Only Gilead and Sainte entered my rooms. The healer used one of my provided excuses to keep me isolated. Nobody would risk a contagious plague escaping, so we stayed quarantined. Winter’s Bite, the illness that claimed my father, could sweep through the castle within a week, infecting everyone and halving the staff in one blow.
Sainte avoided holding me, choosing his cot instead while Gilead tended to my misery. She offered tea to help me sleep through the worst, while I endured the waking hours with gritted teeth and groans. She draped blankets warmed by the fire over my abdomen and whisked away bloodied towels. Only once had I questioned if they were being smuggled to Lyana’s room. Sainte’s assurance that Urien handled the ferrying allowed me to rest.
After three days, the cramps eased, but the blood persisted. Gilead’s worried expression darkened as she took another blood-soaked towel away.
“What is it?” I asked when she returned to my bedside.
She pressed her lips into a line, folding her hands in her lap. Her eyes shadowed by dark circles flicked to Sainte, who leaned against the wall, legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded. He had done nothing but glare at me and seethe in anger.
“This was reckless,” she said.
I scoffed, flopping my head back onto the pillow. Their judgment was the last thing I cared about. I refused to let my friend be pressured into taking that awful tea. I couldn’t save her from my brother, but I could endure this torment, sacrifice a few days to offer her relief. This chipped away at the boulder of guilt in my stomach.
Gilead took a long slow breath, as if regaining her composure. “You compromised your womb. Lady Lyana would jeopardize her ability to bear children, but you risk the very heirs to the kingdom.”
“As if–”
“Nothar has favored you.” Her firm voice cut through my response. Anger glittered in her eyes, brows drawn down. “You bore Togamar’s mark and embraced Nellium’s touch. You are the Gods’ Chosen. Yet, you defy your heritage, your lineage, to spare your friend some discomfort.”
“Careful,” my glare sharpened, “what you say borders on treason.”
“The lies I’ve told shattered my vows to the prince regent, and now you accuse me of treason? No. There’s no falsehood in the claim that you’ve been chosen. You would throw it away for some false sense of loyalty?”
I turned, looking to Sainte for help. His accusing glare told me he would not be rescuing me.
His refusal only heightened my rage. “She’s here because of me! What happened to her–”
“Happened because she was willing.”
“Stop!” My arms trembled as I shoved myself upright. “Adastrus–”
“Lied—and she fell for the bait.”
“You’ve never been in love, have you?” I sneered, refusing to look at Sainte even as her eyes darted his way. “You have no idea what it’s like to lie with someone, feel secure in their embrace, invincible to the rest of the world simply because they’re there.”
My throat tightened. I paused, waiting for the sensation to ease so my voice wouldn’t shake. “You have never loved someone so much that seeing them in pain breaks you in two—all logic and reason vanishes. You’ve never tasted the high that comes with passion! Or the contentment after it subsides. Don’t speak of love like you know anything about it.”
She sat back, lips pressed together, jaw clenched, fighting not to snap at me. The anger that stirred in her glare confirmed my words. She had no right to talk about Lyana that way.
Gilead rose, brushing out her white dress. She nodded to Sainte, then crossed the room on soft steps. The door clicked shut behind her.
I heaved a sigh and fell back on the bed with a curse. “You think I was foolish as well,” I muttered to the bright ceiling. “Stupid and reckless.”
“Yes.” The word, harsh and blunt, echoed from Sainte’s place against the far wall.
I snorted at his predictable response.
The mattress dipped beside me, and I turned my head, watching as Sainte eased himself onto the edge. The bedframe creaked under his weight.
“Though, I too know the feeling of having to act out of guilt.” He reached over his shoulder and pulled his tunic loose from his trousers, exposing the small of his back. The scars from his recent flogging stood out, raw and jagged. “Every time I returned without you, failing to find a way to remove your brother and put you on the throne.”
Unable to stop myself, I let my fingers trace the raised welts—a mass of mutilated flesh.
“I had to leave you behind,” he said, “and I took the punishment. The floggings only relieved my guilt. They didn’t provide solutions. Do you feel better knowing I endured these for you?”
“No.” I jerked my hand away.
“Do you believe your possible infertility would ease Lady Lyana’s suffering?”
