Curse of Stolen Flame (Firebird, #1)

CHAPTER 8

Kindra awoke sometime later. For a second, she forgot where she was, and she jolted up in bed, her eyes darting around the room until she remembered.

She was in Wendrith. In the castle. In her personal chambers. Kindra simultaneously relaxed and tensed at the recollection.

Judging by the low angel of the soft light filtering through the windows, she’d slept most of the afternoon away. At some point, they’d brought her chest of belongings in, putting it near the door. She started slightly at the intrusion, disturbed at how she’d not been woken by it, and hoped that people entering her rooms while she slept was not going to be a regular occurrence here.

Kindra slipped out from under the covers, still awed by how soft they were, and stretched. She wouldn’t lie—that had been possibly the best nap she’d ever taken. She felt much better than she had earlier.

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that while she may have bathed and slept, she hadn’t eaten anything since that morning. She recalled Helena’s invitation to join her for dinner. What time was it? She reached out and pulled on the cord that hung next to her bed, one of several throughout the room that allowed her to call for servants.

Just a couple of heartbeats later, the door swung open and Cerulle walked in. “How was your nap, my Lady?” she said by way of greeting.

“It was refreshing,” Kindra replied. “I was wondering if dinner happened to be soon?”

Cerulle smiled, dipping her head in a nod. “Within the hour. Would you like to accept Princess Helena’s invitation to dine with her and her wife?”

Kindra mulled it over for a moment longer. When her stomach grumbled again, she caved. “Yes. That would be nice.”

“Wonderful. Then I shall send a runner to inform them that you will be attending. In the meantime, shall Sala come help you get dressed?”

Again, she started to bristle at the suggestion that she needed help with everything , but the thought of her refusing assistance and then being unable to dress herself or make herself look presentable made her cringe. She was not so prideful that she couldn’t admit when she was in over her head, and in this castle, she very much was. This was not Harthwin, where her ratty tunics and threadbare leggings were enough. Even Sala and Cerulle were dressed elegantly, their uniforms—off-white, knee-length dresses—made of finer material than any family in Harthwin could afford.

Kindra nodded to Cerulle. “Yes, I’d appreciate that, thank you.”

In a matter of seconds, the Windspinner disappeared from the room and Sala took her place. Kindra rose from her bed, and the two of them made their way into the dressing room.

Sala moved to one of the wardrobe chests, opening it and pulling out a pale gold gown. It was the same cut as the one Helena had been wearing—light, flowing fabric that came in at the waist and fell to the floor, with sheer, loose sleeves that just barely covered her shoulders. Kindra pulled her nightgown off and Sala stepped forward to help her into the gown.

It was surprisingly comfortable; light and breathable, even as Sala began to tighten the laces at the back. Kindra inspected the delicate beading across the waist as she did so, then lifted her head to observe herself in the mirror.

The pale gold brought out the more vibrant gold of her eyes, and the color of her freckled, tanned skin: a deeper golden brown than normal thanks to the summer sun. Her hair, a brown so dark it was nearly black, was a mass of curls falling across her shoulders and back.

But despite the unruliness of her hair, and the shadows under her eyes from weeks of poor sleep, Kindra thought she looked rather nice.

“You look beautiful, my Lady,” Sala complimented.

“Thank you,” Kindra replied, blushing slightly.

Sala beamed, and moved to twist some of Kindra’s hair back, pinning it on either side with a bejeweled clip and leaving the rest of it down. She presented her with a pair of simple flats, and then led her from the dressing room back to the bathing room, where she sat Kindra down at the vanity.

The Healer grabbed one of the many jars of concoctions Kindra could not begin to identify, dabbing some oil on to her hands. She ran her slick fingers through Kindra’s hair, smoothing the curls. Then she touched her fingertips to Kindra’s face. There was a warm buzz across Kindra’s skin, and Sala’s eyes flashed gold as she smoothed away any blemishes and under-eye fatigue. Just the gentle touch of Sala’s magic made her complexion flawless. Kindra couldn’t help but hum appreciatively.

“All done,” Sala said, and the two of them made their way out of the bathing room. In the bed chamber, Cerulle was waiting for them.

“I’ll escort you to the princess’s chambers,” Cerulle informed her, “if you’re ready.”

Kindra took a steadying breath. Dinner with Helena and Emeline was nothing to be frightened of, she told herself. Just a meal with royalty, which was what she was now. Or at least, what she would be soon enough.

At her nod, Cerulle turned, and together, they made their way into the hallway.

Kindra became only slightly more oriented with her surroundings as they walked to Helena and Emeline’s chambers. She gathered from glancing out the windows that she was on the third floor of the castle, and that, based on the view from the windows nearest her rooms, she was on the east side. This pulled a small smile from her; she enjoyed the thought that the first thing she’d feel every morning would be the touch of Cyrie, the goddess of the sun.

The hallways were alive with people; they passed several servants pushing carts of food, carrying extravagant clothing, or running messages. She noticed that many of them were Windspinners, gray and silver eyes gleaming in the evening light, their bodies lean and strong. It must be a defense strategy, then; place some of the most adept defensive Wielders in the position of maid or servant, and guarantee that there will always be security nearby.

Most of them didn’t acknowledge Cerulle or Kindra at all, but a few nodded their heads in greeting to Cerulle. Fewer still registered Kindra’s presence and made the connection about who she was. She did not particularly enjoy it when that happened, and it made her body stiff with discomfort.

“More will recognize you after tomorrow,” Cerulle said, misreading why Kindra was so tense. “They will know to address you properly then.”

“I would prefer it if they didn’t notice me at all,” Kindra murmured in response, and Cerulle’s face, which was sharp and pointed, softened with understanding.

“You will get used to it. It’s a shock for most, especially because many princesses of the last fifty years were not raised in nobility. But they all adjusted. Queen Cordilya came from a village similar to yours. And look at her now! She’s the epitome of royalty.”

Indeed, Queen Cordilya was, if what Kindra had heard about her was true. She was notoriously soft-spoken—the single known Oracle in Alverin was apparently a woman of few words.

Kindra was certainly not that.

They rounded a corner and came upon a small squadron of guards posted by a set of large, white doors.

“Lady Kindra, here to dine with Princess Helena and Princess Emeline,” Cerulle announced.

The guards looked her over with a sense of scrutiny that made her want to squirm, then nodded and moved to let her in. Kindra turned to say farewell to Cerulle, but the Windspinner was already gone.

She was on her own.

So she squared her shoulders and stepped through the doors.