Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 205594 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1028(@200wpm)___ 822(@250wpm)___ 685(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 205594 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1028(@200wpm)___ 822(@250wpm)___ 685(@300wpm)
“You do have a choice,” the king says in a silky tone, looking down his nose at me. “You can plunge the kingdom into ruin…or you can act bravely for once in your life.”
Everyone in the throne room stares at me.
I truly do hate that man.
“Are you watching, my lady? You must learn how to prepare your potion.” My nurse sniffles and moves next to the fire, to where the pork pancreas and herbs are boiling over the flame.
I’m not watching. In fact, I can barely pay attention. I pace in my rooms, frustrated and panicked at how trapped I am. I’m the silly sister. The useless one. How is it that I’m being suddenly sent to the tower? All I know how to do is sing love songs and flirt with courtiers from other lands.
What am I supposed to do in a lonely tower for seven long years? Just thinking about it makes me panic.
All day, my chambers have been full of people, hastily trying to prepare me for my time in the tower. A court scribe is even now creating a book for me to take with me that will have recipes and instructions on how to make food and build a fire. How to make tea. How to mend a hole in a dress.
These are all things I have never done. I’m a noble lady. People do these things for me.
Seamstresses rush into my room with different fabrics, holding them up to my body and then racing away again. They will work all night to make me a wardrobe sufficient for my time in the tower, and down below in the courtyard, foodstuffs and fuel are being gathered. Tomorrow, the priest from the Alabaster Citadel will depart with me in a carriage, so we might arrive to the Tower of Balance on time.
I must be over the threshold before the Golden Moon arises, and we haven’t much time.
“My lady—”
“I know,” I growl. “Write it all down. I will do the best I can.”
“You have to do it right, else you will get sick and die,” my nurse replies tartly and then bursts into tears.
I fight the urge to cry myself and move to her side. I squeeze her hand and let her squeeze mine back. She’s just trying to help. “I’m sorry,” I say in a low voice. “I’m…worried.”
She nods. “I would go with you if I could.”
But she can’t. The supplies I will be sent are for me and me alone. Only one with the Vestalin blood and one from the Darkfell line of princes can enter the tower. It’s tradition.
Dragon shite tradition, if you ask me. But a lot of things are dragon shite lately.
So I watch as Nurse goes through the action of making the potion again. She has three vials of it already prepared for me, but I need to learn how to make this on my own. I need to figure out how long I must boil the dried pancreas of a pig, and how much fenugreek to add, and how much water. I must learn how long to let it cool and how to boil my needles in hot water so I do not get sick. It is all so overwhelming that the knot in my throat seems permanently lodged there.
I’ll manage, though. I always manage. Somehow.
As nurse shows me for the seventh time, there’s a knock at the door. Riza comes rushing towards me, her eyes wide. “Lord Balon from Greenmoor. He wishes to speak to you before you go.”
Hmm. Lord Balon has been at court for the last several weeks flirting with me. He’s made it very clear that he’s interested in a Vestalin bride, even if I cannot have children. While I’m not in love with him, it’s flattering to be courted. Flattering, and slightly annoying that he’s showing up now. Does he expect me to ease his fears while my life is being destroyed? Or is he here to tell me he’s going to wait the seven years while I’m in the tower?
Highly, highly unlikely.
“Let Lord Balon in,” I tell Riza. “But he must be quick, there is much for me to do tonight.” I watch as another maid packs away one of my favorite dresses and try not to wince at how wrinkled it will be when it’s pulled from the trunks. Then again, I suppose it doesn’t matter. No one’s going to be there to see my dresses, wrinkled or otherwise.
I fight back the urge to cry yet again. I can’t cry. Someone will tell King Lionel, and I’ll be damned if I give that man the satisfaction of knowing that I’m utterly miserable. I put on my best smile and rise from my chair, holding my hands out to greet Lord Balon.
The young lordling rushes in, looking as dashing as ever. He loves bright, loud clothing in the latest fashions, something we’ve discussed for long stretches by the fire. He’s a pretty thing, too, with bright eyes and golden locks of hair that brush against his embroidered collar. “My dear, sweet lady,” he says, taking my hands in his gloved ones. There’s an expression of distress on his face. “I’ve just heard the news. Tell me it’s not true!”