“The what now?”
“The Eternal Flame,” he repeats, enunciating each word slowly as though for a simpleton.
“Is that…is that something like the Dracor Flame of Drathoridan?”
“Not remotely. The Dracor Flame is spawned of Dracora itself, fed from the very fires of that hellish world. The Eternal Flame of Lorayarus sprang from the very spark of life which brought the worlds into being. That same flame is renewed with the rebirth ritual of Lorayarus every hundred years. The priests of the shrine always take an ember from his pyre to light the altar stone, which is located in the caverns beneath Bald Mountain. Lorayarus returns once every century to burn and rejuvenate, but the monks keep his flame alive and fed in the interim. Now,” he adds, eyeing me over his spectacles, “to get back to the sacred knucklebone…”
He continues with the lecture, but I make no effort to follow.My mind is fixated on the Eternal Flame. The fire of the phoenix, taken from his pyre.
What if…what if…? The idea in my head is almost too fantastic to be believed. But I must face it, must ask the question. I know already that I will not survive a transformation by hellfire; the burn scars across my shoulder, arm, and hand are testimony to that fact.
But what if I’m not meant to manifest in dragon flame because I wasn’t born in it? What if I need an altogether different fire to take my true form? A fire as hot as hellfire, but not hellfire itself.
What if there’s a way for me to become the weapon they need after all?
My heart races, a thundering pulse. All this time, I’ve been so focused on what I could not do, so determined the only course before me was escape. Now, a whole new, terrifying destiny seems to yawn before me. Is it possible? And if it is, would I even want to—
“Princess, may I speak with you?”
I jolt upright from the desk, slamming my book shut as though to hide a secret, though there’s nothing incriminating on the page before me. Turning in my seat, I look up into the earnest green eyes of Prince Taigan, who stands over me. Oh, blast and blight it, I didn’t hear him coming this time.
The prince looks much worse for wear following yesterday’s trial. There are deep shadows ringing his eyes, hollows in his cheeks. He’s almost unrecognizable as the arrogant bastard I met not even a week ago. These trials have been more than he expected…more than any of us expected, truth be told. Looking at him now, I cannot help but see the phantom images ofRune and Elis, who were with him the last time he ventured into the library in search of me. The thought makes my stomach knot.
As though reading my mind, Taigan drops his gaze for a moment, his jaw tightening. Then he looks at me again and says, “It would be my honor if you would consent to give me a moment of your time.”
So humble, so careful. I don’t trust it, not for an instant. But I cannot for the life of me think of an excuse to give. Damn thatholabella-spiked porridge, muddling my brain!
“All right,” I say, resenting the words even as they leave my mouth. I glance at Master Gormon, half hoping he will save me. But my tutor, reluctant, perhaps, to gainsay the will of the High King’s own nephew, merely waves me on.
I rise and walk with Taigan down the steps from the landing into the lower library below. He doesn’t offer me his arm, doesn’t look at me. Everything about his demeanor is tense and distracted. When we reach the lower floor, he begins to pace back and forth between the bookshelves. I don’t care to join him. I simply fold my arms and jut a hip. “What is it you wished to speak with me about, Prince Taigan?”
He turns to me sharply. There’s a flare in his eye, a gleam of something I cannot name. Madness, perhaps. He opens his mouth, tries to speak, then shakes his head and turns away again. This happens three more times before he finally faces me straight on, squares his shoulders, and says, “I have not yet fulfilled my purpose here in these trials.”
I furrow my brow, offering nothing. If he’s got something to get off his chest, he can do it without my assistance.
Taigan breathes out a frustrated sigh, not quite hiding a curse. Then he continues: “I came here with the intention ofdominating each and every challenge. Of proving my worth in the eyes of the gods and all Belanor. And yet I find I have not yet won a single trial. I…I…” He swallows, his fists clenching and unclenching. “I am…ashamed.”
What does he expect from me? Does he want me to comfort him, to reassure him? I don’t even like him, and though our last conversation offered some insight into the motives which drive him, I’m not about to change my opinion, not without a bit more effort on his part. I hold my tongue. It doesn’t matter; he needs no encouragement.
“During yesterday’s trial,” he says, resuming his pacing, “when I was down there in the dark, I was forced to…to face certain things about myself. I realized that I’ve been holding back. That my greatest challenge is to master the monster of my own reluctance, my own resistance. I must confront these weaknesses and make myself stronger.”
He whirls on his heel then, facing me once more. “I haven’t been fully committed to this championship, because there was a part of me that did notwantto win. That did not want to find myself bound to…to you.”
“Well,” I say, lifting an eyebrow, “I wouldn’t worry too much about that. The feeling is mutual, so—”
“But yesterday,” he goes on, the words tumbling fast now as though beyond his control, “I realized—you are my destiny.”
He takes a step toward me. His breath comes in ragged gasps. “Down in the dark,” he says, “down in that pressure and heat, when I thought I could not bear a second more of existence, forced to come face-to-face with the sniveling cowardice of my own soul…it wasyourface I saw. Your face, bright like a beacon, a shining light of hope for all the world.” He shakes his head, his expression unsettlingly awed, his voice almost worshipful. “Iknew then that you are more than just the world’s hope. You’remyhope as well.”
He lunges suddenly, gripping me by the shoulders. Oh gods, is he going to try to kiss me? “Prince Taigan, you forget yourself!” I snap, trying to shake him off. But his fingers only tighten their grip.
“You understand me, don’t you?” he says, desperate and desirous and more than a little crazed. “You understand me, Roselle? We are meant for each other. Dragon and dragon slayer, bound for a fate of fire! We are each other’s hope and each other’s doom. We are—”
“Excuse my interruption.”
Taigan releases me like he’s just realized he was gripping a hot poker. He leaps back several paces, tossing golden curls from his eyes. We both turn to the library doorway, where Philippa stands, solemn and demure as ever, her hands folded neatly in front of her.
“What are you doing here?” I demand, my voice a little harsher than I mean it to be. “Is the day’s lesson over already?”
