Page 6

H ellebore was dozing on the sofa, sleeve stained with tears, evidence of her weakness and unsuitability to be the next King’s Alchemist, when a knock sounded on the door.

She scrubbed her cheeks and called out, “Yes?”

The door creaked open and it was the two servant girls from before, one carrying the potted Sunrise Iris and the other a dinner tray.

“From His Majesty, Your Highness,” the first one said, holding out the pot with a note attached to a ribbon tied around the pot.

Hellebore rose from her seat as the second girl set the tray on the table. It seemed as though these two maids were going to be permanently assigned to her. They were both pretty, as almost all elves were. The taller one was of a fairer skin tone, more closely matching Hellebore’s than Taiyo’s, and she had blonde hair that faded into a soft pink. The other one had a warm, light brown skin tone and a wide smile, her hair brown mixed with shimmering gold. If they were going to be sticking around, Hellebore supposed she’d better get used to it and use them.

Hellebore took the plant and asked, “Just so I know, how old are the two of you?”

“I'm Phoebe, Your Highness. I just turned forty.” The taller of the two gestured to herself with a smile before pointing to the other. Although both were taller than Hellebore. “Elaine is thirty-five.”

Hellebore did not return the smile. Her voice was still clipped and cold. “Which would make you how old if you were human?”

Phoebe and Elaine exchanged a look, seeming to speak to each other in the silence before Phoebe said, “I'd say we're roughly around your age.”

Hellebore picked at the ribbon tied around the pot. “And King Taiyo?”

“Oh, he's only fifty-six,” Elaine said. “Which I believe if you were counting in human years, that makes him around twenty-eight?”

Phoebe laughed. “That sounds so young to our ears.”

She supposed that made sense. Her father had been thirty-two when he married her mother, who'd been a few years older than Hellebore was now. Besides, Taiyo was an elf and this was clearly a political match, so it wasn't ideal, but it wasn't repulsive to her. Rather, it wasn’t his age that was repulsive to her. It did at least put things into perspective.

She was a temporary thing to him. He'd live at least another century and a half after her death.

To him, she was a brief indignity to suffer through and once she was gone, he could marry an elf and have his heirs and spare his country from war without having to subject his people to half-human heirs—or worse, an alchemist.

“Of course, thank you,” Hellebore murmured as she set the plant down and allowed the maids to help her out of the dress and into a nightgown.

As they went to leave, she caught Phoebe and said, “Bring me any books you have in the library on Iubian Elvish and Chymesian.”

Phoebe startled, eyes widening. “But Your Highness, your wedding is tomorrow. You need to sleep.”

“I just want to make sure I get through that first. My Iubian...” Hellebore gestured in the air, indicating her accent.

The two maids exchanged another look, this one indecipherable to Hellebore. But then they turned back to her and nodded in perfect unison before scurrying off to meet her request. She wandered back to the table to eat, digging in while she opened the note attached to the Sunrise Iris.

In an elegant script was:

Hellebore,

I see now that you did not have any idea of the significance of uprooting and taking a Sunrise Iris. These plants are quite sacred to my people. We never take them from the ground, but for one occasion. The day before his wedding, a groom goes on a quest to find one, and if he is successful, he gifts it to his bride on their wedding night. It is a sign of fortune over their union, and of the utmost importance to care for it the way they are called to care for their spouse and their marriage. Finding them has become few and far between for many elves as of late. Despite the fact that you are the one who found it, and I'm gifting it to you now, I hope that it might still be a sign of good fortune for our union.

Into your care I trust this iris.

Yours,

Taiyo

Hellebore glared at the glowing flower. But she still found a spot in the sunlight for it.

Her husband-to-be had no idea what she was. She wasn't a botanist. She didn't have a green thumb.

Her only interest in the iris had been how quickly she could rot it from the inside out.

Phoebe and Elaine returned with the requested books and to take away the dinner tray once Hellebore was done with it. Hellebore snatched the books from the maids and started to head for the bed to dive in when Elaine cleared her throat.

“Your Highness, do you want these letters?”

Hellebore looked over her shoulder to see the girl wasn’t holding up Taiyo’s note to her, but a different sized envelope entirely. She must have missed it before. She reached out and took it wordlessly as the maids bid her a good night.

She bit her tongue. What was so good about it being the last night before her fate was truly sealed?

Instead, she set aside the books and turned over the envelope, heart stopping at the seal.

The Chymesian royal seal.

There were only two options. Her father or Callahan.

Hellebore broke it as she clambered onto the bed, leaning close to the candlelight to read by.

One glance at the handwriting smashed her hopes. It was her father’s handwriting.

Hellebore,

You understand by now what it is that’s expected of you. However, in case it wasn’t clear, or you have doubts whether you can trust King Taiyo’s word, I will make it plain again. He will be your husband. You will go with him to Auror where you will be married.

Hellebore snorted. If only her father had had the foresight that she wouldn’t get the chance to read this until she’d already been forcibly carried off to Auror.

There will be no arguing. I will be hearing no protests, not from you or my sister. The decision has been made, and King Taiyo will be leaving with you before the end of the day. He has my permission to use whatever means necessary should you fail to see reason and cooperate.

While that alone should be sufficient, I will continue as necessary to cover all objections.

I am aware of the rumors of a flirtation you were having with Callahan’s friend, Emerson. Don’t think I didn’t know the second it started. The only reason it happened was because I allowed it to happen. While I could tell it was simply the foolish passion of youth on his end, I permitted it because of his good breeding, skill in alchemy, and loyalty to Callahan. I could have forced the match at any point should no better options have come along.

When one did, I had no qualms about accepting it. I watched him closely as he and Callahan attended the meetings, and he did not speak out once. He did not so much as break a sweat. There was no fear or concern in his expression. And if that wasn’t enough, I had Callahan confirm it with him—Emerson saw you as a pretty way to pass the time at the academy when his studies weren’t challenging enough to keep his attention. He never entertained any serious affection for you.

He will make an excellent King’s Alchemist for Callahan; of that, there is no doubt. It is a great reassurance to me to have him secured for the position. Had this opportunity not arisen…

Hellebore had suspected as much, but reading it still sent a sharp rolling wave through her stomach. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe Emerson had loved her, but he hadn’t even cared enough about her to at least pretend they had a secret engagement to try to stop this? She’d thought if nothing else, they were friends enough for him to at least say something on her behalf.

Maybe they had been, but maybe he saw the opportunity to take the most coveted position in all the kingdom and he wanted that more. Why be the husband of the King’s Alchemist when now he could be the King’s Alchemist?

There’s really no delicate way to put it. You’re more useful to Chymes as a bride than an alchemist. My sister’s fondness of you blinds her, but I am not so fooled. I have kept track of your studies and while your teachers have taken pity on you or feared Palladia, it’s clear your work was only passable at best.

While your status as a princess only puffed up your ego and hindered any progress you might have made as an alchemist, at least you have other uses. A pretty enough face that hopefully your husband finds more exotic than repulsive. A dowry large enough to make up for the case of the latter.

The ability to do as you’re told.

Should you think you don’t possess that quality, you’d better acquire it with haste.

There is no other option. You will marry King Taiyo. You have no choice.

Should you be mistaken and believe you do and try to refuse, you will discover the consequences. If you attempt to remain in Chymes or try to return to Chymes without marrying the king, you will be treated like the traitor those actions would make you. Chymes’ treaty and future with Iubar is sealed by your marriage. To defy that is an act of treason, and I will not let such actions go unpunished.

There is nothing for you in Chymes but a noose.

I take no pleasure in such pronouncements, but I will not repeat mistakes. I tell you this only so you understand the gravity of this matter. I hope my sister has not made you so entirely into her image that you would be unable to grasp that.

You will not write to anyone in Chymes of your own accord. Do not think you are cleverer than you are. You will not be arranging an escape that way. All mail travelling from Iubar and into Chymes will be checked and should anything have your name alone, it will be destroyed. However, should you have anything of actual importance to write about, you may send it through your new husband. His approval will ensure your letters are not destroyed and there is nothing in them you would not want him to see.

Don’t be foolish. Don’t embarrass Chymes. Be grateful for the opportunity to be useful to your country. Forget about alchemy. Be a good wife.

King Silas

Hellebore was tempted to stick the edges of the pages into the candle’s flame and let it all go up. It would likely catch the whole room on fire if she did and put an end to the whole affair before it began.

She didn’t.

What would be the use?

Instead, she folded the pages back up and set them on the nightstand before blowing out the candle beside her. Once the flame was out, her books on Iubian Elvish forgotten on the table, she sank into the blankets again. The only light was the slight glow of the Sunrise Iris’ bloom.

Hellebore covered her mouth with her hand, but it didn’t make a difference.

The tears came anyway. No matter how hard she tried not to feel, her father’s words circled in on her, only they were in Callahan’s voice.

If Callahan hadn’t fought for her to remain in Chymes, then it meant he believed all of it too.

Hellebore turned on her side, burying her head into the pillow, using it to muffle her sob. She gave in. She’d let it all out.

Once she was done crying, she would be done mourning. She would be done feeling.

When the sun rose, she would remain numb. She would be perfectly cold. Eternally calculating. It was the only way she was going to survive her so-called marriage.