“Are you trying to get me flogged by the king?”
I wince, thinking of Korsakov whipping the skin off that lecher’s back. “No. I was just curious.” I hope I don’t sound too eager. “And dying from boredom.”
With a heavy sigh of resignation, she wipes the residual salve from her fingers on a cloth. I’ve often admired her fingernails—neatly sculpted, the beds long. “Those wishing to be blessed with a child go to the nymphaeum.”
Annika said something about Zander and Princess Romeria “being blessed” with offspring. “The blood moon was the night of the attack.”
“Yes. A royal wedding on Hudem. It was to be quite the affair.” Her knowing eyes flicker to me.
I assume that means they would have gone into the nymphaeum after the ceremony. But instead, she had his parents murdered and inspired a war in the city streets.
It’s impossible to feel guilty for something I haven’t done, and yet somehow that uncomfortable twinge stirs in my gut. “When is the next blood moon?”
“It arrives every third lunar cycle of the common moon, to usher in the change of seasons with its brilliant light.”
The common moon. That must be the second moon that sat high in the sky. But what is a lunar cycle here? Is it the same as the one at home? And will I still be trapped in these rooms for the next one? I look up to the ceilings. God help me if I am.
As if able to read my thoughts, Wendeline says, “Should the king grant you freedom from this room, do not do something as foolish as attempt to flee. I promise you won’t get far, and I’ll have wasted all my efforts on you.”
“Because he’ll string me up on that pyre he’s saving for me. I remember.” Under my breath, “monster” slips out.
“Many would say the same of you, whether you remember what you’ve done or not.”
What does Wendeline think of me? The idea that she might feel the same pricks me more than I expect. She is my only ally here, and she likely reports my every word to Zander. What does Wendeline think of this young king who hates my guts? Is she loyal to him because she has to be or because she chooses to be?
I wish I could voice all the questions that have been swirling in my mind for the past three weeks. I’m used to relying on myself and trusting nobody, and yet here, trapped within these walls, I’m desperate for just one person to lean on, one person who can fill in all the blanks.
“Hold still for me. And do not talk.” She places her hand over my shoulder, closes her eyes, and bows her head.
That god-awful smelling salve is new, but this part of her process is familiar, and no less fascinating now than the first day I witnessed it. At the time, I assumed she was praying, and that the faint tingling was the salve absorbing into my skin. But then she held up the mirror to show me that the lacerations were markedly smaller and less angry when she finished, and I realized she had to be healing me with her magic. Actual magic.
Now, I watch her furrowed forehead as she concentrates, enthralled. I can never tell how much time passes—there are no clocks, and bells only toll at the hour—but when her eyelids finally crack open, that familiar red tinge looms.
“Does it hurt you to do that?”
She shakes her head. “It tires me. I am nowhere near as powerful as Margrethe was. She was a healer too. She might have been able to do more for you.” Her gaze settles on my shoulder and she smiles. “Yes, I think that is better.” She eases out of her chair and slowly shuffles—another result of her healing—to the vanity to collect the handheld mirror.
Margrethe was the high priestess. I’m assuming that’s a rank position. “Have they replaced her yet?”
“No. That is … not an option.”
“How many of you are there in Islor? Casters, I mean.”
“Few remain now. It is quite the journey to get here, and most are not interested in taking the risk.”
“Why not?”
“Because.” I sense her shutting the door on that conversation. She lifts the mirror in front of me.
I check my reflection. The marks haven’t shrunk much, but the raw redness of the knitted skin has faded noticeably.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more. If we are lucky, the scars will turn silver. They may be almost invisible under certain light.”
I highly doubt that. I’ll never be able to wear a tank top or bathing suit—if I ever get out of this hellhole—without attracting notice, but it’s a far cry better than what it was. I stretch my arm above my head. It’s a bit stiff, but the ache is gone.
Wendeline caps the jar as I pull my nightgown back into place. “The salve will keep working through the night. I know it will be tempting, but do not wash it off when you bathe tonight. Whatever healing you have left will happen while you sleep. You can remove it in the morning.” She nods to herself as she collects her things, as if satisfied. “Very well, then. Take care, Your Highness.”
“Romy,” I push, as I often do when she calls me that. Something about her farewell this time feels different, though. She doesn’t normally curtsy that deeply. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
The doubtful look on her face answers me before her words do. “If the king deems it beneficial, but I’ve healed you as much as I can. I don’t know that my skills will make any more difference.”
If Wendeline doesn’t come back, I’ll be left with no one but Corrin and the footsteps of two guards. Dread tugs at my insides. “What about my mental health? Does the king deem to know when I lose my damn mind locked up in here?” I can’t keep the bite from my tone. I hope the question reaches his ears. Maybe it’ll satisfy him to know his punishment is working, enough that he’ll relent.
Her attention veers toward the sealed windows, her brow furrowed deeply. “He is not the monster you think him to be.”
Says the woman not being held prisoner by him. “He executes people. Burns them.” From previous experience, those people are all monsters.
“And you would not?”
“No. I’m not my—” I cut my words off. My mother. Except we are no longer talking about Romeria from New York.
“His Highness did what any king or queen would do, given the situation. Your parents have executed traitors for far less.” Her eyebrows arch as if daring me to challenge something she knows is the case. “As a queen, you would, as well.”
Her early words spark something Annika said in the sanctum. So far, I’ve pieced together that Princess Romeria’s marriage to Zander was arranged by her father, the king of Ybaris, under the guise of an effort for peace between the two kingdoms, though in reality, she was conspiring with an Islorian named Lord Muirn to raise an insurgent army and take the throne. Someone else—someone intricately connected to the royal family—helped her. And, on the day she was to marry Zander, when everyone was focused on a wedding and enemies easily flooded through the gates, her scheme unfolded. But obviously, all didn’t go as planned.
What I still don’t understand is, why Princess Romeria felt she needed to murder them in the first place.
I choose my words carefully. “Why would I do the horrible things I’m being accused of?”
“Why else does one kingdom fall but for another to rise?”