Page 14 of The Shattered King

A week after I healed Ann, Prince Renn attended his first official castle function.

As charged, I remained ever vigilant at his side, or as close to his side as I could be without bothering my betters.

I hardly noticed the dull headache behind my eyes formed from lack of sleep now, and I’d otherwise adapted to my aggressive schedule.

The queen allowed me a red sash to wear as I shadowed her son, to let others know I was official, though, of course, I wasn’t given servants’ livery, so they would still recognize that I didn’t belong.

I supposed all our tax money was going toward funding soldiers in the north in case of invasion.

In whispers, the war was becoming more of a reality, and yet Rove Castle seemed unaffected by it.

Despite my official capacity, Queen Winvrin made it clear I was only to let myself be seen if Renn needed me, and even then, the more clandestine my administrations, the better. So obsessed was this family with the guise of power, they even had noble in their surname.

Worked for me. I hardly had any desire to prance before the nobility. Every time I saw a lord in hose or lady wearing an exuberant hat, I thought, Fifteen pieces of silver for their lives. That’s what we’re worth to them.

I thought about what I’d said regarding anger to Prince Renn and scoffed. I supposed I was a hypocrite, then.

Still, as we were about to enter the Great Hall, me two steps behind Prince Renn and his guards two steps behind me, Prince Renn paused. He kept one hand at his side and the other on his cane, gripping it tightly. Not for balance.

I watched him stare at the door; we would enter the hall from behind the throne, allowing us a moment’s privacy. The prince sucked in a slow breath. Squared his shoulders.

Did not reach for the door.

After about a minute of this, I said, “If anything, Your Highness, you will be novel. A new, fascinating person for them to admire. I don’t think you can get it wrong.”

A single chuckle bounced past his teeth. “That speaks volumes of how little you understand these people, healer.”

I frowned.

Then, so quietly I wondered if I had not been meant to hear, he added, “Even I don’t truly understand them.”

A death grip on his cane, the prince shifted back and nodded to Ard, who stepped forward and pulled the door open on his behalf.

The Great Hall was the largest room in the castle, with an open arcade a floor above.

Red draperies and twin depictions of the Noblewight phoenix hung from the walls to soften the starkness of the stone.

A wide red carpet hid the hard floor, lying stretched from the main entrance up to the throne.

Renn made it just past the throne before his mother greeted him with a wide smile and began introducing him to those near her.

Sten took a nearby position on the wall.

I followed suit, ducking away a few paces from him.

The morning’s event seemed a purely social one, with lords and ladies from around the country coming to enjoy food and wine and attend meetings throughout the week.

King Grejor was in attendance, making this the first time I’d seen him with my own eyes.

His hair was nearly white with age, his beard groomed and cut into a square, his mustache long.

He wore a mink cape and fine silks, a thick, unadorned crown of gold upon his head.

He sat on the throne at the front of the room, and after her introductions, his queen took the small chair beside him.

His other children mingled nearby—most of the women flocked toward Princess Eden, I noted.

They looked so similar from the back—all of them wore their hair long and ironed straight as per the fashion, their flat locks catching the light.

Many passed curious eyes toward Prince Renn.

On occasion, one would approach and introduce themselves, often with an “Oh my!” or “I’ll be!

” when they learned who he was. Now and then the men encircling Prince Adrinn busted out in a guffaw of laughter, and I found myself glad for the distance between us so I could not hear whatever it was they found so amusing.

As I lingered in the shadows of the dark stone walls—made brighter by banners and draperies—my eyes bounced between the cinctures they all wore.

The women, minus the queen and princess, all sported violet, while the men had an array of colors.

I wondered how many here held the same sentiments as Ann.

I had been taught of the gods since I was a child, and yes, I knew stories of the prophecies, fulfilled and unfulfilled, and the tales of men and women who honored and insulted the deities.

I’d even occasionally gone to one of their shrines with an offering.

But Ann was right; I did not read scripture.

I didn’t own the scriptures. I occasionally overheard a street sermon in Grot, but few made an effort to preach in my small town of Fount.

Within the same family, you might find one person truly devout, another merely well versed, and another wholly uncaring about what god lorded over what thing.

I supposed I was somewhere in the middle.

Well versed, but I only cared when I was desperate.

When no other solution seemed available to me.

I kept my eyes on Prince Renn, watching for any change in his complexion or posture.

I’d worked hard on him the last two days, into the night, to ensure he’d be as fit as possible for this event.

And he’d worked hard with the doctors, building the muscles in his legs, and recently, his core.

So far, he seemed hale, and I took pride in that.

He appeared uncomfortable, but I’d learned it wasn’t physical discomfort ailing him, but social.

I hadn’t had much occasion to see the prince interact with his peers, but I believed him to be quite shy.

He fared well enough with Physician Whitestone, but tensed with the doctor’s attendants, especially when they touched him.

I’d assumed he’d avoided my gaze the first couple of weeks we’d worked together not so much from haughtiness, but because I was a stranger stepping into his space, breathing his air, touching his body.

One would think he’d grown used to it over the years, but that did not mean he welcomed it.

I considered this, noting his tight expression when nobles approached him, several as though he were a wild dog or circus addition, or a wight, as his name suggested.

He was happy to be here, to be participating, to be doing what six weeks ago he never would have dreamed of doing.

And yet this was just as hard for him as those first shaky steps, and it would continue to be until he adapted to it.

The sooner he adapted to it, the sooner I could go home. I just needed my administrations to stick .

Renn only needed to step aside twice throughout the day, into a windowless alcove where I dowsed into his lumis and smoothed cracks and relined the threads holding baubles together.

He sat on a chair for the afternoon and, at Whitestone’s suggestion, opted to take dinner in his suite, where he could rest.

He was doing just that, speaking to Whitestone about the day’s progress, when I slipped from the room, hoping to sneak down to the kitchens for my own meal, since none had been brought up for me.

I’d only reached the end of the corridor when a slender man, about my age, appeared around the corner, wearing the gray-and-red livery of a servant, his eyes wide with worry.

He saw me, the sash I had not yet taken off, and straightened. “You ... are you Nym Tallowax? The healer?”

I hesitated. “I am.”

“Please, please come with me.” He kept his voice low. Genuine worry sharpened his features. “It’s Torr. He’s ... he’s a servant here. He’s very ill. Please.”

I quickened my pace. “Take me to him.”

I followed the stranger down a narrow flight of stairs and out to the bailey, away from the kitchens and toward a row of small dormitories. The sun had not set, and the castle wall cast a menacing shadow. He took me to a narrow door.

I sensed the chill touch of death before he opened it. Oh no. So strong, and I hadn’t even seen the patient yet.

Inside, I heard choked breathing. Immediately smelled sweat and sickness.

“Here—” he began, but I pushed past him to the far bed, where a man lay in obvious agony, his face and body bloated, odd boils raised over his skin. I’d never seen such an ailment. It made Prince Renn’s suffering seem like a bad cold.

Death prickled across my skin.

“Alm help him,” I murmured.

The servant nervously kneaded his hands. “Came on so fast. He was bitten by a rat this morning, and now he’s like this. I-I didn’t know. I was on shift—”

“It’s not your fault.” I moved to the sick man’s crown and gingerly touched his sweat-soaked hair, falling into his lumis.

Oh gods, it was terrible.

His was a painting of rolling hills and cloudy skies, so lifelike one might be able to sense the wind blowing through the grass, but the art was melting, dripping, morphing its colors like it’d been doused with oil and rum.

Worse yet, the edges of the lumis were obsidian black, gray tendrils seeping into the paint.

I approached, willing the magic to clean the ooze away, encouraging the colors to shine through—

All at once, the painting flashed black, and a force like a sea wave crashed into me so physically that I snapped back to reality, teetered off my feet, and hit the floor.

But the servant’s attention returned to the sick man. “Torr? Torr?”

He did not need to tell me he was dead. I could not enter the lumis of a dead man. I could not stay in one, either.

I picked myself off the floor. “I’m so sorry. There wasn’t enough time.”

Tears brimmed in the servant’s eyes.