Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 67421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
“Best not do more of that, Your Highness. Talking,” Chardryn clarified when Elina gave her a questioning glance. “Smiling, too. Your face cracks all the more when you do.”
“What of frowning, Nanny Char?” she teased the old nurse. “Or scowling? Yes, exactly in that way,” Elina said when Chardryn demonstrated the same scowl that she’d often worn when Elina was a child, during those early mischievous years in the palace. Just as in those days, the nurse turned away to hide her smile, all the while muttering about disobedient and unruly charges.
“Once I’m outside, I’ll not be able to help squinting under the bright sun,” Elina added, only partially teasing now. Midsummer in the kingdom of Torrath brought with it a blinding heat.
“You’ll not see a hint of the sun, child. We’ll not let one ray touch the queen’s face, lest it melt away. Here, now. Drink your tonic before she paints your lips.”
Elina took the small cup, thinking that if not for the two attendants waving their enormous feathered fans to circulate air within the tent, the paint would have already melted away…and, weak as she was, Elina might have melted away with it. But the nurse’s medicinal restorative would hold her together for a little while longer.
Though never long enough.
Made with water taken from a cold stream only that morning, the tonic was cool and sweet and utterly refreshing. Elina downed it in a few swallows that soothed her perpetually raw throat and instantly made her tender stomach protest. Blast it all. She battled the queasiness, breathing shallowly until the draught stopped trying to come back up.
“All right, then?” Chardryn took the cup, all the while examining Elina with a sharp eye.
Not yet completely trusting the tonic to remain inside if she opened her mouth, Elina nodded. But it was just as well. With her lips closed, they were ready to be painted. She looked at Dara—who in turn was looking at the three jewels that graced the fingers of Elina’s right hand.
Again the maid gave a wistful sigh, though this time she said nothing.
Nothing needed to be said. Elina knew well what Dara was wishing. She’d often wished it herself. But the enchanted rings could not save Elina from her uncle’s curse.
They did help her, however—just as Chardryn’s tonic did. And they had already extended her life. Only two years past, she’d been on the cusp of dying, so weakened that her fingers could not hold a spoon and her belly could not hold a bit of food. Then the rings were delivered to her. Whatever magic was instilled in the jewels had bolstered her strength. Not enough to cure her, but enough to continue on…and later, when an assassin’s arrow had bounced off Elina’s chest instead of piercing her heart, she’d also discovered the enchantment protected her from any outside harm. The rings could not prevent inner harm, however, and the illness was already within her.
In the slow battle between the enchanted rings and the wasting disease, her uncle’s curse was winning. All too soon, he would have his victory.
But not yet.
Finished with her lips, Dara stepped aside so that Elina could examine the result in the tall looking glass. The Radiant Queen of Aleron stared back at her, more resplendent and imposing in her traditional garb than Elina herself would ever be. Her long sickness had pared deep hollows and sharp angles into her features, yet when covered with the gold paint, those hollows and angles seemed sculpted instead of gaunt, regal instead of sallow. Her brown hair had been piled atop her head in an intricate arrangement of curls and braids, then liberally dusted with sparkling gold powder that concealed how brittle and limp her tresses were. The height of her hair was exceeded by a tall, stiff collar that framed her head in a nimbus of thin hammered gold, as if Elina carried the sun behind her instead of a curse within. From the collar draped a brocade robe, the thickness of the fabric disguising the frailty of Elina’s frame; beneath the robe, an underdress of glistening gold silk gave to her movements an illusion of fluidity that her illness had stolen.
And Elina dreaded every movement to come, necessary though they’d be. She was already exhausted, her neck and shoulders aching from bearing the weight of the queen’s traditional raiments.
She turned her head slightly, studying the queen’s face in the mirror. The mask had cracked. Though not badly. Not yet. The gold wasn’t fully smooth around her mouth and eyes, as if each smile and word left small wrinkles in the paint. Nothing could be done about that. Except to keep her expression as blank as possible and speak only a few words.
Fortunately she had someone to speak for her. “Please inform Serjeant Iarthil that I am ready.”