Page 10 of Hearts Lost

I’m trembling. Damn it all, I don’t want to be trembling. I try to think of the falcon I’d seen this morning, out the window of the crystal chamber, before the entire world had changed. The falcon hunting among the remaining trees of our Spirit Wood. No fear, no pain. Just pure, bright focus.

“Look at me when I speak to you, daughter of the horse trader.”

My heart jumps against the cage of my ribs, and I force myself to meet the king’s eyes. Some distant, giddy part of my mind notes that he looks almost nothing like his grandson Prince Folwynn. Folwynn has a sort of casual, cruel beauty, but there is nothing casual about King Grathgore’s cruelty.

“Your sister Amarille wishes for her freedom,” the king says. “Do you agree?”

A strangled sort of yelp slips out of my lips before I can swallow it. Every muscle in my body pulls tight, and perhaps this is all a dream. Perhaps this is a nightmare, my very worst fear come to life. The king’s lips twist into a mockery of a smile.

“Horse daughter,” he says, in a voice so low it’s almost a whisper. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

My mind beats against my skull like a bird trapped in a cage. What can I say? How could I possibly answer this question? I remember my sister’s tears and my whispered promises that I’d figure something out.

But of course, there’s only one possible answer. One does not lie to the King of the Summer.

“Yes,” I whisper.

King Grathgore steps back, and only then do I realize how close he’d come to me. Within sword reach, easy. And I’d be a fool if I thought the king wasn’t wearing a sword.

“Yes,” Grathgore echoes. “And what would you give for your sister’s freedom?”

He brings his hands together in front of his chin and tilts his head at me, staring at me as though I were a peculiar piece of art. My heart gallops in my chest. It’s a trap, it has to be a trap, but what choice do I have?

“Anything,” I answer.

“Wonderful.”

Grathgore’s smile is as cold as ice. He paces around the edge of the enormous black desk, presses something, and then stands back. A tiny hidden door swings open, revealing a little drawer. Grathgore pauses, then turns to me.

“My granddaughter will return to the Lands Below,” he says. “I doubt there is much I could do to stop her, short of killing her.”

I’m probably not supposed to respond to that. I stand on the blood-red carpet and stare at the king like a statue.

“This is troubling,” Grathgore says. His gaze travels up to the shadow-shrouded ceiling. “Troubling, because our kingdom exists to sustain the barrier. We exist to keep the Lands Below imprisoned. Until Rensivar finds—”

His voice cuts off, and he turns back to me. Anger sparks in his dark eyes. I take a step back, my heart beating jaggedly in the back of my throat. Did he just say Rensivar? He couldn't have meant the black dragon, Rensivar the Wicked.

The fire hisses on the grate, and for a heartbeat, I think the king really is going to kill me. I’ll be just another guard lost in the line of duty, another vacancy for the Royal Guards to fill. Another reason for the palace to press children into service. The king shakes his head, and the moment passes.

“My idiot granddaughter is going to the Lands Below,” he says. “But she cannot come back. She must not come back. Do you understand?”

I have no idea what in the nine hells he’s talking about.

“Yes, Sire,” I reply.

“This damned portal must be destroyed,” the king says. “But that’s not enough. Now that Galan has the resources to open one, the fool is bound to try again.”

The king looks down. His dark eyes fix on me as though he’s just noticing my presence for the first time.

“Ithronel, daughter of the horse trader,” he says. “You must stop those attempts.”

My mouth falls open, but I can’t force myself to speak. I’m no magician. The king must know that. As I gawk, King Grathgore sweeps forward and bends over the desk. He drops his fingers into the secret drawer, then lifts a black velvet bundle from the hidden darkness.

“Come closer,” he says, holding his hand to his chest.

I’m reminded of the legend of the rattlesnake who sang mice into his fangs. But I force myself to step closer, one foot after another on the blood-red carpet. As I approach, the king unfurls his fist and unwraps the bundle. Three fat, heavy silver beads sit nestled in velvet in the palm of his hand, gleaming dully in the shifting firelight. Something about them makes my gut shift; a bitter taste rises in the back of my throat.

“These,” the king begins, speaking in a low, soft voice that raises the hair on the back of my neck, “are a weapon.”