The Ostler's Boy (The Ostler's Boy Book 1)

Chapter Seventeen

FOUR YEARS AGO...

My Dearest Mr. Ólason,

Long are the days since I have seen your face.

My letter, perhaps cold, but also the ninetieth, or ninety-second of its kind, began.

Your ruleless curls; are they still as yellow as the sun? I pray you are well, that you have found a place in this world, and that you do not hate me too furtively. But... in truth, my faith grows weary with the day. I feel myself begin to accept Ser Elías' ideas of 'duty' as truth. For Love must hold no place in my future, our future, lest Fate herself would have delivered these messages to you by now.

So, though in the dark comfort of knowing you'll never see these words, I apologize to you, I acknowledge my biggest failure as your friend; as your Queen. For sins committed long before my reign, are still sins committed. I cannot wash them from our history, but I can confess that in my dreams I try.

I stop the iron from meeting your skin. I pick up a sword, not cower behind a suit of armor, I wield it. I duel Miss Hellveig, as silly as it sounds, and I save you. I rise from the fire that burned you, the monarch this Empire needs. A thousand shades brighter than His Majesty, and you and I... Well, my prayers do not fall onto the deaf ears of God. I do not marry a man I don't know, I do not fear living in a land that isn't mine. And more importantly, I see your face again before I've forgotten it.

Perhaps if I-

A loud crack; Miss Hellveig's cane struck my hand, reanimating the pain long-living there. I hadn't seen her come into the dining hall, hadn't heard her approach, and the cry I made only egged her.

"And pray, what are we working on, Princess?" Her leer reached across the table, tearing over my stationary, and as her eyes narrowed, I raced to conceal the letter. She tried to rip the pages from my hand. "Give it here."

My feet carried me, beating mad against the cold stone; ice against leather. As I fled through the winding halls of the castle, shadows fell from the frames hanging on the walls. Bleak, moody rays crept through the cracks of the century old stained glass windows, and light danced wildly with winter's fading hour around the corridor.

I nearly collided with Ser Elías as he rounded the corner and I slid by. At sight of me, he knelt, taking the papers I frantically pushed into his hands.

"Svana?" he cried. "What is it?" He went for his sword, ready, as the phantom that chased me caught up to us, only to relax at sight of her. "...Miss Hellveig?" he stood. His hand left the hilt to maneuver me behind him.

"For Love must hold no place in my future," she recited to me. "Our future. Lest Fate herself would have delivered these messages to you by now." Elías still held my letter, but I must had lost a fraction of it in my fright. She went on. "Messages; plural. Pray, how oft' do you write this boy?"