Chapter Seventeen
My wary eyes drift over the sanctum’s interior. The mahogany pews are smooth, the marble tile floor on the dais gleams white, and a waft of sage incense permeates my nose. All signs of the daaknar attack have been erased, as though it never happened.
Yet, if I inhale deeply, I smell its foul stench. If I listen intently, I hear its claws scraping against the wood. And in the darkness of my mind’s eye, I see the pool of blood and maimed body behind the altar.
Outside, the sanctum is a jaw-dropping Gothic splendor of countless angles and spires, a cathedral made of obsidian, but trimmed in so much gold, silver, and bronze that it glimmers like a beacon under the sun.
Soft footfalls sound. I turn to find Wendeline approaching, her translucent gold veil shimmering in the streams of daylight that shines through windows high above. Warmth instantly blooms in my chest at the sight of her friendly face.
“Your Highness.” She curtsies deeply. Her voice is a soothing song. “It’s good to see you again. Things have changed considerably since we last spoke.”
I smile through the sting of resentment I feel toward her and Elisaf for dancing around the Islorian’s dark truth, even if Zander gave them no other choice. “More than I expected.”
Her vivid blue eyes venture to my shoulder, hidden beneath the maroon brocade. “Are you feeling well?”
“I’m fine. Hot.” I tug at the collar that reaches to my chin. The dress Corrin insisted I wear today is heavy and better suited to cool temperatures, and I’m already sweating from the short walk here.
She smiles. “Then I suppose not everything has changed.”
I chuckle despite my bitter mood. “No, I guess not.”
“His Highness has requested that I tutor you in all things divine.” She holds out her arms, palms up, gesturing to the towering figures surrounding the altar.
“And some things that aren’t.” Would anyone call what these Islorian immortals are divine?
She dips her head in acknowledgment. “His Highness has finally revealed himself to you.”
“That’s one word for it.” I glare at Elisaf. Between the sheepish look he greeted me with this morning and my bubbling antipathy for him after standing outside my door last night, listening to my terror and saying nothing, our walk over was silent and tense.
Elisaf has the decency to avert his gaze. “Do you need me here, Priestess?”
“I do not anticipate another daaknar attack. Thank you.”
They share a lingering look before Elisaf bows to me. “I’ll be outside if you require my assistance, Your Highness.”
I required it last night, I want to say. My eyes trail after the guard as he marches down the center aisle, wondering how often he feeds off humans, and who he feeds off, and whether I wish I’d never found out. No … I’m glad Zander let me in on his secret. Maybe things will begin to make more sense now.
Wendeline studies me intently.
“It’s so bare in here without all the flowers.”
“It sounds like they may be back again soon enough?” There’s a teasing lilt in her tone, though I’m not sure Wendeline is capable of taunting. And my situation is far from amusing. The flat look I give her says as much.
She gestures toward the first pew, guiding me to take a seat. “We can speak openly. There is no one else here.”
The wood creaks as it accepts my weight. “How much do you know?”
“His Highness honors me by seeking my counsel,” she admits, settling onto the bench.
It dawns on me. “You knew of his plan, that last day you came to visit.” She hinted at my release.
“I knew he was considering it, yes,” she confirms with a solemn nod.
“He trusts you. You’re the reason he believes I’m not lying about not remembering who I am.” If not for her, I’d still be locked up in that room. “When did you figure out Margrethe summoned Malachi to bring me back to life?” It feels odd to talk about something as if I understand it when I don’t have the first clue.
“I suspected it after the daaknar attack and then was quite certain once the king described your conversation to me. But he wanted to be sure it was not another scheme. You needed time to heal, and the king needed time to decide his next move.”
“He already knew I was telling the truth that day he brought me to his war room,” I say more to myself. The day I saw the map. But he kept the pretense of doubt and suspicion going. I’m not the only one who knows how to pretend.