The Fire Prince (The Cursed Kingdoms Trilogy Book 2) (14 page)

“His last mission was difficult,” Cora said. “Both his companions were killed. He should have been given time to rest, not sent out with us.”

“Oh.” Petrus scuffed the muddy ground with his boot.

“I’ve suggested he leave us at Roubos. He has agreed.”

“Oh,” Petrus said again.

“I know it may be hard for you to believe, but Gerit has been an outstanding Sentinel. One of the best. He deserves our forbearance.”

In the dim light, he saw Rand nod.

Petrus ducked his head. “I apologize,” he said. “I didn’t realize—”

“How could you? This is your first mission.” Cora brushed strands of hair back from her face. “We’ve agreed—Gerit and I—that he shouldn’t be Justen any more. This is the ideal time for Hew to start taking turns as Justen, but I’m not sure it would be wise. Hew doesn’t know Flin as well as you three do. I fear him making a mistake.”

And he doesn’t know how to laugh, either
. And Justen, whoever played him, had a sense of humor.

Cora sighed. “I realize that this places more strain on the two of you—”

“We’ll be fine,” Petrus said hastily. “Don’t worry about us, Cora.”

“Well... let me know if it becomes too much of a strain. Now, bed. Try to get some sleep before you go on watch.” She turned back to Rand and crouched. “Does it need more healing?”

Petrus walked to the tent he shared with Ebril, feeling small.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

B
RITTA TALKED WITH
Yasma and Karel late into the night. They sat at the marquetry table, the detritus of her and Yasma’s dinner pushed to one end. The armsman had refused a share of the meal. “I get fed at midnight.”

From blood, they moved to the sewer system and the river that flowed beneath the palace, and from that to kitchen trolleys and herbs and perfume vials and bondservants’ corridors and Jaegar’s coronation. Their plan came together.

Britta studied Karel’s face in the candlelight. In a few short hours he’d tipped their relationship upside down.
I’ve looked at him for years, but never seen who he truly is
.

His stern, hawk-like face hadn’t changed. And yet it had, profoundly.

The armsman pushed back his chair and stood. “You should go to bed now. Both of you.”

Britta was abruptly aware of how tired she was. Her eyes burned. But how could she possibly sleep with her thoughts spinning so feverishly in her head?

“Tomorrow morning, the library. You know what to look for, highness?”

“Yes.” Britta stood and took one of his hands in both of hers and held it at her heart in a formal gesture of gratitude. “Karel, thank you.”

Karel dipped his head in acknowledgement. His face had become expressionless again.

Britta didn’t release his hand. There were hundreds of armsmen in the palace—and yet how many of them would have dared do what he was doing? Or cared enough to do it? What stroke of fortune had given her Karel? “I thank the All-Mother you were assigned to me.”

“We haven’t won through yet, highness.”

“If we do, it will be because of you.”

The risks the armsman was taking were appalling. He was the child of bondservants, his family’s continued freedom conditional on his good service. For him, the consequences of failure would be worse than death.

Yasma rearranged the table to make it look as if only one person had dined, then came to stand beside her. “I wish you could come with us, Karel.”

An emotion flickered on the armsman’s face, gone too swiftly for Britta to identify. Did he love Yasma? Was that why he risked his own life and his family’s freedom?

“Can’t we make it look as if you’re dead, too?” Yasma asked.

“Who would witness our deaths?” Karel shook his head. “We dare not involve anyone else.” He removed his hand from Britta’s clasp. “Princess, Yasma, it’s nearly midnight. Torven will be here shortly. You must retire.”

S
HE SLEPT IN
snatches. Plans churned in her head, and beneath that was worry for the boys. How terrified they must be!
I’m coming for you
, Britta promised.

She rose at dawn, feeling exhausted. Outside, the sky was gray. Rain spotted the windowpanes. Six days until the coronation. Six days until their escape.

Urgency swelled in her breast, pushing aside the exhaustion. Six days was a perilously short time.

She ate, bathed, dressed, barely noticing what she was doing, and then Yasma began the lengthy process of weaving the crown into her hair. The maid’s fingers were less deft than usual, her dark eyes shadowed. “Tired?” Britta asked.

“I couldn’t sleep. I can’t stop thinking about Karel. I wish there was a way for him to come too.”

“Yasma, do you and he...?” Britta paused, uncertain how to phrase the question.

“Oh, no,” Yasma said, flushing. “We’re just friends.”

“Oh... I thought maybe you and he had an understanding.”

“Karel did offer to marry me if I wanted. But only to make me safer. He promised he wouldn’t touch me.”

Britta looked down at her lap. She smoothed a wrinkle in her silk overtunic.
I think he loves you more than you know
.

When the crown was in place, Yasma vanished into the dressing room, emerging with the carmine cloak in her arms and a frown on her face. “Look, on the shoulder.”

Britta glanced at the dark mark. “Jaegar touched me there. He must have had something on his hand.”

“No, it looks singed. The fabric’s eaten through...” Yasma bore the cloak away again, still frowning. She came back with a sable cloak and settled it over Britta’s shoulders.

T
HE PALACE LIBRARY
was cool, quiet, shadowy. Deep cubbyholes lined the walls, within which rested hundreds of scrolls.

“Do you have scrolls on herbs?” Britta asked. “Their properties? I’d like to plant a garden of medicinal herbs.”

The librarian, a thin, fussy man, muttered to himself as he bustled around the library. “Herbs...” He climbed a stepladder, brought down several scrolls and laid them on a table. “Cultivation...” He shifted the stepladder, climbed again.

“Are there scrolls on how to make medicines from herbs?”

“
Pharmacopeia
...” the librarian muttered to himself as he climbed the stepladder.

“And are there scrolls on dangerous herbs?” Britta asked, aware of the armsman standing behind her. Torven was as impassive as Karel. Was he assessing every word she uttered? “I’d like to know what they are to avoid them.”

“The
Great Herbal
has a section on that subject, highness.” The librarian indicated the scrolls piled on the table.

“Excellent. May I take these back to my rooms?”

The librarian hesitated. His gaze lifted to her crown. “...royal princess,” he muttered under his breath.

“I shall treat them with utmost care,” Britta said. “You have a bondservant to carry these for me?”

The librarian reluctantly produced two bondservants. “Careful... careful...” he muttered as he tenderly piled the scrolls into their arms.

Britta led the small procession back to her rooms. The armsman halted inside the door at parade rest. “Be careful with these, girl,” Britta told Yasma. “No food or drink near them.”

The bondservants were both islanders, men not much older than Karel. The scars of old beatings, old lashings, knotted their skin. Neither of them looked at her. They kept their gazes down as they helped Yasma lay the scrolls on the table.

Where Karel stood tall and strong, these men were hunched, cowed. One had hands like an old man’s, his knuckles thick and stiff with scar tissue.

How did Karel bear it? Living in the palace, seeing his people treated like this? The women raped, as Yasma had been, the men bearing the marks of terrible violence?

The bondservants finished laying out the scrolls. “Thank you,” Britta said.

One man flinched, as if frightened he’d been noticed. The other glanced at her, a hasty, anxious flick of dark eyes. “Highness,” he mumbled, ducking his head.

The two bondservants retreated across the parlor. Britta watched Torven’s face as he closed the door behind them. Was that contempt beneath the blank façade?

Don’t you dare sneer at them.

How many years’ service did the two men have left? How many more beatings would they endure before they could return home? And they were just two of the hundreds of bondservants within the palace. The number of miseries and sufferings experienced daily within these marble walls was uncountable. Unbearable.

It was enough to make her go mad.

Britta pressed her hands to her temples.
Don’t think about it.

“Have you a headache, princess?” Yasma asked.

Britta looked at her, remembering the first time she’d ever seen Yasma—the wide marble corridor, the brush and bucket and damp, freshly-scrubbed floor, the off-duty armsman hauling Yasma to her feet. She remembered the despair on Yasma’s face, the panic in her eyes.

Britta lowered her hands.
At least I saved you
. No one had raped Yasma for four years. “A little.”

“Shall I fetch a tisane for you?”

“Yes. Lemon, please.” Britta crossed to the table. She sat and turned her attention to the
Pharmacopeia
.

A
T NOON,
K
AREL
took Torven’s place, and the atmosphere in the parlor changed. She could let her public face slip, be more herself. Britta knew the exact day it had first happened—nearly three years ago, when she’d noticed that Yasma didn’t cringe from Karel, as she did from all other armsmen. Since then, she’d called Yasma by her name within Karel’s hearing, not
girl
or
you
, had let him see that she allowed Yasma to sit in her presence, that she shared her food with her, that she treated Yasma as if she was free, not a bondservant. And Karel had observed their friendship and not shown by even a flicker of an eyelid what he thought of it.

But today the change was more significant than usual. With the closing of the door behind Torven, the air seemed to acquire a charged feeling. It wasn’t just her public face that slipped, but Karel’s too. He wasn’t impassive today. His expression was alert, questioning. “You have the scrolls?”

Britta half-rose from her chair. “Yes.”

“Karel.” Yasma emerged from the bedchamber.

Britta sank back into the chair and watched the armsman turn to Yasma, watched his face relax into a smile, watched him hold out his hand to the maid and briefly clasp her fingers.

They love each other
.

Britta looked down at the scroll she was reading, not seeing the words, the carefully tinted illustrations.
We have to find a way to bring Karel, too
. But how?

“Have you found anything?” the armsman asked.

Britta raised her head. “I’ve found a number of emetics. One has an antidote and looks promising.”

Karel pulled out a chair for Yasma, and sat himself.

“My brothers? Have you heard anything about them?”

“They’re being held near the dungeons, highness. They have a nursemaid attending them. I heard nothing to indicate they’re being mistreated.” Karel’s voice was reassuring, kind.

Britta swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. She pushed scrolls across the table towards him and Yasma.

T
HEY SPENT THE
afternoon reading scrolls. Sleet splattered against the windowpanes and wind rattled the frames, but the parlor was snug, a fire burning in the marble fireplace. Britta sat with her feet tucked under her and the sable cloak over her shoulders. Across from her, Yasma was curled up in an ermine cloak, reading intently.

“Here!” Yasma said suddenly. “Black Sugar Orchid. That’s what you said, isn’t it, Karel?”

“Yes.” The armsman reached for the scroll. He read aloud, “‘Black Sugar Orchid. An orchid producing long pods that shrivel and turn black upon maturity, the seeds of which, when crushed and distilled, produce a sweet-smelling tincture known as All-Mother’s Breath, which induces temporary paralysis and loss of consciousness when inhaled or ingested. All-Mother’s Breath has no known antidote, but Horned Lily root may be used as a preventative.’” He unrolled the scroll further. “‘Horned Lily root. A tuber with pale pink skin and white flesh, from which the Horned Lily grows and which, upon ingestion in either its fresh or dried form, renders the eater immune to the effects of All-Mother’s Breath for a period.’” He looked up, his teeth flashing white in a grin. “The quantities are all here. This is precisely what we need, Yasma!”