Forged by Magic (Falling for Fables, #1)(38)
16
DAELLA
T he pity in Rivelin’s eyes hurt more than the welts did. Physical pain I understood, but not this…this rawness around my heart. I’d spent so much of my life trying to pack all the emotion into crates inside my mind, nailed shut forever so that no one like Isveig could use them against me. Could use me.
The people at court in Fafnir Castle had often stared at me with mocking smiles or blatant curiosity. The Draugr I’d tracked down gaped at me in fear. No one had ever looked at me like they felt sorry for me, especially not someone who would happily condemn me to die in this place. This situation had damaged those carefully sealed crates, and the emotions burst through.
I started to shove past Rivelin. I couldn’t let him see me cry. But he gently grabbed my hand before I made it to the ladder.
“Daella, wait,” he murmured as the steam rose between us.
I blinked, trying to keep the tears at bay. “I can’t have this conversation with you.”
“Isveig is the enemy. Not me.”
“Aren’t you?”
He pressed his lips together. “I don’t have to be.”
“Then don’t ask the island to prevent people from leaving. Don’t force me to stay here if you win.”
“Isveig can never know anything more about us than he already does.”
“But why?” I asked. “If he can’t come here, what does it matter?”
“I cannot say.”
I swallowed as he stepped in close, and I tipped back my head to meet his stare. “I know you want to protect these islands from Isveig’s conquering army, but it’s more than that. There’s something here you want to hide from him, and even if I hate him—even if I balk at his every command—I agree with him about the Draugr. Dragon magic users are volatile and dangerous. They will burn this whole world down if someone doesn’t stop them. Not just the Grundstoff Empire. The Isles, too. And you would stand in my way if I tried to prevent it.”
He released my arm, but he did not step back. “There are no Draugr in the Isles.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Believe it or not, but you won’t find them here.”
“The dwarves said—”
“The dwarves were lying. They were probably trying to lure Isveig to their mountain city. Most don’t know this, but they were once great allies to the orcs. To your old king. He knew about the Glass Peaks when he was still alive.”
My brows shot high. “Lure him here? To kill him?”
“Perhaps.”
“I thought you had a law against violence and bloodshed on the islands.”
“On Hearthaven. The dwarves do things differently over in the Glass Peaks.”
My heart pounded as I gazed up at him, at the line of silvery moonlight that ran along his defined, angular jaw. A part of me wanted to believe him—desperately so. I did not want to doom the folk of Wyndale.
But I knew Rivelin was lying. He had to be. Why else would the stench of dragons be so strong?
As if in answer to my thoughts, the ice shard throbbed, but the pain was nothing compared to the welts.
“I’m tired. I’m going to bed,” I said.
Rivelin’s luminous eyes searched my face. “This shard in your hip. I’ll help you figure something out.”
I could only shake my head and laugh bitterly. “I’ve been trying to figure something out for years. There is no solution.”
He watched me go as I wearily climbed down the ladder. I hadn’t been lying. Everything inside me ached for bed. And despite all the thoughts and warring emotions tumbling through my mind, I fell asleep the second my head hit the pillow.
T he next morning, we ate breakfast in strained silence before heading to the market square to see the results of the Vatnor Trial. The distance between Rivelin’s front door and the main thoroughfare was far too short for my liking, even though my pace was slow. I was still recovering from the day before.
As far as I could determine, there was no winning in my current situation. If we came in last place, and we might have, any hope I had of asking the island for freedom would drift away like smoke in the wind. But, if we somehow got enough votes to be in the top half of the competition, Rivelin would be closer to his goal, which was at odds with my future. Rivelin seemed to think he could find a solution, but I wasn’t convinced.
When we walked into the square, we found a crowd milling around the center stage, blocking our view of whatever it was they were looking at. Lilia pranced over to us, though there were storm clouds in her bright yellow eyes.
“Gregor’s back,” she whispered fiercely, latching onto Rivelin’s arm with white-knuckled hands.
A muscle in Rivelin’s jaw ticked as he scanned the crowd. “Where?”
“He came by a few moments ago to check out the votes. Then his mother dragged him away toward his house. I think she’s been keeping him hidden until everyone forgets to be angry.”
“Hmm,” was all Rivelin said.
“How are you feeling today?” Lilia asked as she pointedly avoided glancing at my exposed skin. Rivelin had produced yet another change of clothes for me. This time, he’d provided me with options. I’d gone with simple brown trousers and a sleeveless black tunic that left my skin exposed, rather than choosing to cover my arms. The welts weren’t pretty, but fabric rubbing against them was too painful.