The Sinuous Bargain of a Cowardly Prince (book one, The Shadowed Throne Chronicles)

The soldier from the night before knocks on the door as I struggle to pull my clothes on—they’re in a pile on the floor and I have to touch each with great effort to determine which articles they are.

I don’t have the time nor the energy to worry about the soldier’s tactlessness, yet the thought rolls around in my head anyway: why have a soldier and not have one of Xavelor’s maids tend to me? The smell of lavender affronts me, hovering in the air as though a wax candle has been lit or a fresh bouquet of those wretched flowers is sitting somewhere in this room. It’s been a while since Xavelor’s ascension to the heavens, so why does the smell of death still remain so pertinent? Perhaps my nose is playing tricks on me...

I pause with my undershirt on halfway so I can cautiously take in a purposeful breath.

My nose wrinkles. That is definitely lavender. The maids must still be in mourning. He was a beloved prince, after all. Though he’d returned home rarely, the maids surely enjoyed waiting on his hand and foot.

The soldier knocks again. His voice is, dare I say...annoyed? “Your Highness, there is a schedule we must keep to today. The Feast is underway, and His Majesty expects you to be ready to fight while the Lords and Dukes of Mydelle and Florrock enjoy their meals after the midday hour.”

“Thanks for letting me know,” I say statically, and the soldier sighs from the other side of the door. I know he’s simply a messenger, yet something about his lack of decorum makes me want to blame my annoyance on him rather than my father for changing the time of my duel with the beast. I suck in a breath and slowly pull on the rest of my garments.

I’ve seen my fair share of Feasts, but none of them has featured a main event as big as this while I’ve been alive. In years past, this was how the Faundor line revealed their next heir, including my own father. His portrait hangs above the wall in the main library; the artist had captured the king’s mighty sword as it plunged deep into a black-scaled beast, though I’d always been distracted by the blood dripping down his arms as his eyes sparked with bloodlust.

“Surely there’s some kind of armor I’m expected to wear?” I call out as I tuck my tunic into my trousers. The clothes are soiled and smelly, but I don’t have anything else to wear and can’t be seen walking around the quarters bare-skinned.

“Yes, Sire. I will escort you to the crown prince’s bathing room. There, his maids will assist you with your new clothing,” the soldier responds, his words muffled behind the door. There’s a moment of silence before he speaks again, and his voice is sardonic. “Do you require my aid, Your Highness?”

I steady my hand on a bedpost and tap my foot around for my boots, but my search is unsuccessful. I’d rather not receive this lackluster soldier’s help, but I request it anyway. If he was one of Xavelor’s soldiers, perhaps he will become mine eventually, too. I ought to trust him.

“Your name, soldier?” I call out.

“Jeremiah, Sire.”

“Jeremiah, please enter. I require your assistance.”

The door swooshes open and footsteps approach. I slide my hand away from the bedpost and point to a generic spot on the ground.

“I can’t seem to find my boots. Can you help me put them on?”

“They’re here,” the soldier says, as though I can see them. He’s probably even pointing to them.

“Ah, I see,” I snicker. He doesn’t respond.

The soldier silently maneuvers my foot into each boot, then takes a step back. “Take my hand, Sire. I will lead you to Prince Xavelor’s bathing chambers.”

I reach blindly for a few seconds before the soldier forcibly tugs my hand forward and catches my forearm.

Is... is this any way to treat your future king?

I keep my mouth shut, appalled at his actions, but a part of me also finds his impudence comical. What has he to be upset about? Serving me when he could be off doing something else? He must be around my age, by the timbre of his voice. Has he no propriety?

He leads me from the bed chamber down a breezy hallway. The air is cold and unfamiliar.

The lingering scent of lavender clings to the air like something rotting and dead, and it follows us down the long corridor and even into the humid bathing room.

Jeremiah releases me. “I must wait for you here. Make haste. You must appear before the Lords in two hours.”

Two hours.

My heart leaps to my throat, but I nod my understanding. The soldier closes the door behind me and I’m met with a haze of floral scents. The humidity from the bath sticks to my skin. I’ve missed nice, steamy baths.

Before I can even take a step further, my body is covered with soft, warm hands. They glide along my arms and lead me deeper into the room, then begin removing my clothing.

The maids are silent as they do their work, careful not to touch my bare skin anywhere other than my arms and legs.

I wonder if Ether ever had to undress men and coax them into their baths...

I shudder at the thought. Of course she wouldn’t have had to do that—as far as I know, I’m the only blind person in the entire palace. Men of nobility had baths prepared for them, and maids were never forced to partake in the bathing itself. That responsibility belonged to the concubines.

My cheeks flush when one maid gently holds my hand to lead me into the large basin. The tiles under my feet are slick, so I rely on her steady arm to lower me carefully. Shame erodes my confidence, making my head go hot—I suddenly wish to cover my unsightly areas.

To my relief, the maids allow me to at least bathe myself. On my request, they provide soaps, lotions, scrubs, and sponges. Otherwise, the work done is my own; I relish the heat of the bath and the soaps that dissolve weeks of dirt and sweat clinging to my legs and arms. I can’t imagine going into battle with such a filthy appearance. I must look clean and gallant.

When I step from the bath, a maid mutters apologies for intruding on my personal space as she wraps a thick towel around my waist and expertly tucks the corner into the front.

“Thank you,” I gulp, angry at the warmth in my cheeks. At least I can pretend it’s the temperature of the bath making my skin undoubtedly glow red. In many ways, I am glad my thoughts are here and not dwelling on the battle to come. My gratitude is two-fold.

“Your Highness,” she says softly, “I will help you with your clothing. I’ve been told that your aid will assist you with your armor.”

I nod, then stand with my arms slightly extended to my sides so she can dry my arms and torso. Once she’s done, she slides my arms smoothly into the long sleeves of a fresh tunic and tightens a strap around my waist. She guides my feet into clean trousers and allows me to pull them up on my own. I smile at her precise movements; they remind me of how Bear dressed me when I was younger.

“When my personal maid is no longer able to work for me, would you like to take her place?”

I immediately feel guilty asking her. Bear is still quite capable and I know nothing about this maid, nor do I have any connection to her, but it would still be nice to have some semblance of familiarity with someone before my coronation; I don’t want a bunch of new people serving me. And, of course, I’d love to have Ether being served as my Queen rather than having to serve me along with the other maids.

“It would be my pleasure, Your Highness. I couldn’t imagine a better position,” she says quickly, but stiffly. I can tell she wasn’t expecting my sudden offer, and I chuckle at her seriousness.

“You have every right to refuse. You just remind me a lot of Bernadette. Please pardon my excitement.”

“That is a very high compliment, Sire.”

“Indeed,” I laugh.

The maid steps back, letting out a shaky sigh. “I—I will guide you to the door.”

“Thank you.”

Her hand is light against my back, but firm. She truly has the temperance of my dear old maid. I will need to remember her later.

“What is your name?” I ask when she stops pushing me forward. I reach out and my hand finds the latch on the door.

“Constance,” she says quietly. Then, with a light clearing of her throat, she helps me push the door open. “Good luck today, Your Highness. You’re going to make the kingdom proud.”

I beam, but before I can thank her, the door snaps shut and Jeremiah’s hand tugs my elbow.

Jeremiah leads me to the king’s quarters, which are eerily quiet. The air smells of old food and metal, though I’m unsure if either has any relation to the other. At least there’s no lavender.

We stop outside a room in what I believe to be the keep, where the royal armory is.

“Your aid is here. You have an hour before your appearance is required at the Feast,” the soldier says coldly, opening the doors to the armory. His hand gives me a sturdy shove and I stumble forward a few steps. I do my best to control the annoyance on my face. “This is where we part ways, Your Highness. You will be escorted by two palace mages to the arena. I will be watching you from the sidelines.”

“Thank you,” I say, clenching my jaw. I’m happy to be rid of him. “You may leave.”

Jeremiah doesn’t waste a moment. The doors close loudly behind me, and I sense the hazy glowing of Ronan’s core a small distance away, deeper into the room. My body physically relaxes, and I realize my shoulders are rather tight.

“Looking fresh,” the fairy chuckles.

“Not so bad yourself,” I laugh, then cringe at my tasteless joke. Two in such a short period of time is not a good sign.

Ronan laughs anyway, then sighs. “There’s a lot of... stuff here that I’ve been instructed to force you into. Greaves, gauntlets, a helmet, a breastplate—the whole knightly composition. Do you think you’ll be okay fighting in heavy armor?”

I shrug. “Don’t really have a choice, do I?”

“Right,” Ronan says thoughtfully. “Excuse me then.”

With some struggle, Ronan manages to fit me into the full suit of armor. The heaviest bits are on my arms and legs, while the thinner areas are the breastplate and cuisse. I’m not sure why my vital organs don’t receive as much protection, but I suppose it might be detrimental to my mobility if the larger pieces of the suit are thicker. I allow this quick explanation to absolve my nervousness.

He pats my back and the hollow sound of the armor echoes up to the high ceilings—the tinniness rings in my ears.

“Also, your weapon,” he continues. “I know you prefer to use something smaller, but the only weapon they’ve provided is a broadsword.” He sighs as he guides my hands to the hilt of the heavy weapon. To my relief, it doesn’t feel different at all from the ones made of ice. Aside from it melting, of course.

“And with that... I think you’re ready.”

An appreciated silence passes between us. It allows me time to breathe. My hands sweat in the gauntlets and my heart reaches for the metal plate guarding my chest, almost as though it’s trying to escape. I have all the confidence in the world that I will be able to win, yet my nerves say differently. I ignore the doubtful thoughts that begin to flood my head.

Ronan suddenly pulls me into an uncomfortable hug; my armor crunches in on my skin and pinches me in places, but I don’t make a sound.

My aid takes in a shaky breath and sniffs as he pulls away. “Damn it all. I swear I wasn’t going to cry.”

I move forward and return his hug despite the pain it causes, and I smile as tears drip down my cheeks.

“You will be promoted when I am king. You’re the best aid I could’ve ever asked for.” I laugh through the tears. “And what’s funny is... I didn’t even ask for you.”

Ronan snorts lightly. “That’s true. But to be honest, I am so glad I’ve been able to serve you. Even despite... you know...”

I nod, then clap his back before pulling away.

“Let’s do this thing, hm?” I smile, raising my hand.

His hand clasps with mine and he laughs. “Go slay yourself a dragon, Ramiel.”

It’s been a while since I’ve been around mages, and these two don’t seem to notice I have a magic core. I’m disgusted by the dark energy whipping around at their centers, uncontained. It’s almost as though there is no core, and the dark magic has instead taken over their entire bodies.

We wordlessly walk from the armory to the back gate of the palace. Even though we are still quite far away from the arena, I can already hear the rowdy voices of men, likely enjoying their beer and meat as they wait eagerly for my arrival.

I dare to turn to one of the mages before we pass through the gate.

“Do you know anything of what happens outside of the palace?” I ask, making my voice firm. I try desperately not to reveal my anger.

Both mages speak at once, their voices chaotically clashing together. “We know nothing of what happens outside of the palace, Your Highness.”

You’re lying.

They have to be. I know of no one else who has such power over the mages as my father does; I’ve seen him command them. A simple look from him and they somehow understand his orders.

“We do not lie, Your Highness,” the voices continue, and I bristle at their strangely convenient response to my thoughts. Perhaps they saw the expression on my face change from one of control to one of loathing. “And we wish you the very best... as you prove to the kingdom that you are everything our departed and beloved Prince Xavelor was and more.”

My skin prickles at their odd encouragement. I’ve long since tossed aside trying to “be” my brother. Yet I’m sure that is what everyone out here is expecting.

I chuckle, not hiding the darkness in it. “Thank you.”

The gate opens and they lead me across the stone ground. As we near the arena, the deep voices of drunken men grow even louder. Underneath them, though, I hear the aggravated growls of the captured beast within.

In one quick and abrupt motion, the mages force me into the main floor of the arena and then vanish.

The crowd goes silent. No more cheers, not even from those who’ve already had a bit too much to drink. I can hear my heart banging in my chest, claustrophobic from the sudden stillness.

Then, as if on cue, the king’s voice pulses through the air.

“My son, Xavelor Faundor of Arioch, has arrived to claim his right as heir to my throne!” he announces, his voice booming and echoing all around. The crowd immediately roars, glasses clang together and a few high-pitched squeals are heard.

I turn in the direction where the king is probably sitting and squint my eyes to mimic actually seeing him. I hope I’m looking at him. I want him to see the hatred in my eyes. He really called me Xavelor. Ramiel no longer exists.

No, Ramiel never existed.

“And now, what you’ve all been waiting for! The grand event that only happens once every generation,” the king’s voice rumbles over the crowd, riling up the spectators with each word. A sizzling of drums grows from quiet to loud, and at its peak, the king shouts, “release the dragon!”

The clanging of metal and the screeching of claws against the stone ground fill the air. A low, angered growl rumbles around me, and the audience shrieks with joy.

Let’s get this over with.

I lift the sword to my waist, angle it outwards, and breathe.

The dragon has no core. No magic. Ether told me about their valuable hearts; the price they fetch for in human currency. But otherwise, they’re not known to carry any magical properties.

Which means I won’t be able to sense it. My hearing, smelling, and spatial awareness will be my only guides as I fight this thing.

I take a step forward; the greaves scrape against the stone.

The dragon roars, still in front of me. As it moves, a heavy chain grinds and clangs against the ground. It’s either meant to protect me from the beast or make it easier for me to come out victorious.

I twist the sword in my palms. The crowd quiets down, watching intently for who will make the first move.

The air smells of hot chicken and beer, almost to the point of being putrid. I’m beginning to doubt whether my sense of smell is reliable for this fight.

I just wait, sword poised and my feet settling on their toes.

After a moment, the dragon breathes its fire; I can feel the heat as it rushes toward me. I tuck my body and roll on the ground, scarcely avoiding the sweeping flame.

This earns me excited cheers. I can almost imagine the condescending look of approval on my father’s face, and I grimace.

I’m doing exactly what he wants. Not once did he ask how my training has been going, nor has he seen if I even managed to find a master willing to train me. Does he expect me to lose? He’s never been interested in my affairs, and yet, here I am bending to his will, trying to prove him wrong.

I chuckle as I stand.

Not anymore.

I toss the sword to the ground, then brandish my fists in the air. The crowd goes silent, probably from shock, but then they rumble with excitement at this surprising development. Many of them are warriors and soldiers, and many are noblemen who’ve never touched a sword. I’m positive my actions will inspire the younger boys, and their fathers won’t even be able to complain, because what I’m about to do will absolutely blow their minds.

With a step forward, I call forth fire from my core and it sparks from my left hand. In my right, I summon ice.

The dragon growls, probably recognizing that I am now a genuine threat. Its claws scrape as it moves toward me.

Oh. Shoot.

Dragon scales are impervious to weapons and magic separately, but if I imbue the sword with magic, I can kill the beast. But... I dropped the sword.

The flame extinguishes and the ice melts, and soon I’m on my knees patting the ground for my weapon. Sweat drips down my arms and my hands begin to shake. The dragon scraps closer, still.

The audience begins to murmur.

My heart turns to stone.

By now, they’re probably making assumptions about my sight.

Is he really the prince that’s rumored to have been the greatest of all time?

He can’t even see properly.

What happens when the audience turns on the performer? Will tomatoes be thrown at me? Will those holding the chains release the beast to claim me as its next meal?

“To your right!” a familiar voice whispers harshly.

I lift my head and my heart immediately thaws. Ether’s core is swelling mere yards away, standing on the same ground I’m standing on instead of on the high stone steps of the arena. Perhaps she’s with the maids, if they’re allowed to spectate.

My brain goes fuzzy with the excitement of her presence, and then I scramble to listen to her directions—she’s still guiding me, even now.

I reach farther, and sure enough, the sword is to my right. I fumble the hilt into my hands and lift the heavy blade just in time to dodge another sweep of fire scorching the ground where I had been standing. My breath heaves dry in my throat.

The beast exhales heavily; it’s now much closer. With a lunge, I might reach its neck, though I ought to take my chances and aim for its chest.

I do as Ether taught me: I reinvoke fire with one hand and ice in the other, allowing the two to combine into the blade, which grows hot and cold at once—magics don’t mix together, so when forced to exist on the same plane, they create a doubly strong, polarizing entity.

The broadsword sizzles with energy. It’s the first time I’ve used this technique—my hand trembles from the weight of the sword and the power that surges through my arms, leaving the rest of my body weak.

There’s no time to waste.

I lunge forward, letting out a guttural cry as I shove the blade into stubborn flesh. The beast screeches as it stands on its back legs, lifting me into the air along with its torso. I struggle to hold onto the blade, my hands growing wet from hot blood seeping from the beast. Anxious thoughts race through my head, but I focus on hanging on. Who knows how high up I am? If I fall, I’m sure to lose this fight.

I force the blade deeper, and the swirling magic from the blade enters the beast’s body. I feel a rush of relief, but it disappears quickly when a row of talons rips through the armor on my back, cutting into my skin.

Like a hundred prickly arrows doused with poison, my back flares with unbearable heat. My mind goes numb, and I’m sure if I could see, this would be the moment when my vision goes black.

I shriek, then cough. Liquid shoots from my lips—it tastes of copper.

But I still—miraculously—manage to hold onto the hilt of the sword, my body dangling like an ornament from the beast’s body as it thrashes its claws again at my back. Screams rip through my throat and hot tears streak from my eyes.

Will I die here?

No, you must have hope, a voice calls out.

Time stops. Sound stops. Everything goes cold, and my body relaxes. My heart desperately calls out for the voice I’ve heard only once since her death.

Mother?

Yes, son.

Are you really there? Have I truly died?

No, you’re very much alive, my beloved son. But you must listen carefully if you are to remain as such.

For a moment, I swear I hear the crowd’s cheering cut into this strange, removed conversation. It’s like my senses have been pulled from reality, and I’m to remain focused on my mother’s voice. I haven’t the slightest clue what the audience could be cheering at, as I’m sure my body is still clinging for life to the sword plunged into the dragon’s flesh. Or maybe time has truly stopped, and I’m just hearing a static, constant cheer that extends to the end of this paused moment.

Tell me what I need to do, I think urgently.

The earth, is all she says.

Earth...

Once the thought crosses my mind, it’s as though the planet is breathing as one giant organism, its heartbeat a giant drum pulsing under the dragon, under the spectators. The power of nature that Ether had beckoned for me to control before, but I hadn’t been able to.

Use it. Call it forth as you call your fire and ice. It will bend to your will. With it, carve out the beast’s heart, and consume the entire thing.

I steady my breathing as the crowd gets even rowdier, cutting into our conversation. I swear I hear the breaking of glasses; perhaps they are celebrating an early victory, or the chaos of my situation has caused a stir. But now I’m certain time hasn’t stopped; I’m merely numb to everything around me.

Still, I manage to concentrate, and I pull the essence of the earth’s beating from the hard ground. Almost like a magic core of its own, or at least appearing in that comprehensible form, it floats up to me and attaches itself to the sword. Heat engulfs my hands once more as the energy sizzles along the blade.

The dragon’s body goes limp almost immediately, dropping us to the ground, and I quickly twist the sword in deeper. Once I’ve hit something soft, I wrench the sword from the dragon and pluck the organ from the tip of the blade.

I ignore the unappetizing smell and swallow the thing whole—it’s really not that large. The flavor is rancid and acidic as it shoves its way down my throat.

I’m so proud of you, my mother’s voice echoes in my head, and I swear I can feel her hand brushing my hair. Now you may receive sight, so that you may see the truth.

I blink my eyes, and immediately color begins to fill my vision through the slots in my iron helmet.

The dragon’s shiny, black body lays limp in front of me, a large portion of its chest carved open from my blade. I look down at my metallic hands—painted with blood—and fall to my knees. My back is torn open, though the pain has numbed me.

The sky is blue and expansive. I’d almost forgotten what it looks like.

Sound floods my ears, invasive and increasing in volume. Screaming, the clanging of swords. The breaking of glasses.

My heart hitches in my throat as I twist my body around and rip the helmet from my head so I can see everything clearly.

Ether stands behind me, her hair falling around her in beautiful black waves, but her white skin is blotted with purple and brown bruises, and her eyes are filled with the color of coal. She’s frozen in place, the fear palpable in her trembling lips. Ronan is behind her with a hand clenched around her arm.

It takes me too long to realize that black-cloaked figures are whizzing around everywhere, writhing with dark energy. Flames mysteriously rise from the rock and dirt, a source of the mages’ destruction. Bodies are strewn across the arena and many men wrestle with the mages but are struck down with magic; strange, blue magic.

Panic shoots through my veins and I find the elf again.

Her eyes fill with tears and she covers her mouth in shock as she looks up, looking beyond the felled dragon.

I turn, following her gaze. What I see petrifies me to the cold ground.

Higher up in the arena seating area, a flurry of mages races around something. One of the cloaked figures stands alone, slightly to the left. Screams and shrieks continue to fill the air, and chaos is happening all around me, yet somehow I remain calm.

Then, the mages disperse, revealing King Azriel, his neck snapped gruesomely to his shoulder.

His crown has been removed from his head, his body limp and still upright in the seat he’d been watching from.

I feel as though I should be happy the king has been taken care of, but I’m instead filled with dread. My eyes travel to the lone cloaked figure to the left of King Azriel’s corpse.

The mage lifts its arms to the thick, dark hood and flips it down over his head, revealing the tall, jeweled crown that glistens under the light of the midday sun.

My body freezes. My heart stops. Time stops.

Though his body is fractured, marbled, gray, and irreparable, there’s no doubt that the mage wearing the dead king’s crown is none other than the prince who’d died in battle mere months ago:

My brother, Xavelor Faundor.