But what do I wish? What could I have done? Maybe it’s just that I wishnotto be powerless, though that’s a wish of long standing in my life.
“I know,” he says quietly. Somehow, I believe him.
Now that the immediate crisis is over, I shove my shock and pain deep down inside, so I can focus on my current reality. It might be the only way to stay alive.
I force myself to breathe slowly in and out, then scan the room and see two people I didn’t notice earlier.
First, leaning against the wall just inside the door, there’s a tall, muscular Sylvan with delicately pointed ears who wears the jeweled braids of the aristocracy. The Sylvan, a race of immortals who serve and protect the goddess Artemisen, are rarely seen outside of her domain without specific purpose. He meets my gaze with amused arrogance.
I’ve readHonor, Etiquette, and Guest Right Amongst the Sylvan, authors uncredited, more than once, so I touch the fingers of my right hand to my chin and then lower my hand, palm out, and nod deeply toward him.
What could a Sylvan lord possibly be doing in the Pyrrhan throne room?
I almost laugh at the faulty logic in that question. I’m proof enough that King Pallan’s guidelines forinvitingpeople to visit are wildly arbitrary.
I realize I’m still staring rudely at the Sylvan lord when he offers a deep nod, almost a bow, in my direction, startling me. But then I remember reading that the Sylvan people highly respect courage.
“A courageous enemy is more honored than a cowardly friend,” is one of their sayings.
I hope I’m not his enemy, but Ididreach into that box and pick up the amulet, so at least I’m no coward, friend or not.
I wonder if he can see that I’m still shaking.
Next to the Sylvan stands a lean, muscular woman a few inches shorter than me. She has light-brown skin and a windburned face. Her pale hair is cut into short curls and pulled back from her face, and her black eyes shine like obsidian. She wears traditional desert garb—beige linen trousers and a matching vest. She’s staring at Kaelen with narrow-eyed intensity.
“Do you know her?” My voice is nearly a whisper, but the prince hears me and follows my gaze.
“No.” He nods to the woman, who makes a subtle hand motion at her side.
Kaelen tenses so slightly that most people wouldn’t notice it, but I’ve spent my life being very careful of body language. It’s easier to avoid being hit or kicked when the would-be assailant’s body gives clues that their words don’t.
“What—” I stop, shocked at my boldness. What in the past few hours has given me leave to think I can dare question a prince, even one exiled from his kingdom?
Well, there was that part where a goddess spoke through you, a quiet but not weak part of me says.
I catch myself reaching up to touch the amulet through the cloth of the green dress but force my hand down. Better to avoid contact as much as possible, as ridiculous as the thought is.
The king clears his throat. “It’s decided, then. No use waiting. You’ll leave within three days.”
He’s looking at me.
“I … I beg your pardon?” I curtsy so deeply I’m almost afraid I’ll fall over. “I’ll leave? Where am I going? The library …”
“We’ll send for your things from the library,” the sorcerer says in what’s probably meant to be a soothing voice.
My things? I don’t have things. Only one remaining set of brown work clothes, one brown dress suitable to wear to festivals, and one very worn pair of boots.
The only thing I’d miss is a wooden snow leopard Trick gave me, carved to look like the extinct species of giant cat that lived long ago in the Panterran Mountains. That, and a few precious pages of my favoritebook, saved from the fire when the Sisters ordered the old editions burned.
Servants are not allowed to own books, not even those meant for the pyre.
Finally, there’s my tiny collection of parchment scraps. When I clean, I collect any bits the scribes or Sisters discard that have words I want to keep and twine in my hair for inspiration. Blank scraps are good, too, since Trick occasionally secrets me ink to write my own words.
“You’ll follow Artemisen’s directions,” the king says.
“I—What?”
He scowls at me. “Which word didn’t you understand?”
