliding from my waist to the small of my back, pressing me into him. I recall the way his mouth moved, as though sparked to sudden life, and the heat which had poured through my sensesin response. At the time, I’d been more surprised than anything, taken aback by my own boldness, not to mention his unexpected response to it.
