Page 9 of The Shattered King

I was a fool to think the keep cold.

The dungeon was frigid.

The hay in the corner was clean, at least, and I sat on it with my back against the wall, preferring the cushion between my backside and the stone floor, however itchy it might be.

The queen might not care for my smell, but even that paled in comparison to these rank, dark cells, the only light in which was a distant torch on the wall, just enough that I could see the crisscrossing bars of the cell door.

Ironically, the space was larger than my bedroom, so I supposed this was an upgrade.

I did not cry, which I took pride in. Still, my eyes stung unceasingly, even hours after my incarceration. I will survive. Just a little longer. I will survive.

The unspoken mantra was beginning to sound hollow.

“They hate healers,” I whispered. “They hate the magic, despite warranting it. Even as they rake the land looking for someone to heal him. Looking for me to heal him.” I shook my head. “I do not understand the sheer privilege. I truly cannot fathom it.”

“ But your deed is good, ” Ursa offered. “ You are doing a good thing. ”

I lifted my knees and dropped my forehead to them. “It is not a good thing if it is forced. There is no charity, here.” I took in a deep breath and shivered. “I want to go home.”

“ I know. If I could take the burden in your stead, I would. ”

All my life ought to have been hers, the good and the bad, but that was a fruitless train of thought, so it remained unvoiced. Ursa could do nothing for the others; where I went, she went. Such was our bond. At least I did not have to be alone in this terrible place.

“ She is hurting, ” she tried. “ The queen. Her only son has been ill all his life, and she is desperate to help him. Being desperate for so long changes a person. Like a feral cat backed into a corner, lashing out even when food is offered. ”

“ Feral is an apt descriptor,” I agreed, and imagined Ursa rolling her eyes at me.

Still, she had a point, and it softened me a hair.

Even so, I’d rather leave the barn altogether than offer the queen any sort of proverbial food.

I had six other cats waiting for me back in Fount.

Should I let them starve while trying to coax a monster to take meat from my hand?

I fell asleep in the hay, unsure of the time. But surely dawn had broken when the loud creaking of the dungeon door woke me. The dungeon guard held a torch, and against the darkness, it hurt my eyes. It seemed Queen Winvrin could tolerate stench, as she had come down to see me herself.

She waved off the guard; he retreated to the hall. She took three steps into the cell and stopped.

“You are needed, healer.” She folded her arms. “I trust you will know your place in the future?”

My place is in Fount, I thought, but did not dare voice it. However horrid I found Rove to be, I did not want to spend another day in this prison.

She took my silence for agreement. “I ask you this,” she went on, a note softer. “Do not take this out on Renn. He has enough struggles.”

I stood and brushed hay from my skirt. “Why would I take it out on him?” I asked. “My grief is with you.”

She seemed fine with this. With a single crooked finger she bade me to follow her, and I walked out from the dungeon, breathing deep at the first open window we passed.

I had guessed nearly correctly; the first crack of dawn blushed against the sky.

At least the queen did not indulge in sleeping in—one thing that made her feel more human.

Two guards joined her. I was not, to my surprise, led up to my room, nor to Prince Renn’s, but through a narrow corridor and outside, to the south end of the castle, through an alleyway in the bailey to the stables.

My heart leapt at the sight of the horses there—so many horses, more even than I’d seen with the animal sellers in Grot.

Did the queen have mercy? Would she let me ride back to Fount to get things in order, if I promised to return and help her son?

On horseback, it would take me only five days—

All the flutterings of hope died as an old stable hand upended a bucket over my head, dousing me in cold water. As I gasped, some of the droplets flew down my windpipe, leaving me hunched over and coughing.

I did not have a chance to ask why ; indeed, when I looked up again, I knew only that the queen had left before another stranger emptied another bucket on me, completely wetting my front.

My teeth chattered; I crossed my arms over my chest, afraid the cold and wet would reveal too much through the simple dress I wore.

Then, with a coarse brush and bar of horse soap, two women approached from the stable and scrubbed me down head to toe, until my skin bled with it.

The only decency they gave me was the pity in their eyes, as though they hated it just as much as I did, and the fact that they did not make me strip down as they bathed me like a common animal.

The maids were efficient; I returned, still dripping, to my room before the sun had fully risen, eyes burning, consoled only by Ursa.

I was fantasizing about jumping out the window when I noticed Lonnie, the woman whose eye I’d healed, waiting nervously at my door, a plain, patched dress in her arms.

She frowned when she saw me. “I’m so sorry, Nym,” she whispered, and pressed the dry garment into my hands. “Here, take this. It should fit well enough.”

I dug my fingers into the warm, clean fabric. “Thank you, Lonnie.” I did not like how my voice trembled. “Thank you for being kind to me.”

She smiled. “I have to get back to the bread, but you can bathe with me, when it’s my turn in a few days. I’ll come up and fetch you.”

I frowned. “They work me until dusk.”

“We bathe at night anyway,” she offered. “Good luck.” She took a few steps, then paused. “I asked about a Brien Tallowax. I don’t think he’s stationed here.”

I nodded. Were I not so exhausted, the defeat would have been more tangible. “I expected as much.”

She took off down the hallway, leaving me praising all six gods for Lonnie the kitchen maid.

I changed as quickly as I could, with my skin still damp, not wanting more injustice heaped upon me.

But as I did up the slender laces of the simple dress, I swore to myself I would never let something like this happen again. I would die first.

Then they could take another twenty years to find a healer for their pathetic son.

I shook out my hair as I made my way to the prince’s suite; I’d been given no towel or cloth to dry it with, and the thick curls held on to water like the rich held on to merits.

Prince Renn was again on the sofa—he’d become an early riser as well—when I arrived.

He looked me over, but said nothing, and I worked on and off with the physicians throughout the day, until, by the end of it, the prince was standing on his own again.

I woke the next morning with a tender throat, either from being subjected to the dungeon or from the freezing water at the stables. Before I rose, I pressed my hands to my chest, just above the collar of my dress, and dowsed into myself.

My lumis was a sort of three-dimensional puzzle, shaped like a winding crenellation, not unlike those at the top of the castle’s towers, albeit deeper.

I knew it like I knew my own face, and I found the source of the illness swiftly, the blocks of one merlon askew.

Were I to let the illness take its course, the merlon would slowly break apart, the pieces scattering, depending on how sick I became.

Perhaps more rapidly than it should, given my constant lack of rest and regular meals.

I had no doubt my administrations would continue even if I were bleeding out.

I fixed the merlon and snapped back to reality, feeling instantly better. Took a deep breath, ran a comb through my hair, and greeted Sten in the hallway when he came to retrieve me. I hoped to prove the need for an escort moot, though I thanked him for my morning porridge.

Again I worked alongside the doctors, strengthening Prince Renn’s legs, until by the end of the week he could walk, as a toddler might, to the edge of the salon and back.

He smiled when he did it, an expression that lit up his whole face. A good thing, Ursa had called it.

Perhaps she was right.

The prince, however, was not well.

I could only keep up a single line of baubles within his lumis—there was still the shattered mess to deal with.

The following day he was especially ill, so much so he could not get out of bed, even with a guard’s help.

I dowsed into his lumis all day, soothing glass that had turned hot, picking through shards of all varieties, noting a blue polygonal one that had warped instead of shattered.

I strung together what pieces I could to give him some respite.

By the time I broke for supper—mine a simple fare of soup and bread—Renn was sitting up again, picking at a tray of meats and pastries like someone had skewered a toad and called it candy.

“I’m happy to eat yours if you don’t want it,” I offered, washing down bread with a cup of water. I wondered if Lonnie had made the little loaf.

The prince shook his head and pushed the tray away. “I’ve tasted it now, healer,” he said. “I can feel what it would be to walk again as others do, to be normal, and yet I cannot. It is infuriating.”

He paused, a fist to his mouth. He always had handkerchiefs on hand, but whatever ailed him, he swallowed. I waited for him to say more, but he didn’t, only stared out the window, looking very much like a bird in a cage, watching other flocks form shadows against the sun.