And yet here I am, staring up at a soothing canopy of silks in taupe and robin’s-egg blue.
“How am I not dead?” I croak, asking no one in particular.
“Send word that she is awake,” an unfamiliar voice whispers.
I try shifting my head toward the speaker. A sharp pain radiates through my neck, drawing a hiss from my lips.
“Be careful. You are still healing.” A woman in a white robe trimmed in gold appears by my bedside, concern etched into her forehead. Her outfit reminds me of a nun’s habit, though the gold veil is translucent and airy, her corn silk hair visible beneath.
“How long has it been?” My voice is hoarse.
“Three days.” She offers a weary smile—the first genuine one I’ve seen in what feels like forever. “You must be thirsty. Allow me.” Settling onto the edge of my bed, she slides a gentle hand against my nape and elevates my head. “Drink, but slowly.”
I manage a few sips of water from the silver mug she holds to my lips, my gaze searching her features. Gray touches her temples and weaves through her hair, crow’s-feet crinkle at the corners of her eyes, laugh lines frame her mouth. She’s in her fifties if I had to guess.
Swallowing hurts.
“Thanks,” I say as she slips her hand free. I don’t have the energy to pull myself up. “What happened?”
“You do not remember?” Round, steel-blue eyes search my face.
“That depends. Was the big, scary demon with giant horns real?”
“The daaknar. Yes, it most certainly was real.”
I sigh. Thank God. I thought I’d lost my mind. Though I’m not sure I wouldn’t prefer that to the other reality—that my father’s been right all along, and demons exist. “It killed that woman.”
Deep sorrow carves into her expression. “High Priestess Margrethe succumbed to her injuries, yes.”
She knew her. Well, I suspect. Given her robes, I’m guessing she’s somehow affiliated with the church. A church that idolizes gods with horns protruding from their heads. What fresh hell has Sofie dropped me into?
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
The woman bows her head in acknowledgment.
Sleep tugs at my feeble body, but I have too many questions. “What happened after that thing attacked me?” How did I not suffer the same fate as the high priestess?
“It died. You killed it.”
“What? No … that’s not possible.” I search my foggy memory. It had me in its jaws. I was defenseless against it. “It bit me.”
“Yes, we have not been able to explain it either. To my knowledge, no one has ever survived an attack like that.” Her voice is doubtful, as if she’s still grappling with that truth. “We believe the daaknar tried to feed off you, but your blood harmed it.”
“It fed off me?” My face twists with horror.
“Not for long. It cast you aside and released that horrific shrill scream that could be heard across all Cirilea”—she winces as if recalling the sound—“and then it burst into flames. We assume it returned to Azo’dem.”
Azo’dem. Zander said that name when he was condemning me to death. Given he thinks I am a murderer, it must be their version of hell.
“Only an elemental caster has ever been able to banish a daaknar.” She studies me closely.
There it is again, this talk of casters. Zander mentioned it in the tower, and then Annika did so in the sanctum.
Annika.
“Did she get away? The king’s sister was there that night—”
“My sister is well,” a deep voice cuts in.
The woman tending to me scuttles off the bed and bends in a deep curtsy. “Your Highness. I didn’t expect you so soon.”
I swallow against the flare of nervousness and fear, and listen to the steady approach of footfalls, dreading that I’ve survived a demon’s mauling only to land myself back on a bonfire. That wouldn’t make sense, treating my injuries only so he could watch me die. But people sometimes choose irrational paths in search of reprieve from heartache. My mother taught me that.
Zander appears at my bedside. He is wearing all black again, though the jacket he wore to the tower cell has been replaced with one more regal, made of a velvety material. The embroidery along the lapels reminds me of waves crashing against rocks, the ochre thread accenting the deep gold highlights in his hair. His sword and dagger remain at his side.
And that stony, unreadable mask is firmly in place.
I find myself unable to look away from this man—this king—whom I was supposed to marry, who now wishes me dead. The daylight offers me a glimpse of his face that the moonlight did not, one that reveals a perfect balance between the hard edges and symmetrical, softer features—a square jaw that surrounds full lips, sharp cheekbones that frame large, deep-set eyes, a long, slender-tipped nose that meets a shapely brow.
Though I know it’s probably not wise, that it could be seen as a challenge, I hold his steady, dissecting gaze. His eyes are a light hazel. They would be pretty if they weren’t so full of hate.
“How are her wounds?” he asks after a moment.
“Healing well, Your Highness.”
“Show me.”
His words are an echo of those he spoke in the tower when he demanded to see the injury to my chest. The memory of his gentle touch against my bruised skin sends an unexpected shiver through my body.
The woman’s fingertips are cool as she peels back the bandages, exposing my neck.
Zander’s expression reveals nothing.
“How bad is it?” Am I missing a chunk of my body like Margrethe was? Will I have use of my right arm after that thing tore through my shoulder?
“Not as bad as one might expect.” She tacks on a quieter “Your Highness” at the end, and I realize she’s talking to me.
I’m not anyone’s Highness, I want to say. I’m just Romeria, or Romy for short. But I remember who I’m supposed to be, who everyone believes me to be.
“Why don’t you show her, Wendeline,” Zander suggests.
The woman—Wendeline—nods and rushes to somewhere nearby, returning a moment later.
The entire time, Zander’s unwavering eyes remain locked on mine. It’s like he’s waiting for a twitch or clue, an unspoken answer to his thoughts. It’s unnerving, and I can’t help but divert my gaze.
She holds up a hand mirror bordered with elaborate gilded curves in front of me.
My face reflects within the frame.
My face. The one I’ve known all my life, back when my life was ordinary in East Orange, Jersey, and then when my life became anything but ordinary. The same blue eyes of Alton’s Adriatic Sea, the same hair, as black as a starless night. The same dusting of freckles across the bridge of my nose, almost too light to notice.
How can I be the Romeria that I’ve known all my life and this other Romeria, this princess of a kingdom in a strange place?
One who journeys to a foreign land.
Sofie said so little in our short time together, her words vague and random at the time, and yet the connections keep snapping into place.
“It will take time for me to repair them, but I have no experience with healing injuries from a daaknar. I fear there will be scars,” Wendeline offers, reminding me that I have an audience watching me closely.