Blood Oath (Darkest Drae #1)(40)

The king again dug his fingers into my chin, and my eyes streamed from the pain. A whimper escaped from my lips, in spite of myself, but the king did not stop.

“Did you not wonder that she was alive and well after the torture you’ve put her through?”

I had no confusion in regard to that. Tyr had healed me. He’d rubbed the ointment and bandages on me for weeks. My insides relaxed. For a moment, I’d actually thought the king was—

“You—” the king blinked at Jotun. “Imbecile!” The king’s voice escalated, and he yanked the whip from Jotun’s side and struck Jotun again and again with it, dragging me along using the vicious hold on my jaw. “You nearly killed a Phaetyn. Do you realize what she could mean?” He continued beating Jotun. “You are not so great that I won’t dispose of you, Jotun. I’ve sent my own children to their deaths . . . Drak, I even killed several of them myself. Don’t think you’re safe to make stupid decisions.”

Jotun fell to his knees, hands outstretched, imploring his master. He took every single strike the king delivered, and then when Irdelron was done, Jotun lowered his forehead to the ground and stayed with his hands out to each side.

The king released me, and I grunted as the blood pounded into the spots he’d held, bringing with it a throbbing pain. Five more bruises. I brought my hand up to rub the tender spots.

The king watched, breathing heavily after his exertion. His lips turned up in a smile. Sweeping back some fallen strands of hair, he chuckled with glee. “A Phaetyn in my dungeon.”

I didn’t dare make a sound. Soon the king would realize I was not what he thought. Whether now or when I was put to the test. I only hoped Tyr had time to escape before it happened. By the crazed tinge to Irdelron’s eyes, it was clear he’d never stop until the person who had made the pumpkins grow was found. But if I could hold him off until I got word to Tyr, maybe he could escape.

The king reached for my hand, and I overrode my impulse to wrench away. This time his grip was soft, almost tender, which was scarier. He flipped my hand, palm up, and inspected the dried blood from where I’d cut my nails into my skin not even an hour ago. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over my palm, and I focused on the skin beneath the cracked blood.

The scab flaked off, and I sucked in a breath.

The skin beneath was smooth. Whole. Uncut.

My eyes widened, and I raised my other hand, frantically. It was bloodless and also smooth. I returned to the other hand, and the impossibility of what happened hit a solid barrier of disbelief and was prevented from going further.

I knew without a shadow of doubt the blood had come from me. I’d felt it leave the cut and roll over my palm.

Where was the cut?

The truth I’d clung to, that Tyr had been the person keeping me alive this entire time, had no substance because he hadn’t healed me this time. I’d healed myself.

“My dear girl,” the king’s voice barely registered. “My dear Phaetyn.”

Mouth dry, I blinked at him and caught the anticipation fluttering over his face like a shiver of joy. He stepped in close and whispered in my ear, “I have something I’d like you to do for me.”





17





For the first time in my entire life, I wasn’t hungry. I sat at the enormous table at the front of the throne room, surrounded by platters of food I’d only dreamed of, and had no desire to even stick out my tongue for a taste.

“Eat up, dear girl,” the king said with a wide smile. “You’ll need your strength.”

To heal the land. That was my task.

He frowned when I didn’t obey, but I was numb with shock over the abrupt turn my life had taken. Not the food and cushioned seat on the chair. They thought I was Phaetyn, and now I was beginning to believe it, too.

How?

“Are you going to drink my blood?” I whispered.

The king laughed and gazed at me fondly. His look didn’t fool me. That’s how I viewed food.

“No, dear Phaetyn. I have stores to keep me alive for a while, but,” he smiled at me, “when my stores run dry, we can reassess your value. For now, you need to make everything grow again.”

I closed my eyes and took a shaky breath, attempting to gather my bearings.

“Feed her, Jotun,” the king ordered. “I must confer with my foreman and see where our girl should begin.”

Jotun brought me a plate of food and tossed it before me, splattering my tunic with gravy. The scalding liquid seared my skin, and I bit my lip as I pulled away from the stiff garment. I stared at the plate in front of me, stacked with slices of roasted bird swimming in glistening brown gravy, mounds of whipped potatoes, and buttered vegetables, and my stomach turned. “I’m not hungry.”

The two guards pulled the doors closed after the king with a click.

Jotun tilted my chair back and drove his gloved fist into my gut. The chair fell to the ground, me with it, and I rolled into a ball, gasping for air. He disappeared from view, and I scrambled to stand, lurching my way toward the door. Before I could get there, Jotun grabbed a fistful of my hair and dragged me back to the table. My scalp burned, but my aching abdomen churned from the blow.

“I’m not eating it,” I spat.

He looked directly into my eyes, and though he had no voice, he didn’t need speech to convey his hatred.