The Sinuous Bargain of a Cowardly Prince (book one, The Shadowed Throne Chronicles)
Chapter Thirty - Ramiel

Ether turns toward me and angrily thumps clenched fists into my chest. It doesn’t hurt, but even if it did, I wouldn’t stop her.

She weeps. The sound of it carries across the desolate village. I don’t wipe her tears—she deserves to mourn.

The wind has shifted, forcing the air into a state of stagnancy. It smells of damp ash and bitterness. I can tell by its scent alone that the destruction here is devastating.

The energy of the forest is barren here, as though the magic has been siphoned from the trees and from the ground. I’ve been able to sense it here and there, but now I’m really starting to feel its absence. Something sinister takes its place, permeating the air.

Through angry wails and between her soft hits on my chest, Ether repeats one word over and over:

“Why?”

That word alone is enough to crush me. And that is truly the question I’m sure anyone would find difficult to answer. Why have the mages done this?

And have they done anything else?

Only recently have I begun to lose faith in their ability to serve and protect the throne and the kingdom. Since losing my sight because of their malpractice and because of Ether’s prickly attitude whenever they’re brought up, I’ve started wondering why they’re so highly revered in King Azriel’s court. Beyond protecting the throne and determining the fate of noble human souls, what purpose do they serve?

They’ve always been around, at least, as far as I can remember. Huddled to the sides of the throne room or wedged into corners at military meetings, they always made sure to see to it that the king was protected and that Xavelor would succeed the throne.

But they failed half of their responsibility, haven’t they?

A lump forms in my throat. sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ Find ɴøᴠel.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

What if thisisn’tjust the beginning? What if the mages—whom the kingdom has entrusted to serve the royal family for centuries—have truly turned against the crown? Had they meant to abandon Xavelor? Had they purposefully blinded me?

A feeling creeps over me, making the darkness feel a lot smaller, a lot more claustrophobic as it rapidly implodes on itself, with me at its center. Sweat dribbles down my forehead, having accumulated from our brisk treetop escapade.

To prevent bruising, I slide my palms over where Ether continues to asynchronously pound her fists. She seems to take this as an indication to stop, but I’m quick to grab her slender wrists before she can tear away.

My mind is elsewhere, working out what could possibly be behind this terrible event. But Ether is seeing and experiencing this traumatic wreckage. I know that she must be building up inexpressible emotions on the inside.

“I’m so sorry,” is all I can say. What else is there to say? She’s devastated. Mages did this, according to the woman she spoke with. The air smells of death—old, musky, damp, dry. Like something has been burned, then slicked over with something sticky and fetid to cover the stench.

Ether sniffs. “I’m not upset with you. In fact, I... I have something to tell you,” she says, relaxing her arms. I let her go and she moves closer to me, but not close enough for my heart to falter. Then, a low, angry sound grumbles in her throat. “But not here. I can’t stand looking at this place. Let’s go back to Hearthstrom.”

I’m surprised she manages to speak so clearly, so strongly. I know I’d be up in arms if I discovered such a deliberately hostile scene. Then she draws in a very loud, level breath and reaches for my hand before twisting her back to me.

No. This doesn’t feel right.

To my shock, all it takes is a small tug to pull her back toward me. It’s sort of like she doesn’t really want to leave this place. Why has she suggested it? Because she knows it’s the right thing to do? To give the village peace?

“Don’t hold yourself back,” I say quietly. Her arm tenses in my hand. “Let your anger out.” I’m not sure if this is a safe thing to say to an emotionally-driven being, but I’m also not sure anyone has given her permission. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s been trained to conceal her emotions the best she can to protect herself.

She gasps, either at my words or at my strength—I am using my left arm after all... the one filled with dark energy. I wonder if she’s noticed that it has been the one I’ve been using to practice spells with. I’d tried once with my right arm but to no avail. My core is pulled—like a magnet—to my left arm, and once I discovered that earlier this week, it immediately increased my rate of learning spells.

I think I hear her mutter her thanks before she turns away, pulling away from my grasp.

Then, she just... starts... breaking things. I’m unaware of how horrible this village looks, but I’m almost positive she makes it look even worse.

Wood and stone crack and scrape against one another, against the ground. She cries out as she smashes rock against rock and snaps wood planks and sticks by stepping on them. All I can “see” is her core leaping high into the air and crashing to the ground. When she uses magic, her core glows warmer, like something within her is trying to calm the anger that now spins from her limbs. And she destroys the village, ruining—I assume—the parts that look familiar to her.

A part of me wants to join her. To assist in her outrage. But I know I’d only get in her way, and I’d probably only hurt myself. Slip on a plank or trip over a sharp rock.

I decide to stand quietly and just hope that she won’t accidentally toss anything dangerous in my direction.

But to be honest, even if she did, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. I’d rather a pretty elf impale me than a klopse, any day.

It’s morning by the time we are back in Hearthstrom, according to the heat beating on my back and the smell of pine hovering in the air. It’s a welcome change from the mugginess of the forest, and I’m sure Ether appreciates it, too.

She hands me off to Ronan, then moves to her ritual place by the fire pit and collapses. Her exhaustion is understandable; our journey took the entire night, so I’m ready to sleep now, too. She must have forgotten whatever thing she wished to discuss with me, but I can remind her later.

“Oh my, is she sleeping?” Qor’s voice grumbles. His presence no longer startles me, though his random appearances in the morning did at first. Not being able to sense him is the most bizarre thing, considering he’s an elf. I wonder how it will feel to be around the king and my maids, and others who don’t use magic. I won’t be able to sense them, either.

It takes me too long to hear the worry in the old warrior’s voice.

I twitch around, but Ronan catches me by the elbow. “Where were you?” he hisses, and I suddenly feel guilty. I can’t easily say I’d spent the entire night with Ether, now, can I?

“She’s fine,” Qor announces. “Elves don’t normally sleep, but she must’ve drained a lot of energy last night. She needs some rest.” A twang echoes in his voice, but he doesn’t elaborate.

The implication of our nighttime activities tightens my chest ever so slightly, but the bitter reminder of the true events quenches the embarrassment I have no right to feel.

Cringing, I turn back to Ronan. Since his return, he hasn’t said much to me, despite my efforts to console him. I think he’s bitter about me finding out about who he is, to be honest.

“Where were you?” he repeats, this time a little more aggressively.

“Oh, uh,” I start. For a second I try to come up with some kind of excuse, but in the end, I don’t want to lie to Ronan. He doesn’t deserve that. So I settle on the truth. “Ether’s village.”

Ronan grips my elbow, then pulls me down to a squatting position. His breath hits my nose as he talks in a low voice. “What business do you have visiting her village? What did you see? What did you...do?”

I pick his hand from my arm and lean back to sit on my heels. Does he have any business knowing what we saw? Somehow I feel like telling him mages destroyed her village would only make things worse. They have a clear hatred for one another. He’d probably... celebrate the massacre. I’m not sure I’d be able to handle that.

“I think I ought to get some answers from you first,” I say through tight lips. “You haven’t been very talkative this whole week. Why the sudden concern?”

“That’s not important right now,” he huffs.

I cross my arms over my chest. “I say it is. I want to know where you’ve gone the past few nights, and why you’ve distanced yourself from me. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

The change in subject is painful. I know I need to spend time mourning the horrific passing of Nwatalith’s people, but I’ll need to put that aside until I get some truth out of Ronan. Don’t kings do that? Ignore how they’re feeling emotionally to focus on war and strategy? If anything, this suppression of my true feelings will make for good practice.

“Friends,” Ronan says distantly, as though he’s replaying some kind of fond memory. “You really believe that a servant can be friends with his master?”

“Of course,” I say without a second thought. After all, hadn’t Ronan forced himself on me when we first met after those ten or so long years of not seeing each other? Once Xavelor died, Ronan fled to me, practically telling me I had no right to refuse my brother’s “dying wish.” But that’s just the thing: I’ve more or less been given sovereignty over choosing my own servants, so without having chosen him, he’s never officially been sworn in as my servant. Which means... this whole time, I’ve thought of him more as a friend.

Ronan hesitates for a moment, then sighs. I think there’s a slight chuckle accompanying his resignation, and I hope that means he recognizes my affinity toward him. “Fine, I will tell you. But it’s something that even I’ve been puzzling at. Before I tell you, though, I have to know... Do I not... repulse you?”

My eyebrows pull over my eyes in response and I’m sure my expression of confusion is explicit.

“No, of course not,” I say firmly. What a question that is! He must’ve gone through a lot to have to ask such a thing. Sure, I’ve not seen him in his fairy form, but I’m not unfamiliar with fairies and their appearances. “Why would I detest a perfectly good man?”

“Perfectly good,” he repeats darkly. He continues before I can assimilate the meaning behind his repetition, but I’m sure he only means to communicate his disbelief. “To answer your question, I’ve been off doing... research of sorts. I’ve discovered that the forest has been slowly and mysteriously losing its inhabitants... the little creatures that used to happily hop about have disappeared. But there’s something else... Something I discovered that—more or less—inhibits my speech. Even thinking about it makes my already brazen body feel unclean.”

Ronan continues. “So I will only say this once, and I swear on my life I’m telling the truth, though even I am finding it difficult to believe.” He sucks in a breath and then, in the smallest voice, croaks: “You cannot, under any circumstance, repeat what I’m about to say.”

I nod, and a rush of cold flows through me. Even when discussing my brother’s ignoble history with elven women, he didn’t preface it with such precaution. What could he possibly have to say that even in this abandoned village, he has to remain quiet?

Ronan inhales deeply and speaks at a still-quiet volume.

“The king’s mages are kept alive via dark energy. Dark magic,” he says, voice trembling.

“Yes, I know that,” I say bitterly. Ether had been kind to explain that the magic used on my face was of the dark sort, which clearly had evil origins. I may have been uncertain before, but I’m sure of it now.

“Do you know where they get this dark magic?”

I shake my head. Does it matter where they get it from? I’d assumed they did as the fairies do: create it from scratch. Or maybe, somehow they convert the energy from the forest into something they can use. In that case, I’m not sure how they cultivate it, if it’s something that can even be cultivated.

“Ramiel... about your father—I...I’ve been visiting the castle to heed his orders,” Ronan whispers. I can tell he’s struggling to tell me this, but I’m unable to harness the confusion that takes me over.

He’s been going where to heed whose orders? My jaw goes stiff, and I say nothing. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that the Perri family would first serve the king before his illegitimate son. But the fact that I now know this family of nobles consists of fairies... This changes things. Just how many people can the king control?

“But I don’t think I can... I don’t think I can do this,” he croaks. “He said his court mages require dark magic, and that means... A sacrifice.”

For a second, my heart stops. The pieces start to fall into place, but the picture is still incomplete.

Years of tradition and ritual required kings of the Faundor line to sacrifice elven women to Lord Arioch, who had been immortalized in the heavens since his death after the War of Undying. As a prerequisite for receiving immortality, the king must practice a life of piety and perform sacrifices when the divine words of Arioch reach his ears. However... this seems to be another lie I’ve been spoon-fed my entire life. As far as I know, Xavelor’s soul has been sent to the heavens, sparkling high in the cosmos without having ever sacrifi—

No, he definitely killed them. Not in the traditional way, but did it matter? He’d slain many women when he was at war, and after having done... Arioch knows what to them. But if what Ronan says is true, then my brother was no longer human when he died... He was a mage.

And the “sacrifices” he performed fueled his strength in battle.

“Ether,” Ronan says, and I’m surprised by the amount of pain in his voice when he speaks her name. It also rips me out of my analysis, which I’m unsure is even correct. “She’s the one he wants.”

“Why her?” I ask perhaps too passionately. I hear Qor stir to my left. “It’s been long enough since we saved her from that fate. Why call her back now? Does he know she’s—”

“Yes,” he croaks back, “which is exactly why I cannot refuse his order.”

“You can, and you will,” I say. The order comes out strained, but I don’t know what else to do. I don’t want either of them to die.

“Ramiel,” he says, his voice trembling. “The evening you found out who I was... I... I flew back to tell Viktor, and well... News traveled faster than expected to Azriel’s court. I was summoned the next night, and every night after. Sort of as probation, to keep a watchful eye on me. He knows where we are, what we do each day...” His voice trails off, the disgust rising from his words.

“That first night, I swore against my father. Viktor, I mean. But even with my verbal refusal to obey the family, my blood is still cursed to serve the king. We are forbidden to break this tie to the Faundor family; we are unable to clip the chord of loyalty. At the very least... I can serve you, as you carry his horridly pure bloodline... Sorry, but it’s true.” His hand reaches for mine and he grips my palm to hold himself steady. “My family means nothing to me, Ramiel. If I had a choice, I’d rip myself free of these chains, but...”

I cup my other hand around his and pat it gently. “I understand,” I gulp, though I really don’t. I know the dukedom serves the king, but to this degree... I had no idea. It reminds me of the elven honesty curse, which I’d learned about in my schooling. Much of the fairy history had been very well-disguised, but it would make sense that both peoples are inhibited by a restrictive hex.

“They’ll kill her,” Ronan says, voice tight. “They’ll rend her core from her body, then crush it and eat it to regain their power, like savages. Her body will be thrown to the starved wild beasts they trap in their dungeons.” His hand shakes between my palms. “That’s how dark magic is made. That’s what...I’vebeen using, in small dosages, in the capsules we make. If I’d known better, I...”

“Damn them,” I curse between clenched teeth. “They won’t have her. Or any other elf. Ever again.” I clasp his shoulder with a hand. “I don’t blame you, Ronan.”

Ronan steadies his breathing, then clasps my hands together. “We can certainly try to protect her... but I only have so much longer to delay before King Azriel...”

“He wouldn’t harm you, would he?”

The fairy chuckles darkly. I know by this simple sound that if I could see my aid now, he’d look a lot different. And not just from his fairy appearance. I’m sure he has a bruise or two, perhaps a scrape or a gash. The king has laid a finger on him to force him into this uncharacteristic obedience.

“Remember, this stays between us.” He slides his hand across one of my open palms and hovers it there, instigating a handshake. “I can’t think of any other way I can serve you, let alone be your... your friend. But this is something I wasn’t told to disclose. I wanted to tell you.”

I grip his hand and move it up and down twice. “I won’t speak a word of it.”

Ronan accepts my promise, then turns away. I move under the shade of my makeshift hut, twisting my back to the shaded rock.

There is much to think about. I hold each up on my fingers to keep a mental note.

One: The mages were the cause of Nwatalith’s destruction.

Two: They harvest cores from pure magical beings to fuel their impure dark magic.

Three: My closest friend is being extorted by my father.

Four: The woman I love is on my father’s list for execution.

A shiver shakes my body and sends twitches down my arms at the thought of losing the one person who has been extremely understanding, even though she barely knows me...

I lift my smallest finger, creating a five-pointed star with my hand.

Five: In just over a month, I’ll not only have to fight a dragon, but I’ll also reveal my face to the world as the new heir to the throne. As the only crown prince there ever was.

As... Xavelor.

I put my hand down.

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