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

The fire crackles, just a few flames clutching the dying embers. The snaps and bursts are the only interruptions to Hearthstrom’s silence. Red and orange and yellow with a bright streak of almost-white, the fire is alive, but it will soon meet its end.

I’m the only one up, of course. Qor has long since disappeared for the night, perhaps lost to sleep, though it isn’t something our kind usually requires. I still have so many questions about his past, even though the most “important” ones have been answered. I want to know why he wears a cloak, as mages do—though I suppose it’s to repel any who approach him, or to caution those who question him.

I lift my head and sigh as I look around the abandoned village.

There are little ledges of stone and wood that used to make up the walls and doors of village houses; Ramiel sleeps under one, his legs tucked to his chest like an infant. The soft glow of the fire offers subtle highlights to his bronze-y, warped skin. From this distance, he almost looks metallic, inhuman.

Our training went well today. He proved his ability to harness the mysterious magic at his center, then proceeded to show me how marvelously he could wield the elements without the gift of sight. First, he’d controlled his internal temperature, sending cold to his fingers. Then, after a try or two, he produced heat. Finally, I pushed him to try and produce plantlife—partly out of curiosity, but also because he seemed eager to learn. Of course, I only encouraged him to find the power within himself; whether he can use it isn’t up to me. In fact, controlling nature is something only our line of queens could do, and that legacy died with Queen Nadia in the War of Undying.

So I wasn’t surprised when his hands produced nothing over the hard, infertile ground. Instead of showing disappointment, he’d stretched his arms to the sky and wished me a goodnight before retiring under a sturdy chunk of rock.

I look back at the fire. Its pops and cracks remind me of home, of the festivals and games, and my heart hardens. “Home” is never permanent—we were raised to believe this. And now, with the weight of the truth on my mind, I believe that impermanence is indeed everlasting. The truth of the war, and of the creatures who murdered our elder elf swim in my brain like vicious sharks, keeping alert for any thought that dares to challenge them.

I glare at the fire as it greedily inhales the air around it, and I have the sudden urge to smite its life. With a wave of my hand, I call a small tide of wind to strangle the last of it, and then I’m left in total darkness.

An hour passes, or at least, what feels like an hour. The sky slowly rotates, blessing me with a beautiful show of stars. The spattering of them may seem chaotic to many, but I’ve begun to appreciate their reliability. Every night they appear, and every day they sleep. I can always look forward to their return—their silence and their beauty is eternal and expected.

There’s a rustle to my left, a shift across the dirt. It’s a robust, flaring core that can only belong to someone whose thrown every last care for hiding his identity out the window.

Before he’s even near me, I know he’s furious. There’s a dark energy hanging about him as though an electricity crackles in the air where he walks. Along with it comes his haunting appearance. Short and stocky, fairies tend to have unpleasant features—shofar-shaped noses, large, heavy ears, and small, black eyes. I’ve known many to have rough, pastel-colored skin, though his is different. How have I not noticed it before? Maybe the humidity or the bath water had fogged my vision when I first saw him in his gnarled form, or maybe... I truly don’t think he looks as hideous as the rest. Maybe I don’t hate him as much anymore...

Qor had dropped a lot of unfamiliar information on us. He doesn’t seem to hate the fairies, so it feels like maybe I shouldn’t either... But then again, Ronan’s people did do many terrible things to us, including slaying my parents in cold blood. I know that hatred cannot be unlearned so easily.

When he sees me, he stops. Then, he changes his direction so he’s heading to where Ramiel peacefully sleeps.

“Hey,” I whisper. The fairy goes rigid, the shadowy bone-thin wings on his back twitching slightly when I break the silence.

He doesn’t look at me, speaking only a single word, but with that word carries an unwarranted amount of emotion that I never in a millenium would be prepared for: “What?”

Something in me breaks. I don’t know what it is, whether that lingering hatred or my confusion or both, but I feel the sudden, undesirable urge to comfort him. I’ve not once in my twenty-one years ever wanted to hug anyone so strongly, and quite recently I’ve been giving out the gesture for free, like it’s some sugary treat the elderly give to children to keep them quiet.

My body moves on its own, lurching like a monster that’s out of my control. As I move through the darkness, my thoughts scream at me: What in Arioch are you doing? Don’t touch him! He’s a fairy! He’s your enemy! He’s—

The air is thick with silence as I slide my arms under Ronan’s and pull his winged back to my chest. Even next to my short height, he’s like a child. The soft pattering of his heart is like a bird’s—hyperactive and quick. To my surprise, he doesn’t move.

We just stand there like this for a few moments. My hands clasp at his stomach but my arms hang loosely like untethered rope. And the night remains warm as I stare up at the winking stars, wondering why it feels so natural to be this close to him. Why it ever felt normal to gnash our teeth at each other every chance we got.

Finally, he grips my wrists and unravels himself. He isn’t harsh, but he isn’t gentle either. Then, without a word, he walks forward and joins the prince a few yards away.

In many ways he’s just like me—raised to hate and hate, but it’s always been the wrong person. Always the fairy or the elf, never the humans that continue to rule and oppress. But there’s nothing to do, really. Nothing to do but sit and wag our tails and obey. And we do it, too. Not because we’re gullible or easy to control. We do it while we wait for our chance to change things. I wonder... has he figured it out as well?

I sit down near the ashes of the long-cold fire and cross my bare legs, then tangle my fingers through the gaps between my toes.

Qor’s words to Ramiel echo in my head, and though they hadn’t been directed at me, I can’t help but feel like he wanted me to hear them: You are most definitely a prince. Of course Ramiel is a prince, but the way Qor gave life to the words makes me believe they must have a deeper meaning.

I ponder the words again and again as I stare up at the sparkling galaxies filled with infinite stars, then lean my back into the hard ground and close my eyes.

Ramiel can now recall fire and ice, and though his green eyes can’t see the magic he produces, they light up with excitement each time the heat flares over his finger tips or when the ice stiffens his knuckles.

I’d say he’s a fast learner, but he’s still very much a novice. It will naturally take him less time to master the basics, but as we move into more powerful swells of magic summoning, he’ll see the true difficulty in controlling his magical core. Lucky for him, though, he has a great teacher.

During our training, Qor watches us without comment. Each day he returns with his eyebrows set over golden eyes as he focuses on my teaching. My heart sings when he nods his approval. I know my lifelong addiction to training hasn’t been all for nothing.

Some of these days are quite repetitive, especially near the end of the week. Ramiel takes a while to master the control of air. To be fair, that was the one that took me longest to learn, too. The amount of concentration required to maintain steady breaths while trying to be one with the whizzing currents of the wood is not terribly small.

While I stare at him—his eyes closed all silly so he can focus—my body yearns to show the elven warrior my skill at using a bow and arrow. I want to prove to him that hunter blood pipes hot through my arms and legs, always thirsting for a kill. But his liquid amber eyes hold a flicker of a warning: they tell me to suppress my learned desire and seek peace. So with a sigh, I ignore the tingling at the tips of my fingers and the energy spiraling in my core.

Ronan hasn’t spoken all week. He sits near where Ramiel sleeps each night and twists his finger around in the dust-covered ground, not once looking up at us. Not bothering to conceal his glittery stone-colored skin. I suppose now that Ramiel knows of his identity, there is no need to hide, but I’m still not used to his grotesque appearance.

Even at night, the two do not speak. I think I may have heard Ramiel start a conversation once or twice, but Ronan has been mute from as far as I can tell.

For several nights, Ronan routinely flies away from camp. I haven’t bothered to follow him—I know it’s none of my business where he goes. But I do worry a little for him, especially after his late return at the beginning of the week.

Tonight, after Ronan leaves, Ramiel drags himself across the darkness and gently touches my elbow.

“Hm?” I ask groggily. The exhaustion from constantly focusing on him has worn both my mind and my voice. Incoherent thoughts corrode my comprehension with sleepiness. I’m not even sure he’s really there. Am I sleeping? Is this a dream?

I peer down at him. Somehow the moon appears in his eyes—its familiar crescent sits stark white in his deep green irises. My heart hitches in my throat when his large fingers slide over my knuckles. Somehow I’ve found it easy to guide him by hand, to communicate unspoken thoughts with slight touches. But his touch is somehow different, maybe because I’m not the one directing it. It’s all his own movement.

“I want to go somewhere with you,” he says softly, and I swear for a brief moment it looks like he’s looking directly into my eyes. I break my gaze before his focus drifts. I want to savor that attention, even if it’s not real.

“Where do you want to go?” I ask, clenching my teeth as his hand curls around mine.

He pushes himself up with his other hand and slides in next to me. I’m not sure he knows just how close he is, but it makes my head feel heavy, like I’ve drank a large amount of mead with nothing to wash it down.

Now he sits taller than me, and with his back straightened he tilts his head down. A smile tugs at his lips, but he rolls them together so his excitement isn’t obvious. (It is.)

Then, he leans forward ever so slightly, and whispers two weightless words. “Your village.”

I dare to lean toward him. Our foreheads nearly touch. What are we doing, if not testing each other?

“That is nearly a day’s journey by foot, Your Highness,” I reply, though I know he can hear the smile in my words.

He sighs, and his grin releases over his lips, no longer restrained. “And by treetop?”

I raise my eyebrows. “How do you suppose you’ll do that?”

“Do you think it’s impossible?”

I nod my head, but my words don’t match. The spark of a challenge flickers at my center, and I let it ignite. “I thought your ability to use magic was impossible, and I was wrong. Shall we give elven travel a try?”

Ramiel’s eye twinkles. Even with his cursed mask, he is truly something to look at. I hate to think of him as merely a handsome face—especially when half of it rivals the monstrosity of even Ronan’s—but I simply can’t help myself. I want to hold the smooth side in one hand and caress the rough side in the other. I want to care for the prince in a way that I wouldn’t have been able to care for his warrior brother. I want to protect him and encourage him and...

“Yes, let’s try,” he chuckles, picking my hand from the ground and lifting me to my feet. He’s much more stable than he was when he first lost his sight, though I still worry he’ll stumble into brush or scrape his limbs on the jagged rocks that make up most “buildings” here.

“Okay, hold my hand,” I whisper, but then I realize he’s literally still holding my hand and my body goes hot and rigid with embarrassment. He laughs softly, then gives my hand a squeeze. I shake my head and let out a shaky breath. With my other hand I gesture from the base of the trees upward, then grow even warmer when I realize I’m reverting back to how I was when he was first blinded a few weeks ago: using physical gestures to communicate when I know full well he can’t see anything.

I level my breathing the best I can, then guide his hand so his fingers are splayed and facing the forest—best to show him the gesture by making him gesture, too. “The trees will invite you,” I say, though I’m sure I probably sound ridiculous. I know that he’s unable to hear the calling of the trees. Maybe I’m taking this joke a little too far.

“I can hear them,” he mumbles.

My breathing grows heavy.

No way.

“What... what are they saying?” I croak, not sure if I’m hoping for the right answer or not.

Ramiel is silent for a moment, then he cracks a smile. “They’re calling my name. And yours, too,” he says thoughtfully. “I can hear both of our names.”

This is something I am certain only elves can do. Why the hell can he not only use magic, but also hear the voices of the trees? And since when has he been able to do so?

I keep my shock to myself. Though he can’t see me, I know not the limits of what he is able to sense, so I have to be careful. I grip his hand tighter and look at a tall and skinny oak with branches that are like a ladder spinning around its trunk.

Ramiel bounds along next to me as I lurch toward to the tree; he’s not at all clumsy like before. Somehow he’s able to match each step I make, and with such airiness that I can’t find the words to start any meaningful conversation. How he’s able to keep up is beyond my comprehension.

We make it to the top of the canopy and I bring him up with a quick lift of my hand. He stands steadily atop a thin branch. I’m surprised it doesn’t snap under his weight. Elves are naturally light-footed, and thus can be carried along with the wind. But humans are weighed down with bodies filled with water and food. He’s been eating the fish from the stream and drinking water from the bucket, so where has his weight gone?

How is he standing next to me now, when it should only be my kind that can?

He doesn’t seem to know either, because his eyes shine with novelty and his lips quiver into a delighted smile. His arms shoot out for balance, then he grabs at the air in search for me.

I interlock my fingers with his and he steps forward to join me on my branch, which is even thinner then his.

For a moment, I’m dumbfounded that both of us are able to stand on the short stick, and then I hear the threads of the tree’s limb bend beneath us. Without a second thought, I throw Ramiel’s arm around my shoulders and we leap to the next tree to avoid catastrophe.

The travel is more seamless than I would’ve ever expected, though it becomes quite clear that Ramiel still has much of his human weight. By the time we’re halfway to Nwatalith, I’m exhausted from carrying him along, and I’m sure the trees are, too.

We take a break so I can catch my breath, though the sky immediately steals it away once more. Tonight the black sky is smeared with purple and blue, and the stars peek through like sparkling gems at the bottom of an abyssal lake.

I reach for his hand again and he smiles. We continue along the treetops at a slower pace so I can plant us each time on a sturdy branch. The trees rustle gently around and beneath us like the soft crashing of waves on a calm beach.

“There are some things about my village you must know,” I say carefully as we continue flitting from one branch to the next. “First, that they are not expecting my return. We must remain hidden. It’s... a bad sign for them to know I’m no longer at the castle.” Ramiel nods as we move to a new branch. “Second, that you stay by my side at all times. There will be many smells and sources of energy all around us, but you’re to remain focused on staying next to me.” He nods again.

Two more trees away, and we’ll be on the outer edge of my home village. But something feels off. There’s no smoke billowing from a hearty bonfire, nor can I hear any noises—voices, cooking, nothing. Not a scent lingers in the air, though I’m certain there should be some kind of liveliness, as this is the perfect time to celebrate the beauty of the night, and my people—as previously discussed—don’t require the energizing qualities of sleep. Still, this is strange.

We leap to the last two trees, then I lean over a fan of leaves to look over the village.

My hand flies to my mouth and my breath grows heavy. I begin stuttering out gibberish, because what I see can only be described as madness.

Nwatalith looks like Hearthstrom, only worse, fresh. Village houses are crushed, everything dark and damaged and burned from some unknown source—certainly not any elven flame. Not even fairies could do this level of damage, I don’t think.

I link Ramiel’s arm through mine and jump down into the destruction. Every last village house has been flattened, supplies swept clean. Dark marks spray across almost every surface like blood, but without the smell.

I don’t know what I’m looking for. Something to scavenge? Something of Pluto’s? Something alive? Anything familiar?

Then there’s movement. My hand switches back to the blade on my thigh and I stare carefully into the blackness, allowing the starry night to show me what I need to see. Whoever did this wasn’t in their right mind and should be taken care of quickly.

After stepping over broken wood and stone, I see her. A cowering elven girl and her baby, nestled against the remains of a leaf-stuffed cushion. Under the light of the moon, she is yellow-haired and thin. The baby is close to her chest, but it’s been dead a long time. At least a week. I’m sure the woman is beyond mourning and has reached denial with how tightly she holds the corpse to her bosom.

Her eyes are empty—gray. She stares into nothing, but it isn’t at all like how Ramiel now “sees.” The light has truly left her. She’s just waiting to die.

I don’t describe this depressing scene to the prince. Instead, I directly address the mother and child.

“What happened here?” I snap. Despite this despair and how it makes my heart ache, her situation is none of my business. I’m no longer a member of this village, though my soul feels tethered to these ravaged grounds. This woman is waiting patiently for Death to collect her, and I’ve caught her conveniently before its arrival. I almost wish I hadn’t found her, but my loyalty to the people of this village comes back to me in a wave—I must know who in Arioch made such a mess.

She slowly looks at me, her hollowed cheeks moving side to side as her mouth drops open. One word slips dry through her thin lips, and once it hits the air, everything electrifies at once, clicking together like pieces of a puzzle.

“Mages.” As she states the damning evidence, Death steals the last bit of life from her eyes and her head drops back against the cushion. The child slips from her grasp and falls to the dirty floor, limp and lifeless.

My insides burn with a blend of sadness and anger. The only thing grounding me is the warmth of Ramiel’s hand in mine, though even that is almost not enough to restrict my fury.

Mages killed them. They destroyed the village. Murdered many elves. They murdered the elder elf, too.

What they’ve done has breached all semblance of “peace” we had with them.

This means war.