Page 66 of The Last Heir of Elsewhere

“A few weeks before the raid on the hunts, Rosey realized she was dying.”

I gasped. “No.”

“Yes. The cough was not improving, and she was, after all, only human. She didn’t have much time left, anyway, and requested to take on the task of going after my uncle. She knew she was unlikely to succeed, but by then I think she’d realized what her original prophecy was—that she’d seen not you, but herself—and wanted to ensure that the correct sister died that day.”

“Didn’t you try to stop her?” I demanded.

He glanced to the side, as if not wanting to look at me when he answered. “No. Perhaps I would have if she’d had a long, happy life ahead of her, but she didn’t. This way, her death served a purpose.”

“What was that?” I spat. “She didn’t kill Penvalle.”

“No,” he said slowly, eyes widening at me as if I were missing something very obvious. “You did. Your sister died because she had to for you to become queen.”

26

LONNIE

ABOARD THE FORESIGHT

That night, I curled up in a ball on the floor and refused to speak to Ambrose Dullahan.

And so went the next day.

And the next.

Later, I would not be able to recall much of the aftermath of my conversation with the rebel leader. My mind was a jumbled mess of sound and color, not a single coherent thought breaking through the ever present screaming that seemed to echo in the silent room.

It felt as it had in those first days in the dungeon, when all I could think of was my sister. How I’d never speak to her again. Never see her, and how if the dungeon didn’t kill me, then the pain in my chest might.

One day blurred into another, and I was hardly aware of the ship moving or how long we’d sailed. Bargains and arbitrary rules ceased to hold meaning. I no longer cared to ask questions, or indeed to speak to anyone, and therefore refused to enter the dining room.

Finally, perhaps fearing I’d actually starve before speaking to him, Ambrose relented on his demand that I only eat while with him. “You need to eat something, love.”

I glanced at him with only my eyes, refusing to move my head at all. I was not even sure when he’d entered the room, and only now noticed he was standing before me, holding a heaping plate of stew.

“I thought you planned to starve me,” I murmured, my voice scratchy with disuse.

He placed the plate on the desk near the bed, just out of my reach, and cast me a pained look. “No,youseem determined to starveyourself. Come to the dining room or don’t, but please eat something.”

He didn’t linger to see if I would touch the plate, and when he left the room again, I slowly raised my head to sniff the air. Roast stew, fresh bread, and strong, savory spices.

My stomach growled, and I looked down, almost surprised. Iwashungry, I realized. Now thinking back, I’d really only had two meals in the last week, and the effects of that were beginning to show on my body and in the dull humming in the back of my mind.

Was Ambrose right, and I was trying to starve myself? I didn’t think so. It was more as if I couldn’t find the energy to do the things I needed. Eating, drinking, bathing—it all felt too hard. Too strenuous. I wished I didn’t have a body that felt things like pain and hunger and thirst. I wished not to feel anything at all.

Ambrose continued to bring food and water, and once some wine. Eventually I found the energy to eat.

My bones aching, I dragged myself off the floor, crawled over to the desk and reached for the plate. Stiffly, as if someone else were controlling my arms, I sat cross legged on the floor and spooned stew into my mouth, tasting nothing as I stared blankly out the window. To my dismay, my too-loud thoughts returned to Rosey.

I could hardly reconcile with myself that my sister had not only known she was going to die, but had planned to for my sake. She’d tried repeatedly to save my life, without ever mentioning it to me, and her final act had been to help me become the queen.

And so far, I’d all but squandered her sacrifice.

I didn’t rule anyone or anything. I’d let fear keep me from properly defending myself, or trying to learn to use my magic. I’d gone from being so overtly independent that I would allow no one to help me, to the other extreme of relying too much on others to protect me.

I looked down at the stew, realizing that my spoon was now scraping against an empty dish, and took a deep breath.

What would my sister think of that? What would she say if she could see me now, lying on the floor for days on end?

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