The skin beneath was smooth. Whole. Uncut.
My eyes widened, and I raised my other hand, frantically. It was bloodless and also smooth. I returned to the other hand, and the impossibility of what happened hit a solid barrier of disbelief and was prevented from going further.
I knew without a shadow of doubt the blood had come from me. I’d felt it leave the cut and roll over my palm.
Where was the cut?
The truth I’d clung to, that Tyr had been the person keeping me alive this entire time, had no substance because he hadn’t healed me this time. I’d healed myself.
“My dear girl,” the king’s voice barely registered. “My dear Phaetyn.”
Mouth dry, I blinked at him and caught the anticipation fluttering over his face like a shiver of joy. He stepped in close and whispered in my ear, “I have something I’d like you to do for me.”
17
For the first time in my entire life, I wasn’t hungry. I sat at the enormous table at the front of the throne room, surrounded by platters of food I’d only dreamed of, and had no desire to even stick out my tongue for a taste.
“Eat up, dear girl,” the king said with a wide smile. “You’ll need your strength.”
To heal the land. That was my task.
He frowned when I didn’t obey, but I was numb with shock over the abrupt turn my life had taken. Not the food and cushioned seat on the chair. They thought I was Phaetyn, and now I was beginning to believe it, too.
How?
“Are you going to drink my blood?” I whispered.
The king laughed and gazed at me fondly. His look didn’t fool me. That’s how I viewed food.
“No, dear Phaetyn. I have stores to keep me alive for a while, but,” he smiled at me, “when my stores run dry, we can reassess your value. For now, you need to make everything grow again.”
I closed my eyes and took a shaky breath, attempting to gather my bearings.
“Feed her, Jotun,” the king ordered. “I must confer with my foreman and see where our girl should begin.”
Jotun brought me a plate of food and tossed it before me, splattering my tunic with gravy. The scalding liquid seared my skin, and I bit my lip as I pulled away from the stiff garment. I stared at the plate in front of me, stacked with slices of roasted bird swimming in glistening brown gravy, mounds of whipped potatoes, and buttered vegetables, and my stomach turned. “I’m not hungry.”
The two guards pulled the doors closed after the king with a click.
Jotun tilted my chair back and drove his gloved fist into my gut. The chair fell to the ground, me with it, and I rolled into a ball, gasping for air. He disappeared from view, and I scrambled to stand, lurching my way toward the door. Before I could get there, Jotun grabbed a fistful of my hair and dragged me back to the table. My scalp burned, but my aching abdomen churned from the blow.
“I’m not eating it,” I spat.
He looked directly into my eyes, and though he had no voice, he didn’t need speech to convey his hatred.
“It’s not me you hate,” I whispered. “I’m just the only one you’re not too weak to fight.”
Jotun shoved my face into the plate of food.
Scalding gravy burned my lips and filled my nostrils. The potatoes scorched the sensitive skin covering my eyes. I flailed, my hands clawing at his, as I tried to free myself from his grip so I could breathe.
I fought on and on until I felt myself weakening, hands slipping as they sought purchase on the edge of the table.
The doors were thrown open with a crash.
“Jotun,” Irdelron said with a chuckle. “What are you doing?”
The hand holding my neck twitched in surprise.
A menacing growl filled the throne room. The Drae was here. There was an almighty crack, and I heard Jotun’s painful exhale a split second before his pressure released from my nape. I turned my head to one side, gasping in a sagging heap against the side of the table as crashes sounded around me. I slid off the chair to become a panting heap on the ground.
“Irrik,” Irdelron said, “you surprise me.”
“Jotun lost his temper again.” Irrik’s cool voice slid through the room. “He gets less reliable by the day.”
“I rather think it was you who lost your temper, my Drae.”
I couldn’t see any of them, but I could hear the smile in the king’s voice. I wiped weakly at the potato mash in my eyes.
Bracing myself for the next battle in the endless war, I pulled myself to my knees and scrubbed at my face, using a square of linen next to the mess of what used to be my meal.
“I know why you kissed her now. Your breath alone doesn’t work on her,” Irdelron said, stopping next to me. He pulled on the uneven tufts of my hair, rubbing at the bits closest to my scalp. “Such a lovely, lovely color, silver. Wouldn’t you say?”
What was he talking about? My hair was cinnamon brown, like Mum’s.
He swept past me to his throne. “I’m surprised you even tried to subdue her that way. Dangerous, I should think. Her cries must’ve been quite dreadful for you to risk yourself with your natural enemy. Or were you wishing for death?”
Jotun stood, brushing the front of his navy aketon, smearing the moisture of whatever he’d landed in onto his uniform. He glared past me to Irrik and kicked at the toppled wooden chairs, some of them broken from whatever Irrik had done to him.
I turned to face the real threats in the room.
Irrik stood frozen behind my chair. The weight of his presence held me immobile. I glanced down and noticed his hands, covered in black gloves, were clenched, causing the veins in his arms to rise with the tension pulsing through him. Black scales popped up on his otherwise smooth skin. He flexed his fingers and rested his hands on the back of the chair.
“My king?” Irrik inquired in the same guttural voice.
Irdelron shook his head. “Oh, come now. I’m not going to punish you. I understand why you hid what she is, but such a risk to kiss her. Should I question your fidelity?”
Irrik clenched, and the wooden chair groaned with the force of his grip. “It’s only her blood that can harm me, sire. And neither of us were bleeding.”
“Always calculating, my Drae.” Irdelron focused his attention back on me. “Did you know?” he asked. “The only way to kill a Drae is with the blood of a Phaetyn? You are Lord Irrik’s weakness, dear girl. Not the weakness of heart I expected, one far more useful and . . . immediate.” The king smiled indulgently at Irrik. “No more secrets, my Drae. How long have you known?”
Irrik frowned.
“Come now, Irrik. You can either tell me willingly, or I can compel you through the oath. Would you really prefer that?”
Irrik bowed his head, and the back of the wooden chair in his hands broke into shards and slivers. “When I saw her eyes.”
He’d known? This entire time?