12

I'm healed by a short, plump, motherly-looking woman I've never seen before. She speaks only a few words to me, but they have a lilt that tells me she's Vohrainian. Everyone on this continent speaks the Eventongue, but people from different regions tend to have their own accents and turns of phrase. Hers is a northern manner of speech, with the voice rising at the ends of phrases and a slight nasal quality to the "o" sound.

Besides her accent, she wears a tiny silver ring through her septum, possibly indicative of Vohrainian nobility, or at the very least, royal favor.

"All done," she says cheerfully, patting my face as if her king didn't just have my back flayed in the public market. "You can sit up now."

I've been lying on my stomach, and at her words I gingerly push myself up. Not a twinge of pain. She did her work well.

I'm no longer in my own room. Perhaps that's a privilege I've lost, or perhaps the King doesn't want to keep me in the same place too long. Even though he claims not to be concerned about Kyreagan or any of the other dragons, he's still cautious. Perhaps he fears that the rebels he mentioned might try to liberate me. God, I wish they would.

The motherly little woman smiles at me. She has round, rosy cheeks and fat fingers stained with something like paint. Perhaps she's an artist in her spare time. For a strange, fleeting moment I consider asking her for a hug. She looks like the type of person who would give excellent hugs.

But she is Vohrainian, and we are enemies. She's already turning away, leaving the small bedroom.

The instant her comforting form vanishes from the doorway, it's replaced by Rahzien's broad figure. I tense, conscious that I'm naked, and I drag a blanket from the bed across the front of my body.

Which Rahzien must I endure now? The bluff warrior with the boorish laugh? The indomitable king who announced my new status as "whipping girl" for the entire nation? Or the quiet, ruthless Rahzien who slices into my thoughts with all the incisive skill of an expert torturer?

He has changed his clothes. He's wearing loose, cream-colored pants and a satin-black tunic that falls to mid-thigh. Since he trimmed his red beard close to the jawline, I can see his mouth better—full lips with a cruel tilt. The royal ring glints between his nostrils as he pulls a chair close to the bed and sits down.

"I don't enjoy displays of that kind," he says. "Public executions, beatings, and the like. Sometimes I pretend to enjoy them, because it suits my goals. If people think you relish physical violence, they are less likely to provoke you."

I give him the coldest stare I can muster.

"I do enjoy violence, of a kind," he admits. "Broad strokes of merciless death, like the mowing down of lines upon lines of soldiers on a battlefield. There's something uniquely satisfying about watching the bodies fall. And watching the dragons slaughter your people—that was beautiful. The way the fire just—" he makes a sweeping motion, with a faraway look in his eyes. "Pure destruction. Brilliant. It's a shame I had to destroy the dragons. I tried to think of a way to keep them under my control, but they are wild, brutal creatures. I could never have been sure they wouldn't turn on me. Best to let them go out at the height of their glory, just after winning a great war."

I was determined not to speak to him, but I can't help releasing a huff of disgust at his words.

A jealous awareness flickers in his gaze—the understanding that he still hasn't broken me.

"I thought I had you, back there, in the Harlowes' dungeon." He leans forward, eyes narrowed. "And then again, in the market. But you're a slippery one. You're still fighting me, aren't you, Spider? Because you don't really believe it yet. You're starting to, though."

"Believe what?"

"That this is what you deserve."

My breath stops for a second. As if he choked me, without touching me.

"You know it, deep down. That your mother was as much a villain as you believe I am. That you carry the same seeds of darkness inside that soft, sweet body, because you watched her shove your people off the cliff of war into the maw of death, and you never tried to stop her."

"I didn't think I could ," I falter. "I was afraid."

"No." His tone is suddenly thick, brusque, threatening. The burly warrior, instead of the thoughtful monarch. It's as if his personality is split in two, and he's switching back and forth depending on the effect he wants to elicit from me.

"No, it was more than fear," he growls. "You liked standing aside, surveying the carnage from the comfort of your daily routine. Aloof, in denial of your own responsibilities. Perhaps you even enjoyed watching your mother race to her own destruction and drag everyone else with her. Perhaps it was a kind of vengeance for you. Vengeance against her, against a role you didn't want and a title you despised."

"I didn't despise my role." I don't know if I'm trying to convince him or myself.

He stands abruptly, bends his great bulk over me, seizes my chin in his calloused hand. "Don't lie to me, Spider. You never wanted this, did you? Royal children who want the crown are always sure they could run the country better than their elders. They crave the throne, scheme for it, strive for influence. From what I've heard, you did none of that."

I'm shaking, clutching the blanket to my chest, my mind swirling with horrible uncertainty. "She wouldn't have let me do anything. She never—"

"Stop it!" he bellows, spit flying from his mouth and misting my face. "Stop fucking lying to yourself! Stop shifting the blame to your bitch-queen of a mother! You could have stopped her and surrendered to me. You should have stuck a knife in her heart to save hundreds, even thousands. You didn't. You're to blame for their deaths."

"But you —you attacked us," I choke out through a shuddering sob. "You crave conquest and power."

"Yes." His hand squeezes my face tighter. "Those are my motives. We're talking about yours. Your failure. The deaths on your conscience, the blood on your soul, the punishment you deserve."

He's right.

About all of it.

And I shatter.

It's a silent fracture, a soundless explosion of my heart into bloodied shards.

"I did not save my people," I whisper.

"It was your duty to save them. Your birthright." He's leaning close, his lips nearly brushing my cheek, his voice sinuous and dark. "You failed. Worse—you chose to fail, to do nothing. You condemned them. You would not let yourself see your true nature, or feel the guilt, but now you feel it. Now you do . No more shifting the blame. No more shutting your eyes to your own wickedness, your unworthiness. You see it now. You understand why I'm doing this to you, why you're suffering. Not only because I want to keep the people subservient, but also to bring justice upon you for your sins. A good king never has just one reason for anything he does. And thus my purpose for you is threefold. You are the whipping girl, the defeated princess, and—" he places his hand across my lower belly— "the womb for my firstborn."

I suck in my stomach, away from the heat of his hand, but he presses more firmly. The hand still clutching my face tenses for a second, and his eyes dart to my mouth.

I am limp and wretched inside, hollowed out and sore. And yet if he tried to kiss me, I think I could summon the strength to resist.

Maybe he knows that, and he doesn't want to give me a reason to rally, to fight back. He removes his hands from my face and body, withdraws, and leaves the room, closing the door. Leaves me empty and crushed under the weight of everything I failed to do.

I've grappled with this guilt before. I've had similar thoughts to the accusations he voiced just now, and I thought I had laid them to rest but perhaps I merely buried them, too afraid of their ponderous weight oppressing my soul.

I am worthless. I am foolish. I am alone. I have no value, and no one wants me.

I did not save my people, nor can I save myself…

Save myself…

If I am what the King says—if all those deaths lie at my door, I can either succumb and perish inside, existing as an empty shell until I crumble with age—or I can try to atone for my sins. And before I can help anyone in Elekstan, I must first free myself from the King of Vohrain.

He warned me that poison flows through my veins, that if I venture too far from him I will die. I should test the truth of that warning. If he lied about it, then maybe he was also lying about the poisoned prey and the death of the dragons.

If he lied, perhaps there is hope. And right now, I am in desperate need of hope.

I stare at the half-open door. This bedroom is one of the palace's guest suites, meant for an ambassador or a visiting dignitary. Some of these chambers have secret exits through which people could escape during an attack, or listening stations where my mother's spies could observe the occupants without their knowledge.

The maids know every bit of the palace, including its secret passages. And because I've worked closely with the palace staff, I know the location of each hidden door and secret panel. Including the concealed exit from this room.

Cautiously I slide off the bed and knot the blanket over one shoulder, so it will stay mostly in place while leaving my hands free. I'll be damned if I run away naked. I'll steal clothes as soon as I get the chance.

In this room, there's a pressure point on the bed frame that causes the headboard to slide over, revealing a small door halfway up the wall, a simple square cut into the plaster, on the same level as the mattress. It hasn't been used in ages, and I break three nails digging my fingers into the plaster, trying to pry it open. The quiet scrape of the headboard didn't alert the guards, and they don't enter at my low cry of pain, either. They think I'm trapped in here, with no way to escape.

When I finally manage to claw the secret door open, I crawl across the mattress into the dark space beyond and hop down onto the floor of the narrow corridor between the walls. There's a lever in here, intended to reset the door and the headboard, so I press it down. The plaster door is pushed shut as the headboard slides back into place, and I'm left in the dark.

At least there aren't any multilegged spider-mice skittering in this passage.

In the pitch blackness, I fumble along until I encounter a grate leaking thin threads of light—a listening post at the end of a hallway. Setting my eye to the grate, I peer at the carpeted corridor beyond and gain my bearings by the paintings on the walls.

I'm not sure how long I shuffle through the dusty gaps between the walls of my mother's palace. I used to stride these halls proudly, and now I crawl through dark cracks like a spider dressed in cobwebs, spinning schemes for my freedom.

The head housekeeper had the back passages cleaned once every month or two, so I've navigated this maze before, but always with a servant to guide me. We swept, dusted, and disposed of any pests that had crept into the corners. I don't encounter a soul this time—no servants or spies, and when I finally locate the door I've been looking for, I have to work up the courage to open it.

If I'm correct, this door leads into the servants' pantry, right near the palace kitchens. I might find allies here. Or I might find people who are too frightened of their new ruler to help me.

"Please," I whisper. "Please, please."

With my fingers on the door handle and my cheek pressed to the rough wood, I picture Kyreagan. It's his dragon face, so defined and vivid that I can see the orange mist of his breath and the gleam along the edges of each scale. I can see the sleek horns, the fiery golden eyes, the long jaws lined with razor teeth. This is the Kyreagan I need right now—the powerful dragon who claimed me as his, in every way one being can claim another .

"I can do this," I whisper to him, and in my mind he gives me that familiar dip of his great head, a nod of trust, of reassurance.

Clutching the handle, I push the door open.

The door is actually the back panel of a shelving unit stocked with spices, which swings aside heavily as I emerge. I push the spice rack back into place until it clicks, then move toward the outline of light I can see around the pantry door.

Footsteps pass outside, purposeful and quick. A servant moving from one task to another.

Barefoot and silent, I slip out of the pantry and look both ways along the hallway.

To my right, the receding back of a maid. To my left, a few doors, and then the archway leading into the enormous palace kitchens.

A door opens, and one of the kitchen maids, Ondette, steps out. She must sense a presence, because she looks toward me immediately. And freezes.

"Princess?" Her olive skin turns a shade paler.

"Ondette," I whisper. "I'm running away."

Her astonishment transforms instantly into fierce purpose. "Of course you are. Come with me."

I could sob with relief. I could throw myself into her arms and weep with gratitude, but there's no time. I hurry after her, up a narrow flight of stairs, along a hallway, into her room. She shuts the door behind us, yanks open her wardrobe, and pulls out a simple brown dress and a hooded cloak. "Put these on, quickly."

When I'm dressed, she takes my blond hair in both her hands and bundles it into a knot at the back of my head. She hands me her spare pair of shoes, the soft leather slippers she uses for night duty.

"But these are your only—" I start to whisper. She shakes her head sharply, one finger pressed to her lips, and gestures for me to put the shoes on. I obey, and then she pulls me out of the room and leads me back downstairs. "We'll go out the side door, where the pump is," she says under her breath. "You can wait there while I speak with Callim. He'll sneak you out by the offal gate."

The offal gate is a narrow exit from the palace grounds, through which the stable-boys transport not only the soiled straw from the stables, but also the refuse from the palace. It's the least carefully guarded of all the gates—though I'm sure a king as smart as Rahzien has someone posted there.

Ondette guides me past two scullery maids who are too involved in giggly gossip to notice us. When we emerge outside, into a small courtyard, she tucks me into a shadowed corner near the old water pump. "Wait here."

I grip her arm urgently. "Thank you."

Pain flickers on her face, and she presses her palm to my cheek for a moment. "Sweet girl. Of course."

Her kindness breaks my heart. I watch her hurrying across the yard, ducking through the archway that leads past the gardens to the stables.

I know she lost her sister in the war. Why doesn't she resent me? How can she agree to help me without pause, without question?

With my back pressed to the stone wall, I tilt my face up to the sunset sky. It's deep purple and pale blue, streaked with bright orange like Kyreagan's flames.

Whether my dragon is dead or alive, I will never stop thinking about him. He changed the very chemistry of my brain, altered the composition of my body. He was the spell that transformed me into something new, and I can't shift back into the person I was before.

Deep in my heart, I make a vow—a bone-oath of my own, that even if he's gone, I will remain his for the rest of my life. I'll see him everywhere—in the brightness of the sun, the flicker of firelight, the smoke from chimneys, the clouds of a thunderstorm, the blackness of night, the steam from a cup of tea. Sometimes it will hurt, and other times it will make me smile, like seeing the face of an old friend.

"Kyreagan." I breathe his name into the quiet evening air, sealing the promise. It suffuses my heart with a mystical peace, even though my pulse is racing with the fear that at any moment, my absence will be discovered and Rahzien's soldiers will drag me back to the room I left. If the King catches me, I'll be punished again—no doubt of it. I'm starting to wish I'd stayed put, rather than risk the keen lash of his tongue, cleaving my heart into bloody slivers. I fear his words more than I fear physical violence from him.

Ondette returns with one of the stable-boys at her elbow—Callim, the one who glared with such fury at the Vohrainians as I was loaded into the carriage.

"Go with him," Ondette says, low. "He'll get you out of the palace. Then go to the Snarling Hound tavern on Rivenlee Road, near the south gate, and ask for Ambert. He can take you out of the city tomorrow." She squeezes my hand briefly. "Fortune follow you."

"Burn the blanket I left in your room," I tell her. "Let no one know you helped me."

She nods, and I hurry away with Callim.

He guides me behind a bristly hedgerow to the back of the stables, where sits a small cart half full of garbage and horse-shit. A donkey stands in the harness, flicking its ears to startle away the flies.

"It's the only way," mutters Callim, gesturing to the cart. "I'm sorry, Princess."

"I'm supposed to climb in there?" I ask.

He grimaces. "Yes."

"It's not a problem." I almost laugh. He has no idea that I've pissed in a dragon's nest, smeared myself in dragon-shit to conceal my scent from my captor, and pushed dragon eggs out of my vagina. I do what I must to survive.

While I stare anxiously up at the towers looming above us, Callim uses a shovel to create a hollow in the mess of garbage and offal. Then he lays a ragged piece of canvas in the hollow. I climb onto it, and he wraps me in the canvas from head to toe, leaving space for my mouth so I can breathe. At least I'm somewhat protected from the shit, though the stench makes my eyes water. I breathe shallowly through my teeth, praying that I won't vomit.

Callim shovels more filth on top of my canvas-wrapped body, then arranges half-rotted vegetables and lawn trimmings over my face, leaving a gap for air. With the gloom of evening and the stench of the cart, it's doubtful anyone would look closely enough to see the lower half of my face.

At a click of the boy's tongue, the donkey starts walking, and the cart trundles over the cobbles. I close my eyes and focus on breathing just enough to stay alive and conscious. Don't throw up, don't throw up .

It takes ages to reach the offal gate, but once we arrive, the guards let us pass without incident. A few gruff words, and we're rolling through, toward Murkmouth Square, where Callim is supposed to offload his cart into a larger one that will leave the city in the morning.

I lie still until the cart stops again. The shovel thunks into the manure beside me, and after removing a few scoops of garbage, Callim hisses, "Now."

I surge up, rotted vegetables and straw-studded clumps of manure rolling off me. I scramble out of the cart, keeping as low as I can, and run bent over under my cloak, toward the nearest alley. The stable-boy parked near the edge of Murkmouth Square, so it's not far.

In the darkness of the alley I pause and inhale great lungfuls of the comparatively fresh air while I mentally map out my route to the southern wall, to Rivenlee Road. If I take it slow and stick to less-traveled streets, it'll take me a couple hours, maybe a little longer. It would be so much faster on horseback, or by carriage. But I have no way to secure such transportation, so I set off on foot.

Shortly after I leave Murkmouth Square, two women pass me. One coughs and chokes at the lingering fumes of manure trailing from my cloak. It's just as well—my odor will encourage people to keep their distance and not ask questions. I pull my hood lower over my face and stick to the gloomy dark, avoiding the circles of light cast by the gaslamps along each street.

Vohrainian soldiers patrol the city in pairs or groups of four, so I make sure to give them a wide berth. Lucky for me, they seem more interested in harassing attractive women heading home from their day's work. They don't seem interested in hooded waifs who reek of the stables.

The foul stench from my clothing and my hands curdles my stomach until I have to stop in an alley and retch up bile. I don't dare leave my cloak behind, despite its smell, but I find a bucket beneath a drain pipe and rinse my hands and face in the rainwater before moving on.

During the next hour, my stomach pain worsens, as if I swallowed a bag of razor blades and they're twisting deeper into my gut. My head aches, too, like nails being hammered behind my eyes. I duck into another alley and vomit again, behind a rain barrel. Gasping, I cling to its edge, my back and chest slick with sweat.

After a few minutes I keep walking, refusing to believe what my body is telling me. If I truly am poisoned, and I can't go far from Rahzien without falling ill, it means he wasn't lying about having a skilled poisoner in his service. Not just any poisoner—one with magic, who can design the cruelest, most twisted types of poison. Which also means that what he told me about the death of the dragons is probably true as well… and I can't accept that.

So I stagger on, clinging to brick walls and storm shutters and window boxes to keep myself upright. Forcing one foot in front of the other.

Night has truly fallen now. I'm ignored by the guards. They probably think I'm one of the drunkards who haunt the city during the late hours.

I don't remember exactly where I am, or where I'm going. My head reels, and I barely manage to round the corner of the next building before I fall headlong into a puddle of brackish rainwater. My stomach clenches, and a raw retch breaks from my throat, echoing in the alley. I can taste blood on my tongue. Something warm trickles from my left ear.

Wings rustle and flap somewhere overhead, and for a moment my dizzy mind brightens with hope. But the creature that lands near me isn't a dragon, only a bird. A small hawk with a white-and-brown-flecked breast and glowing red eyes.

That's not possible. Birds' eyes don't glow red. I must be hallucinating.

The bird cocks its head and hops closer to my face. "Found you," it croaks.

Now I know I'm hallucinating. Birds can't talk.

"Found you, Spider," squawks the bird. "Found you."

Fuck…

With an enormous effort, I lift my head. "What did you say?"

"Found you, Spider. Found you. Your escape was too easy. You should have known I was watching. Lie still. Help is on the way."