Chapter 23 Chapter Twenty-Three
The day went by rather quickly for Isla. There was plenty to keep her busy in the guest wing. While it had taken a while for the other girls to warm up to her, it was a relief to see that being divided by rooms did not keep the girls from exchanging conversations. Many of them would walk in and out, asking if she or Cassandra needed help. Isla wasn’t sure if it was a desire to help or a way to satisfy their curiosity, but she appreciated the gesture nonetheless.
During lunch, the group sat in the main hallway, eating their porridge while gossiping about the guests expected to fill the rooms in the coming days. The rumors had swirled from the day before: Prince Sylvan was to choose a mate. It was not just gossip, but a scandalous political statement. Apparently, his choosing a mate took him out of line of succession for the throne. Once he claimed a chosen mate, it would secure the future of Eredhal for his brother, Tristan. The thought of Prince Tristan ruling made every girl shiver. Isla didn’t see the difference. One tyrant or another, Eredhal would continue its legacy of pillaging, thievery and conquest. After all, every girl there was a slave from one of the nations claimed by the Mate Killer. What would his ruling change?
The thought of women vying for the Mate Killer’s attention sent an odd pit to Isla’s stomach, though, that she absolutely refused to identify as jealousy. He killed her mother. He abducted her. Molested her. Forced her into a blood binding. The faster he chose a mate, the faster he would forget about her and she could fade into the background and live out her days as a servant. Perhaps she could choose a mate of her own one day and get a cottage within the city walls. It was the dream of every other girl she worked with that day. Isla tried not to dwell on the sadness of that. They had already given up any hope of freedom.
A few of them discussed the possibility of becoming mistress to one of the royal guards… or the princes themselves. Apparently, Prince Tristan already had four, each of which stayed in a room in his personal apartments. He had not found his fated mate yet, and rather than search the globe for her as his father had done, he was satisfied to wait for her within the castle walls while entertaining the various women who threw themselves at his feet, drawing to mind the various men celebrating the Mate Killer’s return who shoved their daughters under his horse’s feet. Perhaps the Mate Killer’s fated mate would be among these guests. Perhaps then he would be wholly distracted and, maybe, even release her completely so she may return home to take on her throne. She sighed as she pulled the blanket tight over the bed she was making. It was best not to get her hopes too high. Of all the gossip, lessons and advice spun during lunch and throughout the day in general, hope was the one thing each and every one of them steered her away from. Hope was the leading cause of death within these walls.
By the time she and Cassandra were done for the day, Isla’s body was aching. Her back felt as though someone had placed hot pokers along it, her feet were swollen and her every muscle protested movement. As she walked into the chaos that was the kitchen, hoping to grab a bowl of porridge and head for bed, Missus stepped in front of her and Cassandra, her nose held upward.
“Cassandra, you dropped a bowl onto a guard’s foot yesterday, yes?”
“I… well, I…”
“You will help with serving dinner tonight. An extra three hours of work as punishment for your carelessness.”
Cassandra’s entire body deflated. If Isla was exhausted, Cassandra was dead on her feet. A girl of her age was not meant to work fourteen-hour days. A girl of her age was not meant to work at all.
“Missus,” Isla called, standing straight despite every molecule of her body protesting.
Missus turned, her expression one dripping with irritation.
“I will take her punishment,” Isla stated.
Cassandra gasped. “Isla, no…”
“She can barely stand,” Isla continued. “If you wish to keep her from making the same mistake as she did yesterday with one of the royal family, perhaps you should consider a different form of punishment in which you won’t be embarrassed.”
Missus raised a brow and looked between her and Cassandra. She walked up to her, but Isla stood her ground. “And what is to keep you from embarrassing me?”
Isla smirked. “If I fail, you can give Cassandra the same punishment you gave me last night.”
Cassandra and several others gasped. Missus puckered her lips. “That certain, are we?” Isla shrugged. “Fine then.” She leaned forward. “A single step out of line, Tridean Prisoner, and your punishment will become hers. Maurice! Give this slave a job at dinner tonight.”
A burly man in an apron came up to her. He slung a wet rag over his shoulder and eyed her up and down. “You can serve the wine,” he decided. Isla thought that didn’t sound too difficult. She would merely have to stand against the wall and wait for a wine glass to be drained, step up to refill it then melt into the background. “Don’t get too cocky,” he said, walking back to the pot he was watching. “The job involves taste-testing each bottle to ensure it’s not poisoned.”
Isla laughed through her nose, understanding then why she was given the job. She received half an hour to get cleaned up and shovel a bowl of porridge into her mouth before she returned to duty. Maurice was waiting when she arrived, his palms stretched out on one of the kitchen islands with several bottles of wine in front of him and a grin as if he were about to play the world’s deadliest shell game with her. He uncorked each bottle and set a small cup down in front of her. He poured a gulp’s worth of wine into her cup and bobbed his head for her to try it. She slung the wine back and waited. After a minute, Maurice nodded, dumped the bottle into a larger pitcher and opened the next bottle. Once the pitcher was filled with tested wine, he handed it over to her.
“When you get low, you will return and repeat the process. Go on, the royal family should be there any minute. Fill each cup and step to the side like the others.”
Isla followed two other girls up the stairs into the chamber in which the royal family dined. She gawked at the long table filled with a roasted pig, several chickens, turkeys and various side dishes of fruits and vegetables. The only space on the table not filled with food was where the empty plates sat for the family members. She walked around the table, along with the other girls. One of the girls carried a pitcher of water and the other carried a similar pitcher of wine as Isla, presumably to ensure there was always someone there to fill the royal’s cups.
Once the cups were filled, Isla flattened herself against the wall. There were a dozen settings. She wondered who all could be in attendance if it was meant to only be the royal family. She knew of the king and queen, the two princes… Her stomach clenched with nerves at the thought of seeing the Mate Killer… Perhaps Prince Tristan’s mistresses would be in attendance? Before she could formulate any further guesses, the doors opened and the royal family moved into the room as though gliding over clouds.
The queen was first, her hand held outward by the king as he escorted her toward her chair on the opposite end of the table. He helped her to sit and kissed her hand. Their clothes exemplified wealth, with the queen wearing a deep blue satin dress with sapphires that sparkled and complemented her dark hair and blue eyes. She smiled with longing at her husband as he walked to his own chair in the traditional red coat of the Eredhal commander-in-chief. When he sat down in his chair, he brought his wine to his lips and sent a similar look of devotion to his queen.
Next was the prince Isla had yet to meet: Tristan. He strode into the room in clothes that seemed to rival those of the queen. He wore a suit of deep purple with a cloak of a similar color. Chains of gold hung from his neck and rings with gems of every color adorned each of his fingers. Behind him flocked his four mistresses and she had to refrain from staring at one she recognized: the same woman she’d caught leaving the Mate Killer’s bedroom that morning, looking disheveled for reasons that did not take much deciphering.
After the prince, came several other men dressed in far plainer clothing. It became clear after introductions and conversation started that these men were advisors to the king as well as his leading commanders. It wasn’t until the first course had been served that the doors opened again. Isla’s hands tightened along the handle of her pitcher as the Mate Killer walked into the room, seeming distracted and wishing to be anywhere else. He glared down at the ground, his clothing telling her he had most likely been out training with his men as he wore all black with armor still caked in dried blood and boots coated in mud which followed him to his seat. She rolled her eyes, knowing someone like her would need to scrub the mud he so carelessly tracked in from the floors later that night.
“So nice for you to join us, Son,” the king said, his voice full of rapprochement.
“You ordered me here. Here I am,” he growled back as though he had a hundred other things more important for him to be attending to.
The Mate Killer sat in his chair, which, to her dismay, happened to be directly across from where she’d stationed herself. He reached forward and skewered a turkey leg. He thrust it angrily on his plate. Then he froze. She watched his nostrils flare. His silver eyes jerked up and pinned her to the wall.