Bloodguard

chapter 24

Maeve

The guards step away from the doors leading to the dungeon. I am wearing one of my brighter dresses in Papa’s favorite shade of gold. I lift the hem so I don’t trip. Vitor notices, and he takes my arm to keep me steady as we make our way down the uneven stone steps.

His hand on my arm doesn’t offer the warmth or comfort it once had. How can it when the seeds of doubt have grown such deep roots?

The torches barely illuminate this dank place as their weak flames flicker, casting shadows that writhe like living things across the stone walls.

I wish I could remember what happened. What really happened the night of the fire.

All I recall is following my grandmother through a corridor—nothing of sleeping in her bed or other such nonsense, despite what I’ve been told. The only thing I remember after that is Father’s voice calling out to me, telling me to come back to him. I awoke the next morning in Papa and Father’s chambers with my grandmother unmoving beside me, covered in burns.

It was awful. I remember screaming and Father comforting me. Papa no longer could because he was here, in this horrible dungeon.

I jerk when the torch just above us sparks.

“It’s all right, Maeve,” Vitor says, stopping so I can gain my balance. “It’s just going out.”

I nod. Everything about fire now haunts me.

My thoughts drift to my grandmother as we continue our way down.

Vitor adored the great Avianna of House Iamond, perhaps more than duty required in the century following my grandfather’s death.

During the three years she wasted away in a coma, he spent hours a day at her bedside, always hoping for a cure and commissioning healers from every corner of the world.

If he wanted the throne so badly, why would he go to such drastic measures to save her?

When Grandmother died, Vitor was gutted.

Clutching my skirt in one hand and Vitor’s arm with the other as we descend lower still, I try to reconcile the conversation I had with Soro with what I’ve known of the elf beside me, and I struggle.

We are nearing the bottom when a low, guttural moan echoes off the walls—the only sound save for my own heavy breaths.

I drop my gaze as a hundred doubts creep in.

Up until my grandmother died, I’d clung to the hope that she would awaken and clear Papa’s name. When she died last month, that hope died with her. Now, it’s up to me.

If I can’t clear Papa’s name and discover who truly killed the queen, marrying Leith is ultimately the best choice, and not just because of how hard I’m falling for him.

“ I’ll wait for you here,” Vitor says, erasing Leith’s face from my mind. He takes a few steps back and crosses his arms.

I adjust my skirt and step into the dark corridor that leads to the cell at the end where I’m told Papa spends his time.

I take several long breaths, my eyes already moist with tears. Giselle says Papa is in terrible health. He won’t get better unless I get him out, and damn it, I will get him out and I will heal him. I pass several empty cells. Because of the recent “attacks” along our borders, I know Soro will fill them soon. If he doesn’t send everyone straight to the arena, that is. If Soro had his way in the council chambers, he’d be leading a raid along our western border already.

The cells are nothing more than small stone rooms with a plank to sleep on and a bucket in the corner. Surely Papa isn’t kept in one of these. He can’t be. His health has deteriorated too much for him to endure these conditions.

When we reach the end and I see him, my stomach lurches. His living quarters are better than the cells we passed, but not by much. Within a half-moon space, beyond the curve of a containment wall no higher than my waist, sits my sweet papa. No bars or locked doors needed, only a gate that swings easily open. He is too frail to even stand. At least he has a cot rather than a plank, and some bedding. On a battered wooden stool next to his cot are several books and Father’s silver hairbrush. I kneel slowly in front of him, forcing a smile, though it’s nearly impossible.

He’s curled into himself, the blanket Neela knitted covering his skeletal frame as he stares blankly at my face. His hazed eyes widen with recognition, and he reaches out for my hand.

Vitor, who has decided to follow me after all, places his hand on my shoulder. “Be careful. He might hurt you.”

I shake my head. Failing state or not, my papa couldn’t hurt a stinkfly. And he definitely wouldn’t hurt me. “Hi, Papa, ” I say in an uncertain voice. I smile, cupping his hand gently. “Hi, Papa, ” I say again.

I turn my hands so he can hold them in both of his.

His long gray beard tapers around his face in smooth strands, brushed to a shine—no doubt by Father, who Giselle says visits daily. Besides feeding him, it’s the only way Father has left to express his love. It doesn’t sound like much, but it is everything to Father, and maybe to Papa, too.

Right on time, a kitchen servant bustles down the steps and offers me a wooden bowl filled with stew. Steam from the soup rises in a cloud in the frigid air. I reach into the pocket deep in my skirt and remove a potion embedded with herbs that should help his appetite.

“Thank you,” I tell the kindly troll, whom I recognize from our days in the castle.

My smile dwindles when I look up at Vitor standing beside me.

His features are hard like the stones lining this dungeon. He doesn’t seem to want to speak. No, that’s not it. He doesn’t want me here at all.

I’ve stayed away because I was told Papa had asked for me not to visit, but after my conversation with Soro earlier, I decided to come anyway. Maybe he doesn’t want me to see him like this, but if he changed his mind and decided he wants me here after all, he’s too weak to even speak the words now. Tears blur my vision as I dip the spoon in the bowl.

Vitor’s attention sways between Papa and me as I feed my father. I talk to him about what I’ve done since the last time I saw him. I tell him of Giselle and the estrellas and how Father and Neela have taken up chess again. I don’t talk about Leith, not with Vitor standing over my shoulder. When I wipe Papa’s lips with the hem of my robe, a rat scurries up his shoulder, and two more on the opposite side.

“Did you make friends, Papa?” I ask.

My father has always had a special connection with small animals. All of our estrellas followed him home. My grandmother had a similar one with birds. He must have bonded with these little creatures. Good. I don’t want him to be alone.

Evidently convinced I’m in no danger, or maybe just bored by our one-sided conversation, Vitor leaves us and climbs the stairs, his footsteps growing fainter as he nears the top.

I don’t realize I’m crying until Papa pats my tears with a section of his beard. But then he releases his beard to trace my scars as if he’s never seen them before. “It’s okay,” I assure him. “They don’t hurt.”

I hold Papa’s hand and stare into his glazed eyes. “I swear I’ll get you out,” I promise.

There’s no response from him as I say my farewell and kiss his cheek, and my heart feels as empty as the rows of cells lining the corridor.

I rise to leave, but Papa’s voice, gravelly from years of disuse, holds me in place. “Bye, Maeve. Love, Maeve.”

I freeze, tears dripping over each syllable I manage. “I love you, too, Papa.”