No One Will Protect You
In an instant Barcas reached the carriage and all but flung her down onto the seat.
Thalia rubbed her throbbing backside and glared up at him, eyes blazing with fury—until she saw the savage set of his face and froze. Looking down at her with the expression of a man whose patience had finally snapped, Barcas spoke through clenched teeth.
"Did I not warn you not to cause any more troublesome problems?"
She hesitated only a moment before shooting him a defiant look.
"Why should I listen to you? Who the hell do you think you are?"
"Something more than a princess in name only, at least."
A cold sneer curled at the corner of Barcas's mouth.
Thalia surged to her feet in a rush of rage. She felt she could not endure another second without striking that arrogant face. But Barcas was faster. He leaned over her, pinning both her arms, and looked down with eyes utterly devoid of feeling. That dry, merciless gaze traveled over her blood-flushed cheek and the darkening bruises that must already be forming around her throat.
A weary, disgusted sigh escaped him.
"Do you truly not understand anything, that you thrash about like this? No one here will actively protect you. If His Highness the Crown Prince sets his mind to it, no one can guarantee your life."
"Why do you even care?" Thalia snapped.
"Wouldn't you be the first person to feel relieved if I vanished from this world?"
"I cannot deny it."
Even though she had expected the answer, Thalia felt as though her heart were bleeding.
He continued with a calm so cruel it cut.
"But I cannot allow His Highness's position to be endangered on your account. So if you wish to harm yourself, kindly do it with your own hands."
Thalia forced strength into her burning eyelids.
He rose slowly. The sharp-edged fury that had hardened his face was already gone, replaced by the solid mask of a knight. In a brisk, businesslike tone he added,
"I will summon a healing mage for now. Compose yourself, then rest."
Thalia answered by snatching up the goblet that lay discarded on the floor and hurling it at him. The silver cup struck his chest and clattered to the ground. Barcas gave her a look of pure distaste, then stepped out of the carriage without another word.
Thalia slammed the door shut and bolted it. The tears she had fought so desperately finally spilled down her cheeks. Afraid even a sob might escape, she clapped a hand over her mouth. The cry lodged in her throat tightened around her windpipe. She wanted to choke on it and simply stop breathing.
Atop Ulgram Hill, only a white temple remained—built by Emperor Darian to commemorate Osiria's independence—standing solitary against the sky.
Pilgrims stopped before it and gazed up at the vast, pure-white structure with eyes full of awe. Despite the long passage of years, the temple had been preserved almost perfectly. They traced the prayers carved into the walls and the statues of various heroes, sinking into a religious rapture. The Crown Prince, however, seemed to feel nothing at all for the relics left by his ancestors.
Gareth vaulted down from his saddle and surveyed the arched entrance with a bored look.
"So this is the second holy site?"
"Yes, Your Highness."
One of the attendants answered in a tight voice. The servants, well aware that his temper had been scraping the bottom since the day before, watched him with cowed faces. Only Barcas maintained his usual unflappable calm.
"I am told no priest resides here permanently. We will prepare the rite ourselves."
Barcas stepped up beside the Crown Prince as he spoke. Gareth fixed him with a look laced with strange hostility, then spun on his heel.
"Then stop dawdling and get it done."
The moment the order left his mouth, the attendants drew the carriages up near the temple and began unloading the baggage. The retinues of the First and Second Princesses, arriving late, joined them.
While the soldiers raised tents with practiced speed, the servants lifted censers, sacred vessels, silver ewers, and candlesticks from the chests and polished them to a shine. Once the rough preparations were finished, the maids set about dressing the Crown Prince and the First Princess.
From a short distance away, Edric watched the scene, then approached the carriage where Thalia had shut herself in. If she was to take part in the rite, he would soon have to urge her to prepare as well. Yet somehow the words would not leave his mouth.
He stared at the firmly closed door and scratched roughly at the back of his head. The memory of the Second Princess as he had seen her the evening before twisted uncomfortably in his gut.
The arm he had raised to knock fell limply to his side. Edric looked toward the Crown Prince's tent, pitched a little way off. While the servants hauled out a great bathtub, filled it, and lit a fire beneath it, the Crown Prince lounged in a chair, leisurely sipping wine. The sight of that untroubled ease left a bitter taste in Edric's mouth.
He beats his own sister half to death and feels not a shred of guilt.
He had heard rumors that the Crown Prince struck the Second Princess, but he had never imagined it would be this severe. The image of that fragile, almost weightless woman taking a blow to the face from a man built like a mountain, thrashing as hands closed around her throat, made him clench his fists. It was only because Sir Khan had happened to be nearby that a true catastrophe had been averted.
Edric looked down at his sweat-damp palms, then turned away. Thalia Roem Guerta would almost certainly dig in her heels and refuse to join the rite. There was no point exhausting himself over it.
He swallowed a heavy sigh and was about to start toward the temple when a rattling sound came from behind him.
"You. There."
Edric started and turned—then his eyes went wide. Thalia stood in the carriage doorway with her arms folded, wearing the same haughty expression as always, as if nothing at all had happened. She stepped down and jerked her chin.
"Fetch the maids."
"…Pardon?"
He could only blink at her. She shot him an irritated look.
"Ugly, stupid, and deaf on top of it? I'm going to dress. Bring the maids at once!"
Stunned by abuse the likes of which he had never heard in his life, Edric recovered himself and turned to summon the attendants the Empress had assigned. Somehow, watching Thalia lash out with such high-handed vigor drew a sigh of relief from him. The healing mage had mended her wounds cleanly the night before, but after a day of near starvation and the brutal ordeal she had endured, he had feared she might collapse.
Thank the gods she seems all right.
Then again—this was the woman who, having barely escaped with her life, had still mocked the Crown Prince without a trace of fear. She was never going to break so easily.
Edric gave a hollow little laugh, then ordered the servants to draw water and commanded his men to present themselves in immaculate uniform. If the Second Princess had at last decided to take part in the imperial house's traditional rite, then as a knight of the guard he meant to attend her properly.
