It was already quiet in the wagon. Now, I can practically hear each one of them swallow.
“They killed His Highness,” another caster—a young one I don’t recall—speaks up.
“King Barris was murdered, yes. Fates rest his soul. I can promise you, though, that it was not by an Islorian blade, but by one much closer to him. You need only look to the next throne over.”
Several jaws drop at my bold accusation. A few shake their heads in denial.
I sigh, unable to hide my irritation. “And where is the body of this supposed Islorian assassin?” Solange poked at this very issue in the guild meeting. “A murderer of a king would hang for all to see, I would think. Wouldn’t you?” These casters should know better and yet they are like sheep!
“But they killed the princess and the prince—”
“The prince may be dead, and if so, he will have deserved it for his part in his mother’s schemes. The princess is alive and well, and you will see her soon enough alongside the Islorians. What does that say to you, hmm?” Lorel will have me drawn and quartered when she hears of my words, but hopefully, I will be either across the rift or dead before that day. “We are heading into a war of Queen Neilina’s conception and nurturing, and we are all fodder for her ambitions. Nothing more. Do not let yourself be misled by her battle cry.”
Anxious glances flitter about the wagon. I can see they are equal parts frightened and curious.
“You are a scribe,” Godwin, a pinched-face male caster whom I never liked, announces. “How is it that you know such things no one else seems to?”
A smug smile stretches across my wrinkled face. Godwin’s ego always was too big for his breeches. “It is because I am a scribe that I know many things no one else seems to.”
“She speaks the truth about the princess,” a soft voice calls out. A tiny caster with chocolate-brown eyes and hair as dark and rich as a crow’s feather. “I have seen messages that speak to the princess bound to the exiled king. More than one.”
A messenger caster riding with the healers for whatever reason. No matter, she helps my cause. “See?”
They don’t see. Not yet. But they will soon enough. Fates help us.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
GRACEN
The doors to the ballroom crack open and Boaz shoves Wendeline in. She stumbles, almost falls, before catching her footing. “Hurry up,” he barks, earning her jolt and several wide-eyed looks from the children. A few younger and more fragile ones begin to cry, and Sabrina rushes to their side to calm them before they stir a chorus.
I truly hate Captain Boaz. If I had to spend time with him, I think I could hate him as much as I hated Lord Danthrin. I do not understand why Atticus would not replace him with someone more like Kazimir.
Wendeline’s face is drawn, her eyes bloodshot as she surveys the mortal children huddled in their makeshift beds. They didn’t give her enough time to rest. She looks minutes from collapsing. Finally, she spots me waving at her and she moves my way, her body hunched.
A mixture of guilt and relief swells inside me for my scheming this morning. I waited until Atticus was at the door before asking to send her, praying he wouldn’t sense my inner turmoil, telling myself over and over again that some of the children do have scrapes and cuts. They could use her healing touch.
But that’s not why I asked for her.
“You requested my help?” Wendeline says.
“Yes. If it wouldn’t be too much strain on you.”
“For the children? Never.”
I feel Boaz’s glare on my back as I lead the priestess toward a little boy with a festering scrape on his knee, earned long before he was brought here. “This is Edmun. We’ve put a poultice on the wound, but it doesn’t seem to help.” A foul odor lingers.
Edmun takes one look at Wendeline and begins to wail, tucking his hands behind his back in fear. He thinks she’s here to brand him again.
“It’s okay. She is going to make your knee better.” I’ve seen the priestess work several times now—first on Mika, then on Atticus. Even on myself. Each time seems as miraculous as the first.
Wendeline smiles at him. “I promise, this time it won’t hurt.”
He sobs as she kneels in front of him, her eyes closed, her weathered hands hovering over the sore. The left one is still bandaged. I fear asking what happened to it.
I scan the small horde around us for the next needy child as she works her magic. Boaz hovers by the door, impatient.
Finally, she pulls away. “There. How is that? Better?”