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

I've never once thought I'd get to leave our village, yet here I am, sitting in a carriage across from one of the rarest beings in all existence—an elder elf.

Pluto's probably still back home, sobbing about my sudden departure. He's the only one in the world who would. When we're removed from the village, there's very little promise for us to return, so why mourn those you'll never see again? Even funerals have always been rare for us. I can't remember the last time I cried over my parents' untimely death. Instead of sorrow, I learned early on to carry with me the heavy weight of adulthood. Years and years later, it still hasn't lightened its burdening load.

I steal a glance at the elder elf that's cramped in the small carriage. His back is so long and slender that he has to hunch forward—his hands are nestled in the crooks of his arms, tucked neatly like a monk's. The image is quite hilarious but laughing in front of him would earn me more than a scowl.

Instead, I clear my throat. This seems to get his attention well enough. "What am I needed in the palace for?" I'd had this question on my mind, somewhere in the back just waiting to claw its way to the front. The tonality in my voice surprises me. I'd only practiced my "palace voice" once or twice, when I was mimicking the haughty messengers that frequented our village. I sound pretty natural, if I do say so myself.

The elder elf is difficult to read. Eyes gray, he must have some heavy spell guarding his emotional energy. Or maybe elder elves are immune to the elven curse of emotional transparency. Either way, he looks like a statue. Is he even alive?

"Why else would you be called?" he says gruffly, and I wince. "To showcase your skills in sorcery, of course. To be considered for King Azriel's court."

"K-King Azriel?" I stutter the words out, hardly believing that I, of all elves, could be chosen to serve the king at his side. Me, a non-human, magic-using elf! Everyone knows how the king fears magic and will harm anything non-human if it poses even the slightest threat to him or his family.

The elder elf's expression darkens just slightly and I can tell I spoke out of line. His eyebrows hinge forward as he speaks, the words coming out stiff. "We must make a stop in Edenburough first."

"Edenburough?" As soon as I ask the question, I get scolded again. Am I not allowed to ask questions?

He doesn't respond this time, though. Instead, he closes his eyes and allows his body to be carried along with the bumping and swaying of the carriage. One might think he's gone to sleep, but elves are notorious for our lack of need for slumber. If we do sleep, we face dramatic consequences. Another elven curse.

Still, I mirror his actions and close my eyes. Doing so cuts off my most powerful sense—sight—and makes me vulnerable, but I've always enjoyed living on the edge, so this is nothing. The feeling of fear quickly subsides as my other senses become just as vivid as my elven sight: the musty smell of brittle hay and something sweet floods my nose, sending delightful tingles down my spine, and the rustle of the wooden wheels and clicking of hooves against stone and mud beneath us is rhythmic, like music. Even though the heat is sweltering, it doesn't bother me, because summers have always been my favorite.

The carriage trudges along slowly and I realize that I had, indeed, fallen asleep. My head feels heavy, like it's too big for my body and my limbs feel absurdly weak as though the energy has been sucked from them. Get a grip, Ether. Where are we? Look at your surroundings. Breathe.

That's right... I'm on my way to the king's palace.

I look around the carriage at its oblong interior, the seats made of wood, and the floors cushioned with bear hide. My small bag of belongings sits cutely beside me. The heat is still everpresent, masking my face with slick sweat. Everything seems to be f— Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ (F)indNƟvᴇl.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Have we stopped? There's no clipping of hooves against the rocky ground nor any feeling of movement. And then something clicks in my head, like a memory unlocking after I've been staring at the empty wooden bench across from me, and I realize that the elder elf is gone.

I stand up quickly and the rickety carriage wobbles. Why would the elder elf abandon me? He wouldn't appear like an omen and lie to me, would he? I shake the thought from my mind.

Voices. They're muted through the doors of the carriage, but they're directly outside. And there's a lot of them. They don't sound hostile, just going about daily business. I must be in Edenburough, if that part of the elder elf's promise was true.

He must be in this village somewhere, then. Smiling at this reassurance, I push on the hardwood handle and the side door creaks open weakly.

The sun is unbearably bright, shining through canopies of trees and turning the cobblestone ground green. Buildings crop up in random places at the center of the bustling village. No, bigger than a village. Edenburough is a city.

People are everywhere, some dressed in ragged clothing and others wearing fine silk, but all mingle as though social class is only a formality, and I immediately notice that they are all human—stout, lanky, disproportionate bodies and hair tucked under straw hats. They also carry no magical energy. At least, none that I can sense.

If the elder elf were here, he'd certainly stick out like a sore thumb. Towering above the humans like a giant, he would be a sight to behold. If he's not outside, he must be in a building somewhere.

I've barely managed a few steps forward when something heavy comes crashing down on my shoulder. A hand. A man's hand. A human's hand.

I press my lips together and slowly lift my chin to survey the guy. He's burly, with a large, unruly beard that drops to his stomach. He wears a vest that's split down the middle, revealing the length of his chest, which is overgrown and bulging from his skeleton. He smiles at me with these big yellow teeth and his eyes curve upward with it.

"What has your kind come to Edenburough for, eh?" His voice is rough, like something is stuck behind it trying to come out.

My body goes rigid as I realize his hand is gripping my shoulder tighter. Something inside me ignites, and I lose control for a moment. I know it's not good for me to show dominance, especially when this man has technically done nothing wrong, but the magic within me rages and if I don't let it out, it'll force itself out.

Like lightning, I dip out from under his grip and spin away, put one foot on the carriage and launch myself high into the air, then flip into position. My legs wrap tightly around his and he swiftly falls to the ground with a thud. Magic tingles in my arms but I usher it back down. Using it now would surely kill him, and he doesn't deserve that.

"My... kind... hasn't come. It's just me. And I'm here on an errand." My voice comes out lopsided and awkward, but the guy seems to understand not to mess with me. Panic shivers in his small eyes, the blood in them a vibrant red.

I look up and I'm not surprised to see a crowd gathered around us. Great. I move to my feet, bow deeply, and apologize for causing a disturbance. I wouldn't want to perpetuate our terrible reputation... But before I can finish, a shrill voice calls out: "She's an elf!"

Chaos ensues. People running everywhere, into and out of buildings, some curious to see if the declaration is true, others turning heel when they realize that yes, I, one of the most feared creatures, am standing out in the open. The only ones not panicking are hanging around in stagnant groups. They're dressed in long, black robes, tall hoods conceal their faces, and a foreign and unstable energy pulses like shockwaves around them.

Mages.

The lightbulb flickers on. Of course. We came to Edenburough to receive the Blessing from the mages! For centuries, the Blessing has represented the connection between magic and humanity. Connecting the two worlds peacefully. Without it, the King would surely have doubts about having the like of me serve in his court—an untamed beast. Though I've heard many rumors about the binding power of this Blessing, I know it's an unavoidable condition I'd have to endure.

Most of the crowd has returned to the buildings, but I'm sure many watch with curious eyes as I walk toward the cloaked group of outcasts. They should look, because this is what the world is now, and I'm sure the king must have a reason for suddenly recruiting non-human magic users. Maybe he's trying to bring diversity and understanding back into this terribly segregated kingdom. That'd be the day.

I haven't spoken with many mages, but my minimal experience has taught me that though they were once human, they no longer bear any resemblance to the magic-less beings. They're but mere shells of what they used to be, scars marbling their skin starting with their face, making them unrecognizable. Years of enchantment have made their voices gritty, one day doomed to dwindle to nothing. I'd call them weak, but they're truthfully more scary than any creature on the face of the planet. It's because they lack both fear and consequence.

As I near, they all turn to look at me at once, like one giant hive mind. I heave a deep breath and slow down, raising my hands to show that I'm harmless. As if they could feel threatened by me, when they're the ones with a whole gang of mindless magic-wielders.

"Ether," a whisper comes from their circle. It sounds like a chorus of whispers, like they're all speaking at once. I'm no one special, though it still feels odd when they say my name, as though when it's said, it becomes ugly and cold and dead. Then I remember that most of their words sound that way, so I don't let it get to me. My name is beautiful.

"Yes, I'm Ether. I'm here for your Blessing." Straight to the point. I don't like to beat around the bush.

They say nothing, nor do they move. It's like they're frozen in time. My hand instinctively moves to the dagger strapped to my thigh, hiding in its sheath.

That's when I catch two figures moving toward us from across the village. Both ride gallant black horses adorned with gold-plated armor. One rider is wearing silver chainmail and the other is in the lead, wearing heavy, golden armor. They're approaching quickly.

I take a step back and my hand retreats from the knife, slipping behind my back. The mages remain motionless.

The two riders dismount their steeds and step between me and the group of freaks, as though they're here to break up a fight. I keep my eyes on the ground.

"I'm here in search of a powerful mage to serve me in the palace," the golden man says. His voice is young; there's a regality to it that sounds almost musical. He hasn't looked in my direction yet, so I feel like this would be a good time to run, but for some reason, my feet refuse to move an inch.

"We've already promised to bind our best mages to King Azriel's court," the mages say. "We have no obligation to work for the crown prince."

My heart thuds to my stomach, then up to my throat, then back to my stomach again. I feel like throwing up. That must mean, he is—

The golden man turns around to face his servant, who whispers something in his ear. And in that moment, I swear time stops, because Xavelor is exactly how I'd always described him to Pluto. Magnificent, shiny black hair that twists and curls about his head, flawless, bronze-colored skin, and a dimple denting the right of his mouth even though his face is serious. A single metallic earring edges in the light and the King's emblem embedded in it glistens green. He's tall, handsome, and absolutely perfect. Not at all what you'd expect from a battle-weary warrior, but everything you'd expect from a prince with a flawless string of victories.

After his servant explains something to him, he turns back to the mages. It's like I'm invisible, which gives me the perfect opportunity to run. I've already made my presence known by the humans in this village, which means I've already marked myself for death.

I know all of this, but for some reason, I stay glued to my spot. My heartbeat helplessly flutters around in my chest, both ecstatic to be in the crown prince's presence and horrified that I haven't bolted back to the carriage yet.

Xavelor says something to the black cloaks but I'm not listening. I stare at the ground, at my bare feet. They're strong and calloused from years of cuts and burns and scrapes; very unlike the women at the palace who wear tiny shoes to compress their petite toes, perpetuating the delicate porcelain beauty standard—we learned all about it in palace etiquette classes. I bet my feet are at least double the size of theirs...

Suddenly I'm embarrassed to be standing here. The infatuation vanishes. I've seen him once; I don't ever need to see him again. And it's good if he never sees me, either. This is enough.

I detach my feet from the hard ground and whip around quickly to head toward the carriage, but something catches my arm. Something warm and strong and smooth. My head turns and I'm looking up at the handsome prince, his light green eyes sparkling and reflecting the emerald leaves from the trees above. He stares at me, studies me, and I catch my breath. If I die right now, it won't be in vain.

I shut my eyes tight and wait for the moment to go away, for him to spit in my face and then leave me, to tell the king about this pathetic creature who would've stolen her way into his court. A dirty, monstrous elf. I'm sure that's what he thinks of me. Don't all humans think that way?

After a few seconds, when Xavelor doesn't release my arm, I open my eyes. He's now backed away a few feet, his other hand resting easily on the hilt of the sword sheathed around his waist.

"You're... an elf?" His voice is like smooth honey, and I wish I could revel in it, roll around in it like it's a large sum of money, but it is also tainted with a sadness I can't place. It's as though he's disappointed by what I am, but I can't help that fact, so I answer as confidently as I'm able.

"Y-yes. I'm an elf. My name is Ether."

"You know how to use magic." It's not a question—he knows what I'm capable of. It's common knowledge that elves wield magic naturally, but I have always had abnormal capabilities. Can he sense the energy writhing in my veins, thrashing the walls of my flesh to climb out and consume me?

I simply nod.

His eyes brighten and the dimple in his cheek deepens as he represses a smile. "Good. Come with me."

He turns abruptly and tugs me with him, but I pull back. "Wait," I say. The alarm in his expression tells me he expects me to obey without question. "King Azriel actually already sent for me to come to the palace."

Xavelor raises a sculpted black brow defensively. "What for?"

My mind goes blank. What had he asked me to go for? The nap in the carriage must've corrupted my memory beyond my whereabouts. So what do I say? I certainly can't lie to the crown prince.

"Diversity, maybe?" I say, my voice rising a pitch.

Xavelor looks at me, eyes widening. And then the craziest thing happens. I know it when I hear it. He's laughing. It's deep and guttural and heavy and raw and real. He's laughing. At me.

But I don't laugh; I can't, even though every part of me wants to. It's his people who'd outlawed such a hideous thing, after all. And I'd replied with such seriousness, too. Now I just feel like a fool.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to laugh so hard at that. But that was really funny." He wipes buds of tears from his eyes and continues to let out little honks of laughter. "However, I know that through your summons, you're definitely not being requested under positive circumstances."

"What do you mean?" I inch backward. He tugs me a full step closer.

"Sacrifices," he says gravely, as if the one word explains it all. Then, he changes the subject. "Are you proficient at using magic?"

"Somewhat. I'm still young, so..." I let my voice shrink into nothing and dart my gaze away from him. If he sees my eyes right now, he'll know that I'm lying. It goes against my nature—it's my tell.

"You're a threat, then. He'll surely have you killed." His tone is just as intense, his words hushed.

If I'm a threat by just wielding magic, what will happen if they find out I'm the greatest elf in my generation? Thoughts appear and swirl in my head and panic inhibits my breathing. The streams of consciousness are incomprehensible, and soon my efforts in trying to understand them are strained by the short huffs of breath that increase with my heartbeat.

The King wants me dead. That one thought repeats over and over. The elder elf had asked about my proficiency in magic and sports and swordsmanship to confirm the threat I pose to the king. And he planned to bring me to my execution.

Xavelor pulls me closer with one quick tug of his arm, puts his hands on my shoulders—they're much lighter than the first man's—and looks into my eyes. I try to imagine what color they are now. Perhaps black, representing fear, or brown, for infatuation. The dominating emotion now is fear, but my body is confused by being so close to him. I wonder if my eyes are swirling with the two colors, battling for dominance.

"I'll protect you if you promise to teach me magic." He says this quietly, with haste. His words take a moment to register, but when they do, my head gets so hot it just might explode.

He'll protect me. He needs me. I won't die.

"Okay," I agree. I'm aware my life is in his hands, but it's a better shot than waltzing straight to my death. And his words make me feel secure. If there's anyone who can protect me, it's Xavelor.

He cracks a shiny white smile and I swear I'll melt on the spot if I look at him any longer. No wonder his portrait is outlawed—girls would drop like flies from an artist's rendition alone. My heart beats to another rhythm, one of pride and excitement. The fear is almost entirely gone.

I follow him to his black horse. Its marble-y brown eyes stare at me as I swivel my legs over the base of its neck.

I look around one last time at the empty village. My carriage still sits, empty, at the outer edge of the cobblestone circle with no coachman to steer the horses, no elder elf. I wonder for a moment if something happened to him, but that worry is swallowed up by the knowledge that his true purpose had been evil.

The prince hops on after me and I naturally slide a little into his thighs. They ignite against my back and I begin to sweat. My hands reach for the horse's elegant mane for balance, my fingers digging into the hairs, and I lean forward. This doesn't help as much as I'd wanted. I'm still practically sitting in the crown prince's lap. Blood swims in my brain hot and crazy and I feel like I could vomit any second.

Dread nearly chokes me. I'd made him a promise I may be unable to keep.

How in Arioch am I going to teach this man how to wield magic—the most sensitive and volatile resource in our world—if I can't even maintain my composure while riding a horse with him?

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