Page 81 of Burn Her They Said
Water trickles down the Emperor’s crimson-stained hand into a golden bowl held by an Imperial servant. I avert my gaze, though his form remains in my periphery, so distinctly illuminated by the flames roiling behind him. He dries his hands on another black hand towel, then clomps toward me with the operatic music reaching a crescendo, twisting my stomach with the body of my victim growing cold on the marble.
The heat of His Majesty’s breath glides down the side of my neck as he whispers, “You did well, my little witch.”
Something tight binds around my chest, constricting so much my eyes water with the effort of not clawing his own out from his skull, having been tempted to do so more times than I can count. Instead, I act like the coward I am and refuse to trigger his contingency plan, which my Guards failed to mention to Varic will also come to fruition should I ever go rogue and assassinate the tyrant. Along with the fact he refuses to name, or produce an heir, so that none of us will try him, for his death will activate the reign of the Dragon’s—a terrifying reality none of us are willing to risk. While I want nothing more than to rid us of this monster, I allow my fear to dictate my actions and comply with him. Following every order. Causing the same type of harm I mean to prevent.
In the darkest moments when numbness becomes void, I imagine what the Empire could be like were I to wither and die. A witch no longer capable of causing all of this death and destruction. Then depression grows like a weed from the decrepit soil of my lost dreams, thriving where it lives in the pit of the abyss, encapsulating me in its darkness. Because the truth is bleaker than my own existence, as they would simply replace me with the next strongest witch. While her power would not compare to mine in my prime, my days are already numbered. It's only a matter of time.
I seek the form bearing the weakest sorcerer I know. The one who must resort to threatening the lives of motherless children in order to gain my compliance. The one who has moved to sit at a table with a decanter of wine and two crystal goblets, gesticulating to multiple Imperial servants who all bow to him in deference.
A soft voice says words I do not catch. I shake my head and blink, trying to recover the missing message when the shine of Varic’s newly commissioned boots comes into view. His warm spice scent overwhelms my senses, while also comforting me more than it should in this moment.
“What do you need?” His voice is low and filled with concern.
I need you to stop checking on me.
Yet I make the mistake of meeting his impossibly bright brown irises, providing me a sense of safety in a place where I never could be. I shake from his uncanny ability to induce this vulnerability—the very thing which will spell the end for all of us. Because I cannot contain it. Not with the way he looks at me, uncovering all that I am feeling.
His expression changes in proof that he sees it all, while tears fill my eyes and his own fall closed. Giving me what I need again by caring and seeing me. Acting as my vessel where I can place what would otherwise destabilize me further as he witnesses me and my pain, without the need to say a word and without judgment.
Casting his gaze to the ground, he nods in acknowledgement, and my heart leaps when he gently brushes the edge of his pinkie against the side of my own.
Softly. Slowly. Delicately. With shivers running up my body.
With no way of knowing what his touch does to me.
How his mere presence can render cracks in my exterior, only to then mend it all moments later with such a subtle movement, a look, a nod, or a few simple words.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Drink
A shudder rolls through me as the undertaker and his assistant pry the body of the sorcerer I assassinated onto a wooden cart, and I stifle a grimace at the terrible high-pitched squeak of the wheels as they move through the open doorway to dispose of him in one of our mass graves. Four Imperial servants stride in before the door has a chance to close on them, carrying black metal buckets in one hand and scrub brushes in the other.
The double doors slam with a bone-rattling clang, sending a jolt of shock through my chest. I stare down at the hands scouring the darkening blood from the marble floor, drifting into a trance-like state with the sound of hard bristles scratching over the porous stone, diluting the bodily fluids before they have a chance to leave a tell-tale stain.
His Majesty returns from his bathing chamber, donning a fresh set of black silk pajamas and a robe, adjusting the ends of his sleeves as he looks at me.
“Come, my little witch. Have a drink.” His expression is unreadable. Untrustworthy.
I hazard a glance at Cirrin, conveying my concern, to which he blinks his understanding, lifting a weight from my shoulders as I knowingly walk into the trap His Majesty has set for me.
He gestures to the chair opposite him as he casually crosses one leg over the other, leaning back as far as his chair will allow, staring at me in silence. I take the seat as his cough overtakes him and rocks his form. He covers his mouth with one hand while gesturing for the servant to pour the wine with his other, and my eyes widen as he fills the crystal goblets almost to the brim.
The Emperor and I each reach for our respective goblets, and I take a sip to keep the wine from spilling before he raises his in salute.
“To you, my little witch.” I nod, and we each raise the crystal to our lips.
Nostrils flaring, I tilt my head and close my eyes as the aroma of berries and cardamom helps to center me. The cold of the crystal is a stark contrast to the heat on my skin as I tip a bit of wine inside my parched mouth and swallow. Yet my mouth feels drier than it did before, though I cannot ask for water. So I busy myself with tracing the Dragon in the center of our sigil etched into the crystal vessel with my thumb as I wait for His Majesty’s next scheme.
“What do you know of Annovia?”
I know of his infamous jealousy of their apothecary knowledge, since it is required for their unique spell casting. His utter rage at their refusal to share said knowledge, regardless of the methods of torture he had used in an attempt to extract it. His futile attempts at having our own Philosophers try suspected recipes and failed spells. His most recent behavioral changes, alluding to the likelihood he has commissioned our Philosophers to work on secret projects for which the rest of us wait in suspense, expecting some new horrific outcome. Our lands only partially border theirs, and we have no other qualms with them, though they have reason for many in return.
Shaking my head in response, I desperately search for memories of moments of deep focus, only to be inundated with those of Varic tangled up in crisp white sheets on the plush bed we shared. Unable to form words, I quirk an eyebrow in question.
“I believe they are trying to infiltrate our court—trying to gain access to learn our secrets and take us down from the inside.” His throat bobs, gulping, taking an impractically large sip of wine. “That queen of theirs is envious.” He slams the goblet on the table. “Of course she is! Who wouldn’t be dissatisfied running a simple country compared to our renowned Empire.”
I nod, then take another sip of wine, the warmth coating my throat reminding me how warm I could be if I were nestled under the covers in my bed instead of listening to our power-hungry Emperor’s conspiracy theories.
