Page 118 of Bride of Ash & Dust

Maybe my father would have believed the letter no matter who wrote it.

“But to leave Vsenrog for Ethiria?” my father continues as he thrusts the forged letter back into his robe. “For Prince Laurance?” He snorts, then turns his back on me. “I never knew my daughter was such an idiot.”

His steps echo hollowly as he walks back to the throne.

My mouth hangs open. My chest is tight; the words still refuse to come. Some part of me must realize there’s nothing I can say that will change my father’s mind.

My father turns to the older gentleman with the elegant jacket. And then he bows. The king of Marion, bowing before an emissary.

“This is all,” my father begins, in a very different tone of voice, “a terrible misunderstanding. Your King Malrik must understand how foolish these young people can be. Just as I can fully understand why he sent his troops into Ethiria to retrieve my idiotic whore of a daughter,” he says, as he waves his hand at me like I’m a lump of cheese in the marketplace. “But now, we can resolve this. I have the whore. He’s welcome to take her back.”

The room falls silent. The emissary comes to his feet. He’s taller than he looked, and stronger. He sniffs.

“Perhaps,” the emissary replies. “I will arrange a meeting with His Highness King Malrik. He may be interested in whatever it is Marion has to offer.”

My father nods, then turns to Mel.

“Lock her up,” he says, without looking at me. “The prince’s soldier, too, if he was ready to abdicate with my worthless son. And be ready to travel on my command.”

Mel turns to me with an almost apologetic look on his battered face. He takes my arm. I try to blink away the flood of tears as he leads Owain and me toward the dungeon.

“What in the hells is happening?” Owain whispers, once we’re out of the throne room. “Why did he say Elrick abdicated? Prince Elrick isn’t abandoning his kingdom.”

Mel grunts. We walk past the banquet hall, past the kitchens, and out through the servants’ entrance. The cool night air of the courtyard feels soft against my burning cheeks.

“Vsenrog invaded,” Mel says. His gruff voice takes me by surprise; he’d been silent for so long, I didn’t think he was going to reply. “Their emissary said this one—” he yanks on my arm, “—ran off to be with her lover in Ethiria. He said the Vsenrog troops are just passing through, going to Ethiria to get her back. But then they set up their tents. Some here, some there. All over the damn kingdom,” Mel adds in a growl. “And they said Prince Elrick left Marion. That he ran off to Ethiria, too. Left us to our fate.”

“Bullshit,” Owain hisses under his breath.

Mel doesn’t respond. The door to the dungeons looms in the darkness before us, and fear skates across my skin like a creature with many small, sharp legs. I’ve never actually been down here. Gods, I don’t think these dungeons have ever been used, at least not in my lifetime. As a child, the dark, narrow door alone terrified me.

I stumble, and Mel tugs me forward.

“They think our king is weak,” Mel continues in that rough whisper. “On account of his ill health. They think all of Marion is weak.”

“His ill health?” I manage to stammer.

That was what King Malrik said in Vsenrog, that my father was too ill to travel to the wedding. But it wasn’t true. I turn to Owain just as Mel drags me toward the mouth of the dungeons. The light of the courtyard lamps washes over Owain’s face. He looks terrified.

“He may be sick,” Mel mutters. “But we ain’t weak. We’ll show ‘em.”

I swallow hard. And then Mel pushes me into the dungeons of Marion.

Chapter 65

Lilias

WHO WOULD BELIEVE THAT?

Bertyl, the old castle guard who is also the dungeon’s jailer, is very apologetic. Somehow, that only makes me feel worse.

He’s a big man who walks with a limp, and his words come out somewhat mushy, like he’s taken a few hits to the face in the course of his work. He’s been in charge of Marion’s unused dungeons for my entire life, along with a half dozen other duties. Now that he actually has prisoners to put in the dungeon, he seems uncomfortable with the whole situation.

Well, that makes two of us.

“Sorry for the smell, my lady,” Bertyl says in his thick voice.

I nod politely. I’m trying to breathe through my mouth and ignore the tight feeling in my chest. The keys in the thick ring around Bertyl’s belt click together as we approach the first iron cell door. Bertyl unlocks it, then waves a hand at the murky interior as though he were ushering me into a carriage.