The thought of the hand-shaped burns on my chest, of the pain Firose had inflicted that night in the tower struck me. No one should be forced to bear their scars openly. I relived those moments whenever I saw my own.
Lady Ryssa nodded. “If you will allow it, King Mattock, I prefer to wear the veil. Forgive my broken customs, but—”
I waved away her explanation. It wasn’t my way to make a woman do anything she wasn’t comfortable with—customary or not. I felt bad for having required a reason, but I didn’t know if I could trust any advisor Haward and Barden recommended.
“It’s okay. I do not mind the veil, Lady Ryssa.”
“Thank you, my King.” The rippled sound of her voice was sweet at the edges.
“And I appreciate your willingness to help a green King. How did you gain experience as an advisor?”
“A green King is a blessing to these lands. Your presence brings excitement, the hope of change for the people. I once advised the late King Mattock a long time ago, but his allegiances changed. I could no longer support him, but it would be my honor to serve you.”
Haward and Barden looked at me expectantly. I was too tired, and too eager to retire for the evening, to question it further.
“Very well. When can you start?” I asked.
Lady Ryssa curtsied her thanks. The delicate placement of her limbs hinted at a training in classical dance. “Whenever you wish, my King. Just send word to High Tower by hawk.”
How very like me. I’d found myself intrigued by another woman who hid parts of herself from the world.
Chapter 12
Sybilla
After slipping into the only light-fabric nightdress I’d brought, I sat at the edge of the bed and combed my silken hair. My fingers grew full of blonde strands, and I shook the hair from my hands. They floated to the floor like feathers in the wind, and I cursed under my breath, wondering if eventually I’d have no hair at all.
Darvanda’s accusation ran through my mind.
It will be interesting to see which you try first
Filet. Absolutely filet.
The curls suit you better.
I’d choke him with my curls in his sleep, then.
“Who the fuck does he think he is?” I grumbled to myself as my brushing motion grew more aggressive; the bristles scratched against my sensitive scalp.
I blew a raspberry and rolled my eyes. The brushing didn’t relieve my pent-up aggression. Instead, my wrist began to ache in a telltale manner, so I stopped.
It dawned on me that I was hundreds of miles from home, in the company of complete strangers. No guards trailed me, no maids whose names I knew well lingered and no familiar views waited outside the windows.
There was no Healer Mortag to send up the right tonics to relieve the way I ached all the damned time. I would not admit to any other healer how my glow of health was merely a facade.
Worse yet—no Emmerick.
I sighed. He’d come around.
Dropping the brush, I shook out my wrists. That recognizable fog of fatigue had been plaguing me all evening.
Not now. Not here.
It was almost a relief. I could rely on old weaknesses to be present at the least convenient times, could rely on my body to flip a coin to determine whether I’d find comfort or pain.
I dropped to my knees in front of my oak trunk from Luz. After unlocking it, I felt between the too-heavy dresses and skirts for the slick feeling of the small wooden box. Once I plucked it from the depths of the trunk, I opened it, revealing dozens of green vials inside.
Only one healer in Luz knew that I struggled to remain well. I wondered if these tonics would suit me the way Mortag’s had. They would need to be enough for now—so long as the flares didn’t get progressively worse. I’d be fine.I’d conserve them.
