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

The forest helps me forget, but it also helps me remember.

As we get farther away from the palace, my magical core swells in my stomach, like it’s stretching its arms from a long nap.

We’ve been riding for a few hours, passing many villages that make up the human dominion of Arioch. Once we’ve passed the forest boundaries, my encounter with the king almost feels like a terrible nightmare, far from reality.

Now with my head clear, I know I can never tell Ramiel of this awful circumstance I’ve put both of us in.

In any other situation, it might help him stay motivated and grow, but to learn magic, one must abandon any negative feelings and embrace the natural magic of the wood with equal positivity. He won’t fare well if he knows our lives are on the line...

I shake my head, breathe in the cedar drifting across the path, and sigh.

There’s no need to think too much. My anger on behalf of Ramiel won’t result in anything anyway—as an elf, my opinions are worth dirt to the king. But I’m sure the prince is at least a little aware of his father’s true character. Perhaps he’s even been threatened similarly in the past.

Before I allow my heart to ache for Ramiel, I take another breath in, and this time there’s a crisp scent of yeast that mixes with the woody aroma of the forest.

I stop, then smile as I point to the right, where the bushes are parted slightly and a weak path veers off from the main one. The prince and his aide pull their horses to a halt behind me.

“Pally’s on the Bend is just through the thick. The sun should be tucked away by the time we arrive.” I lift my nose to the sky and savor the fresh bread floating in the breeze. “Can you smell the bakery yet?”

I turn to look at the two. Ronan raises his eyebrows incredulously, making his distrust for me clear. Ramiel, on the other hand, makes a subtle movement with his neck as he tips his nose up for a good whiff. A smile pulls his lips over his teeth.

“It smells delicious,” he sighs before sniffing again. “I’m sure by the time we get there, we’ll all be ready for some baked goods.”

I laugh, getting more used to the sound of it now. It feels freeing to laugh after I no longer feel the tension from the palace. My laugh grows louder, in spite of itself, and I have no choice but to smother it with a fist and a cough.

“Sylvia—the head baker and mother of the household—is very hospitable. She also runs a hostel, and is an ally of my people.” I steer Clover with the reins and she hooves the dirt to turn herself toward the bushes. “Shall we go?”

“Yes, let’s,” Ramiel says in a cheery voice.

Sylvia’s bakery items are reinforced with Tallup cores, making them quick treats for the weary magic-using traveler. When I was just a young elf, Pluto would always bring me by for a bite, and from then on, he always teased me, saying that I’m only deft at magic because he “stuffed me full of Auntie Sylvie’s pastries.” Honestly, I also practiced my butt off when he wasn’t looking. But I like appearing like I’m powerful just because of the bakery items. I can tell it really bothers my elven brother.

Twigs crack beneath us as we trot single-file along the narrow trail. Leafy bushes tickle my legs and arms as we brush past, a spider or ant occasionally dropping from its perch and shuddering along my skin. When they’re within reach, I get them to crawl onto my palm and I replace them on a bush further along.

The men behind me probably don’t feel any of them, wearing long-sleeved shirts and pants and all. I just hope the little critters find their way off them sooner than later. I’ve heard stories about humans fearing the insects of the forest. They’re even rumored to go as far as killing the bugs simply because they look a certain way...

Thankfully, it takes less than an hour to reach Pally’s. The sun, as I’d predicted, has retreated to the horizon, making room for the moon.

There’s a humble makeshift shack where our horses will be stabled. Ronan, like clockwork, grabs each of the reins and leads the steeds in, then ties them up before joining us as we walk toward the blue-gray building. Paint is peeling in a lot of areas, but we forest folk don’t have many funds for repairs, so hers is actually one of the nicer inns I’ve seen.

Ronan links Ramiel to his arm. I pull the entrance’s copper handle, and a bell rings as the door swings open.

We all file in, and I glance around. The place is fairly empty, though a thin layer of smoke whisps across the ceiling. The entire building smells like sweet yeast and warmth, and fond memories begin to swarm my head. Pluto smiling as he bites into a chocolate-stuffed loaf. Me laughing because the stuff somehow smeared across his nose, making him look like a fawn. I can’t help but smile as though I’m reliving the memory.

Beneath a skinny wood staircase, a door pops open and a short, stout woman with frizzy gray hair waddles over to us. A toothpick sticks out between clenched teeth, a flour-covered apron fluttering over her pale blue skirt. Her yellow eyes glow as she scans us, but her gaze settles on me. Her greenish-tinted skin darkens a shade.

“Ether, my girl, where have you been?” she says with a snort. Before I can answer, Sylvia’s already patting me on the head, quite harshly, and then she laughs a big ugly laugh that I try my best not to wince at. “Let me get you something good, my dear. Are these your friends?” She turns to go back around the counter, searching in dusty cabinets for her “on-the-house” treats.

“Yes... friends,” I say lightly. “We’d like a room, ma’am. You have any?”

Sylvia cackles again as she withdraws three flat squares of unleavened bread, then skitters around the corner. “Of course we have rooms. How many you need?”

She reaches for my hand, then places the square on my palm. She does the same for Ramiel and Ronan, then stands back to look at us. Her golden eyes sparkle like coins.

“Three would be perfect,” I say, lifting the bread to my lips.

“What a good-looking bunch,” she murmurs, speaking a thought aloud. Her eyes flit to me. “Where’d you find such handsome boys, my dear?”

Ronan coughs next to me and I cluck my tongue. If he knew how much his human appearance repulsed me, he wouldn’t be insinuating my agreement with Sylvia’s off-handed compliment.

The innkeeper continues when I don’t respond.

“Ah, let me check to see which rooms are available. Not many travelers come through these parts, as you know, missy. But we have our long-term guests. Never wanna leave, those ones. But it brings me business, and that’s all I really need.” With a slow and awkward wink, she turns around and hobbles back to the counter, where she scrambles through drawers to find the keys.

I take two bites of the bread and it’s gone, but packed into its small size is a swath of magical energy that my magical core greedily absorbs.

Ronan eats his also, and for a moment, I can sense the energy spike within him, but then it goes away completely, shut off from me and anyone else around us.

I scoff at him. Of course he’d want to use whatever energy he has to hide his identity. But if Ramiel has noticed his magic before, why cover it up?

He avoids my stare, tapping on Ramiel’s outstretched arm. “You can eat this. It will restore your magical core.”

“Restore?” the prince asks, skeptical.

Ronan laughs. “Yes. It’ll feel weird at first, like you’re burning and freezing all at once, but then you’ll feel stronger.”

Ramiel hesitates, his fingers shifting along the corners of the crackly square. “E-Ether, did you eat it?”

Wait. Is he asking me?

I glance at Ronan. His eyebrows are drawn over dark eyes, his jaw tight. Yup: he’s jealous.

My lips purse to keep the smile away. Though I so badly want to show Ronan how pleased I am with this turn of events. His master prefers an elf’s opinion to his own.

“Yes, and I love the sensation it brings. Though you might feel a bit different if you’ve never had it before. Just take a nibble. If you don’t like it, I can eat it.”

Ronan bristles at my suggestion. I’d wager he wants it all for himself! I wouldn’t put it past him.

Ramiel takes a bite, then proceeds to shove the whole thing in his mouth. The dry, loud chewing and grimaces that flash across the lower half of his face are to be expected. The stuff is probably years and years old, but it still does the trick.

He swallows, then gags.

“Aha! I found two rooms. Boys in one, Ether in the other?” she asks, her voice crisp.

“Of course,” Ronan barks, not paying mind to his rudeness. Sylvia flinches a little before she steps forward, dangling the key above his already-outstretched hand.

“Yours is the first on the right, just up those stairs,” she says, dropping the rusty thing into his palm.

Ramiel coughs a few more times as I receive my room key from the baker. She tells me it’s the last one on the left.

I take her warm, burned hands in mine. “Thank you, Sylvie. And would you be able to grab him something to drink? He’s not used to the food of the forest.”

Her sunflower eyes bloom, petals unraveling toward her growing whites. “You mean, he’s a...”

I smile. “Human, yes. Is there any problem?”

Sylvia shakes her head. “No, not at all. I... haven’t hosted a human since the last at-home war. That fellow was shady as all get out. Covered his face in a silver metallic mask, made his servants speak for him, and never left any tips. Tsk tsk tsk.”

I’m not surprised there was a human in the forest at that time. Perhaps it was during the civil war between fairies and elves that happened when I was younger, the time when my parents had been killed. Or maybe it was more recent; many wars have occurred in the wood, entire villages raided and wiped out for energy and goods, but not many of those are heard about—they’re unfortunately too common. Those at the bottom of the ladder suffered the greatest, and fairies are probably close to reaching that first rung.

“Well, I can assure you this—these humans speak, and don’t hide their faces. And we will leave you a great tip,” I say with a wink. Ronan ought to sense my malice about hiding his identity, but he should also be thankful for my plural reference to his false humanity.

“I know you will, dear. Don’t worry, I will let anyone stay that wishes to, as long as they keep their business to themselves. I’ve got a lot more to be worried about than...” Her expression stiffens, eyes widening. “Aw shoot, the sourdough!”

The little green woman dashes away on little feet, disappearing behind the door at the back once more.

“So is she going to get him a drink?” Ronan snarls.

I shrug. “He looks fine now. He’s stopped coughing. Anyway, I’m going to go up to my room. I need some shut-eye.”

The fairy raises a brow at me. ”You? Sleep? Did having small feet and round ears for a few weeks make you loony?”

I dart a glare at him. “I meant what I said. I will shut my eyes.” A huff breaks through my lips involuntarily. Why do I have to explain anything to him? “Whatever. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

Gripping the rusty key in my hand, I march up the rickety wooden staircase and walk down the hall to the last room on the left.

I leave in the night.

Ramiel and Ronan have receded into their room. I can hear one of them snoring—probably Ronan—and I wrinkle my nose.

I walk silently past, feet light against the creaky wood floor. Elven stealth is one thing I’m grateful wasn’t taken from us after the War of Undying. But then again, I’m not grateful for anything that was taken from us to begin with, so I guess it’s something I appreciate that wasn’t stolen from us.

After slinking down the steps and leaving the inn, I stand outside and stare up at the canopy-lined dark blue sky. The heavens brim with celestial magic as stars wink at me and the moon smiles its thin crescent. The breeze brushes my face, both warm and cool.

My skin tingles with the hum of magic, and I have a sudden urge to be in the trees.

The trunks around me are singing their happiest tunes, all pulsing in harmony with one another. Their beautiful rhythm is soothing, and when I’ve gone above them, in the canopy, their songs combine into a tranquil lullaby only elven folk can understand.

Nwatalith is just a bound away. A rush along the treetops.

A new urge surfaces, even more powerful than my attraction to the trees: my heart yearns to see Pluto. The energy of the forest reminds me of him. Pally’s reminds me of him. I must go to him.

I rub my foot into the ground—soft dirt rising between my toes—and I take a deep breath in. The songs get louder, their words all forming one unison word: Ether.

Ether.

Ether.

My legs race to a large tree, then I’m bouncing left and right from branch to branch until I’m at the very top of the tall cedar. Different styles of leaves puff up around me at varying heights. The glow of the moon covers everything in a blanket of blue and white and purple. The steady beating of the trees’ hearts beneath me warms my own.

A puff of smoke rises in the distance.

Home.

Not wasting any time, I flit across the treetops effortlessly. My toes barely graze the pine needles, flat leaves, and spindly branches. I remain focused on the white smoke that wafts from my village, billowing its thin trail to the cosmos.

In less than thirty seconds, I’m balancing on an oak, peering down at the bustling nightlife of my elven home.

I drop into the scene, hardly noticed by the kids and adults dancing to the strum of a stringed instrument and the pattering of a grainy-sounding drum. Because no one expects my return, they don’t suspect I’m anyone outside their current population. The night conceals me well, too. I glance over the crowd, searching for my blond-haired friend.

He’s never been one for nightlife; he much prefers studying in his hut. I don’t know what I expected to find searching here.

Away from the crowd, in a quieter nook of the village, four small stone village houses squat together. His is the one on the far left. But there are no lights on inside.

I tilt my head, puzzled by his absence. Where could he have gone?

Just as I turn around to search somewhere else, I catch movement to my right. It’s dark, but it’s also moving too quickly for me to ascertain whether or not it’s Pluto.

“Pluto?” I whisper harshly. No response. I walk behind the right-most house, which is where the person disappeared. “Pluto?” I say a little louder. The back of the house leads directly into the thick forest, beyond which lies the boundary line between fairies and elves.

Something moves again, this time to my left, and it’s accompanied by a snapping branch.

A familiar, tall, cloaked body blends in with the night, retreating.

What is a mage doing here?

I back up against the stone wall of the hut to think.

Where is Pluto? And why is a mage here? Do the others know?

A sound comes from inside the hut, and I twitch lower to the ground. It’s my own village, yet my heart crashes in my ears and my face goes hot. I know I can’t be discovered.

This isn’t Pluto’s hut, but could it be him...?

Carefully, I stand up and peer in through an opening in the back. The room inside is lit with a fat candle; its flame is tall.

Clarisse, a young elven girl with thick ropes of red hair and freckled skin sits at a table, grinding something with a pestle and mortar. Her tongue sticks up on the left side of her mouth as she concentrates. The candle illuminates her face with a bronzy warmth.

She lifts a small animal from beneath her chair and places it on the table. A fluffy, white crobie— the only creature we tend to keep as pets. Similar in shape and size to a klopse, the crobies lack teeth, and their magical cores are insufficient for our needs. They’re also quite endearing and loyal. But this one’s eyes are slightly bulging, so much that I can see them even behind its thick, long fur. The pupils are glazed with white, as though clouds hover over them.

The young elf holds her finger over the stone bowl, squeezes her eyes shut, then wills the magic within her to produce a small ball of water from her fingertip. The crystalline orb dances and spins in the air then splooshes into the bowl chaotically as she loses control over it. Some of the fine dust she’s been grinding flies into the air and sparkles as it reflects the candlelight.

Unfazed, or at least, unembarrassed, Clarisse mixes the powder and water together with her finger, then lifts the dark paste to the crobie’s eyes. She rubs it directly over the poor thing’s murky irises, then wipes the excess on the side of her leg.

She stands, stretches, then moves to a sink, and grabs a pre-filled cup of water—backup, I suppose, in case her magi failed her. Then, Clarisse kneels on her seat, dips her hands into the water, and rubs the paste away from the crobie’s eyes.

My heart lurches.

The crobie’s irises now glow green, even behind the fur.

“Can you see now, sweetie?” Clarisse’s sweet voice coos. The crobie chitters its affection, leaping into the young girl’s arms. “Aw, I love you too! Now let’s get you back to your friends, okay?”

I watch as the girl turns—the fluff of white spilling over her arms—and leaves.

She’s used a natural herb called eramire, a rare sporous plant that can only be found in the highest elevated areas. Most of those areas are inhabited by scary beasts. Only one is nearby, in the fairy village to the east.

Eramire is rumored to be able to heal small ailments in a very short amount of time, including cuts and bruises, and other physical afflictions. But if it can heal a crobie’s blindness, then maybe...

With a quick glance at my surroundings, I run around the front of the building, push open the door, and swipe the mortar from the old wood table.

“Sorry,” I whisper to the young elf, wincing.

I don’t mean to steal, but they can’t very well know who I am now, can they? I don’t want to risk the king hearing about my visit. In fact, now that I think about it, I ought to get out of here quickly. Pluto isn’t here anyway. My strong impulse to see him has now left me, too.

My eyes dart at the canopy above, then I look at the village center, just a stretch of dirt road down, where people are dancing and singing and enjoying their peaceful night.

An ache nestles in my heart. I long to be with them—ignorant and full of freedom. But now my duties lie elsewhere. I believe that there must be other elves like me who have this same reason for not returning to the village to find a new life beyond the poverty, beyond the trauma and loss that brings everyone together.

I climb up a large oak and, with the mortar held tight to my chest, fly across the canopy to Pally’s.

When my feet hit the cool ground a few seconds later, Ramiel is waiting for me.