Chapter 3

CHAPTERTHREE

My head poundsout a dull rhythm inside of my skull as I come to. Accompanying the headache is a sore throat and an uncomfortably dry mouth. I’m parched.

It takes me a second to realize my veyl is off. The feeling of familiar silky sheets and the comforting smell of jasmine greets me, relaxing me slightly.

Wait—who brought me to my room?

Mother’s been so strict about my staying covered, so she won’t be pleased my identity has been revealed. Goddess save whoever took my veyl off.

“Good. You’re awake, Princess.” The gruff voice startles me, and my heart jumps in my chest as I sit up.

“Oh, Cedrik. I didn’t see you there.” Our palace healer stands hunched over my writing desk, his weathered face taut with concern as he fiddles with a small vial of liquid. Various bottles of different shapes and sizes are scattered before him. His tonics and potions.

Cedrik is a vygora like me. Rare in a different way, with the ability to read the state of one’s body rather than one’s emotions. Without any kind of examination or interrogation, he can determine what is amiss with a patient. He’s also well-educated in potion-mixing and herbalism, so he can treat almost any curable ailment.

Whereas I feel the emotions of others, Cedrik experiences their discomfort and suffering. I’m surprised it hasn’t hardened him. Working at the palace is better than being a village healer, though, or worse, being a city healer in another country. At least here we only suffer from minor wounds or illnesses. Things like cuts or colds or sprains. And much less frequently than the villagers.

“How long was I out?” I ask.

“Not long. Less than an hour,” he says. “Here.” He hands me a clear, bubbling tonic that smells sharp and bitter. “For your headache. Drink it down.”

I oblige, trying not to choke as the repulsive taste coats my tongue and slides down my throat. It’s warm and fizzy.

“Eck.” Gagging, I make a face and look to my night table for a carafe of water. Cedrik was prepared though, and he hands me a glass. I accept it gratefully, gulping it down and washing away the foul taste.

“You’re my hero, Cedrik.”

Additional wrinkles appear around his mouth and eyes when he smiles. His is the face of a kind man with a tired soul. Turning his back to me, he crosses the room, grabbing his oversized leather bag from the floor. He rummages around before pulling out a vial of pale yellow liquid and placing it on my desk.

“Anti-nausea tonic. Drink it before your next transference.” Packing away the rest of his implements into his bag, he returns to my side, silver-flecked brows drawn tight.

Fuck.

He knows I’m the vessel. I was really hoping he didn’t, for fear of what Mother might do to him. She could manipulate him to forget, of course, but unless she actively works to keep her hold on him, it’ll fade. If he leaves her proximity, it’ll fade. I fear Mother would take drastic measures to keep our secret.

“That doesn’t normally happen, now does it?” he asks, ripping me from my spiraling thoughts.

I shake my head. “I haven’t vomited or passed out before, but sometimes I feel incredibly nauseated.”

“Well, you were fairly dehydrated and exhausted, and that likely contributed to the little episode you had. Next time you feel like that, sit down and take a breather. Let it pass. The syncope and headache can be attributed to whacking your head on the marble. It’s lucky you didn’t sustain a concussion or injury. That mother of yours—”

“She didn’t mean it, Cedrik.”

“I’m sure, Princess.” He agrees, but the knowing look in his eyes tells a different story.

Mother didn’t mean to kick me so hard. She’d certainly meant to push me away from her—it would have been abominable for the vesselto soil the queen with vomit—but there’s no way she meant to send me tumbling down the stairs. She’d never hurt me purposely.

Would she?

Ilona’s words come back to haunt me. Maybe she’s capable of more than you think.

But even if Ilona was right, and Mother does manipulate me, that doesn’t mean she wants to harm me.

My doors are thrown open with flourish as Mother enters the room, ordering her personal guards to wait in the hallway to give us privacy. The doors close with a click, and she crosses over to my bedside, looking at me without expression. I sit up taller, trying not to look weak, an automatic reaction in her presence.

“Verdict?” She glares down her nose at Cedrik, like he’s an inconvenience. Not like he was the one responsible for mending my twisted ankle last month after I fell from my horse or the one who cleared her intolerable head cold a few weeks prior.

Using my power, I pull her energy toward me. She is impatient, annoyed, likely because of my incident…but there’s something else, something unsettling. She’s on edge, which is unusual for her. Why?

Brushing it off, I close myself off from her feelings.

“It’s likely the intensity of the transference is weighing on her,” Cedrik says, his eyes meeting mine.

I look away, busying myself smoothing down my long hair before hopping out of bed. The only thing covering me is a thin night slip, so I rummage through my armoire, looking for a robe with which to cover myself. Finding a black satin robe, I throw it on, tying the belt tightly around my waist.

“What does that mean exactly, Cedrik?” Mother asks.

“The energy expulsion seems to be taking its toll on the young girl—”

Mother cuts him off with a loud sigh. “Tell me, what do you propose we do about that?”

“Cease the transferences.”

Passing them, I part the floor-length turquoise curtains concealing the casement doors, throwing them open and hoping for a breeze. A wave of hot air hits me, and I regret the decision, shutting them immediately.

I can’t wait until the weather cools.

Slinking into an oversized chair, I peer at Mother and Cedrik, trying to seem nonchalant when in truth I’m eager to see how this plays out. If Mother believed I was at risk from the transference, would she discontinue her bacchanals? Would she relieve me of my duties as the vessel? Would she put me before her own desires?

“Unacceptable.”

Well, that’s a no.

Mother digs her blood-red claws into Cedrik’s chin, forcing him to look at her. His face pales, and he stutters as he tries to talk.

“She—I—I gave her an anti-nausea tonic to prevent the sickness from rising next time.”

“So there will be a next time, yes, Cedrik?” Each time she says his name, it’s condescending, a piercing blade.

“Yes, my queen.” She releases her grip, allowing him to bow his head in submission. Straightening, he tightens his grip on his bag.

“So there is no problem after all?”

“Other than dehydration and nausea, none at all, my queen.”

“Good.” She smiles slyly at him.

“If she continues with the transferences, it would be my recommendation she gives less in order to preserve her own energy.” He winces at Mother’s expression. “Or that she take more life force to sustain you both?” He chokes the suggestion out, as if it pains him to say it.

It’s a deplorable option, really. The last thing I want to do is kill more people than I already do.

“Dismissed,” Mother says.

He swallows audibly, eyes shifting to me in a quick apology before he hustles toward the door.

“Oh, and Cedrik?”

“Yes, my queen?”

Her eyes narrow as her tone hardens. “You will not remember this visit. Princess Astrid and the vessel are not one and the same. You cared for the vessel, only, and never saw its face.”

His eyes glaze over, and he nods slowly at Mother. Unease claws at my gut. This is bad.

I react quickly, drawing Cedrik’s emotions out for a quick reading before he can leave. Pulling his energy toward me, I look for an indicator that Mother’s manipulation grips his mind—a void, emptiness, new emotions, anything—but I’m stunned when Cedrik’s normal emotions crash into me: fear, loathing, sadness.

A chill tickles my spine despite the night’s warmth. I’m picking up no trace of Mother’s magic. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I was hoping for some sort of indicator that he’s under her control now. If there was, I would be able to tell who her victims are… but there’s no way for me to know for certain.

Cedrik exits the room, doors clanging shut behind him. Mother turns to me, her eyes dark and steely. Something else gnaws at me. Her influence should wear off once Cedrik is no longer in her immediate proximity. So why did she let him put distance between them?

Either she’s using her myndox powers as a temporary fix until she can deal with him in a more permanent manner, or her reach extends further than I was aware of.

Is she more powerful than she used to be? Or has she always been this powerful and I haven’t noticed?

Ilona might be right about her. Could Mother truly be capable of manipulating all the villagers at the bacchanal? Forcing the sacrificial desire upon them? Have I been blind to her cruelties?

Whispers of her nickname flood my mind: The Dead Queen.

Could she be manipulating me too?

I think I’d know. I’d feel it somehow. Wouldn’t I?

“Astrid, what a relief you can continue with our transferences,” she says, pulling my attention to her. Forcing a smile, I try not to let my thoughts show. I’ve always had a certain amount of fearful awe in regard to her, but for the first time, I am truly terrified in her presence. She pats my head gently. “I would give much to have such a glamorous mane.”

Running her claws through my sweat-matted hair, she works on detangling the knots. It’s the only maternal gesture she offers me.

I hate my hair. It’s hot, heavy, and stifling. But I let it grow because it earns compliments from her. I love when she plays with it and revel in her regard, but I’m starting to think she does it because she’s obsessed with my hair, not because she wants to comfort me.

After everything that’s happened this evening, she doesn’t seem to care that I’m okay. No. She’s pleased I can continue gifting her life forces—no matter the cost to me—and she’s focused on my hair.

It’s not love.

It’s envy.

Closing my eyes, I steady my breathing as she continues raking her nails through the knots, tugging until they loosen. Finally, after a few tense minutes, she releases her grip on my hair, letting it fall against my back like a thick curtain.

“Thank the goddess, dear,” she says dispassionately.

“Blessed by the goddess,” I mumble back in response.

“Yes. Blessings,” she says. With a bored expression, she exits the room.

As soon as she’s gone, I snag the shears from my desk. Sitting on the ground before my floor-length mirror, I begin hacking away at my hair.

Chop.

Chop.

Chop.

With each snip, I curse—at Ilona for being right, at Mother for her apathy and manipulation, and at Cedrik for being cowardly.

Okay, the last one is unfairly harsh, considering I don’t stand up to her either…at least not directly.

This little makeover is my way of rebelling against her and showing my disdain. I’ve never stood up to Mother. Never tried to push her buttons. This will be a good test to push back in a seemingly innocent way, to gauge her reaction. Plus, it’s so damn hot, and I’ve been yearning for relief.

I snip all of my thick, dark locks until I’m left with an uneven pixie cut. Taking in the new look, I smile. Despite the ruggedness, the shorter style suits me. It highlights my round face, drawing attention to my teal eyes. Shows off my collarbone and neck. Already, I feel more attractive—more confident. Truly like myself.

Goddess, it feels so much better.

It’s like I can breathe.

When I see Ilona later, I’ll have her shape it up for me. She’s quite talented with hairstyling and often, out of her own kindness, tends to the hair of the palace staff. I’ve asked her to cut my hair before, but she had refused for fear of Mother’s wrath—noticing her obsession with my hair. Since I technically did the cutting, she has nothing to fear now.

The best part of all is that I’ll never have to feel Mother’s predatory claws running through my long strands ever again.