Page 22 of The Bone King and the Starling

The smell of baking bread entices me forward. I duck beneath the thick curtain as a portly man exits the building with staggering steps, hefting a large steel pot on his shoulder. Once inside, it doesn’t take me long to find her.

The two chimneys belong to ovens located on opposite ends of the space. I veer right and see her working diligently on her task, her long, dark hair shifting against her back in loops and curls with each thrust of her arms. Her hair looks more vibrant today than it did yesterday, oiled and glossy where yesterday her curls appeared limp and frayed. That pleases me. At least, in this small way, the king has demonstrated his commitment to caring for her.

I ignore the other people in the room and approach my queen from behind as she pulls a heavy wooden spatula from the depths of a stone oven and deftly maneuvers the much too heavy bread loaf onto the short table beside the oven.

I was seated beside the king at yesterday’s evening feast and, while she was on his lap facing away from me, I wonder if she caught a glimpse of my profile and might recognize me. I do not wish to frighten her.

She twists to the side, giving me a view of her profile, and I frown. The skin of her hands and feet glistens a lovely and robust shade of brown, but…why are her feet bare? I can see how her toes curl into the packed earthen floor, unshielded and filthy. Her hair may be adorned, but the rest of her is covered in dirt, soot and grease from her labors. She has sweat staining her shift around the collar and…gods.

My gaze drops down to her midback and, when her hair shifts to the side, my heart seizes in my chest. Dear Ghabari save us all. Is that…blood?

Standing four paces from her now, far too close, I struggle not to unleash a barrage of accusations — what the fuck is on her back and please, please for the sake of my own life and the survival of this entire village tell me that the blood droplets staining the back of her shift are not hers, but belong to someone else — but I don’t know what to call her. Your Highness? My lady? And confuse her likely more than she already is? I could call her by her name, but that feels blasphemous.

Instead, I settle for clearing my throat loudly once she’s successfully maneuvered the loaf off of the large wooden handle, and then once more for good measure. When she still doesn’t seem to realize I’m standing almost near enough to her to touch, I call out, “MISS.” I sound like an imbecile.

She turns, sees me and glances around, as if seeking help though truly, she has no idea. I should be the one seeking help. Because the left side of her face is purpling and there’s blood splitting her bottom lip. My gut drops through the ground directly into the depths of the underworld. Which is where I’m like to end before this day is through.

“Davral,” I whisper, hating and fearing this god more than most. The rumors say that the king carries Davral’s spirit and I know firsthand that those rumors are true. “Damn you.”

THE WOUNDED

The sick feeling in my stomach will not be soothed as one of the king’s warriors closes the distance between us by half. He’s staring at the left side of my face and horror does not begin to touch his expression. Despite my earlier fury, standing beneath this foreign male now, I am immediately embarrassed, ashamed. Even the thralls who’ve taken a hundred times as many lashes as I have looked at me and winced this morning when I stepped into the kitchens.

“Has the king…” His voice gives out. He clutches his stomach like he’s about to be sick.

I momentarily blank, unsure of what he’s asking. “His Highness did not strike my face, my lord.”

His eyes round and he balks, “The king…He didn’t… Of course not…”

Oh. The thought that it would be so inconceivable for the king to strike me fills my stomach with a strange…fluttering. As sorry as they were for me, I don’t think any of my fellow thralls were surprised Rosalind struck me. They wouldn’t have beensurprised if it had been Olec or Torbun, either. “I’m so sorry, my lord. I didn’t mean…”

He’s barely listening. He all but shouts, “You said the king did not strike your face — did the king hurt you elsewhere?”

I shake my head, but I…hesitate.

“Where?”

My lips tremble. I bite them between my teeth. I don’t dare answer.

“My lady, I will not be…displeased,” he seems to struggle to speak. “Not with you, but if you are further injured, I need to know where and to what severity.”

“I’m not injured, only…sore…” My voice is scarcely more than a whisper.

“Bruised?”

I nod.

“Severely?”

I don’t know. Perhaps not, but I’ve been forced to work all morning and the pains that might have been soothed with a morning’s rest or a hot bath are aching anew. I bite my trembling lips more firmly between my teeth and shrug.

“Fucking…” He releases a long string of curses before wildly gesturing one light brown hand at my right shoulder. I had recognized that several of the men that traveled with the king were not white, but closer to my color. Seeing one such male now so close to me is surprising. I’ve never encountered anyone who looked remotely akin to me, but here he is, concerned on my behalf. “And what is on your back? There’s blood there. Please tell me that it is not yours.”

I don’t respond, merely stare at the floor.

“Gods be damned. Gods be merciful.” He takes a step towards me and I immediately counter it with one of my own backwards steps. He stops his advance immediately and does not punish mefor retreating from him. “Was it an accident or were you injured with intent?”

I keep my gaze rooted to his boots. “May I see, my lady?”

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