A sob thickens my throat. I stare down at that blossom, unable to think, to move, to breathe. Then, heedless of the king, of Philippa, of all the watching eyes of the assembled court, I fall from my seat, dropping to my knees in front of him. I take hisface between my hands, laughing, weeping, silly with relief. “There, you see?” I manage to say, through the mess of tears tracking down my cheeks. “You’ve got a bit of luck in you after all!”
His haunted eyes stare into mine, like I’m some phantom being in a world quite apart from his. Then I see the spark suddenly ignite once more in the depths of his pupils.
His lips turn up at the corners, the ghost of a smile.
An hour later,Taigan emerges from his shaft, alive but without a rose in hand. Warrick appears soon after, similarly empty-handed. We cheer them nonetheless, and Philippa openly weeps with relief.
Elis never returns.
When the sixth hour comes and goes, Alderin rises from his seat and declares in a loud voice for all to hear: “The gods decide who is worthy.”
27
Rosie
If I had prayed for Elis instead of Valtar, would the gods have spared him instead?
The thought plagues me throughout the silent journey back to my rooms. I’m scarcely aware of anything or anyone else. All the relief which had flooded my being when I looked into Valtar’s face and knew he had survived has long since vanished, leaving me numb and cold.
I prayed so earnestly for Valtar to live. Did the gods hear me? That’s what everyone has been telling me all this time. That my preference may be enough to sway divine will. I didn’t much credit the notion, but now…now…
Oh gods. Oh gods, oh gods, Elis is dead. Down there in the dark, in the heat, in the horror. That bright spirit, that bereft son and brother, that determined hero with the heart of a young lion. He’s dead because of me. Because I failed to plead for him in my fear for another. Because I failed to escape this wretched mountain and put an end to these trials. It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.
I see their faces before my mind’s eye. Elis with his quick smile and roguish wink. Rune with his focused intensity, that simmering energy which emanated from his being. Bryon with his brawn, his courage in the face of challenges utterly unsuited to his strengths. Even Joro. Joro with his determination to do what was right in his own eyes, to bring about the end of yet another dragon enemy. Me.
They were all, in their own ways, heroes. Men with goals and ambitions, hopes and dreams. Men who were loved by their own people, who each bore the unique potential to become more than what they were. A potential which is now lost forever.
I blink once, twice. I find I’m standing in my own room again, though I have no memory of how I came to be here. Philippa bustles around me, silent and busy, removing my outer garments, unpinning my hair. I feel like a doll, spiritless, without even enough self-determination to crumple to my knees and weep. Dolls don’t do such things. Dolls stand where they are put, limbs arranged as ordained by their masters. Dressed and undressed and propped on display. Lifeless things, without use or purpose in this world.
But then Philippa begins laying out a gown: a frothy thing, all lace and beading, draped across the foot of my bed. And she places a rose-hued scarf beside it. The sight of that scarf sends a shock through my spirit. I shake myself, dragging my gaze from that little bit of silk to my lady-in-waiting. “Philippa.” My voice is so hollow, I hardly recognize it. “Philippa, what are you doing?”
Despite her own relief, Philippa’s complexion is very pale, and grief simmers in her dark eyes. Lord Elis, after all, hailed from her own homeland of Albhia. She may have known him before coming to Stromin Palace; they moved in similar circles,after all. They may have been friends. Gods, he may even have competed in her own championship for all I know.
“You are to be prepared to meet with the winner of today’s trial,” she says, her voice cool and composed as always.
My teeth set on edge. “No.”
“Princess—”
I shake my head, fists clenching. I want to pound something, tear something, wreak havoc and rage. But I am also strangely frozen, straight down to my core, and can manage no more than a whispered “I won’t do it, Philippa. I won’t smile and congratulate and fawn.” I swallow painfully and force out the words. “I won’t be the prize.”
Philippa looks at me, her expression unreadable. “I thought perhaps, as it was Prince Valtar—”
“Get out.”
She blinks, surprised both at the words and at the sudden force with which I speak them. “Princess,” she says gently, “you know I am only here to help you. You know I am—”
“Get out,” I say again, and can almost swear I taste ice on my tongue. “Get out, get out, get out of this room. If I’m to be paraded and presented and prodded along every step of the way, at least grant me a moment’s peace first!”
Philippa looks as though she’s going to protest. She even draws a breath, preparing to speak again, preparing to force me to do as everyone else has determined I must do. But something in my face must affect her, for she pauses, bites her lip. Then, without a word, she turns and marches from the room, shutting the door behind her.
I’m alone.
Alone and still trapped. Still a prisoner. But now…
My heart lurches, struggling through the mire of sorrow andguilt which threatens to pull it under. Now is my one and possibly only chance. I have no idea how long Philippa will give me before she returns to wrap me in that hideous gown and propel me out the door. It won’t be long; she dares not gainsay the king’s will.
I must escape. Now. Immediately.
