by K. A. Tucker
“If I did, I don’t remember. I don’t remember who I am.” Not this version of Romeria, anyway.
“And yet you remember your name.” He turns back to peer out the window.
The mental energy it’s taking to navigate a conversation with Zander while avoiding pitfalls is wearing on my fatigued body. As the silence drags, I allow myself to shut my eyes. I’m moments from drifting off when his voice drags me back.
“Annika claims you were as surprised by the daaknar’s presence as she was.”
“Like I said …” Up until now, they’ve only existed in my father’s cracked mind.
“Yes, well, you’ve proven that we can’t take anything you say or do at face value.”
Right. Of course.
He sighs reluctantly. “But whatever your intentions were, you saved my sister from a grim death. For that I am grateful.”
I replay his words, unsure I heard them correctly. Was that a thank-you from the king? How grateful is he? Enough to cancel my death sentence? I’m almost afraid to ask. “So, what happens now?”
His focus is transfixed on something far in the distance. “The guards and servants who accompanied you from Ybaris have already been punished for their treason. You didn’t miss much. It was swift and, dare I say, merciful.”
Zander went through with the execution? He ordered it? Did he watch?
I cringe with the gruesome image that stirs, the wood assembled in piles waiting for a match or flint or whatever they use around here. The smell of burning flesh in the air.
“You seem upset for people you don’t remember.”
I look up to find him watching me. My horror must be splayed on my face. “How is being burned alive merciful?” The screams carry on far longer than can be considered humane.
“They were barely alive by that point.” His jaw clenches. “And it is far more so than being poisoned.”
I didn’t poison your parents! I want to scream, but it’s no use. How did Princess Romeria do it? What did she use? Ricin? Cyanide? Anthrax? Do those even exist here? Did she slip it into their drinks? Their food? Did they choke over their dinner plates? Was Zander there when it happened? Much of what he said to me in the tower cell about my supposed duplicity remains murky. The bits I remember don’t offer any coherent clues. But I don’t dare ask for specifics now. Making him relive the details can only raise his ire with me, if that’s possible. And it doesn’t matter, anyway. All that matters is he believes I killed them.
“Tomorrow, the king and queen will be laid to rest as befitting their status”—he swallows, the only sign that speaking of his parents’ deaths is difficult—“and then Islor will move forward, and we will never again entertain an alliance with your kind.”
My kind. He means these Ybarisans.
My thoughts veer to a blue-eyed woman with envious blond curls. “What about Annika?”
“Your continued concern for my sister baffles me.” He shakes his head. “She betrayed me and yet, had she not, there would be a daaknar running loose in my city. The harm would have been catastrophic. I have not determined how to punish her.”
I force myself to ask, “And what about me?”
“What about you …” He reaches up to smooth the tassels on the window curtain. “Somehow you managed to tear apart and save Cirilea in a single night, and you claim to not know how you did any of it.” He sighs heavily. “The people believe you to be dead. I do not feel the need to correct them yet. And holding the future queen of Ybaris prisoner could prove far more beneficial to me than executing her.”
So, prisoner it will be. Not Annika’s preference for an escort and a release, but far better than the alternative.
I allow myself the faintest sigh of relief.
The corner of his mouth curls, as if he caught it. “I do not care to lay eyes on you ever again after today, or give you another moment’s thought.”
Likewise.
“You will remain in these rooms, alone, now that all your servants are gone. I will grant you a kindness by allowing the priestess to tend to your wounds so they don’t fester, though her talents would be far better used elsewhere. Don’t expect any more from me, though. You will spend your days here with no friends, no allies, no one to count on.”
Alone and with no one to count on, I can do. I’ve been doing it for years. “For how long?”
“For as long as I deem it so. Certainly, until you give up playing victim to this convenient fog you claim to be stuck in, not knowing who you are or what you’ve done.” He pulls away from the door to face me, that hard mask firmly in place. “Or until you do something foolish, and I decide it is no longer worth the effort of keeping you. The tower square isn’t going anywhere.”
The threat hangs in the air. A pyre will be there, waiting for me, and he will dangle it as an option.
He continues in that cold, harsh tone. “You will cause no trouble. You will not plot against Islor. And if you ever harm another hair on any Islorian’s head, I will kill you myself. And I promise you, I will ensure you never return.” His eyes glide over my neck and my shoulder before drifting around the bedroom. “I do hope you enjoy your accommodations. You’ll be spending a lot of time in them.”
I watch his back as he strides out, drawing long breaths to calm my racing heart.
An open-ended prison sentence. Will that mean weeks? Months? Something Sofie said triggers in my mind, and I feel the burden of her words settle. He could hold me here for years as his captive. At least it doesn’t sound like he’s sending me back to that horrid tower room, though.
As precarious as my situation still is, it’s far better than the one I found myself in three nights ago. The king may despise me, he might still wish me dead, but it sounds like he won’t execute me unless I give him reason.
That’s progress.
Chapter Eleven
The bells have just finished tolling to announce the noon hour when the door to my sitting room creaks open and a familiar shuffle of feet approaches.
“Will you take your meal in your bedchamber or in the sitting room?”
Eat in my bedchamber or my sitting room. Those are the only choices I’m presented with on any given day. I guess I could really mix it up and force food down my gullet while perched in the copper bathtub.
I abandon my bored gaze out the window to greet Corrin. The uppity servant stands in the doorway with a tray of food. I know without looking that it holds a cup of diluted wine, a bowl of meatless stew, a slice of crusty bread, and either an apple or pear. Every meal is the same, varying only in the ratio of mushy vegetables and blend of herbs.
“In here. Thank you.”
Corrin strolls in to set my lunch on a small desk in the corner, her navy-blue skirt rustling with her rushed steps. Aside from short daily visits from Wendeline to tend to my wounds, the petite servant has been my sole companion. If one can call a woman who delivers food and fresh clothes and glares at me with naked animosity a companion.
She was assigned to me because of “the king’s kindness” she announced when she arrived on her first day to drop off a meal and collect soiled towels, her face pinched as if smelling something foul. She then went on to list all the things she would not be doing for me—helping me dress, groom, bathe. All things I don’t expect or want help with, even with my injuries, but she wore a smug look as she listed them out loud, as if reading from a petty Fuck you to the fallen princess, Signed, the staff letter.
I wonder what she did to earn this unpleasant duty.
My contentment with simply being alive has faded over the past three weeks. These walls may be adorned in pretty paper and molding, but it doesn’t mask the truth of what they are—my prison. I have a bedroom for sleeping and changing, a “sitting room” where I pace, and a small room with a bath I can’t figure out how to operate. The primitive-looking toilet, miraculously, flushes waste with a swirl of water when I pull a chain. I suppose I should be thankful that I’m not stuck with a chamber pot in a place
that lives at the mercy of lantern light.
My door is locked from the outside and guarded at all hours. I know this because I’ve laid on the floor in front of it, watching through the gap as boots pace. The daytime guard takes eight steps each way and drags the ball of his left foot. The nighttime guard takes ten, with a slight spring in his step. They’re the same guards every day.
In the early days, when I was still mostly bedbound from the daaknar attack, I spent my time imagining all the places where a secret corridor out of my rooms might be hiding. But I’ve searched every panel of wall, every floorboard, beneath every rug, and either they’ve hidden it well or, more than likely, they’ve locked me in a room without any escape.
I am a prisoner who has no idea where she is being kept, and no way of gathering information, per the king’s declaration that no one entertain my amnesia farce by answering questions, on threat of harsh punishment. Wendeline informed me of that when I asked her about the cuffs around my wrists.
And so, I remain completely ignorant to my surroundings, mentally reviewing over and over the few bits that I have learned so I don’t lose track. If there is any silver lining, it’s that these weeks have allowed me to come to terms with the idea that demons and magic exist. Except now I’m that much more impatient to learn what else is out there in this strange world. A world I suspect is not my own in the most profound ways.
“I’ll be back this evening to draw your bath and bring a freshly laundered dress.” Corrin gives a pointed look at my nightgown, her eyes heavy with judgment. I’ve taken to not changing out of it as of late. The loose gauzy cotton is far lighter and more comfortable than the heavy layered silks and brocades, and what does it matter what I wear? I have nowhere to go. “Will there be anything else?”
I can tell she’s holding her breath. She always asks me if there will be anything else and she always holds her breath, as if praying there isn’t.
Do I even bother? “Can I please have a window opened? Just one? It gets hot in here in the afternoons, and some fresh air would be appreciated.” If I’m not pacing, I’m staring through the panes at the expansive vista of treetops and, in the far distance, hints of forests and rolling hills. The glass doors leading to the balcony are locked, and the small panels on the grand windows that appear capable of opening have been secured, though I can’t figure out how or why. My rooms must be several stories up—too high to climb down from. My ears catch hints of life below—the sounds of laughter, the clash of metal that I’ve figured out are sword blades—but I can’t see the sources.
“I will share your request, Your Highness.” That’s been her standard response every time I’ve asked for something—a book, paper and pencil to draw with, access to the balcony, a different meal. And yet no book or paper has arrived, the balcony door remains locked, and I’m choking down another bowl of bland vegetable stew.
Corrin makes to leave.
“Could you also see if Annika can visit me?” I have nothing to lose by asking, and I’m desperate to speak with her again. Even if she despises me, she seems the most likely to go against the king’s order and enlighten me.
Corrin’s scowl is unmistakable. “The princess has been sequestered in her wing while she serves out her penance for helping you.”
So, Zander has punished his sister after all. How long will she remain locked up? Not nearly as long as I will be, I’m sure.
The door to my suite swings open then and Wendeline passes through, carrying a jar of salve. An arm donning the black and gold of Cirilea’s colors pulls the door shut behind her. I’ve never seen either of my guards’ faces. The only reason I know they’re men is by the sound of their voices. One carries a pleasant accent.
“If that is all, Your Highness.” Corrin spins on her heels and marches out before I can utter another word, barely offering Wendeline a curtsy in her rush to get away.
“Somehow she makes those two words sound like a spit in my face.”
The priestess’s eyebrows arch in question. “And what has offended her on this day, Your Highness?”
“I dared ask to open a window for some fresh air.”
She hums her understanding. “Try not to take her disposition personally. It’s simply safer for her if she keeps you at arm’s length.”
Because the king deems it so. Little human interaction. No fresh air. No books. No information about this world I’m trapped in. No television, no internet, no phone, because those things don’t seem to exist here. Zander doesn’t realize how effective his punishment is. I didn’t fear being alone. I’ve been alone for years. But trapped like this, without being able to step outside, is suffocating. Lately, I feel like throwing my head back and shrieking at the top of my lungs.
“I think she genuinely hates me. Don’t be surprised if she poisons my stew one of these days.”
Wendeline’s lips press together, and I can almost hear the words on the tip of her tongue: that it would be a poetic end, given what I’m accused of.
Despite the short stay and the lack of conversation, I’ve grown fond of the caster who tends to my injuries. She has a calm and nurturing presence that puts me at ease. Most important, if she wishes me dead, she hides it well. I look forward to her daily visits.
So many questions threaten to spill out, as they do every time I see her. Was she born with her power or is magic taught? How does it work? Who else has it? What can she do? But I hold my tongue firmly between my teeth. The king’s order won’t allow her to answer, but I fear my overwhelming curiosity and my ignorance will somehow reveal that I am an imposter in this world.
“How are your wounds today?” she asks.
“The same. I think.” Raw and red and sore. Though they have healed greatly, there hasn’t been any noticeable improvement since last week. Ignoring my food tray, though my stomach grumbles, I wander over to sit in my customary chair. It’s positioned by the glass doors where Wendeline insists the light is best.
“It is warm in here,” she murmurs, setting her jar on a nearby table.
“If only doors and windows were designed to open.” My voice drips with sarcasm as I unfasten the tie at the front of my nightgown and push one side off, my modesty around her long gone.
A small smile of amusement touches her lips. “Perhaps your request will be accommodated.”
“She’s not even going to ask.”
“The king requires that we report any requests you make, and Corrin is not foolish enough to withhold things from him out of spite.”
“He wants to know what I ask for? Why?” So he can get satisfaction from not giving it to me?
“He is the king. He does not explain himself to anyone. But you and whatever plans you’ve made to steal his throne remain especially important to him.”
So much for him not affording me any more thought. “But I’ve already failed at that, haven’t I?”
Wendeline pushes my hair to one side and checks the two faint silver dots across my jugular. “Perhaps he worries that you will somehow send messages to your supporters who remain in hiding if, for example, you were to request for paper and graphite.”
“I did ask for those, but it was to draw.” I could entertain myself for hours if I could sketch faces and landscapes. It would make these monotonous days go by faster.
Her prodding touch is as gentle as always. “His Highness is in a precarious position. Someone in his household helped you plot against his family. His own sister released you. He does not fully trust anyone at the moment.”
“He trusts you.”
Her eyes flash to mine. “Enough to heal you, and no more.”
And Corrin, enough to not lace my food with arsenic or whatever they use around here to poison people. And the night guard, to not slit my throat while I sleep. “So, you would tell him if I asked for anything?”
“I’ve sworn fealty to him. I have no wish to earn his wrath.” Her mouth curls with a frown of satisfaction. “Your neck has mended well. The scars are almost invisible.
One more session and they should be gone.”
That, at least, is good news, but my thoughts are still hung up on Zander. He said he wanted nothing more to do with me—didn’t want to see me or think about me—that day he came to inform me personally of my punishment, and yet he’s getting daily updates? I’ll bet he’s hoping to catch me in a lie. Though, if that were the case, it’d be smarter to let me build relationships. Nothing loosens lips faster than a sense of comfort. “What have you told him about me so far?”
“The truth. That the wounds on your shoulder are tricky to heal and that you’ve given no indication that you remember who you are or what you’ve done.” She studies the claw marks. “I’m going to try something different. It might help with these. If not … I’m not sure what more I can do.” She takes a seat in a chair next to me, and opening the jar, she sets to smearing the paste over the unsightly gashes.
I inhale, expecting the mild, floral fragrance of the usual salve. Instead, my nostrils fill with a putrid stink. “Oh my … what is that?” I turn away and gag. The only thing worse smelling would be the daaknar itself.
The corners of her eyes crinkle with her chuckle. “A great many things you would rather not know about, but most important is the haldi. A shipment of it arrived at the port the other day. I was able to secure this salve from the apothecary before it was gone, which was no small miracle.”
I focus on breathing through my mouth while her fingertips stroke gently over my wounds. The only hint that the stench affects her is a slight flare of her nostrils. All the while my mind gathers her words. She said port, which means ships. Ships from where? Regardless, it means there’s a way out of Islor, if I ever manage to escape.
Wendeline is far chattier today than she ever has been before. I press my luck. “Do you think he’ll ever let me out of these rooms?”
It’s a moment before she answers, and she is choosing her words carefully. “As of this moment, few people know for certain that you are still alive. There are whispers, of course. Questions of where your body may be and how you died. Plenty of rumors and speculation. The king has not officially confirmed or denied any of them, leaving both Islor and Ybaris in turmoil regarding the fate of Princess Romeria.”