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“There you are,” she was attempting to sound pleased but the exasperation and disgust bled through as she pulled her icy blue dressing gown closer, the thick white fur around the neck nearly the same color of her skin.
She always looked as though she was frozen. Fitting considering her heart was one big lump of ice.
I shouldn’t be thinking like that. I tried to mask the thoughts with what I hoped was a princess-like smile. I doubt I was successful.
“Mother.” I used the title she hated and attempted a curtsy, sure her already thin lips were pulled into an even tighter line.
She clicked her tongue as I rose from my wobbly bow, her eyes narrowed. It was her usual sign to get me to use her title. This time I only stared her down.
I probably shouldn’t push her too hard given the threats Batian had given me, the truths I had learned, the fact that I was alone with her, the fire that was rippling under my skin, and well… everything that had happened over the last few days. I would not cower before her anymore, I had promised myself that.
“What can I assist with, Mother?” I tried not to say the moniker like it was poison, but it ripped out of me that way and her eyes narrowed further.
I did not look away.
Let her think what she wanted. That heat continued to flare and for one brief moment I contemplated pulling all that magic into my hands and showing her what was hiding in me. What I could do. Hers and Batian’s warnings only continued to fire on repeat in my mind, and I attempted to push that heat away.
“I have been told you slept beside the future Queen last night.” The hatred in her voice rattled through my bones, but I was careful to keep my face still.
I was clearly too hasty in my assumption that we weren’t being watched or guarded. It was foolish not to expect to be watched, to be spied on. Of course, knowing that brought a whole other layer of panic to me. Had they heard the Boy and I talking? Had they seen the light I had produced? Fighting the frantic urge to glance back at the Boy, I balled my fists against the soft lining of my cloak and fixed my stare on my mother.
“She was cold.” I didn’t really need much more of an explanation than that, but her lip still curled in disgust.
“She is meant to be cold. She is meant to suffer to prove her worth and you undermined that. Again.” The barb hit true, and try as I might not to flinch I did so anyway.
“What do you mean she is meant to be cold? This is all to show her humbleness and her devotion to her people, to put her at the mercy of others as the poorest members of Okivo are. It’s to show her willingness to serve the people in the kingdom. It’s not supposed to make her suffer.” At least all of that didn’t sound like a need to suffer and prove her worth, unless I had read all the texts wrong. Which I doubted.
“This is the tradition as it has been for generations. I took the same pilgrimage before I wed the Ramal.” The Ramal, not your father, I noted.
“If Aeinya wants to be the queen that Batian will need in his rule, it is necessary that she go through the same trials. She is meant to suffer. I don’t want to hear of you interfering again.” She fixed an icy stare on me before she slowly descended to her chair, her dress billowing over the floor like it was ice melting.
“Understood.” I took a step back. “Is that all?” I took another step.
“No. Sit.” She sounded so disinterested as she waved to the chair beside the desk, not looking up from the book. I could have sworn the Boy stiffened.
My mother was asking me to sit beside her. On equal footing with her. To anyone else this might be a sign of good tidings, but everyone else had not been proclaimed to be nothing more than a Dri and a thorn in her side on multiple occasions. Every step felt like lead as I moved toward the chair, my heavy fighting boots dragging over the carpet that had been brought to cover the icy ground.
“Sit,” she said again when I reached the chair, still not looking at me. She remained focused on the book, the huge yellowed pages filled with swirls and curls that at first glance appeared to be nothing more than a child's scribbles. As I sat, however, I saw what they really were. Letters.
Not just any letters. Letters I had seen before.
It was the same writing that Adain had handed me a few days ago, before whatever I had said healed the Boy in the tub. The book was filled with them, and my mother was reading it. Reading it as though she could understand it.
That heat that had been at attention suddenly turned to ice.
“What is that?” I asked before I could stop myself. The question was not at all lady-like and her shoulders pulled into a firm line as she turned to face me, that tight lipped grimace was back in place.
“Sit,” she repeated in a bark of a demand, the grind of the single word seeping through her teeth. For a second I could have sworn there was a hand on my spine, dragging me down to the chair.
Down. Down.
The feeling was cold, like her magic was the one forcing me to sit. Try as I might to fight against it, I fell into the chair as though I had been thrown there. She turned those glacial eyes on me, that book slamming shut with a thud.
My mother had always looked at me with such hatred that there was no question in my mind that she had a genuine distaste for me. This time was no different. Except, for some reason she was attempting to smile. Really smile, although the only expression that crossed her features was of someone who was forced to eat rotted meat.
I preferred the look of hatred she usually gave me to this.
“I have to commend you, Elara,” she began, the words as impossible as the smile she was forcing. “You put up quite a show at the Pankreatin. Your fighting style needs work, perhaps real training, but you held your own.”
