“All right, Your Highness,” I agree warily.
“And Lady Breena?”
“Yes, my lord?”
His gaze is steely when I meet it, cutting me like a dull sword. “Knights are lords. My son is Your Highness. I am Your Majesty.”
His tone lets me know I’m not to make the mistake again.
I have no time to pause and think about the fact that I’m moving rooms to be examined like a specimen beneath a glass, nor that I’ll soon be reuniting with the only family I know.
I head to Larsden’s laboratory, determined to stay focused. My fists spasm at my sides. If need be, I’ll stop Larsden from going too far. I know the basics of defending myself—I’d had to, working in a tavern where occasionally the ale was a little too good for the patron consuming it. Thumb outside the fist. All of my weight goes behind a punch. A swift instep to the groin.
Comforting as my thoughts of violence are, I can’t help but eye the flames dancing on candlewicks with trepidation. The tutor himself hasn’t arrived yet, so I have some time in which to make my examination of the room.
Now that the curtains aren’t drawn and light can sashay in as it pleases, it looks like an ordinary study. There’s a workbench with several books stacked upon it. A few of them lay haphazardly open, like the tutor had been distracted by something one text said and flown to the next one in order to confirm it.
They’re books centered on the Makers’ myths, historic Elemental figures, and the elements themselves. I see the lands Caden mentioned as being particularly tied to one element and another copy of the same book I’d been reading earlier. Ink blotches have dripped, staining the wood of the table, but the quill at fault is currently housed in an inkpot.
There are notes scratched onto the sheaves of paper, and I bend to examine them.
“Subject shows ability to Torch nearly a year early. Might this be the evolution of Adepts that has been speculated upon?”
A Torcher before their seventeenth birthday? I whistle lowly.
No wonder they’re testing me. If someone else’s powers have managed to defy the rules, that Makers-given assurance that Elemental abilities show up on the day of the seventeenth anniversary of one’s birth and not one day earlier is no longer a certainty. My birthday is still almost two months off, but they must have discovered that things are changing in Egria.
I jump as the door bangs open, and Tutor Larsden stalks in, scowling. He halts before me, eyes flicking between me and the notebook that lays open.
“My lady,” he greets me curtly. I step away. He brushes his hands together as though dusting them off and looks at me. “We must get started.”
Belatedly, I realize that the supervisor Caden promised me has yet to make an appearance. “Certainly, Tutor Larsden,” I agree. I paste a placid expression on my face. I can’t let panic fill me or I won’t be able to remain calm. Hopefully, whomever the prince is sending is only running late, or I’ll be forced to take action myself. They’ll never believe I’m submissive if I run again.
Larsden pulls a large bowl filled with water from a shelf next to the window and sets it on the table. Lifting a torch from the wall, he uses it prod the bowl’s contents.
Not water then, I realize, recoiling instinctively as the surface of the bowl bursts into flame. Oil.
The fire licks toward me dangerously, and I stare at it with wide eyes, certain that the light of the flames is reflected in my pupils.
He looks at me expectantly. “Well?” he asks. “Are you going to stand there, or am I going to be allowed to progress my research today?”
I shake myself. “I—of course, Tutor Larsden.”
He surveys me with satisfaction as I cross the side of the table to stand beside him. He hasn’t given me further instructions yet. I need to stall for more time.
I can feel the heat from the fire lapping toward my skin. It’s thirsty, begging to be quenched, and I’m its beverage of choice. I lick my lips.
“Could you tell me about the science behind your work today, Tutor Larsden?” I put as much sweet curiosity into my voice as I can.
He’s startled that I’ve asked. I suppose the question must not come up much. The king’s ready enough to put forward any experimentation that the tutor asks for, regardless of its merit; he’s that desperate to find a way to his war. He doesn’t bother asking about the science behind it.
“I suppose.” He looks at me suspiciously out of the corner of his eye. “Recent scholarly findings have led me to believe that the trait that allows someone to use an Adept ability has advanced. You know that Adept Reveals used to occur no earlier than the seventeenth anniversary of one’s birth, but one subject of experimentation was Revealed nearly a year before hers.”
“How interesting,” I say, filing away that “hers” for later speculation. Of course, I already know most of this from the notes I spied. “Do you think it has to do only with the particular element that she controls or simply with the powers themselves?”
He grows animated, moving away from the fire-laden bowl. I allow my shoulders to relax a bit. “That’s the thing—it’s hard to say!”
His voice has the same zeal of a Makers priest in the throes of a sermon. Tutor Larsden may not be devout in midweek services, but he worships something: he’s a fanatic of what he considers science, his experiments with Elementals. He flips through one of the open books, its pages nearly ripping in his eagerness. The pages are thin, delicate things, and he swears when he tears one.
The door pulls open, letting a draft of air in.
“Sorry to be late,” Aleta says drily. Her skirts trail on the floor behind her as she sails in, making her way to one of the stools.
This is who Caden sends? Aleta hates me, and I’m no great advocate of hers either. Why would he send her? I look dubiously between the princess and the fire. I can’t decide which is worse.
“His Majesty has requested that my guards and I see to Lady Breena. I believe he intended for us to bond, noblewoman to noblewoman.”
Other ladies might accompany such a statement with a girlish giggle or a bat of the eyelashes, but Aleta is stoic. I have to wonder what her version of bonding actually entails. Probably not squealing over the village boys. The mental image of Aleta squealing over anything makes my lip twitch.
She doesn’t look at me after uttering the ludicrous idea that we’ll bond, but I catch her light emphasis on the word “see” and understand. She’s using the fact that the king constantly has her under some supervision. No one can claim I haven’t cooperated if Aleta’s guards and spies see me doing as I’m commanded.
The presence of another person draws Tutor Larsden out of the trance of his impassioned tirade, and he stands before the fiery glass bowl again.
“It’s simple, Lady Breena. I want you to put your hands in the fire.”
I’d known the man was mad, I’d known to expect pain, but putting my hands in a bowl filled with flames goes against childhood law, against basic instinct. If something is sharp, you don’t poke it. If it looks too heavy, you don’t lift it. And if it’s hot, you don’t touch it.
Despite knowing that it’s something I have to do to throw the king’s suspicions off of me, I hesitate.
“It’s going to hurt,” I say aloud firmly, more as a way of convincing myself than anything else. “I’m not seventeen, and odds are I don’t have that ability. So I might as well just get this over with?”
Something like sympathy shines in Aleta’s eyes when I look at her for a confirmation. It isn’t comforting.
“Yes,” Larsden says impatiently. He reaches across the table and grabs my wrists, pushing my hands into the oil.
And I scream.
The fire’s been waiting for me and sears over my sleeves, burning, burning my skin, eating me alive. It chews at me with fiercely sharp teeth, clawing its way over me, into me, under my skin. I try to pull away, but Larsden moves his arms to my shoulders, holding me there. My throat is ragged. The screams cleaves m
y voice apart. I am nothing but pain.
“Give it a moment,” Larsden insists, shouting to be heard over my cries. “The fire might just need a moment to recognize you.”
I’m going to pass out. I have no voice left to scream, and I waver on my feet, still trying uselessly to pull away from Larsden.
Arms grab me around the middle, yanking me away from Larsden, and patting the flames down. “Enough,” Aleta says emphatically.
I’m left panting and sobbing. I wrap trembling arms around myself and bite down on a scream as the light touch of my dress slices into the burns. I hold my arms stiffly away from my sides, trying not to let them touch anything that will magnify the pain.
The entire thing lasted only seconds, but my skin is charred, puckered, and pinkened. My arms are alien things. They ripple with discord, blistered, there only to cause me pain.
Aleta rubs my back soothingly for a moment, while I fight to catch my breath. I don’t care that she doesn’t like me right now. I’m just grateful to have someone here who doesn’t want to burn me alive. Tears blur my eyes as Aleta glares at Tutor Larsden.
“It doesn’t work that way, Larsden,” she tells him. “The elements recognize their brethren instantly. If I’d realized that was your intention, I could have told—” Her voice is biting, furious. She takes a deep breath to steady herself, and when she speaks again, it’s even. “Lady Breena is neither an active Adept, nor is she a Torcher. She needs a medic.”
“Oh, very well,” he says in disgust, turning away from us and suffocating the flames with a careful blanket placed over the bowl’s surface. “You may escort her.”
Aleta drops her arms from my torso, and I sag under the weight of my own agony. I lean on the table to support myself, but anguish carves its way up my arm when I put weight on it. Wavering at the edges, the chamber looks steamy. I shake my head, trying to clear it. I feel heady. The pain’s so intense that I’m not going to be able to remain standing unsupported much longer.
Aleta’s eyes burn him. “You may do well to remember that it is I who outrank you, Tutor Larsden. You do not give me permission to do as I see fit. Your studies appear inadequate. Lady Breena will most assuredly not be returning.”
She whirls. Larsden looks at her with hate-filled eyes, but I can’t watch the scene play out any more. I close my eyes as spots dance and fight to keep my balance.
“Why are you helping me?” I gasp out as Aleta hustles me up the stairs and out of the room. A guard follows in our wake.
She casts a glance at me from the side of her eye. “I volunteered for the task. Whatever you may think of me, I am not heartless. You’re not the first to be subjected to Tutor Larsden’s scrutiny. I’m finished standing by, so I do what I can.”
She brings me to a room in another wing of the palace, where a medic swipes a soothing salve across my burned arms. I sigh with relief. The salve is cool and smells like grapes. My arms tingle as numbness spreads through them, and I’m able to gather my thoughts.
The sleeves of my dress are in tatters, and my flambéed skin peers through. I’ll need to change into something with long sleeves before I see Da. Under other circumstances, he’d be the first person I’d tell about a horrible experience like this, but when I speak with him now, my focus needs to be on discovering what happened sixteen years ago.
Da. My eyes flick up to meet Aleta’s, who waits for me in the doorway, arms crossed. That haughty look of hers is back, but there’s something else, too. Is it understanding? Wariness? I’m not sure.
“Why do you think that my father’s a killer?” I ask softly. Maybe I shouldn’t ask, but I need to know. Aleta’s convinced that he is, and I just can’t bring myself to believe it. Da’s not that kind of man. He’s a good person.
Her harsh attitude fades further. “I don’t think it,” she says. “I know it.”
“How?”
She’s not gentle. Her edge remains and her voice is brittle as she explains. “Have you never wondered how I came to be in my current position? Don’t you wonder at the fact that I am the Egrian king’s ward when he is constantly trying to sabotage my kingdom? Hasn’t it crossed your mind that it’s a bit odd that my parents would abandon me to the whimsy of such a man?”
Her parents. The words are so bitter. I’m staring at her, arrested by her story, by the evidence she’s putting forward to condemn Da.
He couldn’t have…
The question must show in my eyes, for Aleta nods slowly.
“You see now why I take such offense to you. You have lived happily these seventeen years with a father who must care for you a great deal, judging by the way you remain loyal to him. How could I believe the Makers to have handled the world fairly when my parents are dead and their murderers live on? You have a father who loves you. The only family I have is an aunt who rules in my stead in my kingdom—one whom the king won’t even allow inside his borders.”
Her lips are pursed. It’s cost her something to admit that she envies me this way, and my heart sinks. She isn’t lying about this.
I don’t know what to say. I mean, by the ether, what can I say to such a reveal?
But Aleta doesn’t expect much from me in response. “Come along, Lady Breena,” she says. “I will deliver you to your lady’s maids that they might properly attire you once more.” She indicates the salve on the bed beside me with a pointed finger. “You’ll want to bring that with you. I’m told burns have a way of flaring back up. That will be rather handy.”
I grip the salve container in an iron fist and stare down at my knuckles.
How could Da do such a thing? He’s the one who taught me right from wrong. Is his definition really so flexible?
“Come along, Lady Breena,” Aleta repeats, standing aside in the door. Her guard waits to escort us. His helmet’s visor is pulled down over his eyes, but he’s watching us. There are eyes on us everywhere.
Aleta’s given me a lot to think about and not much time to do it. I have only hours until I’m to confront Da.
And I don’t know if I can forgive him that soon.
If ever.
Twenty-Three
Is it even possible to forgive someone I’ve never truly known?
Because that’s how I feel. The man I thought I knew would never do what Aleta’s said he’s done, but I know she’s not lying. I’m still thinking about it hours later, my skirts clinging to my sweaty legs as I follow a step behind the dungeon guard. His keys jangle at his hip.
Far from worrying about making our escape, I’m back to being angry with Da. Not only has he lied to me about our past, but he’s just so far from the man he’s pretended to be. I don’t have any idea what to say to him.
The sun was setting in the sky when I’d followed my escort to the dungeon gates. Upon my arrival, I tried to ignore the red rosebushes marking the entrance. I’d been too preoccupied the last time I was here to notice their presence, but now that I know their significance, it’s as though their stems stake into my heart, thorns and all.
The heat’s been bad today—I noticed it this morning when I cracked open a window for fresh air. The palace is cool, but it’s kept well-ventilated by a series of ducts that Lady Kat monitors. I’d wanted a break from anything to do with her.
She doesn’t handle the ventilation of the dungeon, but this escape doesn’t bring me relief. It’s terrible down here where the sun doesn’t dare tread—suffocating.
It smells rank from prisoners’ waste, and I gag, making a note to smuggle a packet of cinnamon from the kitchens to hold to my nose for future visits. If I can manage to give my ladies the slip long enough to get down there. I take only shallow breaths and cover my nose with my hand.
I keep my eyes ahead, locked on the bobbing head of the guard. The bony, sallow-skinned hands of the other prisoners—ones who aren’t Da—reach out to me through the cell bars. Some are clawed with vicious intent; I skitter away to avoid their grasp.
The spindly fingers of others entreat, their dirt
y palms hungry for acknowledgment. These hands make me feel too much. Has Da been reaching out to strangers like this? Despite what I know now, it makes my heart twist to think of it. Aleta’s evidence has changed both everything and nothing. I still need to get Da out, even if he’s not who I thought he was.
“You’ve got a half hour,” the guard says as he comes to a stop in front of one of the cells.
He pulls a three-legged stool from its spot against the wall and sets it before the iron bars. The huddled figure inside does a double-take. He faces me but doesn’t speak.
How can he stay silent? I haven’t seen him in weeks, and I’ve been ill over what they might be doing to him. It seemed like I was important to him when we were separated, but now there’s nothing but dispassion in his eyes. Did he bother thinking of me at all?
I sit down gingerly, positive that sickness and grime float about the dungeon and rest on my seat. But it’s not as though disease can waft about on a gentle wind down here; there’s not much spare air to be had. How does that affect a Rider like Da? To be deprived of his element?
His hair is growing in patchy. My insides coil at the sight of him behind the thick black bars. I’d never before considered the idea that he didn’t come by his baldness naturally, that he chose to have a shaved head. Does he prefer it that way or was it another of his tricks to disguise us? Maybe he started shaving it when I was young to hide his lie over his hair color. Was everything he’d done just another shard in the broken glass of my childhood that I’m trying to piece together, or had at least a few of his actions had other motivations?
I second-guess every memory I have now.
Prisoners are a noisy sort. Curses, sobs, and screams bounce off the stones between cells. A palatable air of despair surrounds me, but it’s the silence that stretches between Da and me that is the most stifling.
I’d felt such relief when the king had first told me I’d be able to see Da. Yes, there was anxiety at first, but it had been such welcome news that I would be able to see him with my own two eyes. After this latest revelation from Aleta, I don’t know what to think. Much less what to do, what to say, how to treat him.
Threats of Sky and Sea Page 14