The first time I noticed Saul Flannery, I was in this very room. He was rushing across the yard to help a stablehand with a foaling horse. Unlike other birthing horses, this one’s movements were jerky and frantic. It paced and kicked, eyes rolling to whites. Despite the danger, Saul reached for the animal and assisted until the newborn horse had been foaled. The mare died from complications. The foal had been injured during birth and the stablehand thought it would die also. But Saul stayed with the vulnerable animal for days, and when it was stronger, he took the animal home.
Saul was kind and caring and, most important, always courageous in the face of danger. My father was not a good man. A terror of a king, he let his superstitions lead to mass execution of his people. When he passed, his conspiracies bled to his nobles and onto the country. After yesterday, it sickens me to admit that I understand my father’s choices a little bit better. I don’t agree, but I understand his fear.
Unlike my father, however, I won’t let fear control me. During my reign, the people of Malam will see the abolishment of the Purge. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll bring about a change that clears the haze of hate and fear clouding the vision of the citizens of Malam.
The peepholes give me a view of the road and woods beyond the castle where a brisk breeze pushes through the tops of the trees and whistles through the cracks in the tower. A couple of carts crunch over the gravel approaching the bridge. I watch them, wondering when I’ll see Britta again.
I saw Britta Flannery for the first time four years ago. The bounty hunter’s shadow took cautious steps into my Winter Feast celebration. Grim mouth, wary blue eyes, and the scowl she wore like chainmail fascinated me.
The luxuries of the castle and opulent décor of the celebration didn’t seem to draw her attention. I wanted to know more about the strange girl. I still do. Back then, it didn’t take much prodding to discover who she was. Or that, despite the noble status her father held, Britta was an outcast.
In that aspect, we were similar. I grew up a ghost in my own castle. No one spoke to me for fear of offending the future king, the son of the tyrant. No one met my eye. No one held my trust, other than the two men who raised me.
Now that one of them has betrayed me, I feel like I’m navigating through the woods in the dark.
As king, I have to weigh each decision, anticipate how it’ll affect the kingdom. If I could be more like Britta, shrewd, self-assured, strong . . .
My leadership has given little for the people of Malam to trust. Before I took over from Jamis, who’d become regent after my father’s death, I stood aside while he demanded that the Purge Proclamation be upheld, that every Channeler in Malam be hunted down. After I became king, I allowed my high lord to deceive and manipulate me.
I scrub my palms against my face.
“Get the healer.”
The shout echoes up from the courtyard, followed by a clatter of metal. I press my face to the stone, seeking the source of the noise. One of the elite guards, Leif O’Floinn, passes an unconscious girl to another man before dismounting his horse. Once on the ground, he takes the girl back into his arms and says something I cannot hear. Then the stablehand ushers the horse away as Leif rushes toward the inner gate, a flopping autumn-haired teenage girl in his arms.
I push aside the tapestry and rush along the parapet. I leap down the stairs two at a time, reaching the main level of the castle as a couple of servant girls go rushing past. They squeak at the sight of me, mutter an apology with their eyes to the stone floor, and scuttle away. I follow, heading toward the castle’s healer, picking up pieces of their conversation.
“Said he found her in the woods . . .”
“. . . scars on her wrist . . .”
“. . . breathing, but her eyes won’t open.”
I hurry past them, scaring them once more, and turn down the hallway to the healer’s room.
“What happened?” I approach Leif and Omar, who are standing beside a bed.
Omar turns, the angry slashes of his brows lifting in surprise. “Your Highness, the situation hasn’t yet been assessed. I’ll come report once I know what’s going on.” He glares at Leif. “And why Leif thought it was a good idea to bring an unknown girl into your castle.”
“She’s dying.” Leif’s reddened face is drawn tighter than I’ve ever seen. “Where else would ya have me take her?”
“She could be a trap. Or at the very least, a threat.” Omar spins back to face the younger guard.
“A threat? Open yer eyes. She’s a wee gal. She cannot be more than thirteen.”
“I can see that, but have you forgotten what happened yesterday?” Omar’s jaw flexes.
Nona, the healer, rushes into the room from an adjoining door, carrying a bowl of water and white towels. A man follows behind, a local healer named Hagan that I’ve not seen since the week I spent in the castle healer’s care.
“Omar.” I cut into their ongoing argument. “Let the healers do their work before we determine whether she’s a threat.”
I can tell Omar isn’t pleased by the way his lips tense and whiten. Empathy isn’t his strength. But I suppose it makes him an excellent captain of the guard. He questions Leif about the girl and where she was found.
“I’d just rotated shifts with the guards at the base of Mount Avemoir. The girl came stumbling through the trees. I saw her collapse. Before she lost consciousness, she asked for help.”
“For what?” Omar says at the same time I ask, “From whom?”
Leif shakes his head. “Don’t know. Said ‘help’ a couple of times between short breaths. Then her eyes closed, and they haven’t opened since.”
Nona and Hagan move around us, examining the girl. Her skin is tawny, but it lacks the usual warmth from someone with a similar tone. The gray pallor makes her look frighteningly close to death.
Nona tells Hagan to make a brew before she turns back to the girl and lifts her lids. Unfocused orbs of silvery-blue gaze at nothing. Breath stutters out of the girl’s pale lips.
Nona’s mouth pinches. “Come on, girl. Don’t leave us,” she whispers.
Hagan returns with a small cup of brew, but sets it to the side of the bed when Nona points out the girl’s wrists. Hagan emits a small gasp.
“What is it?” Omar crowds the healers.
Nona turns the girl’s arm to show two burned circles with four small dots on the inside of her wrist. The puffy, red skin makes it appear as if someone’s branded her with an iron.
I start to repeat Omar’s question when a fragment of a memory returns.
“Did it work?” Jamis walked over to Phelia and pushed the length of her hair off her shoulder. He lowered his head, his lips touching the spot where the fabric of her dress met her neck.
She drew in a slow breath and stared out the window of my private quarters, eyes calculating, hard, and icy. “Must we always meet in here?”
“He’s a puppet.” Jamis waves his hand in my direction. My body is a lump under the blankets of my bed. “And if he wasn’t, you could inflict enough damage to erase his thoughts, couldn’t you?”
Phelia lifts one shoulder.
“Now tell me, have you figured it out?”
“Not quite. The girl died too quickly.”
“Were you able to use any of it?”
“I lit a candle.” Phelia crosses her arms.
Jamis approaches and rests his hands on her shoulders, squeezing.
Phelia steps away.
“What happened?”
“She died too fast. There wasn’t time.”