I expect to lie sleepless for hours, but all my crying exhausted me more than I realized. I must have slept, because when I open my eyes, the moonlight is cutting through the window at a different angle and Niklaas is snoring his middle-of-the-night snore, that deep, measured sawing that only comes when he’s deeply asleep.
Tears rise in my eyes before I can stop them. He sounds exactly the same, so much like the old Niklaas that for a minute I wonder if …
Maybe …
I climb silently from my pallet and pad around to the opposite side of the bed in my stocking feet. I pause, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. After only a moment, I pull his face into focus and my heart turns to stone. My moment of hope was foolish. He hasn’t returned to me. His eyelids are too still, his brow too relaxed, and his mouth too soft. Only children are so untroubled, even in sleep.
“You should have a little grit in your jaw,” I whisper. “And a flutter behind your lids every now and then.” I watch him for another moment, wondering if he will attempt to obey me even while unconscious, but he doesn’t stir. He sleeps on, determined to get that good sleep I demanded of him.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, tears filling my eyes no matter how I try to stop them. “I really do love you.”
I do, so much more than I realized, more than I’ve ever loved anyone. I would marry the shell of Niklaas and spend the rest of my life pretending he made me happy if I could. No matter how lonely a life it would be, or that seeing him every day would make me mourn the loss of the real Niklaas all the more terribly.
“If I could take your place, I would.” Tears wet my cheeks. “I swear it.”
I close my eyes and bury my face in my hands, struggling to regain control, while Niklaas’s snore rumbles in and out like a gargling dog. Despite my abundance of self-hatred, after only a moment or two the familiar sound begins to comfort me. Keeping my eyes closed, I pull back the covers and crawl into bed beside him, curling against his wide, warm back, inhaling his Niklaas smell, aching and grieving and dying inside with every breath. Being so close to him is like pressing on a bruise, a bruise at the center of my heart that throbs so savagely it feels like my chest will implode.
Once again, I don’t expect to sleep, but I do. I sleep and dream of Niklaas’s transformation. I hear him scream, watch his flesh ripple as feathers burst through his skin, smell the blood and sweat and filth left behind as what’s left of his human body is abandoned and the swan Niklaas takes to the sky, lost to me forever.
I wake up breathing hard, drenched in sweat, and pull my sticky shirt from my chest with a shaky hand.
“I’m glad you’re awake,” Niklaas says, making me flinch. I turn my head on the pillow to find him propped on one arm, watching me with a blank expression that’s even more unnerving than his childlike grin. “You were having a nightmare, weren’t you?”
“Ye-yes.” I swipe the sweat from my upper lip with the back of my hand.
“I was going to wake you, but I couldn’t decide if you would like that,” he says. “So I waited for you to wake up.”
“Thank you,” I say as I slide off the bed.
“It was nice to find you next to me. So much better than seeing you on the floor.”
“I was cold and couldn’t sleep.” I gather the blankets from the floor and dump them back into the chest at the end of the bed. “I thought it was best if I got warm and was able to rest. At least a little.”
“I think we should always sleep together,” Niklaas says, proving there is something going on in his mind, at least when it comes to the desire to stay close to me.
“That won’t work on the road.” I prop my hands on my hips, fixing him with a hard look. The queen’s spies will be able to see us soon. We have to make sure we’re putting on the proper show.
“You have to remember our story,” I say. “I refused to marry you and break your curse, and so you’ve decided to deliver me to Ekeeta in hopes that she will come to your aid with her magic. You must treat me like your prisoner, someone you hate.”
“But I love you,” he says, that anxious look creeping into his eyes again.
“I know that, and I … love you, too,” I say, bringing a smile to his face that sets self-loathing to sharpening its claws on my heart. “But to save my brother we have to pretend to be enemies. From the moment we leave this cabin until we escape the castle with Jor, there must be no kindness between us. Do you understand?”
He nods, but I’m still not entirely convinced.
“Nothing will make me happier than if you are cruel to me until you deliver me to Ekeeta at Mercar,” I whisper, crossing to take his hand in mine and stare deep into his eyes. “Be as cruel as you can be. We have to make Ekeeta believe you hate me. Can you do this for me, Niklaas?”
“I’ll do my best.” He gives me a shy grin. “I’d do anything to make you happy.”
“Good.” I back toward the door, already needing a moment away from the stranger Niklaas has become. “I’m going to wash up and water the horses. When I get back, we’ll decide how to travel. I’ll need to be bound so it’s clear I’m your prisoner.”
“I’ll make breakfast and get some rope from the barn,” Niklaas says, throwing off the covers and practically leaping from bed in his rush to do my bidding.
I try to take his eagerness as a good sign, but I can’t help but worry as we go about our morning tasks, preparing for the journey. It will take four days to reach the capital, and that’s if we ride hard all day, swapping our horses for fresh ones when we can, and part of every night. Is Niklaas capable of keeping up an act for that long?
And what about when we reach Mercar? Will Ekeeta be able to see he’s under an enchantment the way Gettel could? Ogre magic isn’t the same breed of magic as that of witch-born women, but still … Ekeeta is powerful and likely to be suspicious. If she asks too many questions, Niklaas may falter and end up in the dungeon right along with me.
I’ll have to remind him what to say and how to behave, I think, palms sweating with nerves as we leave the cabin and set out toward the open road, where we will no longer be sheltered by Gettel’s wards. I’ll remind him every hour if I have to.
“Niklaas, I—”
“Quiet!” Niklaas snaps at me over his shoulder, making me blink with surprise. We agreed he should ride ahead, leading my horse by a rope tied to his saddle, since my hands are bound behind me, but at the moment I wish I could see his eyes.
“But Niklaas, I—”
“I said quiet.” The hatred in his expression when he turns connects like a slap to the face, leaving a stinging sensation behind. “Shut your mouth, or I’ll shut it for you.”
I swallow and nod, heart racing as I begin to wonder what mad thing I’ve done now, ordering a person determined to do precisely as I say to be cruel to me. I know the real Niklaas would never hurt me, but I have no idea what this shell will do in the name of obeying my order to the letter.
“Next time, we’ll stuff something in there to keep you quiet,” he says.
I shiver, ducking my head to my chest until he turns back around, shocked to find I’m truly afraid. Shocked and strangely … satisfied.
Because if anyone deserves to suffer …
And suffer I do. I ride for hours without anything to shield my face, until my skin begins to itch, the discomfort becoming torture when I’m unable to lift a hand to scratch my throbbing nose. I’m forced to relieve myself with Niklaas hovering on the other side of the bush, shouting for me to hurry up, and am hauled up from the stream where I kneel to suck down a drink and cool my scorched forehead by a handful of my own hair.
When we finally stop for the night, Niklaas leaves my hands bound behind my back, ensuring I pass the few hours we stop to rest in a fitful sleep interrupted by flashes of pain from my strained shoulders.
He doesn’t speak to me at all the first day or the second, not even when we barely outrun a pack of wild dogs or when carrion flies swarm around us for nearly an hour—crawling
in and out of every orifice in my head, making me shudder and shake and scream with my mouth closed. Even when the wind picks up and we lose the flies and I beg him to tie my hands in front of my body so I can defend myself if the insects return, he acts as if he doesn’t hear a word.
I don’t give him an official order to untie me, but I’m not sure it would matter if I did. He has taken my mandate in the cabin so completely to heart that there seems to be no room in his mind for anything but fulfilling his mission and making his mistress happy.
Even if her happiness is to be won with abuse.
By the time we reach western Norvere—racing across a farmer’s wheat fields and down into a hidden canyon just seconds ahead of an ogre patrol—my wrists are so chafed that they sting constantly, making me whimper when Niklaas urges the horses into a gallop and I can no longer hold my hands still.
That night, he only allows me an hour of sleep before ordering me to wake up with a nudge of his boot in my side. When I don’t move quickly enough, the nudge becomes a rough hand that hauls me to my feet and shoves me toward my horse. Still half-asleep, I stumble on an unseen rock and fall to the ground, bursting the skin on my cheek in the process.
Niklaas doesn’t pause to see if I’m seriously hurt, only hauls me up and onto my horse with an order to “move faster next time.”
The only good thing about getting so little sleep is that I am spared my nightmares. I’m too tired to dream of my brother’s death or the ogre queen or Niklaas’s transformation, and Niklaas seems to have forgotten that he is cursed, his awareness of his fate banished by his need to serve me. I am thankful for those things, thankful for every little kindness, even if that kindness is only the absence of further misery.
We ride and ride, day and night, stealing fresh horses three times, until I lose track of how long we’ve been traveling and measure our progress in how many minutes I’m able to go without crying out in pain.
By the time we reach the coast and begin backtracking to Mercar on foot—hoping to sneak into the city through the aqueducts, putting us inside the castle walls without announcing our presence at the gates—I am weary to the bone, covered in dust, and itching all over from sleeping on the bare ground where the mites could crawl into my clothes. The chapped skin at my wrists has torn open, blood oozes down my palms to my fingers, and a strange heat licks at my wrists. I suspect my wounds are becoming toxic and that I will fall into a fever if they aren’t treated soon, but I force my feet to keep moving, refusing to allow weakness to claim me. Not yet. Not when I am so close and my brother’s life is in my hands.
My trembling hands, with the fingers swollen into near uselessness from being forced behind my back for so long.
A sob escapes my lips, but Niklaas doesn’t order me to be quiet. Perhaps he can’t hear me over the wind sweeping in from the ocean. I look up to see if he has turned around only to have the hair escaped from my warrior’s knot lash into my eyes and stick to the crusted scab on my cheek where the blood was never wiped away.
What have I done? By the gods, what have I done?
My hope is in pieces, lethal shards that threaten to slice me open if I try to put them back together again. I doubt everything, I trust no one, especially not myself. I am so weary I can’t feel my legs, as close to broken as I have ever been, filled with self-hatred and panic and perilously close to losing my connection to the world and retreating into the quiet shadows of my own mind.
I pray my sad state will be worth it. I pray it will be enough to convince the ogre queen to believe Niklaas’s story. If it isn’t …
Oh, if it isn’t …
I bite my lip to stifle another sob and turn my head, blinking until the hair is swept from my eyes by the wind. When my vision clears, I find I’m able to see the five gently rounded towers of Mercar Castle barely visible above the cliffs.
They look exactly as I remember: eggs balanced one on top of the other, ending in a shape like a conch shell. Inside the shell, there will be ogre soldiers charged with watching the unusually high ocean for intruder ships. If we’re lucky, they won’t have their eyes turned on the coastal trail, on the rocky path so narrow it can be traversed only by a single rider at a time, so treacherous all but the most sure-footed horse would trip and tumble into the sea. That’s why we’re approaching on foot, the better to sneak in unseen, two small, human-sized specks against the gray of the cliffs.
The sight of the castle so close gives me strength. Niklaas doesn’t have to tug the rope tied to my waist again until we reach the base of the aqueducts. He unties my hands before we begin to climb the stone arches, but my fingers are numb and I struggle to keep up, nearly falling more than once. By the time we reach the top and tumble down into the conduit, where a shallow flow of fresh water streams into the city, I am trembling all over, and too weak to stand.
“On your feet,” Niklaas demands, giving the rope at my waist a sharp jerk.
“Please, I need to rest,” I pant, spots dancing around his face as he leans in close. “Please … I’m so weak. I’m afraid I won’t be able to … do what we came here for.”
For the first time since we left the cottage in the woods, Niklaas’s expression softens. “You’ll be okay,” he whispers. “Gettel told me you won’t need strength, and if you need it, then it will do you no good.”
“She did?” I try to remember if she said anything similar to me, but I’m finding memories difficult to hold on to. There has been nothing for me but the ride and the pain and too little sleep for too many days. It seems everything else is a story, told to a different girl, a long time ago.
“She did. You’ll be fine.” He smoothes my hair from my face with a gentleness that brings tears to my eyes after so many days of cruelty. “I’ll sneak out of my room and come get you and your brother late tonight. Just like we planned.”
“Thank you, Niklaas. Thank you so much.”
“I’ve done a good job?” He smiles, lighting up with an innocent joy that also makes me want to cry.
But what doesn’t? I am broken, a dam with so many holes all you have to do is give me a little poke and I will leak.
“Yes,” I half laugh, half sob. “Yes. Very good.”
“Do you still want me to be cruel until I turn you over to the queen?”
“Yes,” I say, though I flinch as I say it, knowing what it will mean. “Yes, please. You’re doing a g-good job.”
“Then up you go,” he snaps, hauling me to my feet and dragging me along behind him. But even the ten fingers of water flowing through the conduit makes it so much harder to walk. My feet drag; my muscles scream and my ankles turn as I slosh along. All too soon, I fall to my knees and struggle to get up, only to fall again.
“I can’t,” I sob, clutching my swollen wrists to my chest. “I can’t. Please …”
A moment later, the world spins as I’m flipped over Niklaas’s shoulder, just as I was in the Feeding Hills. But this time, instead of carrying me to safety, Niklaas will deliver me into danger’s wide, hungry maw.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
AURORA
A field from the castle, the aqueduct splits in seven directions. We follow the middle conduit, Niklaas setting me down and both of us stooping to crawl as the open trough becomes a tunnel of water surging toward the royal garden.
My arms shake and the flesh at my wrists howls as water rushes over my wounds; blackness creeps inky fingers in to beckon at the edges of my vision, but I force myself forward, knowing I could drown if I lose consciousness.
I will my weakening arms and legs to keep moving until I am spit out into the fountain at the edge of the royal garden and break the surface with a gasp. Only then do I allow myself to go limp, rolling over to float on my back, staring up at the explosion of pink blossoms crawling over the castle walls as Niklaas splashes down after me.
“Beautiful,” I murmur, confused. How is it the gardens still thrive? How dare something so pure and lovely bloom in the shadow of evil?
&nbs
p; Somewhere in the distance, I hear a woman scream and know we’ve been spotted, but I make no move to stand. I am too weak, and this is Niklaas’s mission now. He must be the convincing captor; I must save my strength.
I must wait and watch and …
Despite my best efforts, my eyes roll back and my lids drop, my body demanding rest before it runs to the end of its limited reserves. I am only dimly aware of Niklaas scooping me up in his arms, of more shouts and the sound of swords being drawn, of Niklaas declaring himself the son of the Norvere’s only ally and demanding to be brought before the queen to present his prize.
I fight to open my eyes, wanting to be conscious as I’m carried through the castle to refresh my memory of the path to the throne room, but I only manage to crack my lids for a moment before they slide closed once more.
In that moment, I see the gnarled Hawthorne tree at the middle of the garden, its green leaves just beginning to flush at the edges, and know I’m not too late. The tree is not yet crimson; Jor is still alive.
Please let him be alive, please let me save him.
It is my last thought before I fade, sinking into the darkness.
I wake in a bed as soft as rabbit fur, my hair damp and loose and a heavy satin gown tangled between my legs. I blink at the tapestry stitched into the canopy above me—a scene depicting a girl embracing a satyr in a field of flowers—so startled by the luxury of my surroundings that it takes a moment to remember where I am.
And then I do, and try to bolt upright, only to find my arms pinned.
I cry out, whipping my head back and forth to find an ogre woman on either side of my bed gripping my arms gently but firmly in their long fingers.
“Don’t move, Princess,” the woman on my right, an ogre with warm amber eyes and a brown wig styled in a bun high on her head, says. “We need to finish with your bandages. We’ll let you sit up in a moment.”