ESTELA
Rholker takes me to the library. He keeps my chain clamped onto his chair as he studies title after title about the history of his people. It’s unsettling, but at least he doesn’t try to touch me again.
As he reads, I sit on the floor and look at the shelves that extend from the ground to the high ceiling. The rolling ladder before me looks like something Teo would adore—and then I wince.
He also had a royal library, full of scrolls. One that he cherished.
An hour passes as I wait, and the only sound is the loud slap of pages made from wood pulp.
I sit there and watch, thinking about the next few days. By now, I’ve amassed a list of names of the major giant court families. Most of the eastern lords don’t trust Rholker, and I think that Keksej is still on the fence, even though he said he would accept him as king if he killed the Enduares.
So far, he hasn’t made any advancements on such promises. In general, he can’t seem to do anything without thrusting thedaily tasks on Regent Uvog. He denies meetings, ignores letters and audience, and insults people constantly.
Many in the court view him as inexperienced. They do not agree with the involvement of the Six, and they hate seeing him bring me to court functions.
To quote Lord Rilej,“Whores are for beds.”
His greatest weakness, besides his obsession with me, is his lack of attention to detail. He thinks that brute force will solve every problem, but doesn’t have the heart to kill every dissenter. It makes no sense.
Soon, Rholker switches to writing. The quill on paper grates against my ears. Writing in giantese is as foreign as having wings to fly, so I just look at the bright bindings and gilded letters, guessing at their tales.
As I stare at a picture of a knife, Rholker shifts in his chair to look at me.
“It’s late,” he says, putting down his quill. “You need to sleep.”
His voice has turned on that dreadful, gentle quality that it often does when he wants to fool himself into thinking he’s being good to me.
I continue studying the inked image as if I were as mindless as a doll.
“You know, you aren’t the first slave to come to this place,” he says conversationally.
I hum an inquisitive sound and refrain from saying “obviously.” Everything needs to be cleaned at some point.
“You don’t look pleased at being here with me,” he observes. “Would you like it if I read you some of my words?”
I look up at him, wide-eyed, mouth open. What the fuck was I supposed to say to that?
“No?”
I still don’t respond.
He frowns, stands, and disappears into one of the rows, leaving me alone. I could run. The chain at my throat heats at the thought.
Freedom.
But he returns moments later, and I have to console the disappointment pooling in my gut.
He sets down a stack of small books bound in strange papery leather and grins. “Since you seem bored, meet the first rebellion.”
Then he passes me one of the tomes.
I flip it over, clearly confused.
He laughs at me. “You know what I keep wondering?”
“No, not in the slightest,” I respond tartly.
His smile fades. “I keep wondering why the Enduar King thinks you would be a good candidate for his queen. You can’t read, you’re too weak to fight, and you are impulsive. Your only redeeming quality is your pretty skin, and even your pleasing flesh has been ruined with scars.”
