Young Writers Society

Chapter 33

I stare at the doors, willing them to open, hoping that this would end soon. The sun shines in through the high windows, arching its delicate rays and grasping the courtiers below. My hands curl into fists, and my nails dig into my palms. Please, please let Blathen’s father be kinder than his son. The minutes seem to pull into hours, and I feel as though time is stretching out before me. Blathen murmurs something into my ear, and I nod absently, making an agreeable noise though I’ve comprehended none of his words.

In an instant, he yanks me closer to him, his fingers digging into my arm. The scent of cloves and too-sweet honey hits me, and I pull away from him. “Listen to what I’m saying, little princess.” His voice is a hiss in my ear as his icy ears look at the door. His cheeks are absent of colour, and look waxy.

I nod at him, signaling for him to go on. If Blathen fears his own father, what should I expect? Blathen pulls me even closer to him, so that his lips brush my ear as he speaks. I stiffen in his arms, trying not to pull away instinctively. His long fingers are still wrapped bruisingly tight around my elbow, so even if I want to try, I can’t.

“When my father arrives,” he whispers, low and fast, so that I barely hear it, “you must make sure he believes that you are wedding me of your own will, do you understand?”

I twist in his grip so that I face him, though there is barely any space between us to do so. A sharp pain twinges in my shoulder, but I ignore it. Baring my teeth ever so slightly, I whisper, in the most unconcerned tone I can manage, “And if I don’t, Blathen? What will you do?”

His fingers loosen on my arm, his face going blank and twisting into a dangerous smile. “I will do nothing, Rionach. It will be my father and my brother you’ll have to worry about, now.” With another twisted grin, he releases his hold on me and turns to one of the clansmen beside him, starting a smooth conversation that I tune out.

My mother watches over all the proceedings with a quiet, satisfied smile on her face. Resisting the urge to slap it off, I look over the crowd of courtiers. Clansmen and women are scattered through the hall, identified easily by the dark tattoos they show off on their upper arms. There are countless faerie nobles- deceptively quiet ladies, their delicate locks piled high on their head to show off their slender necks, and gracefully deadly lords that laugh too loudly and compete for attention. Grey-robed servants dot the walls here and there, seemingly trying their best to be invisible and unseen.

Just then, the massive doors swing open, and the herald steps through. A girl’s laugh echoes into the sudden silence everyone has fallen into before suddenly stopping short.

“His Elvish Majesty Aethelstan Theseus Lorn Grigori, King of Ciardis!” The herald pauses for a second to draw breath again, and announces, “And His Highness, Reyan Aerswytch Caspian Grigori, Prince of Ciardis!”

A few dignitaries that travel with their king are announced thereafter, but I’ve tuned the herald out, instead studying Blathen’s father and brother. The elvish king has silver-white hair that falls to his neck. His eyes are nearly the same as Blathen’s- pale blue and just as, if not more, cruel. He stands tall- not quite as tall as his son, Reyan, who walks a step beside him, but tall, tall enough to pass as fey. Reyan looks friendlier- at least in comparison- though his expression is still calculating, his eyes betray a hint of friendliness. His red hair reminds me of a duller version of Arianna’s deep red curls, and I smile despite the situation at the thought of Arianna’s mischievous laugh and childlike excitement.

Somehow, King Aethelstan manages to stop where one of the sun’s beams catches him, instantly surrounding himself in a golden halo. He bows deeply, and when my mother steps off the dais and curtsies, captures her hand and presses a kiss to it. Blathen takes my arm and begins to walk to his father- in that moment, I’m almost thankful for him pulling me along, for my feet seem to have frozen in place. Somehow, I manage to curtsey and murmur a greeting the King Aethelstan and Prince Reyan. Blathen hugs his younger brother, and his father claps him on the shoulder grandly, false smiles plastered to both of their faces.

My mother nods to the court, and the guards open the doors again, and she and King Aethelstan sweep through, followed by Blathen and I. Reyan follows just a step after us, and the rest of the elvish dignitaries follow behind him. The dignitaries will not be invited to lunch, of course, but they will dine with the rest of the members of court.

The door guards hurry to open the doors to the rooftop gardens. Somehow, as we ascend the narrow stairs, I manage to escape from Blathen. Still, when we are seated, I end up in-between the elvish brothers and across from their father, who studies me calculatingly over his wine glass. Reyan laughs and nods cordially with one of the guards that he has struck up a conversation with, but a sharp glare from his father returns him to morbid, forbidding silence. Trying to ignore the feeling of those cold, blue eyes on me, I study the rose vines that creep around us and the table.

The vines that surround us are still blossoming, and some have been magicked to turn white at the tips, almost as if frost were covering them. Even so, the vines they grow on are significantly duller. The tiniest breath of wind brings the heavy scent of roses with it, stiflingly beautiful in the cold air. Torches and fires have been lit to keep us warm, and the sun shines brightly over us, gleaming merrily in a vividly blue sky.

Reminding myself to at least attempt to look at ease, I take a long drink of my wine, trying to think of something- anything- to say. Before I find anything to chatter mindlessly about, a chamberlain brings in the food. The kitchens have tried to mimic the style of elvish cuisine, and there are countless seafood items, from thin strips of fish that have been roasted to prawns that have been steamed and stuck onto skewers.

I wince inwardly as I think of the kitchen maids and the cook, around so much salt for such a long time. I can picture their raw, red hands and blistered skin already. I make a note in my mind to ask Muirinn to send a healer down to the kitchens.

When we are served- by a chamberlain that is trying too hard not to cringe- I pick at my food, not hungry in the least. I force myself to smile at King Aethelstan when he congratulates me on my engagement and laughs with his son, their cruel laughs harmonizing to create a frost that chills me to the bone. I reach out for my wine glass quickly, just as Blathen moves his hand, as well, causing me to jerk away a tiny bit. In the confusion, my glass is upset, and a river of ruby alcohol floods onto my lap. I stand up, my chair clattering to the ground behind me.

Chattering every excuse and apology that comes to my mind, I curtsey as quickly as I can and make good my escape. One of the guards escorts me down, and when I get to my rooms, my ladies-in-waiting fuss and cluck disapprovingly. When the dress and petticoats are gotten off, I sink into a hot bath gladly, scrubbing the stickiness off of my stomach and arms quickly.

I re-dress in a quiet grey affair and sweep out of my rooms as suddenly as I entered. The long corridors are annoyingly full of smirking nobles and scuttling servants. I paint a forbidding scowl on my face that causes everyone to bow and step out of my way as quickly as they can. The first stop I make is the healer’s wing, where one of Muirinn’s apprentices greets me with a cup of hot tea.

When I look at the apprentice questioningly, he bows awkwardly, with the cup still in his hands. “’Tis just what you need to pick up your strength, your highness.” Shrugging, I take the cup from him and sniff hesitantly, sitting down in a soft chair.

It smells delicious, like fresh honey and rich spices. Encouraged, I take a sip, and my strength seems to come back to me almost immediately. In one of the wall mirrors that hang for decoration, I can see my colour coming back as I drink the tea happily. The young healer that brought me the tea takes the cup when I’m finished.

“Well then, your highness, shall I take you to see Lady Muirinn?” He seems eager, his violet curls of hair sticking out over his head, reminding me of Rook. I nod imperiously to him, hiding a smile, and he leads me through a series of curtains. The healer’s wing is always refreshingly quiet, with perhaps only a few whispers cutting through the stillness. Muirinn is at the very back, washing her hands in a basin of water.

When she sees us, she straightens up, drying her hands on a cloth that one of her assistants offer her. “Your highness, what can I do for you? I would have come to your rooms had you summoned me.” She looks at me worriedly, and I smile at her.

“Nothing for me, Muirinn. I have come to see my father. How does he fare? I had heard he was doing better.” I await her reply anxiously, sighing in relief when she nods yes.

Picking up a scroll and handing it to one of her apprentices, she motions me forward, into a small room. My father lies still on a small bed, and although there is colour in his cheeks and he breathes easier, he looks smaller, somehow, no longer the warrior he once was.

Silently hailing curses upon my mother, I walk to him carefully, being quiet so as to not wake him from his sleep. Muirinn, though, simply strides to a little wooden stool and picks up a paste that sits there. It is a vile yellowish-green colour, but when she pulls the little wooden top out, the sweet smell that rain leaves behind in the world reaches me. Carefully, she dips two fingers in and takes a small amount, applying it to his frail wrists deftly.

When he doesn’t wake at the movement, my breath catches in my throat. “Oh, Muirinn- why- why- shouldn’t he be awake?” To my despair, my voice wavers desperately, and I clear my throat, solemnly deciding to never sound like that in anyone’s presence.

She glances at me with alarm, then reaches for my hand reassuringly. “We’ve woven a sleeping spell over him, your highness. He won’t be waking unless it’s released.” Wiping her hands on a cloth, she stands up. “Would you like some time alone with him, princess?”

I nod absentmindedly to her, sinking into her stool as she leaves the room, shutting the door softly behind herself. Gingerly, I take one of my father’s hands into my own, wondering if I’m hurting him.

“I wish you were awake. None of this would have happened if you were well.” My voice is cold, and hard, as if I don’t know how to feel. Perhaps I’ve forgotten how to speak the truth. “I need someone to tell me what to do. Marrying Blathen- it’s not right, and I know it’s not right, but with Lysian and the wars- I can’t- I can’t do anything.”

I’m shaking now; with anger or sadness I have no idea. “Please, Papa, tell me what to do. What’s right? You told me to always think of the country before myself, but I don’t know how to do that.” I don’t know how to do anything. My voice quivers, and I fight to keep myself from crying. The last thing I need is for the court to start whispering about why the crown princess looked like she’d been crying in the healer’s wing.

Still, I lay my head down on my father’s chest, hugging his still form for a second before sitting up and laying his hand back down on his chest. Not willing to leave, I kick off my shoes and tuck my feet under my skirts, resting my chin on my knees.

A scraping sound echoes through the room suddenly, raising prickles on my arms and making my heart gallop. When I look around for the source of the sound, I’m met with the sight of a dripping wet Arianna, clinging desperately to one of the windows, her tanned skin tinged blue from the cold. Hurriedly, I go to the window and try to open the latch. After a few minutes of agonized tugging and pulling, it finally unlatches, letting me swing open the delicate glass shutter and pull Ari inside.

She shivers at the sudden warmth, and I quickly close the window, keeping the freezing air outside. Going to the small fireplace, she warms herself, and I don’t press her to talk, knowing that she will as soon as she can.

Finally, she turns around, pushing her dark red hair out of her face. Sitting down as close to the fire as she can, she rubs her eyes woodenly. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around very much. I- ah- well, there was an incident.” She sighs, then shivers and hugs her knees to her chest, laying her head on them tiredly. I flick my wrist towards her, drying her clothes, at least. She nods at me in weary thanks.

“Lindon’s been imprisoned for killing Lord Cyan, hasn’t he?” Her husky voice is filled with annoyance, and I wonder at her casualness.

“I suppose the news has spread throughout the capital, at least, so there’s no point in denying it.” I bite my lip, wincing at how bitter I sound.

The door swings open, and I freeze, terrified at the prospect of someone discovering us. Thankfully, Ari, keeping her head, dashes to the cot and slides underneath it.

Muirinn steps through, glancing oddly at me- probably because your face is frozen in terror- before looking over my father. “He should be left alone now, your highness.” She nods briskly to me and steps around the bed as she cleans the paste off of his wrists.

My heart hammers in my chest as I pray for her not to bend down and see Ari. Of course, nothing terrible would happen, but I can’t seem to convince myself of that.

When Muirinn finally leaves, I sigh in relief, and Ari slides out from underneath the bed.

Panting, she says, “We should go somewhere else to talk, right?”

Rolling my eyes, I help her up, trying to think of where we might go.