8

Terror grips my limbs, turning my muscles rigid as I lunge upright. With a desperate shriek I thrash, half-believing that the sheets twined around my legs are the barbed tongues of a voratrice, that the edge of the mattress is the brink of a cliff.

My body crashes to the floor and I flail, unable to make sense of my surroundings.

"Your Highness! Your Highness!" The voice is familiar, and so are the hands grasping my wrists, the face floating above mine. "Princess Serylla!"

I stop fighting. "Parma?"

My maid nods, her lower lip trembling. "Princess."

Impulsively I seize her in a desperate hug, pulling her close even as I gasp, "No, you're not supposed to be here, you're supposed to be safe, not in the palace with that monster—"

"Are you referring to me?" booms a male voice.

A burly figure looms behind Parma. For a moment I don't recognize him, because his huge war-beard is gone, and what remains has been trimmed close to his jawline. The thick mane of his reddish-orange hair has also been cut short. Rahzien looks startlingly different—less like a brawling warrior and more like a well-kept king—an effect enhanced by the diamond-studded circlet he's wearing.

My mother's crown.

I want to tear it from his head, or demand that he take it off. Just in time, I remember my resolve to feign submission.

He rewarded me when I yielded to him. I'm in a bedroom, and my fever is gone, which means I was given medicine or treated by a healer, probably the latter. My tongue, while dry, isn't painfully parched anymore.

Slowly I sit up, brushing my tangled hair back from my face. "Master, forgive me. I was dreaming of monsters from the dragons' island."

"Do you remember your lesson?" His eyes are cold, calculating. He didn't buy my excuse. He suspects that I'm not quite broken.

"I think I can remember the lesson," I reply.

"Say it."

I hate repeating the words in front of Parma, letting her see how I've been conquered. But I have no choice. I must convince Rahzien I'm obedient, or I'll end up back in that cell where I nearly died.

"I am your pet. I do as I'm told. When I do as I'm told, I receive good things."

"And the other lesson." Rahzien's voice is low, almost soothing, but there's an undercurrent of dead things in it, like a river choked with murdered souls.

"I did not save my people, nor can I save myself. I am worthless. I am foolish. I am alone. I have no value, and no one wants me."

"Excellent. See that you remember your place, or you'll be back in that hole with the spider-mice. In fact, I think I shall call you Spider , as a reminder."

"Whatever pleases you, Master. "

"This maid is my gift to you. A gesture of goodwill. I thought perhaps you could use a familiar face. She will prepare you for our first public appearance together." He nudges Parma's rear with the toe of his boot as she kneels beside me. "Get up, maid. The Princess must eat quickly, and then you will put her in the second outfit. The wrap, not the dress."

"My lord." She bows her head in assent.

The King leaves the room, and I realize with poignant shock that it's my room, my enormous royal chamber, with its thick rug embroidered with lavender peonies, its gold-fringed drapes, its immense canopy bed, and its array of white furniture, painted with more peonies in various shades of rose and plum. It's an airy, welcoming space, with three wide windows overlooking the garden. An archway leads into my white-marble bathroom with its gold finishes.

Behind the closed doors to my right lies my closet, containing dozens of brilliant gowns and all sorts of pants, from loose, colorful lounge-wear and soft white doeskin to shiny black leather. To my left, behind another door, lies the study, with its bookshelves and piano. The doors across from my bed lead to the sitting room, where I've done everything from receiving stately guests to hosting raucous parties with twenty-something nobles.

But this suite, as beloved and familiar as it is, seems sinister to me now—a precious gift that the King of Vohrain can easily steal away. He can visit me here, anytime he likes. He can corrupt every good memory I have of these rooms.

"Princess?" Parma's lips are wobbling again, and she stares at me with the eyes of a frightened doe. "You must eat something, and then I'm supposed to fix your hair, and dress you for—what the King said."

I nod, looking down at the plain ivory nightdress I'm wearing. "We'd better do as he commands. "

She glances over her shoulder toward the open doorway that leads to the sitting room. Two men stand outside the doorway with their backs to us. They're wearing Vohrainian uniforms and helmets. Beyond them, on the far side of the sitting room, there's a door leading into the hallway, but that's only one of three paths out of my suite.

My plan to be the King's subservient doll is still viable, but if there's a chance to escape, I have to take it.

"The study door?" I whisper to Parma.

She shakes her head. "Guarded."

"And the passage through the closet? Did they find it?"

She nods, wincing. "It's been bricked up."

Shit.

One of the guards at the door turns around. "No whispering. Perform the command of the King."

Parma points to a covered tray on my nightstand. Beneath the lid, I find a dish of chicken, peas, and rice seasoned with broth. One of my childhood favorites.

The meal nourishes my heart as well as my body, because I know who crafted this dish for me. I recognize the familiar seasoning. This is the work of the head cook, Myron, a big, jovial fellow, a lover of stories and songs. No one else makes this dish quite the same way. He must have been told the meal was for me, and the flavors are almost as good as one of his bearlike hugs.

After days on the dragon's island and more days in a dungeon, nothing has ever tasted so exquisite. I'm thankful the food is simple, or my half-starved stomach might not be able to manage it.

After eating, I seat myself on the cushioned stool at my dressing table, and my maid performs her usual duties in silence. The sensation of the brush grazing my scalp and her gentle fingers manipulating my hair is a delight I've missed immensely. Both my hair and body feel clean, so I must have been bathed at some point, but I don't remember it, nor can I recall being transported from Zevin's family home to the palace. I must have been delirious or unconscious during the journey.

What if the King took advantage of me during that time? I could be pregnant with his child already and not even know it. Although I'm not sure I'd be fertile again so quickly after carrying Kyreagan's eggs.

I risk one more question. "Do you know if the King touched me while I was asleep?"

"Not to my knowledge, Princess," Parma whispers. "I've been with you since you were brought here. The King's healer tended you, and then Azra and I bathed you and put you to bed."

I fall silent again while she deftly braids my hair into an elaborate design. When she's done, she walks over to the closet, and I lean to the right, eager for a glimpse of all my beautiful clothes.

But when Parma opens the closet, there are no gowns on the hanging bars, no shirts or tunics folded on the shelves, no scarves in the baskets, and no jewelry dripping from the boughs of the sculptural golden tree at the far end. The entire closet is empty, except for two items hanging side by side—a lacy white gown with thin shoulder straps, and a scrap of gauzy black material.

Some people collect rare editions of books, or sets of dishes, or fine paintings. I had a curated selection of tailored clothing, in which each piece represented something of my personality. They weren't just clothes—they were moments, memories. They were me. And now, all the clothes I commissioned or collected are simply gone .

Tears well up in my eyes. It's a silly, shallow thing to cry about, but I can't help it. The sight of that empty closet is like a knife to my chest. I know my wardrobe isn't important in the grand scheme of things, but its absence is more painful because of everything else I've lost .

Parma returns, carrying the filmy black garment. I swallow hard, blinking back the tears. I refuse to sob over stolen clothes in front of her, when my people have been suffering so much worse.

Slowly, my brain registers the scandalous, gauzy thing in Parma's hands. "This is what I'm supposed to wear for a public appearance?"

She looks as if she might cry again. "I'm sorry, Princess."

"It's not your fault," I reassure her hastily. Then, for the benefit of the guards, I add, "What my Master wants, my Master receives."

After I remove the nightdress, Parma wraps the gauzy garment around me. It's voluminous, almost cape-like. A strip of black satin belts it at my waist, turning it into a sort of dress, but it's so sheer that it barely veils my body—which is no doubt the King's intent. He wants to shame me, as he did my mother. At least he's allowing me some semblance of clothing, while she had to appear naked. Rahzien is sending a message to the people—that even though I'm one of the defeated royals of this land, I have surrendered to him, so I benefit from his mercy.

When I do as I'm told, I receive good things .

I hate that Parma is here, caught in the middle of this. The King knows I care about her, which means he can use her as leverage.

She's leaning close, applying cosmetics to my face, so I risk another whisper, barely audible so the guards outside the door won't hear.

"What about Taren and Huli?" I whisper.

"They fled to her brother's farm," she breathes. "They are safer there."

Relief swamps my bones, turning my muscles liquid. Physically, I don't feel like myself at all—I'm weaker, wearier. What if it's not just because of the deprivation, or the fever, or carrying the dragon eggs? What if Rahzien is right, and something virulent is twining along my nerves, slithering through my veins? Something the healer couldn't cure—the poison that tethers me to the King.

Can I really feel it, or am I merely imagining that I can? Maybe I'm losing my mind at last, after the volatility and peril of the past few weeks.

Both Kyreagan and I suffered terrible grief and a massive upheaval of our worlds, far beyond what most people endure. At first, we had little time to process any of it; we were too focused on surviving. And yet, we began to slowly unwrap those bundles of grief and trauma together… laying the pieces out in the open, viewing each other's pain, and healing in the process. We were shockingly good for each other, and I miss him more terribly than I've ever missed anyone.

The sudden flare of pain in my heart triggers a chain of panicked memories, things I had lost temporarily while I was unconscious. The poison Rahzien mentioned, contaminating all the flocks and herds of the Middenwold Isles. A poison triggered by dragon saliva.

Kyreagan isn't dead. He's not dead, he can't be dead. But he might die soon, and I have to warn him… but I have no way to warn him, and any message I send would be too late, too late… I love him, I love him, and I never told him I love him, oh god I'm spiraling, I'm sinking, and I can't stop…

"Your Highness." Parma's gaze glimmers with sorrow as she tries to sweep neat black lines beneath my eyes, but I'm crying, and the moisture is making her task impossible.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

"Don't be sorry." She gives a little sob, sucks in a breath, grits her teeth. She drags her thumb beneath my left eye, wiping away the smeared paint. "The King wants you in full makeup, and I'll keep working until we get there. I don't want that bastard to have any excuse to hurt you. "

The insult is barely audible, but it's more defiance than I've ever seen from her. Parma is a timid person. When she first came to work at the palace, she could barely squeak a terrified word. Determined to draw her out, I shone kindness on her like the sun, and I made sure my other servants treated her well, too. She was only just beginning to blossom when Vohrain invaded. Seeing her brief flare of courage makes me proud.

A Vohrainian guard marches into my sitting room and speaks to the two men by the bedroom door. "It's time. She's been summoned."

Parma expertly paints my mouth with a dash of my favorite lip color and steps back. I rise from the stool.

But instead of heading for the sitting room, I walk to the door of my study. My fingers curl around the handle, and I hesitate, scared to look inside.

I'm proud of the library of books within this room. I've always allowed the servants and staff to borrow novels, poetry collections, historical volumes, and anything else they desire, as long as they mark it in the ledger I keep by the door and put it back precisely in its place when they're done.

In addition to books of all genres, I have quite the collection of sheet music, most of it composed by the great musicians of our land. And there are shelves of slim leather-bound volumes filled with my own compositions as well.

"Come, Princess," demands one of the guards.

"One moment." I hold my breath and open the study door.

Bare shelves, some of them smashed.

A torn page lying discarded here and there.

The piano's keys have been crushed by something hard and heavy.

Wretchedness grips my heart in pitiless fingers. Why did I think a conquering nation would leave my possessions alone? Why did I hope that everything might be exactly as I left it ?

Maybe because my bedroom looks intact. Even though some items are missing, it appears as it did the morning I left to visit the wounded soldiers.

And yet nothing is the same.

My heartbeat quickens as I turn back into my bedroom, as I rush to one of the dressers and yank open its top drawer, then the next drawer, and the next. All empty. I keep racing around the room, frantically opening drawers and boxes, while Parma and the guards watch me.

My delicate underthings, my hosiery, my keepsakes, my slippers, my ribbons, my jewelry—gone. The loose sheets of paper with partially completed song lyrics scrawled on them—gone. The sketches and portraits I commissioned of some of my servants and guards—gone. My embroidery and cross-stitch supplies, my perfumes, my body creams—gone.

The King gave Parma a few cosmetics and necessities for the dressing table. They took everything else.

Gutted, I stand in the center of that room, my hands limp and empty. My heart is too ravaged for tears. Parma lingers by the dressing table, anxiously plucking strands of my hair out of the brush she used on me earlier.

One of the Vohrainians steps forward. The morning light from the three windows shines on his helmet's skeletal jaws. "Come. Now."

I step toward him, hollow and unsteady. When he grips my arms and brackets my wrists with manacles, I don't fight him. My wrists must also have been treated by the healer while I slept. They're no longer sore, and my skin is flawless. But if I'm forced to wear these cuffs too long, I have no doubt the pain and bleeding will return.

The guards escort me through familiar halls, while the bare shelves and empty drawers haunt my mind.

They're just things, Serylla. Objects, not people. You shouldn't be this deeply affected .

But I can't shake my devastation. My possessions had meaning to me, beyond their intrinsic value. In a kingdom where I was uncertain of my place and had little control over my future, my belongings represented the small zone of my influence, my choices. And those leather-bound notebooks represented years of my private musical compositions, my lyrics, my thoughts, and my emotions. They are treasures I can never recreate. I feel like I've suffered a violation of my soul.

The guards hurry me along, past faces I know—precious faces. Some of them turn away, flushed and tearful, overcome by the sight of me. Others meet my gaze with their heads held high. From somewhere behind us, a woman shouts, "The Queen is dead. Long live the Queen!"

One of the Vohrainians whirls around immediately and stalks back down the hall, hunting for the woman who shouted. I'm shoved forward, hustled down the steps into the great marble foyer.

When I'm brought out into the courtyard into the mild warmth of the spring morning, the stable-master is standing there, near the heads of four horses harnessed to a royal carriage. Two of the stable-master's hired boys stand with him—both of them gangly fellows, scarcely into their teen years. One boy's face is red, his eyes wet and despairing. The other's features are stiff with anger, and his gaze burns vengefully as he takes in my appearance. The stable-master puts one hand on the second boy's arm, a warning not to react, not to do anything foolish.

This entire kingdom was abused by my mother, sacrificed to her pride. They are as wounded and weary as I am. And yet they love me. I felt the love in Parma's touch while she braided my hair. I heard it in the defiant shout of the woman in the hall. I see it in the tears, the anger, and the sympathy of the stable-master and his boys.

My heart swells, and so does the music in my mind—a golden burst of notes .

I haven't heard music in my head since I was taken from Kyreagan's nest.

I suck in a swift breath of surprise, charmed by the miracle of the melody unfurling through my consciousness. In spite of poison and exhaustion, grief and terror, the music is still mine. Whatever they steal from me, they cannot take this .

The works I lost were pieces of me, but not the whole me. Strip everything away, and still I remain . I composed music on Ouroskelle, despite being a captive there. And I will keep making music here, if only in my heart.

"Up you go," barks one of the guards. I mount the carriage step, and the next second I'm shut inside, blinking in the gloom as I settle onto the seat.

The curtains over the windows are drawn nearly closed, admitting only a little sunlight. On the padded seat across from me, where my mother would usually sit, is the King of Vohrain, his knees and thighs spread wide, his flat, emotionless eyes fixed on me.

"You don't sit there," he says. "You sit on the floor. Between my feet."

Tightening my lips, I slide slowly off the bench onto the floor, debating whether I should try to catch him off guard and throttle him or something. But his neck is so thick, and he's so huge and strong—I dare not try any aggression without some kind of weapon.

I sit between his spread legs, silently thanking the Maker that he's not asking me to suck his dick.

"It's a short ride," he says. "We may as well put that pretty mouth to good use."

Fuck. I glance up, my face hot.

He chuckles. "Not like that, Spider. What a foul mind you have. I only meant that we would practice your lessons along the way. Repeat after me… You are worthless. You are foolish. You are alone. "

Grasping my fragile hope, clutching my vengeance, clinging to the love of my people, I recite the lies.

And I fight against the part of me that wants to believe them.