The old leader scraped a hand through his graying hair, gone white at the temples. “For the people of Torrence, there is much distrust of Ardenia.”
Luca’s first conversation with Ula about the underground movement whispered from the recesses of his memory. Lifelong loyalty to the Ardenian Crown tugged across Luca’s gut. “Because King Sendoa did not turn his army on the Warlord.”
Tala’s lips twisted. “Yes.”
“But”—Luca’s brows knit together—“there’s more. Isn’t there?”
Tala answered, his voice low and forceful, his dark eyes piercing.
“We learned very early on after the fall of Torrence that Ardenia didn’t just ignore our plight—it created it.”
CHAPTER15
THEsounds of Ferdinand’s coronation were loud enough Amarande was somewhat glad she hadn’t gotten the chance to break the stained glass.
Of course she wanted to hear happy sounds from her citizenry. Of course she wanted them to feel stable, secure, safe. But it was tricky to be pleased when it cost her the balance of her freedom. This cell was not that much different from the prison she would have enjoyed in the Bellringe while trapped into a marriage with Renard.
Not really, not where it mattered.
Though the food might have been better in Pyrenee’s gilded cage. As the outdoor hum thinned and darkness descended through the barred windows of her cell, her single meal of the day arrived. Porridge, delivered in a wooden mug that was barely watertight.
Amarande was driving the mug into the stone floor repeatedly, aiming to make a shiv—though the wood was too wet, and therefore bending rather than splitting—when a whisper of sound came from beyond her door.
She immediately dumped the mug’s misshapen carcass onto the floor beside her. There was no use in hiding it. She had no shiv, and tomorrow the guard would watch her eat, just as she had the first day. Perhaps, if she caused too much trouble, they’d free her. Or simply kill her. It was a toss-up.
Pualo entered and collected the mangled mug without a word. As she exited, another guest stepped forward, momentarily blocked by the retreating guard. Amarande had hoped for Koldo but expected the medikua, given Ferdinand’s promises. Instead, her visitor was another surprise.
Her mother.
Geneva wore a dress that the princess was sure was her own. Garnet lace through the bodice and sleeves, overlaid with gold toucheswoven into stripes that swept on the diagonal to a point, a tiger’s head broach gathering them at the shoulder. The skirts were gold and shimmered in the low light. In one hand she carried a small woven basket but she did not appear to be armed.
“I have come to tend to your wound.” Geneva set the basket on the floor and sank to her knees. “Medikua Aritza is unavailable.”
Unavailable? That was strange—Amarande could never remember a time when the medikua had been absent from the castle. “Where is she?”
“Wherever the coin is, I suppose,” she answered, fussing with the contents of the basket. “Your father paid her well to make her residence within the Itspi. A dead benefactor cannot pay—she left right after the funeral, I’m told.”
Amarande was suddenly very thankful she hadn’t relied on a quick return to the castle to heal Luca from his poisonous asp encounter. Without the medikua and her potions, he would’ve been dead had she made that choice.
Geneva cocked a brow at her daughter. “Don’t look at me like that; I know what I am doing with these tinctures—I am more capable than this gown suggests.”
“It’s not that I don’t believe you are capable.” Amarande swallowed. “Do you not have some big feast to attend to celebrate your new king? Hands to shake? Speeches to give? Groveling to accept?”
Geneva sighed and a tight smile hardened across her face. “Given the instability of Ardenia’spresent situation,we thought it best to postpone our coronation gala.” She shoved the basket toward Amarande, setting the contents rattling. “Go on, investigate. I will only use the bottles you select.”
She sat back on her heels, waiting. After a few moments, Amarande bent forward over the basket, her uninjured hand skimming over the pouches of herbs, the bottles of tinctures, and small pots of paste. Clove oil. Basil oil. Sagardon. Turmeric paste. Honey. Garlic bulbs piled into a small-but-sturdy mortar and pestle.
Amarande’s fingers paused for the barest of moments atop the handle of the pestle. It was marble, club shaped, and just the right size to effectively remove an eye with one good thrust. With a hard enough blow to the temple it could render the victim unconscious, if not kill them outright.
“Before you act on your impulse to kill me, know that everything I ever did for you was out of love.”
Amarande froze, the pestle cool against the tips of her fingers. Her eyes flashed up to her mother’s, her mouth set in a sour line. “I find that hard to believe while chained to a wall.”
“Trust is something you do not give easily, I see.”
“Would you? In my position?”
“I didn’t, when I found myself figuratively cuffed to the wall. No.” She let that hang between them without explanation. Amarande recognized the bait and did not take it. Geneva continued. “I hope you’ve made your decision. It’s been more than a day since your injury and infection has likely already set in. Let’s hope you know your antiseptics. Well, what will it be?”
