Blood Oath (Darkest Drae #1)(39)

Jotun dragged me and the pumpkin to the entrance, and when the two guards closest to the looming doors failed to anticipate his desire, Jotun struck the smallest guard with the pumpkin, the gourd cracking on the man’s head. The guard on the other side surged forward to open the door as the other guard slid to the ground, unconscious.

I lowered my gaze to my filthy tunic and the scabbed skin of my legs underneath as we crossed through the hall, the voices inside silencing as we passed the mountains of food, and stopped in front of the king.

“Jotun, to what do I owe this pleasure?” the king’s mild voice rung out.

Roughly translated, I guessed this meant: There better be a reason you’re wasting my time, or you’ll pay for this interruption.

I couldn’t help peeking at Jotun, but I wished I hadn’t. An eerie smile spread across his face.

Jotun dropped the pumpkin at my feet.

I fidgeted on the spot. The absence of sound was dreadful, and my palms itched with anxiety. Deciding to risk the king’s wrath, I took a quick peek in his direction.

Irdelron’s eyes were wide, and his lips parted in a look of shock that rocked me to the core.

“Look at me, girl,” the king whispered.

The hoarse command slithered over my skin and turned my insides to quaking jelly. I hesitated, fearing what more he would find to torture me with.

“Now,” he shouted. He pounded down the dais steps, making me quake.

Inhaling, I obeyed.

The king stood at the base of the raised platform, his gaudy throne extending several heads above his crown. One bejeweled hand was raised to his chest, adorned in silk layers, with a gold chain stretching between his shoulders, holding a cape in place.

But none of this grandeur distracted me from the nausea churning within at his expression.

His mild face wasn’t mild anymore. It wasn’t angry or mocking, or drenched in cruelty.

His complete attention was fixed . . . on me.

“Out,” he shrieked, making me jump. “Get out!”

A wave of servants washed past us in a mass exodus, leaving Jotun and me behind.

When the room was cleared, Irdelron closed the distance, circling me like I was prey.

“Phaetyn,” he breathed.

Wait. He thought I was the Phaetyn?

I kept my face smooth, impassive, or so I hoped. Inside, I frantically replayed the last few seconds. How had he come to the conclusion of Phaetyn so quickly? Jotun had only thrust me in front of him and held up the pumpkin. I was missing something here.

“The pumpkin was in her cell?” Irdelron asked, his eyes bright with excitement.

Jotun inclined his head.

The exchange made no sense.

The king stroked his chin and the blond patch of growth there. “How was this missed?”

But he didn’t seem to be asking me or Jotun, and we both remained silent.

My gaze flitted around the room. The king’s rapt attention only increased my anxiety. A quick peek told me the Drae wasn’t in his usual position behind the throne, and I wondered if he was off terrorizing innocent people.

That was the least of my worries. Jotun’s assumption I was a Phaetyn was understandable. He’d found me in my cell, kneeling in front of a trio of full-grown pumpkins. If I saw someone in a similar predicament, I’d make the same assumption. That wasn’t what bothered me.

If they assumed I was Phaetyn, they would soon discover I was not when I couldn’t make anything grow. Worse than that, they would want to know who had made the plants grow. Which meant they would discover Tyr.

“It was Irrik,” I croaked. “He put them there. I’m sorry he—”

“Irrik?” the king asked. “You’re trying to tell me my Drae made a garden grow in your cell?” He shook his head, bestowing an indulgent smile that made my heart thunder.

I dropped my gaze. If I could convince Jotun and the king that Lord Irrik had done this, it would keep Tyr safe. Despite the slight disquiet I felt at letting the Drae take the blame, I banished the feeling as best I could. I was finally a player in this game, minor player though that was. I would lower myself to the new set of rules forced upon me without hesitation, and that included throwing Irrik off the cliff to save Tyr’s life.

The king looked me in the eye and continued, “The girl who cut her hair . . . she used dye to disguise her eyes, or I would have known straightaway. Such a lovely shade of violet. It has been almost two decades since I gave up on seeing that shade again. My girl,” the king said, navigating the space between us, the silk of his garments whispering across the smooth stone floor, “why did you hide this? Did you not know I would exalt you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I managed. “It wasn’t me. I’m telling you. I can’t even grow potatoes.”

With iron fingers, King Irdelron gripped my chin and, tilting my head, examined me. “The game is up. You can’t hide what you are. It’s as obvious as Jotun’s muteness.” He didn’t let go of me as his gaze cut to Jotun. A dangerous awareness settled over him as thick as the cape he wore. “You could have ruined everything.”

With a quickness I hadn’t expected him capable of, the king backhanded Jotun. The guard’s head rocked to the side, and blood oozed from his split lip.

The king grimaced in disgust as he watched Jotun wipe at the blood, smearing it across his chin. In a mild tone, the king asked, “Did the color of her eyes never alert you?”