The advisors above have gone completely silent.
I heave for breath, setting my sword aside and placing my palms against the sand, trying to steady myself.
“…It doesn't count if you don't channel it yourself,” Gareth says, his voice quiet and carefully neutral as he slowly looks back to me. “Now, on your feet. Go clean yourself up. And let's hope the king's advisors don't report anything too damning about what they've just witnessed.”
With that, he turns and walks away, leaving his charred practice sword smoking in the sand.
I watch him go, confused and unsettled.
That was strange, I think, and Blight shuffles restlessly in her chains, as if she can hear my thoughts as clearly as my voice.
Be wary, she warns me again.Something about him is not right.
Chapter Nineteen
Briar is sleeping when I return to the palace, and even though I’m eager to catch up on lost time, I decide not to bother her.
Instead, I spend the afternoon soaking in my tub, wondering if I’ll ever be able to make sense ofanyonein this godsdamned palace.
The bruise Gareth left with that particularly brutal blow to my collarbone is impressive, a sprawling patch of gruesomeness that makes every deep breath hurt. After bathing, I try to cover it up as best I can with powder and strategic clothing, but a few sickly branches of bluish purple still peek out from underneath everything I try on. Between this, my pale eye, and all the other scrapes and bruises I’ve picked up, I look less like a divinely-chosen dragon-rider and more like a corpse come to life.
There’s nothing to be done about it, though, so I dress comfortably, slide the ring the king gave me over my scraped knuckle, and I carry on.
I briefly visit the library after leaving my room, eager to research more about dragon abilities related to reading the emotions and intentions of people. I don’t know how seriously I should take Blight’s warnings from earlier; can she really tell me who to trust and who to be wary of?
It doesn’t seem out of the realm of possibility, if she was truly shaped by the gods. And I do find one interesting passage about a former divinely-bound pair that served a king of Ormyth; allegedly, they could read minds, and they used the ability to uncover countless traitors and conspiracies.
There aren’t many details abouthowthey did these things, though—which is frustrating. I want to be able to gather information like I always have for every other mission I’ve undertaken.
The difference, of course, is that I didn’t actually take on this mission. This bond, this apparent destiny…it was thrust upon me.
And it still doesn’t feel real.
There are no others like me here, leaving signs and marking safe paths for me to follow as my fellow Ashwalkers once did. Touching the brand on my arm no longer gives me a rush of purpose and direction. It just makes me feel overwhelmingly lonely.
The head librarian—Lady Elspeth, I’ve learned—has set up a separate study off the main archives for me, a place where I can collect and organize the texts I’m studying without having to haul the heavier tomes up to my room. It’s quieter here. More private, too, shielding me from the endless questioning and judgmental stares of the palace folk who filter in and out.
Even so, I find it hard to focus with everything that’s happened today. I don’t last long before I’m back to walking the halls, trying to find some sense of balance.
Preparations for the Sun Harvest Feast continue, taking over more and more of the palace. This is how I know the king is on the premises—because I catch several conversations between the servants, anxiously discussing how he might show up at any moment to inspect their work.
So I’m not surprised to cross paths with him when I make my way into the main gardens. He’s strolling alongside his little brother. Arlo is riding his giant dog, and Ruffus seems thrilled at the opportunity to play horse, trotting happily along, tongue lolling and tail wagging.
A dozen confusing, conflicting feelings rush through me as Reave’s gaze meets mine.
Gareth’s strange warning was entirely unnecessary. It’s not as if Iwantto speak to the king any more than I have to. Especially not after our tense encounter last night. And I’m certainly not letting my guard down around him.
But I can’t exactly run and hide every time I see him.
Besides, it’s been far too long since I’ve had a chance to visit with Prince Arlo—who immediately tumbles off his dog’s back when he spots me, laughing and running toward me with his arms stretched wide.
I’m wincing inwardly at the thought of lifting him, as sore as I am, but he’s so light—sofrail—that it’s no trouble at all to pick him up. I fight off a worried frown as I hug him against me, trying not to focus on how easily I can feel his ribs through his shirt.
As usual, he’s more concerned with me than himself, gingerly tracing the bit of bruise showing along my throat—the only part I couldn’t cover with the coat I’ve wrapped around myself.
“That looks like it hurts,” he says, frowning.
Only when I breathe, I think.
