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

Edenburough bathes in the evening sun’s glow, which filters the terracotta buildings under its warm pink hue. Golden wheatgrass lilts with a gentle breeze, bowing to the sky dozing off above us. It has taken us much longer to reach the village this time, likely due to Claude’s exhaustion.

The humidity has died down some, as evidenced by the dryness now creeping up my arms and legs. My stallion’s dark hair no longer glistens under the intense sunlight, and his muscles are no longer taut from over-extending his energy.

We stop at the edge of the village, near the visitor’s stables at the inn, and prepare our dismount.

Ronan alights first, then I swivel from Claude’s back and land in a grassy spot. I pull two large orange vegetables—his reward—from the pouch sitting against his right flank. He patiently takes them one at a time from my hands.

The village is silent, void of its inhabitants. Perhaps they’ve all retreated to mourn the elf’s death. Or maybe they’re seeking refuge from the repercussions of a broken treaty.

“Sire, you’ve returned,” a chorus of voices suddenly bellows from behind us. My arms go rigid as I place them behind my back and turn to face the mages, their faces covered with off-white bandages and only their beady eyes visible, lifeless. There are eight or so, standing in a staggered, disorganized pattern. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Ronan grips my shoulder and I look at him. His expression is dark, with eyebrows knitted together over dusky brown eyes. He nods once and I immediately understand that he knows how to communicate with mages about matters concerning death. He must’ve done so many times before with Xavelor’s wake of killings.

He steps forward and for the first time since our introduction, he truly looks like a duke’s son. Sturdy shoulders cocked back, his posture is confident. Bronze hands rest firm on his sides, his body facing the creatures cloaked in black.

“We heard about an unfortunate death that occurred around the time of our arrival yesterday,” Ronan explains, his voice hard and poised with authority. “We’ve returned to inspect this rumor.”

The mages remain as rigid as statues before us, not reacting to his words.

“You need not explain who killed it,” Ronan continues, glancing at me. His almond eyes are a darker shade of brown, overshadowed by a passing cloud. He brings his attention back to the mages. “We must know if this rumor is true. Has an elder elf died here?”

The mages switch positions with one another like a maze imbued with magic—when one finally makes its way to the front, the rest freeze in position.

“What you’ve heard is true,” their voices murmur together. The one at the front that speaks loudest is deep and female but sounds rugged as though expired from death. “Its body has already leaked much energy into the forest.”

I skim the woods just on the other side of the village, about two hundred yards away. How had I not noticed it before? The darkness spilling out from the thick trees is an obvious warning to any who dare to enter, and an obvious boundary sealing off Edenburough from its inhabitants.

Ronan carries on. “You mean to say its body has been discarded in the forest with no funeral rites? Without affirming who killed it?” His words call for a rise in anger, but his tone remains flat and calm.

The mages mumble together—a sound that resembles an obscure form of laughter. “You assume correct. If you wish to purify the creature, you are free to do so.”

Ronan tightens his fists until they’re white at the knuckles, and his jaw clenches. Anger. How long has he held it in? He must care for the peace of the kingdom, or a servant such as himself wouldn’t be acting this way.

I reach and place a hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t look at me, but he understands. I take his place as he returns to Melanie.

“Prince,” they hiss. Eight pairs of small black eyes focus on me, hostile. I can almost sense the distrust in their pupils alone, shrunken and pulsing from magic gurgling within them. My body shakes with fear for a moment, but I’m quick to regain my composure.

“If you honor your king in the slightest, your duties do not end with your unwarranted abandonment of a highly revered creature in the woods.” My words come out steady, but my heart trembles as their pupils shrink further, to specks within their whites. I clear my throat, take a deep breath, and speak using my exhale. “You must do as I say and follow us into the magical forest to perform proper rites to the elder elf.”

The mages fold in on one another again, shuffling their order like a game of trump. They mutter incomprehensible incantations, their scrambling growing with ferocity, and the air whips up around them as though aggravated.

I take a step back, covering my brow with a hand. Beyond the fierce wind, their bodies distort until a singular figure stands still, and the wind settles.

The lone mage speaks, but the voices of all eight accompany her deep, guttural words. “Your majesty wishes for the impossible. Mages are ill-permitted to enter the magical forest.”

“If not you mages, who disposed of the elder elf’s body?”

The mage is silent for a moment, then she lifts her arm and points a bandaged finger to the buildings behind her. “Humans.” The word comes out thick and filled with a darkness I can’t place. The mages were human too, once. Could they regret their decision to become what they are now?

“We understand,” Ronan shouts from behind me, agitated. “We will enter the forest and perform the rites ourselves.”

Her eyes grow a size larger and she bows her head, then she dissolves into nothingness, as though becoming one with the village and the sky and the cobblestone path.

I flip around to Ronan, who’s already strapped his belongings on his back—a short knife, his pouch of magical pills, and a flask of water. He offers me a lopsided smile, a mischievous spark glinting in his eyes.

“Will performing rites mend the breach in our treaty?” I ask, walking to Claude. I grab my own flask of water and a small satchel of unleavened bread—emergency rations.

Ronan clicks his tongue, then inhales. “Elves are simple creatures, but they aren’t that simple. I reckon they’ll want to have a proper investigation to replace their elder’s assailant before they trust any human again.” He starts down the center of the village, a straight shot to the forest’s edge.

“We can’t return until that happens, then,” I mutter behind him. A part of me had desired to visit the forest, in spite of my father, but now we’re being forced to. The king would have no qualms about this if he truly cared about this situation. But I have my doubts about his ambitions with the creatures of the forest...

I bite my cheek in deliberation. Somehow, going into the forest with his approval makes the whole ordeal considerably less exciting.

Ronan tosses his head back, his eyes wild with that same enthusiastic mischief. “Don’t you worry, Ramiel. I’ll be sure to make this quick.”

About thirty minutes into the forest, we replace the remains of what looks to be a giant. Long-nosed, wrinkled, and pale, the elder elf lies naked, his clothing having been stripped, revealing a long, white torso and boney limbs. Large feet—maybe thrice the size of Ether’s—stick up in the mud beneath him.

There are no abrasions, no obvious changes in skin tone, or even wounds that could reveal how he died.

I push the thought of my mother from my mind.

Ronan bends over the body, his expression bored as he pulls a marbled blue pill from his burlap satchel. It’s similar to the one he’d given Ether. He quickly slips it into the elder elf’s thin, dry lips, then massages the corpse’s neck with two stiff fingers, forcing the thing down his throat.

“What do you think you’re doing?” a voice rings through the trees, echoing between branches like an alarm.

On instinct, I lower myself to a crouch so I’m now also hovering above the body, its stench draws steadily into my nose.

The trees’ leaves, tinged with orange, ripple a few trunks away. Something is hopping from branch to branch.

Ronan pushes the pill deeper into the dead’s throat, then rocks back on his heels. He looks past me, still unfazed.

“I asked what in Arioch you think you’re doing!”

Before I can look toward the voice that I’ve realized is now behind me, two thin legs come crashing down on my shoulders, and my face presses to the warm soil.

My head thuds with a dull pain. Whoever landed on me is now pressing, hard, on my head to ensure I stay down.

“He’s done nothing,” Ronan replies, his voice amplified in my right ear—the other is now becoming one with the moist earth.

The pressure gradually releases from my head, but two knees still pin my shoulders to the ground. To my left, I see a long rope of golden hair brushing the dirt.

“Release the prince, ignoble elf,” Ronan says, stiff.

There’s a beat of silence.

“Prince?”

My shoulders heave once into the dirt, and then the weight is all gone. I flip around on my back to assess my attacker.

“What have you done to him?” the blond elf asks, his tenor voice growling. His dark green eyes shoot like arrows through Ronan’s. His outfit is much like Ether’s—plain, like scraps, but utilized well to conceal weapons. A dagger camouflages against his right hip. His bare feet are smaller than the elder elf’s but still much larger than Ether’s.

“His tainted energy was toxifying your precious forest,” Ronan says. Something in his voice twangs, and I realize he’s mocking the sanctity of the wooded territory.

I don’t know why, but this bothers me.

“That’s enough, Ronan.” My jaw goes rigid.

The elf turns to me, his eyes flashing a lighter shade of green, his blond eyelashes half-closed over them.

"Prince,” he spits, though it isn’t as distasteful as when the mages said it. Somehow, his tone is filled with personal hostility. “I don’t suppose you’ve met Ether?”

I scramble to my feet and backpedal away. My eyes dart to Ronan, but he’s looking elsewhere. Back to the elf, I nod once.

He crosses his leather-wrapped arms over his chest and squints, surveying me head to toe. His words release like there’s something bitter on his tongue, his nose scrunching up as he speaks. “You’re not as handsome as she always pledged.”

A smirk lifts my mouth, one that’s impossible to be rid of, but I do my best, rolling my lips harshly on each other to force the thought of Ether replaceing me attractive out of my head.

His resentment plays with the air and then fizzles out as he looks at the body now turning black behind him. He releases an ugly sob, then pounds a fist into the soft ground.

“What have you done?” His voice now sounds weak. Brittle, as though this death has somehow broken him.

Ronan sighs, then presses on his knee for support as he rises. “What had to be done. He was killed, there’s no question. I put his soul to rest.”

As he says this, the corpse disappears into nothingness, just as the mage’s did before she’d left them. Leaving behind no ashes, no mark of his life.

The elf turns away, tears glossy on his cheeks. He pounds his fist once more into the ground. Then, his eyes flash to me, and a familiar shade of pink brightens in them.

I can only assume this to mean complete and utter distrust.

My hands shoot up in surrender. “We don’t know who killed him. But we are here to help you get to the bottom of this.”

The elf shakes his head. “No. This is our business. No human could fall an elder elf so easily. I will report this back to our village, and we will take care of it.”

“But our treaty—”

The elf snickers, his face twitching with anger. “Trust me. Nothing has been put in jeopardy.”

I think for a moment, and remember that elves can’t lie. Then I nod. “Fine. Do as you must. But before you go, can you please tell us where the best place to replace Tallup is?”

A smile turns his lips up, then he jabs a thumb in Ronan’s direction. “He can tell you. He’s sucked up enough of the forest’s energy by now to locate a whole school, I bet.” His voice is filled with obvious disgust.

My attention darts to my servant, who sits on his heels, rocking back and forth as a child would. He shrugs his shoulders.

Sighing, I look back at the elf, trying to exaggerate my desperation. It’s a mixture of eyebrow twitching and clenching my jaw. Embarrassment rushes to my cheeks and makes my ears go hot. What in Arioch am I doing?

Somehow, this sad display seems to work. The elf cocks his head to the side, scrunches his white eyebrows together, and purses his lips. “Fine, I’ll show you a route. It’s on the way to Nwatalith anyway.”

Nwatalith. Ether’s village.

“Thank you,” I breathe. “What can I call you?”

The elf turns away, kneeling toward the pressed grass where the elder’s elf body had been. He brushes his fingers along the impression, then reaches into his rags for something. He pulls out a familiar purple flower, its rows of buds fresh and lush with life.

The repugnant smell is masked with something much worse—rotting flesh—and for a moment I wish I could smell the flowers instead.

I curse the thought as it tramples upon my morale.

“Pluto,” the elf whispers. He looks back at me over his shoulder. “You can call me Pluto.”