“At the moment, most of Islor still believes you dead. There are a great number of rumors drifting through the villages and cities, causing confusion and fear.”
“Such as …,” I push.
“Many are calling you the Royal Slayer. Some believe the king should have made a spectacle of executing you with the rest of the Ybarisans for your treason.”
The urge to deny my supposed misdeeds blisters my tongue for what feels like the hundredth time. This is what innocent people accused of heinous crimes must feel like. Though, in my case, my inculpability is only half-true. “I guess I can’t blame them.” Zander would have executed me had the sun rose with me still in the tower. I have both Annika and a demon to thank for escaping that fate.
“But there are some who mourn you, who are certain you didn’t have any knowledge of your mother’s hand, that you were duped as surely as the rest of us.”
A spark of hope unfurls in my chest. “Is that possible?” Could I have been framed for all this?
“Your first lady was found with the vial of poison hidden in the seam of her dress, and your guards sang like songsters upon questioning, their stories about your duplicity all the same. So, no, I would say it’s highly unlikely.”
I swallow. “And the king? I mean, Zander. Was he ever suspicious of me before that night?”
“He was.” There’s a lengthy pause. “But he fell for your act harder than anyone.”
“That’s what he likes? A mindless woman who wears pretty dresses while smiling incessantly, and who will warm his bed?”
There’s no response, and I suspect that’s all I’ll get about Zander. I smooth my fingers over the cuffs on my wrist. “What’s your elemental connection, Elisaf?”
“I do not have one.”
I frown. “Why not?”
Voices carry somewhere in the hall. “Sleep well, Your Highness.”
“Wait!” I know that’s his polite way of telling me he’s done answering questions, and I appreciate the details he’s offered, but I have one more question that burns for an answer. “What about the king? Does he have one?”
“He does.”
“To what?”
There is a long pause, and I assume I’m not going to get a reply.
“Fire.” Elisaf moves away from my door.
Chapter Thirteen
Corrin sets the food tray on the desk with a clatter. “You cannot wear that,” she scoffs at my gown.
“What’s wrong with it?” It’s pleasantly simple in style, the pale yellow reminding me of duckling’s feathers before it molts. It will be perfect for a walk through the grounds with Annika, which I’m desperately hoping will happen today, after three days of waiting. “This is the one you left me to wear. And it’s the only dress I have.” It’s either this or my nightgown.
“Yes, well, that was before you were summoned by the king.” Corrin disappears into the sitting room.
“Again?” It’s been ten days since I saw him. What does he want now? Is there news from Lyndel? Am I about to be accused of lying to him? My anxiety flares.
Corrin returns a moment later, her arms loaded with a flowing sage-green gown, its chiffon skirts puffy around a cinched bodice. “This will be more suitable for your day.”
“Which includes what? A royal ball? Where do you keep finding these dresses, anyway?”
“That is not your concern. All you should be concerned with is that it fits,” she retorts.
I note the sleeves and collar. The material is sheer and embroidered with delicate gold flowers that will mask my scars. “Where am I going?”
“Wherever His Highness says you are going. And eat quickly.” She gives the tray a small push. “We haven’t much time, and the king has insisted we not make him wait again.”
I groan, wandering over to the table. Everything with Corrin is always rush, rush, rush. She’s grown bolder as the days have passed, chastising me every chance she gets. In return, I’ve grown surlier, not bothering to hide my irritation. “Fine. But is it going to be as difficult to put on as this one was? It took me forever to figure it out.”
Corrin huffs. “Eat. And turn around.” She sets to unfastening the back of my dress as I pick at the apple slices and watch her in the reflection of my dressing mirror. The gold ear piercing is the first thing I notice every day, now that I know what it means. Does it bother her that she is tagged like a stockyard animal?
“You were going out like this? Three of your buttons are still undone!” she ridicules.
“I don’t have rubber arms and eyes in the back of my head. And no, I was going to ask Elisaf to help me.” I’m only half kidding. Elisaf already finished his shift by the time I was dressing. The foot-dragging guard is back on duty.
The appall on Corrin’s face in the mirror makes a bubble of laughter climb out of my throat. I choke on the fruit in my mouth, and it takes a few coughs to clear it. “What? Isn’t this why you chose this dress for me in the first place? To torture me? Because it’s impossible for a person to do up on her own.” I cursed her name a half dozen times this morning, picturing her smug smile as she hung it on the dressing hook.
She scowls but says no more, her nimble fingers flying over the buttons.
My day guard, the foot dragger—a stone-faced man with bland chestnut-brown hair and small, squinty eyes who told me his name was Guard when I attempted conversation—walks behind me and barks orders of “left” and “right” as he escorts me through the castle’s vast halls.
I note the statues and vases on pedestals as we pass, marking them as I mentally map out the castle while trying to ignore the countless stares from every direction. I can’t tell if the attention is because I’ve risen from the dead—more literally than they probably realize—or if it has to do with my extravagant appearance. After Corrin practically chased me into this dress, which fits as if tailored for my body (I can only assume it is part of Princess Romeria’s wardrobe that Corrin is hoarding somewhere), she pushed me into the vanity chair, muttering about my unkempt mane. Her fingers moved quickly, winding and twirling and pinning until the bulk of my hair was fastened in an intricately braided weave. I caught the fleeting appreciation on her face, but when she saw I was observing her, her expression morphed into that of haughty disdain.
After a lengthy walk, we step through a set of doors and enter a courtyard. A dozen horses clad in the royal black and gold wait next to their respective soldiers. Behind them, more horses loiter in stalls, chomping on fresh hay that the stable boys are delivering with pitchforks.
My nose curls at the stench of fresh droppings on the stone nearby, but I try to ignore it, and the wary looks from the soldiers. “Where are we going?” I ask Guard, hoping he’ll at least answer that much.
“For a ride through Cirilea.” Zander strolls past me without a glance my way, looking as tall and fearsome as usual, his golden-brown hair swept back, his tailored, knee-length jacket a rich forest green today. He slides a polished leather boot into a stirrup and pulls himself onto his horse with grace.