Heat crawls into my chest. Alys is in her fifties and Callum is twenty-five. There’s absolutely nothing romantic there. Still, it takes me a moment to ward off the envy. Technically he can flirt with whomever he wants but still…
We set off for my bedchamber, Callum on one side of me, Alys on the other.
“So, what do you need to discuss?” Alys asks.
Right. “I know my mother is in pain, but I’d prefer if she is not sedated when I’m scheduled to visit.”
I slow my pace as fine lines appear between Alys’s brows.
“You didn’t know.”
She shakes her head. For a moment, there’s silence, then Alys asks, “Have you been working on grounding?”
“Yes.” I smile as convincingly as I can, but Alys always sees right through my lies.
“Carys.” She tucks a few loose waves of her salt-and-pepper hair into the huge bun at the back of her head.
“I don’t have time.”
“You need to find the time, dear one. And remember?—”
“—deep breathing and positive thoughts throughout the day,” I interject. “I know, Alys.”
Alys wrinkles her nose and pats my arm. “Are you ready for the Feast?”
This subject is even more annoying than the apprentice. I frown. “Of course not. I can’t even find the right dress.”
“Is that really what is bothering you?”
“It’s the damn dressandthis idiotic tradition. My mother is practically knocking on Lugda’s door and they’re pushing me into marriage. As if my mother hasn’t ruled without a king by her side for years now!”
“You are the last heir,” she reminds me.
I stop dead in my tracks. “Are you actually defending this tradition?”
“Not defending, dear, just stating the facts. The same facts the Council is going to throw at you if you resist.”
I know that I’m the last heir. My brother died when I was only five—sixteen years ago, but it feels like an eternity. Following my brother’s death, I remember my mother having two other pregnancies, but no live children to account for. Like the goddess Rhianu had decided my mother couldn’t be trusted to keep more children alive. If the gods even have such power in this twisted world anymore.
Perhaps it was just rotten luck.
I cannot remember how my brother died. Sometimes he dominates my dreams. His body falling away, unmoving. My father succumbed to an illness when I was thirteen, shortly after a distressing incident I wish to forget. We’ve theorized that the same illness is now holding my mother hostage.
By the time we arrive at my bedchamber door, my dark-haired guard, Tiernan, is already guarding it. “Your Highness,” he says, his strict, angular eyes not even showing a hint of a smile.
“Hello, Major Kilkenny,” I respond just as formally, if only to annoy him.
Tiernan is two years older than Callum and about my height. He’s not as broad-shouldered or brawny as Callum, but Ostanha have mercy, his lean, powerful body is damn lethal. I’ve watched him spar in the training grounds—his skills with almost any weapon are scarily impressive.
He salutes Callum, who returns the gesture before bowing to me and then marching off.
As Tiernan opens the door, Alys and I walk through. I stride across the chamber to my bed as the door closes, and I collapse onto my mattress with a huff.
Gossamer canopy drapes stare back at me as I turn my face up toward the ceiling. “How are we supposed to talk anymore with Byney?—”
“—Briony.”
“—watching all the time? It’ll be suspicious if you’re constantly coming to my bedchamber.”
