Some part of my brain screams that I am utterly unprepared, no proper garments or supplies or weapons. If I even manage to find an air shaft leading to the surface, to climb it, to emerge out into open air, how do I think I’ll get down the mountain? How do I think I’ll navigate that wild tangle of forest? And all the while Alderin and his men will be hunting me. There’s no real escape to be had. Not now. Not ever, if I’m honest.
But I’ve got to try. For Elis. For Bryon and Rune and gods-blighted Joro. For the remaining three champions. I’ve got to try.
I throw on the simplest gown I can dredge up from the depths of the wardrobe, wishing all the while for trousers and a stout jerkin. Valtar’s knife I strap to my thigh, and the weight of it there gives me some comfort. I pull my hair out of the elaborate style Philippa fixed it in and bind it in a simple braid, tight and out of my face.
Any second I expect Philippa to burst back into the room, guards following at her heels. Anxiety thrums in my veins. Even as a cruel, whispering voice in the back of my head reminds me how hopeless, how foolish this all is, I drag a chair beneath the grate, climb up onto it, and stretch my fingers overhead. I can just reach it, just slip the grate from its frame and inch it a little to one side. But now what? How am I supposed to get up there? Last night, I had Philippa’s assistance, boosting me from below. Sadly, I haven’t grown a miraculous six extra inches since then.
Cursing through my teeth, I look around the room, seekingsome fresh means of elevation. And it is in this attitude that I am caught when Philippa abruptly reenters the room. She takes one look at me, and her eyes flare wide. Hastily, she pulls the door shut behind her, but not before I catch a glimpse of several members of my escort standing in the passage just beyond.
I don’t jump down from the chair. I don’t pretend I wasn’t up to anything. Neither do I offer excuses or explanations. I merely stand there on that seat, beneath the partially shifted grate, and fold my arms. “If it is so imperative that I must meet the championimmediately,” I say, my voice still frosty and distant, “he will have to receive me as I am. I will not have you beautifying me any more today, Philippa. I’m done with that.”
She looks me up and down, taking in the simple blue gown, the sturdy shoes. I’m thankful my knife is hidden beneath my skirts and petticoats, safe from her gaze. She blinks once before lifting her eyes back to mine and breathes out slowly.
Then: “It’s the king.”
My heart performs a painful little flip in my breast. I open my mouth to speak, but no words come.
“He has canceled your meeting with Prince Valtar and requests you attend him in his chambers.”
At once, I grip my left hand with my right, pressing it to my breast. Philippa does not fail to notice the gesture. Her lips thin, and her brows tighten ever so slightly. Then she steps forward, holds up a hand to me. “Come, Princess,” she says, her voice trembling only a little. “You know this is what must be. We all have our roles to play, remember?”
I stare down at her. At this woman who I had begun to think of as my friend. What kind of a fool am I, fancying friendship in the face of one of my many prison keepers? She is Alderin’s creature. Just as we all are. So she will send me to be burned, and shewill treat my wounds when I return, and she will reassure me that this is how it must be, that pain is part of some great, gods-ordained plan for me. That I must submit, must obey, must hope that the gods may be glorified in my small suffering.
And what will I do? Will I resist and rebel? Will I fight? No, for I am too much of a coward. I like to think I am fierce and brave, a woman of strong spine who speaks her mind. But I am just as enthralled to the will of the king as any of them, no matter how I hate this weak and simpering part of myself.
So I place my fingers in Philippa’s hand and let her help me down from the chair. And when she leads me to the door, opens it, and ushers me out among my guards, I utter no murmur of protest.
“Enter,” Alderin’s voicerumbles in response to my knock at his door.
I stand in the passage outside his chambers and draw a deep, steadying breath. Aware of the eyes of my guardsmen watching me, it’s all I can do to put out my hand, turn the heavy gold latch, and push the door open. Head bowed, eyes downcast, I step into the firelit chamber and drop a curtsy.
Alderin stands before the fireplace, his back to me. He does not turn or offer any greeting. Someone prods me between the shoulders, forcing me to take a few more steps into the room, then pulls the door shut behind me. The king and I stand there in that space, together and yet, apparently, worlds apart. My heart thuds with dread. How long must I remain like this? Could I simply turn around and walk out of the room again?
No sooner has that thought crossed my mind than the king turns abruptly on heel, facing me. Firelight illuminates him frombehind, casting his face into shadows, but I can see nonetheless how pale and drawn his features are, and how his eyes spark with…are those tears? I shudder and cannot help taking the smallest half step back in retreat.
“Do you think, Roselle,” he says at long last, breaking that terrible silence, “that this is all pure entertainment for me?”
“What?” The word whispers from my dry lips.
“It occurs to me,” he says, turning and beginning to pace the floor in front of that wide fireplace mouth, his shadow dancing at his feet, “that perhaps you think I enjoy watching these valiant young men die for the honor of becoming your husband.” He pauses, staring down at his own feet, his expression strangely focused as though he’s studying something else entirely, some glimpse into a world beyond my sight. “Each time I order a new trial,” he says, “I know that one or possibly several of Belanor’s finest will perish. Diminishing our defenses, darkening our futures. All these lives snuffed out in the prime of their prowess.” He rubs a hand down his face, pulling at the lines of his cheeks and jaw, so that he suddenly looks much older than I’ve always believed him to be. “I am High King,” he says softly, as though not speaking to me anymore. “Which means they are all my sons. Each and every one of them.”
Finally, he turns to me again, and oh damn me, but I wish he wouldn’t. I wish he would forget I was here entirely, let me slip away and escape, like a pathetic, scurrying little mouse. Instead, he looks directly at me, and there is such accusation in his gaze, it could skewer me straight through the heart. “These men have determined thatyouare worth dying for.” His teeth flash, set on edge. “You owe them. You owe them your life, your existence. You must make yourself worthy of their sacrifice.”
All the same old protests and pleadings pile onto my tongue,but not one of them can survive in the desert of my bone-dry mouth. I look at Alderin, see his anguish, and everything I feel, everything I fear, is suddenly so small and ridiculous.
He turns from me to the fire again, reaching up to the mantel for that lidded chalice ofmeorise. As I watch, he flips the lid, and that gout of captured hellfire leaps from its confines, once more rendering all other light in that room nothing, filling the space that it does not occupy with shadows.
A whimper trembles on my lips. Though I hate myself for my cowardice, I back away, pressing against the door behind me.
Alderin turns to face me once more. His features, lit up in that hellish glow, are angry. I’ve never seen him like this—it makes him look like a different being entirely, a creature of darkness. “You cannot keep resisting your destiny,” he says. His words seem to reach me from an echoing distance. “No matter how brave and valiant your champion proves to be, you will not survive the journey to the Dracor Flame if you do not manifest your inner fire. You must become what you were born to be, Roselle. You must become the Dragon Princess.”
As he speaks, he draws nearer to me. I cannot scream, cannot flee. My whole existence seems to be encompassed in that single dancing flame. It hypnotizes me, filling my vision, until all I see is fire, until all I smell are poisonous fumes.
“Mother,” I whisper.
I’m back there—back in that burning cottage, back in that moment of terror and pain. Spinning in place, I stare around me at the familiar furnishings, the little table where we took our meals, her favorite chair where she would polish her weapons on long winter nights. My own straw doll, sitting on my bed, catching flame, consumed. Black smoke fills the air, making it impossible to breathe.
Come, child, Durona’s voice hacks with agony, even as her fingers close around my shoulder.I’ll push you up the chimney!
