Page 13 of Hearts Lost

“I said I would,” she replies.

Orryen leans in to place a soft kiss on her lips and then turns away from the portal with Elanerill on his arm.

“Your Highness,” Orryen says, raising his voice as he addresses King Galan. “I would like to officially request your blessing on my betrothal to Princess Elanerill of the Kingdom of the Summer.”

Galan’s official blessing is almost drowned out by the cheers and applause that thunder through the little room. Orryen turns back to Elanerill and gives her a second, deeper kiss. Something bitter rises in the back of my throat; I turn away, trying to shake the dizzying feeling that I’m about to vomit. This little room is absolutely stuffed with people; Galan’s magicians, a dozen Royal Guards, and King Galan himself. Even Rowan is here, sitting on Orryen’s bed, his hand wrapped around the waist of that madwoman who’d sacrificed everything for him.

And then there’s me, watching this sweet little scene and trying not to puke. I run the back of my hand over my lips as my gaze falls on one other person in the room. The woman in the green dress, the one who is most assuredly not a simple handmaiden from the Kingdom of the Summer. She’s watching Orryen and Elanerill embrace with her lips curled back and an expression that suggests she’s trying not to lose her lunch.

Well, I think with a bitter, satisfied twist in my chest, at least there are two of us.

* * *

The universe hasa voids-damned terrible sense of humor. I think this every night, as the glowsoft orbs dim to a sickly green flicker and I stare at my ceiling, wide awake, praying for the sleep that I could easily give to anyone else. Orryen calls my magic a gift, especially in battle. One touch and I can knock someone unconscious. I can even keep someone under for years and years, which is how Orryen survived the initial ruinous heart magic experiment that left him bleeding magic and tied to a woman who was trapped in the Worlds Above.

But my sleep magic doesn’t work on me, of course. And, voids damn it, I’ve always had one hell of a time falling asleep. I didn’t sleep at all in King Grathgore’s locked and barred guest room, naturally, as I spent most of the night waiting for the footsteps of my executioner outside the door. One would think that would mean I’d be able to sleep tonight, in my own narrow little cot in my own tiny little room in the Royal Guard’s barracks.

One would, of course, be wrong.

With a sigh, I heave myself up and throw off my blanket. Exhaustion presses down on me from all sides and my eyes feel raw, but I can tell when sleep is a long way off, and tonight it might as well be dining with King Grathgore in the Worlds Above. I stand, stretch, and shove my feet into my boots. Our little officers’ mess is just down the hall, and there’s usually a fire on the grate and a kettle of cold black tea on the sideboard.

The door to the mess is ajar, which is unusual. I push it open, preparing myself to yell at whoever’s barged in here instead of using the larger and, honestly, nicer guards’ mess downstairs. And then I stand in the doorway and blink at the woman sitting beside the fire.

“Oh,” she says, jumping to her feet. “Sorry. I’m not supposed to be here, right?”

It’s the woman from the Kingdom of the Summer. She’s still wearing her green dress, although the room is so dark that the fabric looks almost gray. It’s a nice cut on her, some inane part of my mind insists on noticing. A very nice cut.

“It’s fine,” I say. “At ease.”

The woman visibly relaxes. Clear martial training. If she’s supposed to act like a handmaiden, she’s doing a shitty job of it. I make a mental note to assign at least two guards to follow her at all times.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask.

The woman makes an expression that’s caught between embarrassment and disgust.

“Uh. Noisy neighbors,” she replies.

It takes me a moment to remember that she’s been placed in the room upstairs opposite the room that’s been given to Princess Elanerill. Where Orryen is also spending the night, which I know because I’d walked past that room several hours ago as part of my final rounds, and the sounds coming out of that door and echoing through the hallway would have made a stone god blush.

“They’re still going at it?” I ask.

The woman nods. It’s hard to tell in this light, but her cheeks look even darker.

“Voids,” I mutter. “I’m not sure if that’s impressive or disturbing.”

“Or just nauseating,” the woman adds.

Our eyes meet in the low glow of the fire on the grate, and I realize I’m smiling. Something dangerously close to warmth flickers deep inside my chest. I turn away from the woman, trying to stamp that spark out before it can complicate my life.

There is indeed a kettle of stale black tea on the sideboard. There’s also a dusty bottle of something harder, probably brandy. I place the kettle on the hook over the fire and settle onto one of the hard benches beside the fire.

“What about you?” the woman asks. “Don’t tell me you could hear them all the way down here.”

I give a sharp little laugh. “No, thank the voids. Just regular, garden variety insomnia for me.”

The woman shrugs, then sits down across from me. Her dress pulls tight over the curves of her chest.

“Tea’s not going to help with that,” she offers.