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

My return to the servant’s quarters is meant to be quick—I just have to grab my dagger and change into my looser, non-palace clothing. Then, we will be on our way to Hearthstrom for training.

However, as I turn a tall corner into the dimly lit hallway, my heart lurches to a stop and spasms ricochet through my limbs before they go stiff with fear.

Two black-cloaked individuals block the entrance like scraggly shadows teetering toward the ceiling. But it isn’t their ominous black garb that deters me. It’s the dark magic that spins around them and whips through the air like venomous lightning. I see it now, for the first time. Before, I could only sense it, taste it in the air, but perhaps now that I’ve had some of it in my system, my visual awareness has been awakened. I’m not sure I like that very much.

Like long, luminescent snakes, dark blue streaks of light coil around them, zipping through their crippled bodies and wrapping their bandaged heads and arms. It swarms them, invades them like some kind of magical plague, but rather than showing weakness from this dangerous amount of concentrated energy, their power is undeniably growing, even as they merely stand there.

I sense no light from them, only hostility and darkness.

Sweat covers my palms as I avert my gaze, then attempt to pass them along the wall. But then, in a sudden, jerky movement, one of them juts their arm out and clasps my elbow with a clammy hand, locking me in place.

I want to scream. But I know I shouldn’t.

“Ether Malaphon, you are to come with us.” As they speak, it’s as though a chorus of two dissonant tongues sing the same tune, but in several incompatible keys. The resulting screech makes me cringe.

The bandaged hand bracing my elbow is thin, bony, but uncharacteristically strong. It takes barely any guidance—a slight tug—and they’re dragging me along with their inhuman smoothness to Arioch knows where.

Then it hits me. I had not told anyone my full name, not even Ramiel. The only one who confirmed my name was... The elder elf.

But then... that must mean Ramiel was telling the truth about the king’s intent to sacrifice me. How else would the mages know my name?

My eyes dart up at the tall, dark, once-human beast. The blue still bends chaotically around its arm, but somehow, even as tendrils whip out and brush through me, I can’t feel them. Would I be able to if I had dark magic within me?

Would Ramiel feel their thwacks against his arm? Would Ronan?

Questions churn in my head, but I’ve no time to ponder them as I wish.

We enter into an area of the palace beyond the prince’s quarters, where I’m used to working. I notice a change in decoration: chandeliers are clean, walls are covered in regal, dusted dark blue pennants and drapes. Candelabras and tea carts wedge into corners politely as we pass. The maids driving them direct eye contact away from us.

We continue walking, into another room and past walls of books with gold embellishments on each spine. There’s even stacks of well-loved volumes strewn across a large desk, alongside scrolls and scribes.

High and buried in the ceiling are curved glass windows that seem to have been taken from different colored chunks, then broken and stuck back together. The result is quite breathtaking, and for a moment I lose myself in the warmth they bring to my heart. They contain no magic, yet they emit such radiance that—

I’m tugged along harshly by the monster dressed in black.

We leave the library and enter a long hallway. A velvety rug stretches down the corridor like a scarlet river. We move very slowly, perhaps to allow me to take in the grandiose, expensive architecture of the swollen, circular walls—it’s really like I’m walking through the inside of a large snake—though I’m unsure why this is needed, this slothful pace.

The mages halt, then twist to face a magnificent iron door, encircled with gold spirals, silver dragons, and rivers of crimson. The dragons are full of life and motion, though they are melded into place over the arch, unalive. The gold and red twist together, a symbol of the royal bloodline, and meet just above the dragons. Stamped into the center of the dark, robust metal door is the king’s emblem: a dragon raised on its hind legs and clenching a sword in its jaw.

The mage releases my arm, then both of them turn to me, their choir of highs and lows ordering me to enter.

I want to refuse, to obey this warning staggering my heart into irregular beats, but I know I’m at the disadvantage here. The dread slithering up my neck is one I’ve felt before: it’s telling me that I’m about to die.

I begin to think of Ramiel and Ronan, who are probably at the stables by now, awaiting my arrival so we may embark on our journey together. But perhaps I’ll never make it there. I’m weak and defenseless here. They won’t be able to do or say anything to protect me.

With this despair in mind, I take a deep breath, then press my palms to the cold door and it opens smoothly.

To my left, more windows line the walls, all different artistic designs arranged with pieced-together glass. A flower here, a bird there. Then I lift my chin to the ceiling; a painting of the glorious map of Arioch lives there, in full color and beautiful. Something about it makes me feel smaller—have I never realized how truly giant the kingdom is? Then, on my right, more windows cascade down to the front of the room. The floor is a whirlpool of black and white and red marble. A path of scarlet silk shoots down the center, up a tall staircase, to a throne gilded in gold and silver.

The throne is not empty.

My heart plummets to my stomach, and for a moment I think that it hits the bottom so hard that it makes an audible thud, but it’s just the heavy door shutting behind me.

I think I’m going to puke. What do I even do? Do I bow? Yes, that seems to be the right decision.

My knees break beneath me and I crumple to the ground, rest my forehead on my hands and press my palms to the red fabric.

In this position, he can’t see me tremble.

“Ether,” his voice booms. It rings around the room, filling it with its timbre.

I don’t respond. Heat barrels into my head and sends burning signals to my ears. What the hell am I supposed to say? Isn’t there a rule about not speaking unless asked to speak?

“Stand, and come forth,” he orders. The tonality of his words brings me to my feet, and I obediently march toward him, eyes respectfully trained on the ground. I stop a few yards from the base of the stairs.

Silence ensues. The air feels heavy and thick, as though begging one of us to break the tension. Should it be me?

I gulp, and hopefully, the panic and horror get swallowed down along with my nervousness.

“To what do I owe this pleasure, Your Majesty?” I say as steadily as I can in my polished palace voice. Perhaps he can detect the fear in it, though, since my tone wavers slightly at the mention of his title.

“Silence,” he booms—but it’s really more like a roar, almost loud and powerful enough to rival the cries of dragons.

Despite myself, my knees buckle together.

“Look at me, young elf. Face your king.”

I take in an unsteady breath, lifting my head to face the king every magical being fears, and when I see him, I seriously don’t know how I’ve managed to live in the palace, undisturbed, for as long as I have.

The silver-streaked brassy hair atop his head swooshes around his carved face and a tall, bejeweled crown rests in its place over his forehead. Darkness fills his brown eyes. His mouth hides behind a chiseled, graying beard. Broad shoulders are decorated in layers of robes, all dark colors like black and purple, and red. But I truly don’t grasp his massiveness until he leans back slightly, then glowers down his nose at me as though he’s trying to focus on a pest he intends to crush.

“That’s right,” he chuckles darkly. “Did you really think you could slip into my castle without me knowing?”

I don’t reply. Not even with a shake or nod of my head.

“Pitiful creature.”

He rises from his throne, and it’s impossible for me to not gape at his grandeur. He makes his way slowly, intimidatingly, down the steps, and stops just before me. I dare not look up at him, for I know his size is at least thrice that of mine. How can a human be so large?

His thick index finger reaches toward my face and I freeze. He runs it along my jaw. “Such a beautiful thing,” he says in a mocking tone. Then, his whole hand grips my neck, and I hold my breath. “How sad it must be, unable to live up to your full potential.”

He bends down to my level, and my heart quickens. At this point, I’m numb to this fear that consumes me. Its cold embrace has swallowed me whole; I’m a mere shell, abandoned in the king’s clutch.

His eyes bore into mine, and though I can’t see his lips, I know by the pulls in his cheeks that he’s grinning. “Ah, yes. Onyx. My favorite color.” His hand tightens and I gasp for breath, but I get none. Then, to my surprise, he releases me.

“You’re right to fear me, Ether.” He paces around me, the heaviness of his body almost inaudible as he walks on the marble flooring. Perhaps my heartbeat is too loud to hear his footsteps. “But you’re wrong to hate me.”

I inhale as much as possible, savoring the sharp air that rapidly goes in and out of my lungs.

“Tell me, young elf. Do you hate me?”

Yes.

My jaw clenches. I can’t tell him the truth, or I will be slaughtered for treason. Perhaps even my presence here in the throne room is reason enough for my execution. Do I want to die? No. Not here, not by his hand. I simply must lie. Or, at least, convince myself that I don’t hate him with all my heart.

Ah, yes. He’s not all bad. He’s the father of the prince I’ve sworn to teach, after all. Ramiel is nothing like his father, but I cannot bring myself to hate his own flesh and blood. This is true, it must be true. This hatred is impossible.

“No,” I croak, “I don’t hate you, Your Majesty.”

He’s suddenly staring at me again, right there in my face, and I want to scream. His silver eyebrow twitches upward, and his eyes tighten. I don’t feel relief at my successful ruse.

“Then you will do as I say,” he resigns, stepping back up to his throne. Once he’s seated, he resumes. “Do you know why I brought you to the palace?”

I don’t respond. My answer is very different from his, and I can’t bring myself to say the damning word he wishes for me to say: sacrifice. The word simmers in my head, and now that I’ve thought it, I can’t get it out.

The king props his elbow on the arm of his throne, then rests his chin on the heel of his hand. “One by one, I will have all of you killed. In one way or another.” His eyes glimmer from the colorful light parading through the windows. Their beauty is lost in his darkness. “But I have a deal I’d like to make with you, Ether.”

I just stare at him, my body as still as a gutted beast.

A chuckle rips from his lips, perhaps amused by my silence. “You seem to have taken a liking to that bastard, Ramiel. You even blinded him, ridding him of his chances to become king. Yet, I’m about to offer you a generous deal.”

He lifts his head, laces his fingers on his lap, and leans forward. “You shall continue this penniless display of master-teaching-hopeless-student. It matters not how you train him, only that he must pass his trial at the Feast of Undying. If you prove successful, I will spare you both.”

How kind.

I gnaw on my lip. He has to be joking. Right? He’s the king, so he can do as he pleases, regardless of the consequences. He’s mercilessly killed before, so what will stop him from doing it again?

“Do we have an agreement?” The tone in his voice tells me I can’t refuse, however, and the new heat that rises in my cheeks stems from roots of righteous anger.

He doesn’t think I can train him.

When will this regal ass realize that a blind prince is still a prince? That he still has a fighting chance? He must be unaware that Ramiel now has magic flitting through his veins. I wonder how his tune would change if he ever found out...

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Good,” he bellows. “Now leave.”

I don’t hesitate another second—turning on my heel, I stride out of the throne room and rush to grab my dagger, clothes... everything is a blur, but I can only hope I retrieved everything.

As I walk, I weave my hair into a long braid—four strands entwined together—then I twist them into a ball on my head. I tuck the ends in to make it stay.

Blood quickly runs through my arms and legs, as though the encounter with the king had stopped the flow. Curses fly through my lips, and I don’t care if others hear. There’s nothing to lose anymore.

When I reach the stables, my feet ache. And it’s not from walking—that distance had been nothing for me.

The soft, warm scent of sweet hay drifts in the air from within the grayish wooden building. The smell and the sun overhead helps me forget.

Before I go in to greet the prince and his servant, I take my cloth shoes off and my eyes widen. My feet have almost doubled in size! I reach to my ears, feel for the point, and smile.

The pill has worn off. Finally. Perhaps its power had been drained due to the stress. The heat. The suppressed urge to sink my teeth into that filthy royal’s flesh and rip him apart.

With a deep breath in, I toss the shoes to the side, then march into the stables, feigning confidence. My heart thrashes in my chest.

I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay.

“Ah, Ether. You made it. What took so—” Ronan’s eyes widen, his eyebrows slanted. He drops the reins he’s holding and rushes to my side. He’s quick; his hand lifts my chin, then gently rubs along my neck. I flinch at his touch.

His lips go to my ear. “Who the hell did this?”

I hold in my tears, which now would like to make their appearance. “I just, you know, ran into the uh... the king...”

Ronan goes rigid, an all-knowing sparkle glinting in his eyes. For a second, I feel like he pities me, understands me, or both. And I hate him a little less.

Which isn’t saying a lot, since the king is clearly way worse than Ronan or any other fairy could ever be.

He releases my jaw and scratches his head. “He hates our kind,” he whispers, thankfully out of audible range from the prince. His gaze settles on the ground. “Did he threaten you?”

“Now’s not the time for this. Besides, since when do you care?” I bite back, watching as Ramiel leans closer to listen.

Ronan scoffs. “You’re right. How dare I. Never mind then.”

He turns on his heel and reaches for Ramiel, then helps the prince onto his black stallion. There’s an exchange of whispering between them before Ramiel nods his head and faces my general direction.

“Ether,” he says brightly. I can’t help but smile at the life he puts into my name. It nearly makes me forget about the unease that prickles bruises where the king’s hand had been at my throat. “Would you like to walk as you did before, or mount a horse?”

His concern is endearing. My smile widens, and I try not to watch for Ronan’s grimace.

“I’m surprised you’re riding one, Your Highness,” I say, cringing at my sudden use of his title. Man, my whole inner being feels messed up. It’s as though the king reached into my throat and altered how I behave. I need to snap out of it. Since when did I call Ramiel by such a dramatic title?

Lucky for me, Ramiel doesn’t seem to notice. “But of course. I’ll be tethered to my aide’s steed.” He reaches back and gives a soft pat to the horse’s rear, then addresses the fairy standing just beneath him. “Ronan, could you please grab me a blindfold? That way others won’t suspect my identity.”

The servant leaves in a hurry, leaving the prince and me alone in the stables. It seems quite unsafe to leave the blind prince alone on a horse, so I cautiously move to steady the beast. My hands stroke the long neck, soft under my fingers. The horse appears to enjoy it.

I look up at Ramiel. He’s wearing plain clothes, similar to Ronan’s. During our first encounter, he’d been wearing the outfit of a prince. Now that I remember it, it seems strange, considering no one knew what Xavelor looked like, let alone that there was another prince in the royal family. If they’d wanted to hide his identity so badly, how was Ramiel able to leave the palace whilst bearing the crown prince’s emblem? Surely it wasn’t to gather rapport for whoever he’d planned to recruit to be his master. That would be ludicrous.

In spite of myself, I let the question fly off my tongue.

“Why aren’t you dressed as regally as you were the day we met, Ramiel?”

He seems alarmed by my question, and though he can’t see, his eyelids close multiple times, as though he’s trying to force sight into his emerald greens. Obviously, it doesn’t work. He bites his lip and sucks in a deep breath.

“Ronan suggested I wear it. He said when Xavelor sported the jewelry and regal garb, he was taken more seriously,” he states. “Of course, Xavelor always wore a helmet to conceal his face from the public.” His hand goes to his mouth and he coughs into his fist, clearing his throat. “Though now that I think about it, wearing it back then sounds like it was a terrible idea, doesn’t it? I’ll have to scold my servant later.” He lets out a hearty laugh, and it’s difficult for me to retain my suspicions.

I take promises very seriously. If he told me he would be honest with me, I’ll hold him to his word.

Will I ever be able to tell him the deal I made with the king?

Ronan returns, a white piece of folded cloth in his grasp. “Sire,” he says between shallow breaths—has he been running?—as he reaches for Ramiel’s hands. He places the blindfold in the prince’s open palm and steps away. Ramiel ties the fabric around his head expertly, as though he’s quite used to doing it. Probably under Bernadette’s jurisdiction.

“Thank you, Ronan,” the prince says softly. “Have you tethered Claude to Melanie?”

The fairy nods, then cringes at his error, and says “yes.”

I refrain from laughing, but man does it feel redeeming to witness him make the same mistake I’d made earlier this morning. My hand flies to my mouth to hide my smile, but I don’t think I do a very good job of masking it.

Ronan scowls at me, then disappears into a stall, and brings a stout and small pony out on a hemp lead. He squares me up, offering me the reins.

Surely he must be joking.

I give him a look.

He’s not joking. The smug grin on his face tells me that much.

“Shall we get going?” he asks in a cheery voice, spinning on his heel.

I sneer at him with a venomous, toothy smile—that he fortunately doesn’t see—before my legs swing over the little beast. I realize quickly and with great aggravation that this horse is the perfect size for me. I try to convince myself that this won’t damage my pride, but to no avail—I feel punier than usual. Perhaps the king isn’t that large after all...

“About how far is Hearthstrom?” Ramiel asks, stopping my thoughts from hitching my heart into my throat again.

“About a day and a half’s journey by carriage. Perhaps less on horseback,” I reply.

“I see,” the prince says, nodding. “Do you know of any inns along the way?”

“What, did you not sleep in the canopy last time you visited the forest?”

It’s an inappropriate and touchy subject—humans entering the magical wood. But I’d wager no one will stop us to inquire about our purpose for entering, especially not when even Ramiel now has some magic in his human core. Still, it’s best to stay out of sight, just in case. I’m sure Pluto would’ve done the same in my situation.

Ramiel chuckles. “You think I’d want to sleep in a tree, as a blinded, unprotected member of the royal family?”

Ronan tosses me an amused look—eyebrows raised, eyes half-closed, and a little smile warping his face into something ugly—but I ignore him.

“Well, if we hurry, we can stop by Pally’s on the Bend. They’re a family-owned shop that cares very well for guests,” I suggest. “It’s just outside Myrlbourne. About halfway to Hearthstrom.”

“Grand,” Ramiel says, smiling. “Can you lead us?”

“That I can,” I huff, and Ronan rolls his eyes. Probably because he’s incompetent.

I give the pony a gentle jab with my bare heels. It whinnies, then lurches forward, shaking its long, gray mane out.

“What’s its name?” I ask, changing the subject. The other two full-sized horses clop behind me as we leave the stable. “So I can address it as you do yours.”

“Ether,” Ronan snickers, not missing a beat.

I growl back at him.

“Okay, fine,” he laughs. “Her name is Clover.”

“Any reason behind the name?”

Ramiel chimes in. “She was my first riding horse. Before her procurement, she was to be sold for meat. Therefore, she was lucky to have been saved by us. My mother named her Clover.”

“That’s very sweet,” I say as I turn back to the gray-colored pony. I stroke her ears and she chuffs with pleasure. I don’t allow my thoughts to enter into the dark land where the other meat ponies live and the golden hand of Arioch’s royalty never touches.

As we gallop past the dead trees and into the muggy wood, my shoulders loosen.

Though I know it will be short-lived, I can finally breathe again.