“This is a gorgeous spot from which to view the city,” Arnaud says, as if we’re all out here to have a picnic and we’ve been waiting for him to spread a blanket on the ground. I know him well enough to understand that this act he’s putting on is for my benefit. His position allows him the constant choice between cruelty and mercy, and at this moment, he has chosen to be merciful to me. He could easily send me to the whipping post immediately—he sees Renya right in front of him—but he instead takes a moment to admire the view and comfort me with a smile.
It’s lucky for me. I may still find myself under the whip tonight, but for now it looks like I may avoid it.
“Princess Renya and Astrid,” he continues. “How are you this evening?”
“We are well,” Renya replies. Her eyes scan the hooded faces of the Asps. We are anything but well, and everyone present knows it.
“I came looking for you both to explain that Astrid was needed in the infirmary, but I see our visitors have found her.”
The infirmary . . . that makes sense. I’ve been wondering where they would do it. The infirmary is downstairs on the first cellar level, away from the residential rooms but still above the cold storage, and worse, of the deeper levels.
Renya heaves a sigh so heavy her shoulders shrug. Her eyes shift from my face to Arnaud’s before she steps around us, heading straight up the path toward the gate, leading our unlikely procession inside the palace wall.
“Don’t let the Asps scare you; they’re harmless,” Arnaud whispers to me as we step through the double doors held open by two Outsider footmen, who turn their faces rather than look at me. The Asps file in behind us. They are far less otherworldly up close, where I can hear them sniffle and cough. Still, they’re harmless the way being buried alive is harmless. The fact I’m still breathing doesn’t mean I’m safe.
Inside the grand entranceway of the palace—a room with curved alabaster walls and an impossibly high ceiling—we find Prince Lars. He wears a midnight-blue riding jacket and a scowl. “Finally,” he says, and my stomach clenches at the anger in his voice. “Do you not realize, Princess Renya, that all of Lanoria cannot stop to accommodate your whims?”
But Renya, as if to prove that all of Lanoria can and will accommodate her, ignores him and leads the way to the narrow flight of stairs that descend to the infirmary. Behind us, Arnaud’s boots slam heavily on the marble floor, and I wonder if his mercy toward me has run out.
The tidy rooms that make up the infirmary block are all dark tonight but one—the very last room at the end of the hall. A sliver of light bleeds from under the closed door.
Sweeping past Renya and me, the Asps lead us into a small cell of bright white walls surrounding a solitary cot. “This room is not the last thing anyone wants to see,” I say. “Is it meant to serve as a preview of the white silk lining of my casket?”
“Astrid!” Sir Arnaud snaps. “This is not a time for jokes!”
Renya steps to my side as I stretch out on the cot. “That’s sweet that you think you’ll be buried in a casket,” she says. She gives me a very sad smile, and I wish I hadn’t tried to kid with her at all.
The Asps gather around, and the dread I’ve been shoving away comes rushing back, bursting out of Renya, too, so I can’t tell where her feelings end and mine start. I notice the wrist and ankle restraints on the sides of the cot as four other Outsiders file in, including Kit, Prince Lars’s surrogate. He wears a very fine high-collared shirt—a recent castoff from Lars—and his arms are crossed in front of his chest.
Of course he volunteered to help.
We might both be surrogates, but Kit and I are far from friends. He has always hated me, and there’s no lack of palace gossip as to the reason why. Some say it’s because Kit was beaten the day he arrived, as Lars’s punishment for having helped my brother Jayden escape. There’s no evidence that Lars actually helped, of course, but Kit was punished anyway.
Whatever Kit’s reasons, he hates me, and he’s made that more than clear. And the treatment I’ve received from him over the years has made me hate him back.
Renya flicks a glance at him when he steps to my side. “That’s all right,” she says, positioning herself between Kit and me. “I’ll handle her restraints.”
“Princess.” This one word spit through the commander’s teeth carries an entire lecture on the appropriate actions of royalty. Renya narrows her eyes and tosses a glare over her shoulder, but she yields her place by my wrist to Kit.
Each of the Outsiders slides one of my limbs into a restraint and holds me down, and I wonder if I’m expected to thrash when I receive the drug. I hope not. For some reason—I’m not sure why—I can’t stand the thought of losing my dignity. It’s one thing to fall into Oblivion, it’s another to flail into it. Though I’m focusing on the wrong concerns, I’m sure.
Once Kit has tightened the restraint on my right wrist, an Asp approaches and wraps a tourniquet around my upper arm. Kit leans over and whispers into my ear. “Good luck,” he says, though I’m not sure if he’s being sincere or sarcastic.
I feel my veins swell. A different Asp has come to inspect the crook of my elbow. Renya appears at my left side. She’s nudged one of the Outsiders, a stooped man who works in the gardens, from his place. I suppose Arnaud knows he won’t win, because he doesn’t shoo her away this time.
Renya touches the base of my throat with cold fingertips, tracing the still-pink scar that marks where my embed used to be. “It’s healing well, considering that man took no care in making the cut.”
Seriously, the fact she can spare some concern for the prospect of a scar on my chest when I’m about to enter a deadly race boggles my mind. “What about the other one?” I say. “The embed in the back?”
“It will come out once you’re asleep,” says Arnaud, and I cringe at this. I hate the thought of being handled and moved about, like I’m nothing but a rag doll.
A pinprick and then a burn . . . The Asp beside me pushes down on the first plunger, and my eyes press shut. What little I know about the drugs I’ve gleaned from rumors. Three drugs are given, one by each Asp. The first is just a tranquilizer. I already feel its effects, my muscles melting into the cot like wax on a hot rock.
The second brings Oblivion.
The third brings deep sleep.
A second pinprick, but I hardly notice the pain. The second Asp steps back, the empty syringe in his hand, Oblivion already coursing through me.
My lungs expand. The room brightens. The whiteness yields to colors that throb at the edges of my vision. I hear music, like wind chimes, and it occurs to me that I am hallucinating. My breath fills my lungs and I feel the oxygen it carries to my every cell. It’s icy cold, and yet it heats me. I open my mouth and a laugh breaks in my throat. My eyes find Renya’s, and I see fear in her. “Don’t be afraid,” I say. “I feel wonderful.”
“No pain?” she asks.
“No pain,” I answer. I stare into her brown eyes, and I feel awash in love for her. I know it’s the drug—I know this unbounded well-being will pass—but right now I feel invincible. I can hardly wait to wake up in the race. I feel like I could run across the continent tonight and be at the finish line by morning. Like I will never tire again.