Total pages in book: 210
Estimated words: 200096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1000(@200wpm)___ 800(@250wpm)___ 667(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 200096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1000(@200wpm)___ 800(@250wpm)___ 667(@300wpm)
“Her Highness would not leave his side while the wisps worked on him,” Corrin whispers. “Her bath grew cold, her meal dried out, and yet she remained there, fighting sleep until she no longer could.”
“And what is the prognosis?” I ask. Zorya mentioned an especially toxic poison from a beast called a vrog—the small creature we could not identify.
“He will live, according to him.” Zorya jerks her head toward Oredai, who waits soundlessly at the end of the hall.
Corrin’s face pinches with disdain. “He knew Jarek was being poisoned from within and neglected to mention it until Jarek collapsed, moments from death. You tell me whether you trust his word, Your Highness.” She clearly does not, but she distrusts everyone. It’s likely why we’ve always gotten along.
“No, I do not think I do.” Oredai would not respond to any of my questions on our trek from the gate to the castle, not about his role or about the variety of curious creatures that now inhabit Ulysede. When Abarrane reminded him that he was in the presence of a king, his smirk reeked of amusement.
“You should have heard Her Highness when he finally told us.” Zorya snorts. “I think if she’d had any spark left, she would have incinerated him on the spot.”
“I do not like him,” Abarrane sneers his way. “I do not like any of them.”
“How did I surround myself with such a suspicious lot?” I allow a smile before it falls off. “We do not have to like them to work with them, and now more than ever, we need allies. Besides, recall how much we detested Kienen and Radomir.” And now I consider them among our most loyal. “You say these wisps are healers. That is good. We need that.”
“You say this because you have not seen how they work.” Zorya grimaces, her eyes still on her sleeping commander. “I prefer the casters’ touch. They are far gentler.”
I can’t help my chuckle. “I recall a time I had to order you all to accept healing.” Deep in Eldred Wood, after I lost Cirilea to Atticus and we were forced to run. “Be that as it may, these wisps repaired him when Romeria could not.” My conflicting feelings for the legionary—mainly his bond with her and the way he challenges me constantly over her safety—does not diminish the fact that there is no one I’d rather have at her side when I cannot be there. Preferably not at her side in bed, though.
“We will move her to her room so you are with her when she wakes,” Zorya insists.
The selfish side of me desires to disturb her now. There is so much I need to share, and comfort I could gain from only her presence. But I’m afraid news of Malachi and Sofie will steal rest she desperately needs. She’s still so new to this world and this role of key caster and queen, learning more each day, and yet last night, no one could argue that she belonged at the rift. She attacked relentlessly, throwing everything she could find, conjuring weapons out of thin air, and she continued long after I was sure she’d depleted herself. “Everything I need to say can wait until morning.” I carefully shut the door.
“I shall draw your bath, then,” Corrin announces.
“There is no need. I am going back to the rift.” I will not gain any rest tonight. I may as well put my sword to good use. “Do not shed light on anything I have learned when she wakes.”
“You have not revealed anything to shed light on,” Zorya counters.
“Good. I wish to be the one to inform her.”
Abarrane falls into step with me as we march down the hallway. “You know she will tear a strip from your hide when she discovers you’ve gone back to the rift without her.”
I grin. “I will hand her the whip.”
13
Atticus
The steady drip of water is almost more torturous than being strung up by my wrists.
Almost.
Aside from the burn against my skin from these metal cuffs, I can’t feel my arms anymore. They were numb when I regained consciousness and found myself in this damp cellar, stripped of my armor and trapped in a cage. In Ostros, I assume. I’ve drifted in and out, shivering in nothing but a loin cloth, though the air isn’t especially cool. It must be my body’s fight against my injuries. How long since they delivered me to this hole, I cannot say, but the ache in my side and back is noticeably less than it was on the ship.
My head throbs more, thanks to that Kierish brute’s ax handle. I’m going to enjoy killing him when I get out of here.
“Have you lost your tongue in battle?” a deep, thickly accented voice calls out.
I blink several times and focus. A silver-haired man in red finery stands in the cellar with me. If the garments don’t mark him as King Cheral, the jeweled crown on his head certainly does.