The Reign of Trees (11 page)

It was as if the bar in her hand was just pulled from the forger’s fire. Her hand stung with a hot pain. She turned toward the stairwell, hoping to run—to run away from the truth she wished she did not have to accept, but she stumbled and sank to the ground as enormous sobs reached her throat.

Donovan knelt near, but he did not offer his hand. “You know the truth, Illianah. The choice is yours. You can accept it and admit that your father has deviously waged war upon my small, peaceable kingdom. If you do so, we do not need to be enemies and you may return to your bedchamber. But if you choose to deny what you now know to be true, you must remain here. In the dungeon. Either you denounce the works of your father, or you will be declared a threat to the kingdom of Deltegra.”

If she felt as if she had swallowed a load of timber just moments ago, she now felt as if she was being crushed by them. She could not breathe. She felt as if she would die.

“Your cell is one level up, next to the man who murdered his young sister. He felt she was too pretty to be allowed to live. He thought he should protect her from men who would violate her virtue. What do you think Princess, will that man become your neighbor?”

“I … loathe … you, Prince Henrick,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Well then, I believe you shall be comfortable in your new home.”

He looked on her pithily, and then rose. She followed the sound of his feet as he ascended the stairs. It sounded like he was running. Like he could not get away from her fast enough. “Coward!” she cried out after him.

But he did not come back. He left her alone. Alone in that wretched place with those deplorable prisoners. She wished he had sentenced her to death, as there was no way she could force herself to live in this dungeon; nor could she decry that her father, the king, was a monster.

Chapter Eight

The dark pit Illianah had fallen into was near to the outer edge of hell. There was no consolation. No arms to lift her out. She was lost in the blackness of her own heart.

She was not physically in the prison of the castle of Andoradda, but she felt as if she would be shackled there for the rest of her life. Apparently someone—probably Donovan—had shown mercy on her and had her returned to her bedchamber without forcing her to confess that which she knew to be true. Acknowledging her father’s wickedness within her heart seemed to have caused Illianah’s soul to crumble like the Old World ruins in Arugua. She did not feel she would be able to withstand even one more storm that life would bring her. The only thing she wanted from life was death.

Illianah had taken to her bed and she would not leave it. She would not eat the meals her lady’s maids brought to her. She would not speak. She would not move. And after two days in bed, she decided that she would not drink either. Her life would end much more quickly if she refused to drink.

Losing her will to live affected her body more than she expected. She fell very ill. Fevers, pains and chills ravaged her body. She became delirious and could no longer tell if it was day or night. The time passed as if all the clocks in the world had been destroyed.

Her lady’s maids grew more forceful in their efforts to nourish Illianah. Several times they had to change her clothes and bedding after their feeding sessions. Illianah would not open her mouth for them, even though the pain of feeling moisture against her lips made her entire body tremble. She wanted a drink so badly—even more than she wanted food—yet she scolded herself for being so wanton. She must die. It was the only way she could ever really exist. It was the only choice she had that was hers and hers alone.

The most recent effort to feed Illianah involved a physician and his strong assistant. They had strapped her arms and legs down and forced a warm liquid down her throat. She had gagged and spit it all over them, and then she could not stop herself from retching again and again, until she thought she had died. She felt a deep blackness upon her body, like a smoke cloud looming over a fire-ravaged cottage.

When she came to, she gagged again. There was something in her throat. She coughed and choked until a hard cylinder came from her throat. The physician and his assistant were still there. They smiled at her and told her she should feel better now, as they were assured the fluids had reached her stomach.

She began to cry. As tears streamed down her cheeks, she knew they had been successful in hydrating her. She had not been able to produce tears just hours before. “Do not take this from me!” she cried. Her throat felt raw and bruised. It hurt to speak, but she had to give her demands. She was still a princess, and her word should be obeyed. “Let me die in peace!”

“Not today, My Lady,” the physician said.

The physician and his assistant cleaned up their equipment and left. Her ladies came and changed her clothing and bedding, and then left her to rest. She hated this relapse. She would have to go through the pain of the dehydration and starvation all over again. Her willpower might not be as strong the second time around. Plus, she knew the physician would come back. If he had succeeded once, he could succeed again.

Illianah knew she needed to block the door to her bedchamber to keep out those who wished her to remain alive in this birdcage she called life. She got out of bed and steadied herself by hanging onto the post of the bed. Her head spun like she had just been hit over the head with a bag of bricks. Once the dizziness eased, she crossed the room to the wardrobe and began to push. It would not budge. She relieved the wardrobe of the burden it was required to carry, tossing the heavy dresses onto the floor, then she put her back against the wood and pushed. Her nightgown was soaked with sweat by the time she made it the ten feet to the door. She positioned the wardrobe in front of the solid wood door and then placed the dresses back inside and shut the doors.

She followed the same procedure with a chest at the foot of her bed and moved it in front of the wardrobe. Next, she placed two chairs in front of the chest. They came within three feet of the post of the bed. If only she could move the bed, she could make certain the door would be wedged shut. It took her the better part of the afternoon, but she was able to move the bed, just an inch at a time. She collapsed into bed just as the sun began to set. She was wet with sweat; her hair was matted to her head. “Good,” she said out loud. She was hopeful she had expelled most of the liquids the physician had forced into her body. Her lips stung from the dryness. She wished she had gotten some ointment out of the wardrobe before she pinned it against the door. But it was just as well to go without—she would be able to gauge how close she was to death by how cracked and shriveled her lips were becoming.

As she fell asleep that night, she did so with a small smile upon her lips. This would be it. She would finally be able to die in peace. And then she would truly be free.

***

Of course there would be banging on her door—she expected that. At first it was her maids. Then it was the physician. It seemed that every time someone banged upon her door, they would bring reinforcements back with them and the banging would resume even louder than before. What she did not expect was for Donovan to come to pound upon her door as well.

“Princess, open up!” he demanded.

She closed her eyes as another round of banging proceeded to rattle through her head. After a few minutes of pounding, she heard voices in the passageway beyond her door. “We have tried, My Lord.” The next few words were muddled, but then she heard “battering ram.”

She cringed and buried her head into her pillow. They could and probably
would
break her door down. But it had been well over a day since the physician had replenished her. She felt as dry and desperate as she had before his arrival. It was possible that she could die before they were able to break the door down. “Please, just let me die,” she called out. Her voice sounded like she expected it would—arid and as rough as the sands of Arugua.

“Leave me,” she heard Donovan say. After a prolonged silence, the prince spoke again. “Illianah, I accept responsibility for what I have done to you. I only wanted you to know the truth. I wanted you to realize I had done no wrong, but I did not give any thought of what the truth would do to you. I am sorry. Sorry that I have brought you to this. I was harsh with you, but it was not my intent to hurt you.”

There was nothing she could say in response. Yes, he had been unnecessarily harsh to her. But it was not his behavior that hurt her so. It was her father’s. Her king. He had betrayed her. He had betrayed their people. His only thoughts were of power and of robbing the prosperity of his cousin’s kingdom. Illianah hated him. She hated what he had done to Deltegra. And she felt as if she had nowhere to call home.

“Illianah,” he again said. “Please open the door. It is hard to speak to you when I cannot see you.”

“I do not wish to speak to you.”

“That is understandable. But do not force yourself to visit death because of me.”

“Do not honor yourself to think I would lose my life because of you.” Her throat felt so tight, so twisted, that she did not know if she could utter another word, but she wished to tell him he had no power over her. No man had power over her. If she wished to die, she would die just to prove her freedom.

“Of course not.” His voice sounded light, as if he was smiling. “But if you die while under my care, it will forever be upon my head.”

“So be it.” She tried to swallow, but her throat seemed as if it had accepted death. She clenched her eyes shut to try to ease the pain. What she would give for just one small drop of water.

Then she began to think of what would happen after her death. Her father would be sad, she hoped for at least that much; but Leif would not mourn her.

“Please, Illianah,” Donovan begged, “Open the door.”

Her death would fall upon Donovan the hardest. He would mourn. He would feel pain. And guilt. That thought brought her no satisfaction like she wished it would. Donovan would never forgive himself for this, and knowing that he would carry the burden of her death upon his back his entire lifetime shamed her.

“You know we must break it down. Spare yourself the indignity of such an act and open it for me, Illianah. Please.”

She drew the covers up past her ear so she could no longer hear his desperate pleading. She wanted to die without remorse.

***

Illianah was uncertain whether she was alive or dead. She knew her body slept, yet her mind seemed very awake. She could see around the room. The morning’s light was creeping in through the window, making it look as if pixy dust had been sprinkled in the air.

Then a shadow came across the room. Something had blocked the sun. She turned her head just slightly. It was a man. A man coming through her window. She should have been scared, but instead, she felt peace.

It was Donovan.

He moved into the room, the sun shining behind his back and making his white shirt look as if it was aglow. He was an angel.

How was this possible? Had he died as well?

Her heart felt so warm, so happy. They could be together, in death.

He knelt next to her bed. “Illianah,” he said. “Sit up. Take this.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“Water.”

“I need water?” She never imagined needing to eat or drink once she had died.

“Yes,” he said with a slight laugh. “We all need water.”

She hesitated. She did not think she really needed water in spirit form, but if Donovan said as much ....

She sat up and he brought the cask to her lips. The moisture pouring into her mouth felt celestial. She wanted to cry with joy. Her head fell back against the pillow and she sighed. She was so relieved to have it done with. She had done it. She had died. Now she was free. Now she was happy.

“How did you come to be here?” she asked. Why did her voice still sound so raspy? Her voice should be crisp and clear. It should be angelic.

“I went to the turret and came down on a rope.”

“And you fell?” she asked. His poor father. He would be devastated to find that Donovan had fallen to his death from a turret.

“No.” Again, Donovan’s voice sounded light, as if he was laughing.

“Then how?”

He reached out and brushed her sweaty hair from her brow. “Illianah, you are delirious. I am in your room. I came from the turret and into your window. I thought it would be more proper than having to break your door down.”

“What?” She opened her eye wider and the glossy film that had been cast around the room lifted. Her bedchambers no longer looked magical. And Donovan no longer looked like he would sprout angel’s wings from his back and carry her off to a blissful afterlife. His eyes looked deep and black, signifying he was fatigued, but upon his lips was the smallest of smiles. He had kept her from her joyous death. Of course he would be smiling.

She moaned and turned her head away from him. “Why will you not let me die?”

“Nobody wants that; even you, Illianah, do not want to die.”

“You cannot know the feelings of my heart.”

“You are right, I cannot. But I thought I knew you well enough to know that you do not quit so easily.”

Illianah rolled back to face him. “I am
not
quitting.” She wanted her voice to reflect the anger she felt within her chest, but it did not. Instead, she sounded like an old lady asking to not be fed anymore crumpets. She closed her eyes, but just long enough to make certain she would not cry. “I am tired, Donovan. Tired of being nothing more than a … pawn to anyone. No one thinks of me, of how I feel. They only think of what they can accomplish by using me. I am done with it. It is not a life worth living.”

His lips pursed and she saw him draw in a noticeable breath. He could not refute what she had said. “I agree,” he said. Just as she suspected; he could not argue with her words. “It is not fair. You are not currently being given the respect you deserve. Unfortunately, I cannot change that. But you need to have hope. Someday it will be different.”

Donovan’s eyes were full of kindness—full of hope. He was wrong. She looked away, taking her eyes to the ceiling where she knew she would not receive any sympathetic looks. “There is no hope. There is no feasible solution. There is nothing that can be done.”

Again, Illianah rolled away from Donovan. She closed her eyes, but this time nothing could be done to stop the tears.

Something nudged her cheek. It felt warm. And fuzzy. She gasped and quickly turned, expecting to find Donovan’s face against hers. “Careful,” he said, “you do not want to crush it.”

His hand was clasped around something very small. It was black and white and no bigger than a rat, but its soft, curly hair indicated that it was nothing as revolting as a varmint. “A puppy?” she asked.

“Yes. It is the runt of the litter. Seven pups. She is nearly half the size of the others. They are not letting her eat. They are crowding her out. She is literally starving to death. The stable keeper says there is no hope. He cannot take the time to nurse one little pup. There is no one else to feed her, not when there is a war going on. It is just a matter of time now … she probably will not live another day.”

Illianah thought she knew what Donovan was up to, but she did not say anything.

“However, I am not willing to accept this death sentence. It seems to me that something can be done to give this pup a chance.”

“To what end? So that it may grow to become another hunting dog? Do you not have enough already?”

“Hmm, possibly. But you never know what one is capable of. Each person—each animal—possesses within them an innate ability to achieve greatness. All they have to do is find that purpose and try their very best to accomplish it.”

Tears again trickled down her cheeks, but not because she was desperate for death, but because he saw within her something she did not.

“You expect me to nurse this little pup, hoping it might give me … purpose? You think it might give me reason to live? I should be offended that you think of me as trivial.”

“On the contrary. You would be saving a life. And a life saved, no matter how small, is nothing short of remarkable.”

A sob escaped from her chest when she opened her mouth to speak. “But it would not change a thing. I would still be a princess from Burchess, the enemy. I would still be the daughter of an insidious vulture.”

“Your father does not dictate the person you are to become, Illianah.”

Her chest shook as several more sobs were tossed about within her chest. She had to get control. She did not want Donovan to see the effect his words had upon her. But then she realized he was seeing her in her bed—in her damp nightgown and with hair that felt like it had been nested in by a flock of gulls. “I will take care of this puppy—for her sake, not yours. But I do not expect it will make a difference with me. Once this puppy is able to eat on its own, you must promise me that if I wish to die, you will allow me to do so. Peacefully.”

“I will not promise you that.”

She wanted to be upset with him for not meeting her demands, yet somehow, his willful disobedience made her happy, ever so slightly, but she would not allow herself to smile. “I will not take the puppy if you do not give me your word …”

“I will not. I will never give you permission to die. I just … cannot. It is against my heart and my very nature. Now hold her while I do something about this room. The way you have decorated is dreadful. A princess should not be sleeping in a room that looks like a storage cellar.”

He placed the dog upon her chest, where it quickly nuzzled around, looking for a place to draw milk, tickling Illianah’s skin. That smile she wanted to keep from Donovan snuck upon her lips. She tried biting her lips, but even that would not keep the smile away.