He’s calling me out in front of the entire court, just as I suspected he would. But still, I feign ignorance. I put a hand to my breast and gasp loudly. “My lord, I cannot go. I have the blood sickness. I am tainted.” I do my best to look helpless and woebegone. “I must be administered medicine daily and we all know that the one that goes to the tower must go alone.”

“Your nurse will teach you how to dose yourself. And the kingdom will supply you with food and drink so your stay in the tower is a comfortable one.” He leans forward on his throne, clutching the arms and glaring down at me. “If you do not go, the ships waiting to bring our men to the borders of Darkfell will be stranded here. The ships that carry grain to our people from across the sea will be unable to arrive. Cities would starve. Children would go hungry. You would sacrifice all of this for your personal comfort? Are you not the line of the hero? Are you not the blood of Ravendor Vestalin?”

Ugh. I hate his sanctimonious tone. I look at my sister, at her red-rimmed eyes, and I hate the sorrow I see there. She’s going to be so disappointed in me, and yet I’m not going to commit myself to such a terrible fate. Seven years in the tower will be a death sentence for me. Even if I learned how to give myself my medication, I cannot be away from court for that long. I am the eyes and ears for my sister, hearing rumors that she does not. I am busy, too. There are holiday feasts and banquets every month until the next solstice. I cannot go to the tower and miss those. I am…too popular. Yes, that’s it. “I can’t do it. I’m sorry.”

“Very well,” King Lionel says, his expression full of remorse. “Then your sister must go.”

I gasp in shock. So does Erynne.

Chapter

Three

That rotting bastard.

Lionel would send my pregnant, miserable sister to the tower just so he can have his warships? So he can have the offensive in his silly war against silly Darkfell? Who here at court has even seen a Fellian? They keep to their mountains. Why should we war against them? I grit my teeth, hating the king with every fiber of my being. I fist my hands against my ridiculous pink skirts, furious. “You cannot send her. She’s pregnant with your heir!”

The king affects a grieving expression. “It is true. It would be extremely inconvenient, as my love would have to give birth alone.” He gives the weeping, incredulous Erynne a woebegone expression. “But once the child is born, she can hand it over to us. It is the Royal Offering that cannot step foot outside while the Golden Moon is in the skies. My child can yet be raised at my side here at court.”

Monster.

Absolute shite-weasel monster. I hate him.

As if sensing the anger bubbling inside me, King Lionel gives me a most pious look. “Understand that it is not my choice, Princess Candromeda. But to protect my people, one of the Vestalin line must go. Surely you understand.” He looks over at Erynne and takes her hand, kissing her knuckles. “I will sacrifice my queen if it means I keep my people from harm.”

“I will go,” Erynne says in a wobbling voice, wiping tears from her eyes with her free hand. “You know I cannot let our people suffer.”

Oh, this is such dragon shite. I roll my eyes. Does she really expect me to believe that she’s going to enter the tower and give birth—alone—and then hand her baby back out to a nurse? And that she will let Lionel reign, unchecked, for the next seven years?

I sigh heavily and dramatically, because I’m cornered and I hate it. I hate all of them right now. “It seems I have no choice, do I?”

“You do have a choice,” the king says in a silky tone, looking down his nose at me. “You can plunge the kingdom into ruin…or you can act bravely for once in your life.”

Everyone in the throne room stares at me.

I truly do hate that man.

“Are you watching, my lady? You must learn how to prepare your potion.” My nurse sniffles and moves next to the fire, to where the pork pancreas and herbs are boiling over the flame.

I’m not watching. In fact, I can barely pay attention. I pace in my rooms, frustrated and panicked at how trapped I am. I’m the silly sister. The useless one. How is it that I’m being suddenly sent to the tower? All I know how to do is sing love songs and flirt with courtiers from other lands.

What am I supposed to do in a lonely tower for seven long years? Just thinking about it makes me panic.

All day, my chambers have been full of people, hastily trying to prepare me for my time in the tower. A court scribe is even now creating a book for me to take with me that will have recipes and instructions on how to make food and build a fire. How to make tea. How to mend a hole in a dress.

These are all things I have never done. I’m a noble lady. People do these things for me.

Seamstresses rush into my room with different fabrics, holding them up to my body and then racing away again. They will work all night to make me a wardrobe sufficient for my time in the tower, and down below in the courtyard, foodstuffs and fuel are being gathered. Tomorrow, the priest from the Alabaster Citadel will depart with me in a carriage, so we might arrive to the Tower of Balance on time.

I must be over the threshold before the Golden Moon arises, and we haven’t much time.

“My lady⁠—”

“I know,” I growl. “Write it all down. I will do the best I can.”

“You have to do it right, else you will get sick and die,” my nurse replies tartly and then bursts into tears.

I fight the urge to cry myself and move to her side. I squeeze her hand and let her squeeze mine back. She’s just trying to help. “I’m sorry,” I say in a low voice. “I’m…worried.”

She nods. “I would go with you if I could.”

But she can’t. The supplies I will be sent are for me and me alone. Only one with the Vestalin blood and one from the Darkfell line of princes can enter the tower. It’s tradition.

Dragon shite tradition, if you ask me. But a lot of things are dragon shite lately.

So I watch as Nurse goes through the action of making the potion again. She has three vials of it already prepared for me, but I need to learn how to make this on my own. I need to figure out how long I must boil the dried pancreas of a pig, and how much fenugreek to add, and how much water. I must learn how long to let it cool and how to boil my needles in hot water so I do not get sick. It is all so overwhelming that the knot in my throat seems permanently lodged there.

I’ll manage, though. I always manage. Somehow.

As nurse shows me for the seventh time, there’s a knock at the door. Riza comes rushing towards me, her eyes wide. “Lord Balon from Greenmoor. He wishes to speak to you before you go.”

Hmm. Lord Balon has been at court for the last several weeks flirting with me. He’s made it very clear that he’s interested in a Vestalin bride, even if I cannot have children. While I’m not in love with him, it’s flattering to be courted. Flattering, and slightly annoying that he’s showing up now. Does he expect me to ease his fears while my life is being destroyed? Or is he here to tell me he’s going to wait the seven years while I’m in the tower?

Highly, highly unlikely.

“Let Lord Balon in,” I tell Riza. “But he must be quick, there is much for me to do tonight.” I watch as another maid packs away one of my favorite dresses and try not to wince at how wrinkled it will be when it’s pulled from the trunks. Then again, I suppose it doesn’t matter. No one’s going to be there to see my dresses, wrinkled or otherwise.

I fight back the urge to cry yet again. I can’t cry. Someone will tell King Lionel, and I’ll be damned if I give that man the satisfaction of knowing that I’m utterly miserable. I put on my best smile and rise from my chair, holding my hands out to greet Lord Balon.