Page 112 of Shifter King

The more muscular Vawtrian with three bone tattoos down his spine clicked his tongue. He and the other struggled to lift the prince. "Increasingly so," he grunted.

"Does that combination of alcohol and…herbal components lead to memory loss?" he asked.

"Oh. Often. Be careful around this one, miss. He seems like one of the good ones, but—"

"Not now." The white-haired one grimaced as he put the prince's arm around his neck. His feet dragged between them.

The bone-tattooed one jerked his chin toward Amelia, seeming to handle the load a little easier. "Maybe you know. Did she mean to kill or free Eskiatlo?"

"Free her." He folded his arms over his chest as he stepped back to Amelia. She stared sightlessly at the wall now, plucking at her elbow. "She is as dear to me as blood."

"Better a fast death in the river than a slow death in the pit," the white-haired one said.

Or no death at all. WroOth tipped his head forward. "She knew the queen would harm her but chose to save Eskiatlo as best she could. You should mark that."

Soft footsteps padded in. A young Bealorn woman approached, peeking inside first. She clasped her hands behind her back. "I am to show you to your rooms. Oh. What happened to the prince?"

"Just took a fall," the bone-tattooed one said.

"Why is she bloody?" She pointed at Amelia.

"Tried to help him," the white-haired one responded. "The queen'll probably want you to see about clean clothes for her too."

"Yes, I would assume as much." She frowned as if that was obvious, then gestured to WroOth. "Well, hurry along now. Can you carry her?"

Of course. He didn't even pretend she was hard to carry. Just thanked whatever goodness there was that she was staying quiet and not talking about killing people or shattering their faces. That pulse of hers thundered even faster, throbbing in her neck like a galloping horse.

The passages had calmed from their previous chaos. Already marked changes had occurred as servants, slaves, and attendants prepared chambers for the wedding guests. The air smelled of sweet peas and lilacs, and silk streamers hung at intervals.

He nearly collapsed with relief once they were in the room. It was small but cozy, a bed and a hammock with a reading nook and a two-drawered dresser for garments as well as a small closet. Water came from pipes in the walls and made a mess far too easily if one was not swift, but there was a large grey basin to catch it. All in all, a decent place.

He knew better than to think that this was the sort of place they had allowed her to stay initially. This room had been freshly cleaned and showed no traces of anyone. Let alone a tortured woman. He searched it thoroughly for any sign of spies or bugs or traps after he set her on the bed. Then he checked the wrappings around her elmis. The ones on her wrists had been pulled so tight, they were cutting off her blood. Bruises had formed around some, but the two tattoos had healed. The little shrieking chimera symbol made him smile. If she could see it, it might have brought her comfort.

The Bealorn woman brought fresh clothing as she promised. Once she was gone, WroOth sat next to Amelia on the bed. "It's safe for you to talk now, Amelia. You can come back."

She eased into the pillows, then straightened abruptly. Confusion shone in her eyes. "WroOth, did they hurt you?"

"No. Of course not. I told you, dear heart. They can't kill me." He cupped his hand along her cheek. "Do you understand what I'm saying, Amelia? Can you hear me?" It was hard to explain, but not all of her was there. Some of her had returned. Much was missing.

She hesitated, her eyes welling up. "I think I'm broken now," she said slowly, her voice small and far away. "And I'm trying to understand—I need to understand the dragons. They aren't dragons. Not really."

"All right." He guided her head to his shoulder and rubbed her arm. "It's all right. Just rest, dear heart. You're safe. You're going to find your way back. You are still alive and whole even if you don't feel it. And that is what matters. You're going to make it out alive, and I will not let you go."

WOUNDED

The torment went on for what seemed like forever. Wave after wave ripping over her, tearing her to pieces, snapping her into bits and scattering her.

Then it stopped.

She opened her eyes, aware of only the dimmest of lights. She lay on her back in what felt like sand. Slowly she stood, reaching out as her eyes adjusted.

She was in that long hallway again, except most of the walls had been blown out. Sand covered the floor now in ever-shifting piles along with bits of glass. Every mirror had been shattered. Somewhere in the distance the ocean groaned, its waves lapping up against some nearby shore.

Bricks lay at random intervals near her feet. Bricks.

The bricks she had used to block out the Okalu's sight.

Did that mean—