Spring began to unfold, and she was delighted by the daffodils and the crocus flowers pushing their way through the hard soil.
Spring turned to summer, and the prince left for a tour of the kingdom, refusing to take his wife. The court all believed it was because Alanna was so difficult. But Val and Alanna didn’t care. They were both too glad he’d gone.
The prince went away, and Alanna smiled. Joyous smiles she flashed toward him when no one else was looking, that somehow settled through his skin and took up a hopeless, helpless residence in his heart.
Feelings that only grew. Even when Ballanor returned, his behavior increasingly paranoid and erratic as he continued his vicious campaign to discredit Alanna. Even as the Hawks came to hate the princess, and Val found himself more and more isolated within the palace. Even when he returned home and said his long, heartfelt goodbyes, knowing they might be his last. Even when she begged him to leave.
With every day, he loved her more.
Chapter Three
Thepresent
Four paces along the bars.Five paces to the back wall with its tiny, fortified window set too high to see through. Three paces to the bare hemp canvas cot attached to the wall. Five paces back to the bars.
She’d done it so many times she could do it with her eyes closed.
Val had been her anchor. The light at the end of the cruel tunnel that was her life. Just knowing he was outside her door, guarding her, had given her the strength she needed to endure. Knowing that she could call to him at any time, if ever it got too much, had made it bearable. And now he was gone. Either out of the palace with Nim and Keely, or still hanging, broken, on the wall of the Great Hall.
She could bear her own pain, but they had hurt Val, andthatshe would never accept. Bard, she hated Ballanor and Grendel. Her hatred dripped through her blood, and she let it pool, let it give her strength.
Her head ached viciously; a tight band of agony ringing around her forehead. From the opium smoke she’d breathed in, and the brutal backhand Ballanor had delivered—smashing into her already bruised face—when he realized that his prisoners had escaped. Her back still burned where he’d split her skin during the beating she’d been given for trying to help Val before the debacle in the Great Hall.
She was exhausted, hurting, and alone, but she would take this cold, bleak prison over her plush bedroom next to Ballanor’s any day. She was finished with being his victim.
The real torture was not knowing what had happened to everyone else. Not knowing if Val was safe.
She felt certain that Nim and Keely had escaped by the very fact that they weren’t hauled back to Ballanor’s rooms. But what happened after that? Where did they go? Had they been able to reach Val? Was he free? She wished that someone, anyone, would tell her.
Gray morning light was beginning to filter through the tiny window into her cell when heavy footsteps broke her thoughts.
She lifted her head to see Grendel making his way slowly down the corridor, dragging his hand along the bars so that his heavy rings clanged discordantly as he walked. His long brown hair was caught in a queue and he wore gleaming riding leathers covered by an opulent fur-lined cloak, clasped at the neck with a flashing emerald brooch. He was rich, handsome, impeccably dressed, and utterly terrifying.
He took hold of the bars and leaned toward her. “Come here.”
She straightened her spine, but she didn’t go near him.
“Come here, or I’ll join you in there.”
Panic tightened around her chest until she could hardly breathe. She loathed him. Feared him more than any childhood monster she could have ever imagined. Even more than Ballanor’s fists. And he hated her almost as much. The woman whose children would have sat on the throne. The woman he was constantly denied.
Ballanor always shared with Grendel. Always. But not her. Not until she produced an heir. And that, the Bard knew, was never going to happen.
Grendel had made do with torturing her in other ways. Rubbing himself against her while he whispered disturbing fantasies of what he would do to her when he finally got hold of her. His hands always touching her. Crowding her in corridors. Adding salt to her drinking water and then laughing when she gagged. Once, he’d used a small blade to cut through all her laces while she waited on the throne dais for King Geraint, and then left her standing there as her corset sagged in front of the entire court.
His eyes, darker than black ice, raked down her, enjoying her panic. His lips twitched at the corners. “Come here, or I’ll come in.”
She was shaking so badly that she could hardly move her legs. She was too tired, too overwhelmed, to deal with his cruel games. But she took a step forward and then another.
Too many.
He snaked a hand through the bars and grabbed her hair, reeled her in, mashing her swollen face against the rough metal.
His breath prickled against her skin as he whispered, “We know where they’ve gone. Lanval and his handful of a sister will be back before dinner.”
Alanna closed her eyes, concentrating on the pain screaming through her scalp, along the lacerations on her face where they pressed into the unforgiving iron. Everything she could to keep her face blank. To withhold the satisfaction of her distress.
“When I get back, you and I are going to have a little… chat.” He shook her head against the bars, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “No reason why the king won’t let me have you now, is there? Not when he’s set your execution for tomorrow.”
