Warriors of Wind and Ash (Merciless Dragons #2)

“This maid is my gift to you. A gesture of goodwill. I thought perhaps you could use a familiar face. She will prepare you for our first public appearance together.” He nudges Parma’s rear with the toe of his boot as she kneels beside me. “Get up, maid. The Princess must eat quickly, and then you will put her in the second outfit. The wrap, not the dress.”

“My lord.” She bows her head in assent.

The King leaves the room, and I realize with poignant shock that it’s my room, my enormous royal chamber, with its thick rug embroidered with lavender peonies, its gold-fringed drapes, its immense canopy bed, and its array of white furniture, painted with more peonies in various shades of rose and plum. It’s an airy, welcoming space, with three wide windows overlooking the garden. An archway leads into my white-marble bathroom with its gold finishes.

Behind the closed doors to my right lies my closet, containing dozens of brilliant gowns and all sorts of pants, from loose, colorful lounge-wear and soft white doeskin to shiny black leather. To my left, behind another door, lies the study, with its bookshelves and piano. The doors across from my bed lead to the sitting room, where I’ve done everything from receiving stately guests to hosting raucous parties with twenty-something nobles.

But this suite, as beloved and familiar as it is, seems sinister to me now—a precious gift that the King of Vohrain can easily steal away. He can visit me here, anytime he likes. He can corrupt every good memory I have of these rooms.

“Princess?” Parma’s lips are wobbling again, and she stares at me with the eyes of a frightened doe. “You must eat something, and then I’m supposed to fix your hair, and dress you for—what the King said.”

I nod, looking down at the plain ivory nightdress I’m wearing. “We’d better do as he commands.”

She glances over her shoulder toward the open doorway that leads to the sitting room. Two men stand outside the doorway with their backs to us. They’re wearing Vohrainian uniforms and helmets. Beyond them, on the far side of the sitting room, there’s a door leading into the hallway, but that’s only one of three paths out of my suite.

My plan to be the King’s subservient doll is still viable, but if there’s a chance to escape, I have to take it.

“The study door?” I whisper to Parma.

She shakes her head. “Guarded.”

“And the passage through the closet? Did they find it?”

She nods, wincing. “It’s been bricked up.”

Shit.

One of the guards at the door turns around. “No whispering. Perform the command of the King.”

Parma points to a covered tray on my nightstand. Beneath the lid, I find a dish of chicken, peas, and rice seasoned with broth. One of my childhood favorites.

The meal nourishes my heart as well as my body, because I know who crafted this dish for me. I recognize the familiar seasoning. This is the work of the head cook, Myron, a big, jovial fellow, a lover of stories and songs. No one else makes this dish quite the same way. He must have been told the meal was for me, and the flavors are almost as good as one of his bearlike hugs.

After days on the dragon’s island and more days in a dungeon, nothing has ever tasted so exquisite. I’m thankful the food is simple, or my half-starved stomach might not be able to manage it.

After eating, I seat myself on the cushioned stool at my dressing table, and my maid performs her usual duties in silence. The sensation of the brush grazing my scalp and her gentle fingers manipulating my hair is a delight I’ve missed immensely. Both my hair and body feel clean, so I must have been bathed at some point, but I don’t remember it, nor can I recall being transported from Zevin’s family home to the palace. I must have been delirious or unconscious during the journey.

What if the King took advantage of me during that time? I could be pregnant with his child already and not even know it. Although I’m not sure I’d be fertile again so quickly after carrying Kyreagan’s eggs.

I risk one more question. “Do you know if the King touched me while I was asleep?”

“Not to my knowledge, Princess,” Parma whispers. “I’ve been with you since you were brought here. The King’s healer tended you, and then Azra and I bathed you and put you to bed.”

I fall silent again while she deftly braids my hair into an elaborate design. When she’s done, she walks over to the closet, and I lean to the right, eager for a glimpse of all my beautiful clothes.

But when Parma opens the closet, there are no gowns on the hanging bars, no shirts or tunics folded on the shelves, no scarves in the baskets, and no jewelry dripping from the boughs of the sculptural golden tree at the far end. The entire closet is empty, except for two items hanging side by side—a lacy white gown with thin shoulder straps, and a scrap of gauzy black material.

Some people collect rare editions of books, or sets of dishes, or fine paintings. I had a curated selection of tailored clothing, in which each piece represented something of my personality. They weren’t just clothes—they were moments, memories. They were me. And now, all the clothes I commissioned or collected are simply gone.

Tears well up in my eyes. It’s a silly, shallow thing to cry about, but I can’t help it. The sight of that empty closet is like a knife to my chest. I know my wardrobe isn’t important in the grand scheme of things, but its absence is more painful because of everything else I’ve lost.

Parma returns, carrying the filmy black garment. I swallow hard, blinking back the tears. I refuse to sob over stolen clothes in front of her, when my people have been suffering so much worse.

Slowly, my brain registers the scandalous, gauzy thing in Parma’s hands. “This is what I’m supposed to wear for a public appearance?”

She looks as if she might cry again. “I’m sorry, Princess.”

“It’s not your fault,” I reassure her hastily. Then, for the benefit of the guards, I add, “What my Master wants, my Master receives.”