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

Meats including fish, fowl, and beast all glimmer with every color of the rainbow, reflecting the candlelight that sparkles through the crystalline chandelier overhead. Grains are long and thin, nestling beneath each entrée like a fluffy cushion. And boy, do those dishes look exhausted, sweaty and puffing out steam after roasting for hours overnight. I’ve never been privy to human food, but slaving over the roast beasts and poultry all night grants this heap of cooked flesh more control over my stomach than I’d like. Saliva paints the inner walls of my mouth, and I have to keep my lips shut before the drool can make its unruly appearance.

My teeth clench together and I close my eyes so I can savor the delectable scents of anise, garlic, and butter. Aromatics we typically use in perfumes or oils, but not ever in cooking. Yet, my stomach pleas for a taste of the marbled meat, the caramelized vegetables, and the salted rice.

Bernadette squeezes my shoulder. I’ve learned this is her way of communicating her understanding. I turn to look at her large and gray eyes; I don’t think I’ve ever seen such warmth as there is in her character.

“As a reward for your diligence, please enjoy this meal with the prince.” Her voice is tucked away and reserved, polite and calm. We’d already discussed this arrangement before, but any eavesdroppers must hear it as well.

With a respectful nod in her direction, the old maid departs from the grand dining hall, leaving me all alone.

I kick my feet in front of me and deeply inhale. Does food always make people so happy, even with a mere whiff?

Along this large table, there are carefully-placed dishes. Most are for decoration, Bernadette had said, so you only need to make a few truly delicious meals. The rest will be discarded, anyhow.

I had been shocked to hear that only three of us would be enjoying this mouth-watering meal: me, Ramiel, and the fairy. Why cook so much food and not allow others to enjoy it? Sure, elves and other forest-dwelling creatures don’t require the same kind of energy source as humans, but it wouldn’t have hurt to share a little, would it?

My hands tap along the oblong wooden table. It’s cool to the touch, lifeless. For a second, I wonder if the trees lining the grounds were just waiting to be carved into furniture like this. At least then they’d have a meaning, a purpose.

Wedged between our three empty silver plates are large bejeweled goblets, each containing a generous amount of the kingdom’s finest wine. Its reflection in the metallic cup dances dark red, like blood, and just as we prepared the final touches to the table, I’d already taken a sip. It had been both sweet and bitter, and while I enjoyed it, I know that it won’t be savored by the other two today.

Elves don’t drink alcohol often, especially not fancy wines. Part of it stems from our emotional transparency, which might go rampant if under the influence. Still, the flavor had been delicate, serene.

I cringe at my admiration for this lavish human delicacy. I’m getting too comfortable with living life in the palace.

The large dining room has two large oak doors, decorated in ornate gold that whisks artfully around the edges as though imbued with magic. I sit across from those doors, patiently awaiting the arrival of the prince.

My thoughts race with anticipation, then I get distracted by a draft that blows the scent of seasoned meats in my direction. An ugly sound bellows from my stomach and I verbally curse it to remain silent.

Just when I think I can’t hold on much longer, the double doors scrape along the stone floor, opening up like wings into the large room. The lighted candles lining the walls seem to bend away with the sudden gust, or maybe they’re bowing to the prince as he enters.

Worry inflates my chest.

Ronan carries Ramiel on an arm, eyes downcast as he watches where he walks. He’s careful to lead the prince safely.

He is just as handsome as when I’d first seen him: bronze skin that is highlighted by the flickering candles, longish black hair that swirls about his head in chaotic perfection, and an outfit befitting of a prince that matches the grandeur of the dining hall: a waistcoat peeks out from behind his dark robes which are lined with the design of a twirling and dancing dragon.

Ronan is like a twig beside him, as nondescript as ever. He doesn’t meet my glare as he helps Ramiel into his seat and takes the one across from me.

“It smells wonderful,” Ramiel says with a smile.

I watch his face as he takes in the scents around him, nose raised.

A long, marbled scar twists down the left side of his face, as though someone plunged a poisoned and searing-hot dagger into his skull and dragged it over his nose, down, across his cheek, and past his jaw. The highest peaks of skin are pink in color, still fresh from the blight. The worst of it all: it curdles over his dimple, which is now long gone.

His eyes are not cloudy nor lost—they are instead full of life and like the lush grass in spring. But he’s unfocused. He holds the gaze of nothing, staring off into the room as though the food is hanging on the far wall near portraits of old nobility. His irises shake as though he’s been spun a thousand times—an indicative sign of those who are blind.

“Why don’t you try to eat on your own first, then you can request help if you need it?” Ronan’s voice is sickening, sweet, uncharacteristic. It interrupts my train of thought.

I wrinkle my nose at him. He can’t be genuine, can he? No—no fairy can be; it goes against their nature.

“Thank you,” Ramiel grants with a nod, still looking at nothing, though his head tilts in Ronan’s general direction.

The prince’s hands reach over the table and gently lower to the edge, where the handles of his silverware lay in a row of four—spoons and forks on one side, knives and napkins on the other. I find myself holding my breath as I watch him feel along the cutlery. He’s being very careful, but his occasional sudden movements make my heart climb to my throat.

Finally, with fork and knife in hand, he sits and waits.

Nobody moves.

I turn from Ramiel and look at Ronan, who’s now glowering at me under thick, furry eyebrows. His arms are stiffly knotted over his chest, stating his intention to remain seated.

“Ether, why don’t you serve the prince?” He asks through his teeth, brown eyes dark with hatred. What exactly is he trying to prove?

Nothing about his tawny appearance frightens me, though his voice is quite threatening. It’s hard to believe Ramiel doesn’t notice it...

I turn to the prince and inhale the scent of the food once more. My foot begins to tap impatiently below. “What would you like? There’s roast beast, innards, mutton, fish...” I scan the table for anything I may have missed. “Ah, and each plate has a bedding of vegetables and rice.”

Ramiel moves his fork to his mouth, the light pink of his lower lip softly slotting through the prongs. He’s thinking about his food decision, but now my thoughts are elsewhere.

My chest increases its tempo, the whole thing pulsing like an impressive one-man band. I’m not quite sure how it’s managing to fill with anxiety, since its conductor is still locked in my throat.

We aren’t even the same species, I tell myself. You were not this nervous when you had to transfer energy with Ronan!

Ramiel lowers the fork, little prong indents leaving dark lines along his lips.

How I wish now to see that dimple flex inward to the left of his mouth. I ought to kill whoever is responsible for maiming his beauty.

“Ether, would you please pick what you think looks tasty?” His voice is bright, but I can hear the false notes in it. He’s hiding something.

I stare at him for a second too long, because he turns to “look” at me. His eyes lock with mine for a second, and my heart aches. For a moment I think maybe he sees me, but then his focus wanders slightly to the space next to me.

“Sure,” I say with a smile. I reach for his plate, then walk along the table to pile his plate full of everything on the menu. I wonder if he’s a big eater? I know I can take a lot of magical energy; my tank doesn’t usually empty as quick as it does here. Maybe he’s the same, but with human food? “How are you feeling this morning?” I ask as I heap a blood sausage onto a slab of steak.

“I’m fine,” he sighs. There it is. Though he’s human, he can’t keep up a lie for very long. “Actually, I’ve been better.” He chuckles, but it’s filled with sorrow. His promise about telling me the truth comes to mind.

I don’t know how I would deal with losing my sight. It’s probably the strongest sense I have, and therefore explains why it was cursed to be the most revealing factor concerning my character. To be without it... would be unimaginable.

I slide the plate in front of him, sure to make it scrape slightly along the wood so he can hear. He perks up—alert—and I smile.

His hands lift once more, move carefully over the plate, then lower until the knife scores the thick red-brown sausage.

“Breakfast usually isn’t this extravagant,” he says thoughtfully. His lip twitches up on his right side. “Am I to thank you for preparing it?” His head tilts in my direction, a smile spreading across crooked lips.

I nod at him, then realize how ridiculous that action is since he can’t see me, and mutter out a last-minute “uh huh.”

Ronan snickers across the table as he rips into a fish with his teeth. How... savage. But can I honestly say I’m any different?

“Of course, I had Bear’s help,” I say as a cover.

Ramiel’s knife slips over the sausage and flings into the air, away from us, then sticks itself further along the table with a thud and a twang. We’re all quiet as the prince gulps, stutters, then starts laughing.

“She told you the nickname I gave her, eh?” His voice is shaky. I didn’t realize this would throw him off-guard, so I try to come up with something quick.

“Uh, yeah, but I don’t need to call her that if you don’t want me to,” I spout, words tumbling out after one another as though each one is racing to be said first. I can barely even comprehend my words.

The prince continues laughing, this time not awkwardly, but full and hearty. “Pardon me,” he says between laughs, “but I think I’ll need some help cutting my food.”

I stuff a slightly too-large chunk of sausage into my cheek, then bite the skin. Oils explode across my mouth like pyrotechnics, hot and colorful and spindly. Tingles go up and down my arms, as if the salty flavors and sweet aromatics of anise have transgressed the walls of my mouth and seek to fill my entire body with its robust flavor. My plate is empty before I realize and I once again turn my attention to the fairy and the prince.

Ronan slices the food, then hands the utensils to Ramiel so he can inhale the flavorful meal. They have quite the system going: each time Ramiel takes a bite, Ronan turns to maul his food like an animal. If it weren’t for my maid training with Bernadette, I might be attacking it in the same way.

I have to give some credit to Ronan. He’s clearly making an effort to create an easier life for Ramiel. From assisting him into the dining hall to helping him cut his food into bite-sized morsels, one would suspect him to be his maid instead of me.

My mouth sours with the reality that Ronan likely dealt with this responsibility daily, treating Xavelor as they traversed battlefields. I have no doubt that the prince used magic during his battles in order to kill the mightiest of armies and beast kind. A human wouldn’t be able to last otherwise.

But I do not feel remorse for the fairy, even with the trials he probably faced. As far as I’m concerned, he dug himself this grave, and he must lay in it.

Ramiel gasps after eating his last bite, his expression loosening. “That was delicious,” he sighs with gratitude. He tilts his head in my direction. “Send my compliments to the chef.”

My cheeks grow warm at his praise. Though I can’t take all of the credit, I’m surprised at how vindicating his words are. I know he can’t see me, but I turn to him anyway, put the tips of my fingers to my chin, and then glide it away, indicating my thanks.

“Ramiel, Ether just blew you a kiss.”

“A what?" The prince’s voice launches up an octave, cracking out of his normal range.

I’m just as flabbergasted by Ronan’s off-handed remark. I can feel every hair on my arm as my face tightens, but it should be obvious by the pink burning in my irises that my anger is fueled by betrayal and surprise.

“I was saying thank you,” I swiftly correct him. I don’t let my embarrassment trample upon my resolve to remain in control of the situation; my tone remains confident. “I learned to communicate with my hands when I was younger.”

Ramiel’s cheeks are flaming red, and I wonder if the innocent concept of blowing a kiss is too much for him. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s never been kissed... at least, not while conscious. Oh, I wonder how he’d react if he were ever to find out about the magical core transfer...

I shake my head. There’s no reason for me to tell him. As long as he’s alive and well, he can attribute all the credit to the mages... that also ruined his face. The fact we touched in such a humanly intimate way would only bother him—best to sweep it under the rug.

After a moment, the prince raises his own hand to his chin, then glides it outward. My chest warms at his knowledge of the gesture. Not many can communicate with the deaf, as such an ailment is rare. While I’m not shocked that the prince knows this simple token of gratitude, my heart triumphs that this misunderstanding has been quickly cleared.

“Exactly,” I say, then turn to give a look to Ronan. He scoffs, then lifts his plate. I see hesitation swirl in his dark eyes, then he sticks a hand in my direction.

“Your plate,” he spits, twitching fingers in his direction.

I hand him the silver saucer, then also grab Ramiel’s. The fairy stacks them, metal clanging against metal, and takes them into the large servants’ kitchen.

My elbows rest against the tabletop, then slide in Ramiel’s direction. I think he can sense my presence moving closer, because he backs away a little. My lip twitches and I hold back from snickering.

I rest my forehead in my hands and look up at him. “Will you be able to train today?”

He sighs. “I’m not sure I can wield a sword, to be honest.”

He’s right. He can’t wield a sword, not if he doesn’t have the skills for fighting in the first place. Instead, we must jump straight into harnessing magic. It’ll be difficult, but convenient enough for us, he already has a torrent of magical energy humming low inside of him. He probably can’t feel it yet, but I can sense it just beneath the surface, ready to be fully awakened.

“True, you probably can’t,” I say before my response is too delayed. My finger taps against my forehead and I bite my lip. “Which means we will have to teach you how to harness the magic of the forest.”

“The forest?” His voice is dry, like the thought doesn’t excite him. I can see why, though. Humans have been outlawed from entering since the War of Undying, and if he really did run into Pluto, I’m sure he’d already received the ol’ hearty “piss off” upon arrival.

“Yes.” I stand from the table, then reach for his arm and help him up as well. Ronan quickly steals him from me, wrapping the prince’s arm around his shoulders like the strap of a burlap sack.

“Will we go to Nwatalith? Your village?” Ramiel is still focused on our conversation, apparently unbothered by the exchange between his caregivers. I try to care equally as little.

As much as I’d love to go to my home village, that would confuse too many villagers. We need to go somewhere quiet, where no one will suspect his identity or magic ability.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. Then, cringing at myself again for reacting visually, I continue. “We will go to Hearthstrom, the abandoned village. I learned to meditate there. I trained there. We all do.” I glance at Ronan, and for once, he doesn’t avert eye contact. To my surprise, he nods at me. Is it for approval? I don’t need his approval!

“I see,” Ramiel says, sighing. He turns his head and removes his arm from Ronan’s person. Then, he faces me with arms outstretched in search of something, then with strange accuracy, he places his hands on my shoulders. My body runs hot but stops as though it’s frozen.

I look up at him and try to steady my breathing. He’s not as hideous up this close. His eyes are unaffected by the magical blight, still shining their brilliant jade color—it’s a pity his sight has been lost. The hands on my shoulders tremble; I can tell he’s already pulling out every last bit of courage he has.

“Be honest with me,” he says, voice stiff and rough. I try not to smirk at the humor in his words, remaining serious as well. His Adam’s apple bobs once in his caramel-colored throat. “Do you think this will all be worth it? Do you think I have what it takes... to be king?”

The question catches me by surprise, but as soon as I hear it, I know my response. There’s no thought that needs to be put behind my words, because at this moment, there is no other answer.

“No,” I say, reaching for his hands. I cup them under mine, though my thin fingers hardly cover his. “I know you do.”