his face grooved with pain. He looked so ill. “Can you make it that far?”
“I must.”
She got the body to the mirror with another tug. The boots were slipping. Or maybe it was her hands, damp with sweat. Her stomach seemed to writhe, knotting and twisting.
“As far inside as you can manage,” Bolthorn said.
He had made it look so easy with Alviss. Adjusting her grip, she backed through the mirror, dragging the body feet first. Her right foot slipped on something that wasn’t stone and she tripped, landing hard with a cry of pain and shock, her sore shoulder striking against the wall.
“Princess?”
She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, but what came out was a sob. Alviss. She had tripped over Alviss. And the king. She had brought the king to his death. Helped to kill him as surely as if it had been her own hands wrapped around his throat. Her father, perhaps. Bolthorn had thought so. It had never occurred to him that the king could be anyone else but her father. She had condemned not only herself, but her children, too, were she to have any. The Ancestors would haunt them, torment her dreams. She had betrayed them, betrayed everything.
“Princess!” Bolthorn’s fist thudded against the glass.
So much death. And blood. Always blood. How much more? She was shaking too hard to stand, too hard to breathe. The king, her father. There was no escaping such a stain. Not even by Bolthorn’s vow. Her hands were washed in this blood, this guilt.
“Arianna, open the mirror.”
Bolthorn. His blood, too, with the knife in his side. Oh, Bolthorn! Hadn’t he spilled enough already?
And then he was with her, holding her, braced against the wall. His warmth eased the shudders that ran through her, but she could not stop the tears.
“There will be time for grief,” he murmured against her ear. “There will be time for all of this, I promise you, but not now. We must go on or it will be for nothing.”
“Your side,” she managed between sobs. “You won’t make it.”
“With you, I can. For you.” He lurched from the wall, his grip on her hand weak as he drew her toward the glass. “Come, Arianna. We must find our way past your father’s guards yet.”
But she was wearing the wrong gown. Ivory satin would draw every eye in the dark. And they had no food, no wine or even an empty skin for water, nothing. She stumbled out of the mirror, helping Bolthorn to the wall. He was so heavy. If he fell, she would never get him back up again. She strangled another sob at the sight of him so weak, then breathed again more deeply. Steady and strong. One of them had to be strong.
“Wait here,” she told him. “The bundle of cloaks and clothes is in my room.”
“Do not run,” he said, easing slowly down to the floor. “They’ll notice if you do.”
“Are you hurt?” Isabel asked, catching her by the arms when she slipped into her room. Her shoulder ached dully, now, beginning to throb.
All she could think of was Bolthorn, waiting, bleeding on the floor. At that, she almost had run, would have, if she had not worried it would be the last thing he ever asked of her.
“Did Father have you whipped again?”
“No.” She squeezed her sister’s hands. “No, he only bid me go to Lord Alviss. He fears betrayal. Would you help me change my gown? The navy velvet, for his colors.”
Isabel moved at once to help her, even bandaging her back. Arianna tucked another change in the bundle with the two cloaks, for Bolthorn’s side, and kissed her sister’s cheek.
“I do not know if I will be free to return tonight,” she said, the beginning of a plan taking shape in her mind. A way to get food as well as the clothing they needed. But she had to be quick. If Alviss only knew how he served her, now. “Father said I was to stay with him as long as possible. Even if he leaves the castle.”
“Promise me you will not provoke him, Arianna. These last days—you’ve been so wild. Even Rodric worries.”
“I
“I must.”
She got the body to the mirror with another tug. The boots were slipping. Or maybe it was her hands, damp with sweat. Her stomach seemed to writhe, knotting and twisting.
“As far inside as you can manage,” Bolthorn said.
He had made it look so easy with Alviss. Adjusting her grip, she backed through the mirror, dragging the body feet first. Her right foot slipped on something that wasn’t stone and she tripped, landing hard with a cry of pain and shock, her sore shoulder striking against the wall.
“Princess?”
She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, but what came out was a sob. Alviss. She had tripped over Alviss. And the king. She had brought the king to his death. Helped to kill him as surely as if it had been her own hands wrapped around his throat. Her father, perhaps. Bolthorn had thought so. It had never occurred to him that the king could be anyone else but her father. She had condemned not only herself, but her children, too, were she to have any. The Ancestors would haunt them, torment her dreams. She had betrayed them, betrayed everything.
“Princess!” Bolthorn’s fist thudded against the glass.
So much death. And blood. Always blood. How much more? She was shaking too hard to stand, too hard to breathe. The king, her father. There was no escaping such a stain. Not even by Bolthorn’s vow. Her hands were washed in this blood, this guilt.
“Arianna, open the mirror.”
Bolthorn. His blood, too, with the knife in his side. Oh, Bolthorn! Hadn’t he spilled enough already?
And then he was with her, holding her, braced against the wall. His warmth eased the shudders that ran through her, but she could not stop the tears.
“There will be time for grief,” he murmured against her ear. “There will be time for all of this, I promise you, but not now. We must go on or it will be for nothing.”
“Your side,” she managed between sobs. “You won’t make it.”
“With you, I can. For you.” He lurched from the wall, his grip on her hand weak as he drew her toward the glass. “Come, Arianna. We must find our way past your father’s guards yet.”
But she was wearing the wrong gown. Ivory satin would draw every eye in the dark. And they had no food, no wine or even an empty skin for water, nothing. She stumbled out of the mirror, helping Bolthorn to the wall. He was so heavy. If he fell, she would never get him back up again. She strangled another sob at the sight of him so weak, then breathed again more deeply. Steady and strong. One of them had to be strong.
“Wait here,” she told him. “The bundle of cloaks and clothes is in my room.”
“Do not run,” he said, easing slowly down to the floor. “They’ll notice if you do.”
“Are you hurt?” Isabel asked, catching her by the arms when she slipped into her room. Her shoulder ached dully, now, beginning to throb.
All she could think of was Bolthorn, waiting, bleeding on the floor. At that, she almost had run, would have, if she had not worried it would be the last thing he ever asked of her.
“Did Father have you whipped again?”
“No.” She squeezed her sister’s hands. “No, he only bid me go to Lord Alviss. He fears betrayal. Would you help me change my gown? The navy velvet, for his colors.”
Isabel moved at once to help her, even bandaging her back. Arianna tucked another change in the bundle with the two cloaks, for Bolthorn’s side, and kissed her sister’s cheek.
“I do not know if I will be free to return tonight,” she said, the beginning of a plan taking shape in her mind. A way to get food as well as the clothing they needed. But she had to be quick. If Alviss only knew how he served her, now. “Father said I was to stay with him as long as possible. Even if he leaves the castle.”
“Promise me you will not provoke him, Arianna. These last days—you’ve been so wild. Even Rodric worries.”
“I
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