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

Though I sleep for hours, I wake up exhausted. I haven’t dreamt for the past week, and I’m grateful last night continued that streak. Many of my dreams pull fragments from reality, so while I’d been glad to have not actually seen the chaos that ruined Nwatalith, I’m almost certain the carnage would’ve appeared in my subconscious a hundredfold.

I prop myself on my elbows, and my eyebrows tug down over my eyes.

My left arm feels abnormally stronger today than it has throughout the week. Either it’s growing stronger, or my right arm is growing weaker.

“Morning sleepy,” Ronan says next to me. His voice is nearly back to its normal cadence of casual and nasally, though it’s guarded.

I nod in his direction, then stick my neck out to my right until I feel the sun graze my forehead. I raise a hand to shade myself, then breathe in. The air is dry, hot, and smells like a blend of fresh soil and moss. The usual humidity is gone, allowing for a cool, soft breeze to whizz past us.

Once the clouds clear from my head and the hazy exhaustion subsides, my skin goes cold.

“Where’s Ether?”

When Ronan sighs, I lean closer to him and raise my hand to find his thin tunic. I ball it in a fist and tug him closer.

“Tell me where she is,” I say, ignoring the thoughts that barrel through my mind. Most of them are incoherent, but the ones that are salvageable blame the fairy for his loyalty to my elf-killing family.

Ronan hadn’t expressed any desire to follow the king’s orders. He wouldn’t, not after our conversation earlier this morning. So I don’t want to blame him, even though everything inside me is telling me to.

As I hold him there, trying to get an answer out of him, his magical core shrinks ever-so-slightly, and he lets out a raspy breath.

“She’s with Qor, to the falls east of Hearthstrom. I guess she needed to get her mind off... you know...”

“Did she tell you?” I snap, not out of anger, but in alarm at his apparent knowledge of the night’s events.

“Yes,” he responds slowly, almost like he’s asking a question. “She was telling Qor, and I overheard. I... I can’t imagine how she must’ve felt.”

My jaw clenches, and the smells and sounds from the night before all at once return to haunt me: Ether pounding her hands into my chest, the withered words of a woman elf who perished after giving us the damning evidence we needed to hear, the scent of death and smoky ashes floating wherever it pleased.

“Take me to her.”

“But, Ramiel, don’t you wish to eat? You’ve slept all day. It’s nearly sunset.”

I hold up a hand, releasing Ronan with my other. “Make no extra effort to create food on my behalf. I must ensure she’s alright.”

When I turn to move, Ronan stops me with his arm. He gives my shoulder a squeeze and sighs. “Qor made a meal for you, so you’d best eat it. Unlike Ether, you can’t run on love and anger forever. You’re human. You have to eat.”

I shake his hand away, more frustrated now for some reason. “I’m not hungry.”

“Ramiel, please.” His voice is tight, as if his request in combination with my reply will somehow jeopardize his life.

Sighing, I concede. He gets up to retrieve whatever food is near Qor’s area of rest, then returns to me. The food, if cooked at all, has been cold for a while, so it carries no scent. I already know the contents of this meal.

Ronan guides my hands around a cool, stone bowl. A shaved wooden utensil rests inside, stuck in a gritty, herb and insect porridge.

It’s quite revolting; the smell, the taste. Once it’s under my nose, I have to stop breathing.

“I’m fine, really,” I say, holding it toward him.

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His tone is stronger, more forceful. Would my father put up with his servant ordering him to do unpleasant things? I’d like to think not. Perhaps he’s forcing Ronan to make me miserable, in which case, am I able to resist?

I bite my cheek as I mull over this thought. Do I truly aspire to be like the man who has slain so many? Who has never treated me as his own, yet has forced me to go on a fool’s mission to appear on the platform I was never meant to stand on? Do I wish to manipulate others in such a way that lives are put at risk and friendships and familial relationships are torn apart?

“Yes sir,” I mumble, stuffing the slimy, bitter mush into my cheek. I eat it dry with nothing to wash it down, and one thought conquers the rest: Even if I am seen as weak, I will become king.

Not a king like those in the line of Faundors before Azriel. No, I will become the king that will create a new meaning for the name that represents the bloodstained legacy of my forefathers. My future lineage will produce a line of princes and princesses who will remember the kingdom as one of harmony and trust and goodwill.

Once I miraculously finish my terrible meal, I hand the bowl back to Ronan and he rinses it under a conservative amount of water. A splash, if you will.

“Okay, shall we go?” he asks once he returns. I nod my head, hold out my hand, and he meets it with his forearm. I latch onto it.

“How far away are the falls?”

“I’d reckon about a ten-minute walk.”

“And of the water; is it drinkable?”

Ronan grunts as he helps me to my feet. “Perhaps not. Ether traveled in the opposite direction to retrieve water for us. I believe the falls are meant for bathing and baptism.”

“Baptism?”

“Yes. The elves have practiced cleansing rituals on their youngest and eldest for millennia, offering a prayer of longevity to their goddess and queen, Nadia. I’m sure this is one of those sites.” Ronan is calm as he explains.

“You seem to know a lot about that,” I remark. For a few seconds, my friend is silent.

“Yes, well. This isn’t something I’m proud of, but many of my people found that the best way to exact revenge for their bloody raids on our villages was to...interrupt those ceremonies. Taking the lives of the extremely young and extremely old, I admit, is quite a shallow method.”

I nod in response. By way of his tone, I can tell he truly feels shameful for his past treatment of elves, and this warms my heart. Will Ether express the same condolences to him? If she ever tormented a fairy, does she regret it now? Would she? I still don’t know where she stands emotionally opposing fairy people, her centuries-old sworn enemy.

We begin walking. I’m confident with every step I take, but Ronan’s guiding hand is strong and correcting. Every once in a while, he’ll mutter directions to me about changes in the terrain. A “careful” here and a “watch your step” there save me from tripping over twigs and rocks.

It’s nice to have someone looking out for you, even if it may be forced or awkward. Even if I had my sight, I don’t know what I’d do without him.

As promised, after about ten minutes, we arrive at a noisy part of the forest. The air is balmy here and smells of pine. Water crashes against rock, and I can tell that the falls are small but fast-moving. It rushes like a whisper, yet loudly covers the plodding of our padded footsteps.

Relief runs cold down my back. I sense Ether’s core, but it’s further away, nearer to the falls. I imagine she’s in the water. Qor is probably there with her. Thank Arioch she’s okay.

“There shouldn’t be much to avoid here,” Ronan says quietly, in regard to the terrain. “Would you still like me to guide you?”

I shake my head. “Just to the bank, please. I’ll swim to her on my own.”

Ronan helps me remove my boots and heavier bits of clothing. My undergarments remain for politeness and to save myself from fatal embarrassment; my imagination would make sure of that.

There’s a bit of a dropoff from the spongey forest floor to the rocky-bottomed bank, but I manage it well enough. The water is cool and refreshing, especially after not having bathed for a while. As I slip down the steep bank of smooth stones, I gently rub my legs with my fingers. The dust and grime and sweat that have built up there slick away easily with minimal pressure.

Once I can’t touch the bottom, I begin making wide movements with my arms and kick my legs behind me. The sound of the falls grows louder and Ether’s core larger.

“Good morning,” Qor addresses me heartily, across from Ether. It’s amazing how his voice blends almost seamlessly with the pattering of water at the base of the falls. “We were just talking about you, Your Highness.”

“Yes,” Ether says, her voice equally indistinguishable from the rush of water. I strain to pick apart her melody of words from the purity of the perpetual plunge. I think I’ll simply have to adjust to the slightly different frequencies. “Actually, now that you’re here, why don’t we get some more training in? This is a great place for you to harness water magic.”

“Ah,” is all I can say. I should be more excited about learning new magic, but I want more than anything else to ask her how she’s doing. Is she feeling better? Has the water helped to clear her head? But I know asking will only remind her of the terrible truth, and if that’s what she wishes to forget, I won’t curse her with questions. Not now, at least.

She moves closer to me, a spinning ball of warmth, and her hands find mine. I swallow my heart.

“We can produce hot and cold magic, but the ever-changing temperature of real, natural water is something we can never create. Instead, we must only attempt to control it,” she explains, moving my hands in swooping motions beneath the surface. Water moves stiffly around my fingers and between my swirling wrists, resisting her guidance.

I focus on my core, on its beating, like a second heart. It throbs there when I choose to focus on it, but other times I almost can’t tell it’s even there. The warmth from my memory with Pluto and Ronan surfaces easier now that I’m in the water again, but this warmth grows hotter as my memory blends with reality. I have to suppress the urge to imagine the ethereal elf’s twisted black braids, now likely matted and wet with water. The droplets from the waterfall probably dot her face like gemstone freckles, and I bet her eyes are a deep, sorrowful shade of mourning and withdrawal. What color might that be?

Once Ether releases my hands, I continue moving them in the same way she’d moved them, and water stirs around us. I feel the energy of it begin to bend and follow my movements, and once I feel like I’ve completely hypnotized the flow, I raise my hands above the water. The current follows, rising above like a thick snake, moving along my arms and wrists and writhing between my hands. I continue to swoop my hands over one another, the weight of the water growing heavier on my left arm. I turn my body so Ronan can see my success. He’s still on land, but I sense his core growing slightly larger when he sees me.

“Okay, now stop,” Ether says confidently. I turn around and drop my hands. The water is now warm as it falls back into the pool, and the grin on my face is unerasable. I’d done it—albeit with Ether’s help—on the first try.

“It’s difficult to show you without your sight,” Qor begins thoughtfully, “but I think you’re probably better than most of us at sensing energy. I need to check though, with a magic-based combat maneuver. It requires sensing another’s energy and converting it to your own. Would you like to try?”

I nod, but Ether interrupts me by touching my shoulder. “Controlling energy from others is a bit different, Ramiel. You have to... know the emotion with which they’ve channeled their magic. Here, I’ll create an orb of ice and toss it to you. I’ll tether my emotion to it, so see if you can sense it. If you can, you will be able to catch the ice. If not, it will strike you. You must concentrate.”

Without my agreement, she begins forming her ice ball. Her magical core is warm, but I’m unable to sense any emotion attached to it. I steady my left hand just above the surface, preparing to receive her magic. I’m not sure what to expect, since I’ve only worked with my own magic since we started training. But I suspect that once she sends it my way, I’ll be able to—

The ice slams into my left arm, hitting it like a cold and heavy rock. My feet lose their momentum, and I’m unable to tread water for a second. I reach for my arm which is now pulsing with pain, and the rest of my body is lame as I quickly dip below the surface.

I’m not under long enough to drown; Ether’s arms reach around me and she lifts me back up. Once I begin to hold myself upright again, apologies spill left and right from her lips.

I won’t lie: my left arm hurts, almost even more because it is filled with dark magic. It’s like the dark and the light are colliding, and my body is suffering for it.

“It’s alright, I’m okay,” I protest, waving her away. As I say this, my body responds, almost as though making my statement into truth: the pain diminishes, and a strong well of energy replaces it. My arm pulses heavily with power like it’s become a separate core from the one at my center, but darker and acting on its own.

This power is tingly. I can understand why mages are drawn to it, but knowing its consequences, I know I cannot rely on this dark power any longer. I’m ashamed to admit that I did from the start.

“Again,” I say, clearing my throat. I’ll use my right arm this time.

“Are you sure?”

I nod. Then, I slowly bring my right arm above the surface, close my eyes, and concentrate. I’m a mixture of bracing for the forceful impact and listening closely for her emotion once she hurls it at me. After a few seconds, I begin to brace myself more and more.

Then, I hear it. A soft word, like how the trees had whispered our names. The word is hope, and it’s a very strong, passionate emotion. The second I hear the word, time seems to slow. The word becomes the magical sphere, and as it moves closer to me, I’m drawn to meet it. I raise my right arm, somehow understanding her intent fully, with equal hope, and I receive it with desperation for this exchange to be successful.

The ice stops over my hand and spins there. With my left, I use a finger to touch the sphere and it immediately melts over my right palm and drips into the water.

“Great job,” Ether says. Her tone is filled with pride.

“Thank you,” I say bashfully. It feels great when she acknowledges my improvement. It’s a great motivator.

We do this a few more times. I’m impressed each time I’m able to stop her ice, then her fire with the arm I’ve practiced very little magic with. Qor claps at my successful reception and Ronan cheers from the bank. Everything seems lighthearted, normal. Like the most devastating event hadn’t actually occurred within the past day.

Like this, we spend the evening practicing receiving magic at different speeds and of different types. We only stop when Ether decides it’s time to call it a day.

I should be happy with my improvement, but my heart sings with happiness when she giggles fearlessly, and I know that I’ve helped her forget, if even for just a little bit.

I sleep a little better tonight.

It’s been years since I’ve dreamt of Xavelor, and longer since I’ve actually seen him. With his recent absence, I’ve suffered much. But without his death, would I have met Ether and Ronan? How might things have changed?

After recently learning of his plunders—of his greed accompanying his murderous habits— and having not dreamt for the past week, I can’t help but dream about him tonight.

In this dream, Xavelor sits above me, ruffling long fingers playfully through my soft, boyish hair. A smirk tilts his lips to the side and two rosy cheeks are quilted with two symmetrical dimples—an expression of pure mischief.

It has been at least a year or two since my mother’s death, and though I am still in deep mourning, having Xav around alleviates much of the pain. He has always been up to no good, playing with the young maids and flirting with nobility. From the start, he’s had unmatchable charisma that he’d always use to his advantage.

Still, he chooses to play with me, whether to catch my reaction when he behaves naughtily or for my genuine company. Many times, I’d think I was lucky to have been born into this family, to have such an inspiring older brother, but I’m sure my father only considered me his son while my mother was still alive. Now, the only ones who treat me with respect to my title are Bear and Xav. Not even the noble children, nor the other maids look or bow in my direction.

“Rami-kin,” Xav snickers, his chartreuse eyes alight with an impish flame, “what do you say we give Lady Elliott a fright? I heard the maids talking; she ought to be entering the guest bathing chambers by now.”

Lady Elliott is of our age, though more refined. Strawberry curls fling about over her shoulders— untamable—but the rest of her is as stoic as my father, from her perfectly tailored dress to her pale makeup and slanted, needle-like eyebrows. She’d been recently invited as a potential marriage candidate for Xav, though he’s clearly not taking it seriously.

“We’d better hurry, before she exits and—”

“Mother always said to respect women, especially their privacy,” I mutter in refusal.

Xav raises a light brown brow at me, leans in, and smiles wider. “Do you notwantto see a handsome noble girl like Mariposa Elliott... completely bare? Are you not a man?”

My face flushes hot and my heart stammers in my chest, but no words come through my mouth. My brother laughs heartily, clapping my small shoulders with his ten-year-old hand.

“I’m joking, Rami. Let’s sneak into the kitchen cellar and taste the old chef’s wine instead. Father told me that if I managed to drink before I am of age, I will no sooner become a man.”

I just shake my head, smiling despite myself.

The dream shifts. Colors blend and merge together, altering the scene. I sit in the corner of a large bed chamber. The blood-red silk drooping over the large canopy covers the majestic bed beneath.

Xavelor kneels beside the large mattress, his pale skin dewy from tears. Has he ever cried? Is this a real memory? I can’t seem to tear my gaze away; his tears are real, breaking from his usual cheery temperament. I’d never actually witnessed this. Perhaps this is my assumption of reality?

The king enters the chamber, his expression somber, dark.

My heart goes cold at his mournful stare. He’s never shown such depth to me.

“My lovely Karmin,” he says softly, gazing toward the bed but not making any further movement. “Xavelor, my boy. Is the queen...?”

Several maids, including one wearing a coned nurse hat, appear from the other side of the dark red curtains. The four of them bow, then the nurse slowly shakes her head from side to side, avoiding the king’s eye contact.

Azriel’s face turns red as he strides toward her, raises his hand, and knocks her to the ground with a single downward strike to her head.

I wonder if he can even see me; I’m guessing not, since I’d never actually witnessed such a scene. Maybe I’m the table or chair that had been nestled into the corner, taking on human thought. But can a chair flinch at his father’s echoing slap? Can a chair feel fear?

“Guards!” he calls. Six armor-clad soldiers immediately appear in the open doorway, at command. “Lock these maids in the dungeon.” He turns to face the women. Then, as he runs his hands down the side of his royal robes, a cursed laugh rips through his lips.

“Father,” Xavelor weeps from his mother’s bedside.

The king continues to cackle, even as tears slowly drip from his eyes and turn his maniacal gurgling into sobs. “My precious Karmin,” he hisses, stepping over the nurse and coming to Xavelor’s side.

The soldiers lift each maid and escort them to the dungeon, where they’ll either be left to rot or will eventually meet their end. I’m sure in the king’s eyes, the maids had killed his wife. Malpractice, poison, not doing enough. Whatever reason he can come up with, I’m sure he will believe it.

The scene fades away and colors swirl around, but my heart still stirs. How could he have been so wrecked over Karmin, but didn’t bat an eye at the death of my mother? Where Karmin died in sickness, I’m sure my mother had been killed whilst in her bath. The righteous anger has been erroneously placed.

When the dream continues, a strangely realistic feeling overwhelms me, taking over the anger that made my skin burn in the previous sequence.

The scene comes into view—an overcast sky with glimmers of sunlight peering through the clouds. The area is foreign; burgundy mountains carve the horizon and strange buildings with orange scalloped rooves surround me, and along the dirt roads, armored knights clash with beasts of talon and claw, but there is no sound to accompany the violence unfolding in every direction.

My hands grip the hilt of a heavy broadsword. Its metal glints in the sun between droplets of blood that sputter over the smooth silver. I glance down at my hands and realize they are wrapped with a sweaty cloth that’s stained with old blood.

My heart pounds in my chest, but rather than anxious, a sense of achievement and pride fills me. Confidence threads through my muscles. But my arms are wrapped with cloth, and my vision is slightly obscured. The cloth wraps around my head, too. A strange pulsing zooms through my arms, through my veins. It’s like the magic that’s in my left arm. Is this what a full-body experience is like, under the control of dark magic?

Then, all at once, the sound comes crashing all around me. Battle cries, the clanging of metal, bodies thudding to the ground. The strange, soundless, and miraculous use of magic and its fractals blooming in the air. A wave of fire flicking from the fingers of a black-cloaked beast and ripping through a horse, tearing its limbs from its body like a hot knife slicing through butter.

My feet are planted in the terrain, my sword steady in front of me. My breathing is steady and my adrenaline is at an all-time high. So, why am I not launching a counter-attack? My brain is telling me to move, but I’m locked into this spot.

I drop the sword to the ground. Dust rises around me, from the impact, and then I hear a voice.

“Xavelor! No!”

My head slowly turns on my neck, and I see Ronan standing, panting, sooty tears streaming from his dark eyes.

When I turn back around, a sharp pain plunges through my chest and a large, multi-colored beast rips me apart.

I wake up to blackness and the feeling of Ether’s cold hand on my forehead.

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