My nostrils flare as I notice the crisscross patterns of blood seeping through the fabric of her dress across her back. Shock gives way to murderous rage. “Who did this to you, Ella?”
“My stepmother.”
The evil witch. Dread settles deep in my gut. It is already bad enough that she is bound in service to this creature, but now that I know she is being beaten, I cannot let her return to the witch. I must find a way to keep her safely away.
I circle back to face her. Her blue eyes swim with tears. “Please, Ella. I must see your wounds so I may tend them.”
She nods.
Carefully, she unfastens the top of her dress, and the fabric falls from her shoulders. I remove my tunic and hand it to her so she may cover the front of her form as I assess the injuries on her back. My eyes widen at the slash marks marring her delicate skin and the layer of thick scars that have been repaired underneath—hidden by magic. I recognize this type of magic, for my grandmother was a healer. The spell is complex and incredibly painful for the subject.
The amount of reconstruction astounds me, for the faint outlines of the scars that remain are thick, jagged, deep, and many. “Ella?”
She lowers her head. “She said my skin needed to be unblemished for my future husband. So, she repaired my back this morning, only to—” Her voice breaks. “Only to reinjure me a few hours ago.”
“Why did she do this?”
Ella turns her head back to me. “When I mended the torn page, I dripped wax on the spellbook. She thought I’d let someone in without telling her—but at least she does not suspect it was me. Still… she punished me because someone tampered with her book.”
If the witch harms Ella simply for being a suspected accomplice to a thief, I can only imagine what she might do if she discovers the truth. “You cannot go back to her.”
Her brow furrows. “I have to. If I don’t, she’ll come looking for me.”
I take both her hands in mine. “No. Only two days are left until the ball. I will need help, but I believe I can make a spell strong enough to hide you here until then.” I touch her face and gently brush the tears from her cheek with my thumbs. “If I could, I would get you on a ship bound for Arnafell now, but the ice has not yet melted on the northern passage for them to travel.”
She leans into my touch. “I will not leave you before I hold up my end of the bargain, Ryvan.”
“That no longer matters,” I tell her. “Your safety is more important.”
She takes my hands. “You are my friend, Ryvan. I will not abandon you.”
Her tone contains such conviction despite all she has been through. My heart aches as I look at her. She is brave, kind, and beautiful. Even now, while she is in such pain, she still thinks of me.
The tears in her eyes call forth my protective instincts. Feeling bold, I press a tender kiss to the back of her hand. “Stay here, Ella. I will cast an enchantment to shield you. It will hold until I can take you to Luryndale to board the ship.”
“You are certain?”
“I am,” I tell her. I must be. I cannot take any chances with her safety. “Though I will need help. Someone else must cast with me to strengthen the spell to ensure you are hidden from the witch.”
She grips my hands. “No. You cannot risk—”
“It is fine. I promise.” I stroke her cheek. “Do you trust me?”
Her luminous eyes stare into mine and I wait anxiously for her reply. “Yes.”
My heart clenches at how quickly she answers. She truly does trust me. “Then wait here. I will return shortly.”
I fly as fast as I can back to the castle and head straight for the one person I know I can trust to help me with anything. After all, have I not helped him many times before?
Tapping his door, I wait in the hallway for him to answer.
When the door opens, I’m speechless. Each short black hair on Eryl’s head seems to be sticking in a different direction, and his eyes are glazed and unfocused.
My gaze drops to the goblet of wine in his hand. I realize in dismay that he is completely and utterly drunk.
I rip the cup from his grasp and storm past him. “Why are you drunk?”
He follows me, stumbling over his feet and buzzing his wings rapidly to steadily remain upright. “Have you not heard?” he slurs. “Lady Mirela is betrothed.”
I roll my eyes. “You stopped courting her months ago.”
“I know, but what does that matter?” He wraps an arm around my shoulder and sags against me. “I might have loved her if given the chance.”
I blink at him in shock. “You love her?”
“No, but I—I could have.”
I frown. “What are you talking about?”
“She’s the most beautiful woman in all of Anara. I’d hoped to try to win her heart at the ball. Now… she is betrothed and I will never have the chance.” With a heavy sigh, he collapses back on his bed. “She may have been the one for me, Ryvan. But now, I’ll never know.”
“Eryl?” I lean over him, but he does not respond. “You are drunk and not making sense.”
I slap his cheek, and his eyes fly open for a moment before he rolls onto his side and drags the blanket over his shoulder. “Leave me alone. I am tired and wish to go to sleep.”
“I need your help.”
“With what? Can it not wait until morning? I feel sick.”
Heaving a sigh, I run a hand through my hair. “No, it cannot. I need you to help me hide someone.”
He jerks up in bed, blinking and dumbstruck, and instantly sobers. “Hide someone? What are you talking about?”
“Here.” I hand him a cup of cold tea that I suspect he made before he began drinking, expressly to chase the alcohol from his system. “Drink this, and I will take you to meet her.”
“Did you say ‘her’?” he asks incredulously. “You’re hiding a woman?”
I grip both his shoulders. “Yes. One more thing: She does not know I am the prince, and I want to keep it that way. I will tell her later.”
