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

Sylvia is a troll—a species related to the ogre—and thus, she values hospitality and harmony. Ether speaks highly of her, and I’ve no reason to dislike her, but I do replace her farewell to us a little odd.

The woman visits our party in the neighboring stables to gift us more of her unleavened cracker-like squares. She whispers something to Ronan, then to Ether, before her wrinkled hands replace mine. She places the hardened snack in my palm, folding my fingers around it.

“Boy,” she hums, her voice a rumble, “you must never underestimate the authority you have over your own magic. For with it, you can overcome any curse.”

Her hands tighten around my fingers, and then she releases them and disappears.

A moment passes before Ronan’s stiff hand cuffs under my elbow, helping me onto Claude. I’m gradually getting used to receiving help for the things I’ve done independently my entire life. My aide doesn’t seem to mind, either, which makes things a bit easier.

“Strange lady,” he coughs once I’m upright on the leather saddle.

“How do you figure?” I grip the reins in one hand and stroke the stallion’s mane. My finger snags in it, and Claude turns his head. “You’ll need a brushing later,” I whisper to him.

“The troll told me that if I were to pursue the elf, I’d experience great fortune,” he hisses. “What a nut.”

My chest tightens, and for a second I wonder if Ether has heard him. Even if she has, though, would she care? She doesn’t seem to like Ronan very much.

“Well, it seems like she had advice for everyone,” she chimes in as though on cue, her tone a sarcastic drawl. But even in this clearly mocking accent, I can’t unhear the twang of musicality that throbs with every word. “She’s usually right, you know. But don’t get your hopes up, sidekick.”

Ronan makes a sound next to me, then huffs a sigh as he mounts Melanie. I feel Claude lean toward the mare as Ronan hooks a lead between us. This way, if Claude were to take off, we’d still be clasped together and I wouldn’t be stranded alone in an unfamiliar wood.

I’ve been trying to keep my mind off the elf, off the warm ghost of her lips that creeps over mine. But as we prepare to leave, my resolve starts to fade, and my thoughts progressively get more and more dominated by the memory of her pale skin, iridescent eyes, black hair, and soft kiss.

Had last night been a dream? A mere projection of thoughts I never before dreamt of having? I wonder if my dream of her has somehow warped the reality between us. She hasn’t spoken a word directly to me since we separated into our rooms, so perhaps I’d hallucinated part of, if not the entire encounter.

“I reckon we have roughly five hours to Hearthstrom,” Ronan says, adjusting something on Melanie’s saddle. “Is there a lake or stream where we can refill our flasks should we run out of water?”

Ether answers in front of us. “There used to be, but it may have dried up since I last went this way. There wasn’t much water there to begin with.”

Ronan doesn’t respond and instead kicks Melanie to move forward. Soon, we are far enough from the bakery that the air has begun to smell of wet moss and soil, mixed with something sweet. The early morning sun is still bubbling somewhere around the horizon, allowing the forest to dream under a blanket of cool, refreshing mist.

“Let’s play a game.”

My proposal seems to confuse my two traveling companions. We manage to cut through an hour of painful silence, just the sound of our horses’ hooves scuffing the spongy ground and the occasional song of a bird flying overhead. The last thing I want is to cure my boredom by sapping up the last of my water or seeing how long I can hold my breath—that gets old quick.

When neither of them responds, I continue in hopes of persuading them: “It’s a game I used to play with the chambermaids at the castle, and I promise it passes quickly. We don’t need to stop either; it can be played as we continue.”

I would never order either of them to play along, as my royal counterparts might, but it would probably hurt my pride as a friend if they refused me now.

“Sure,” Ether chirps from ahead.

I shake away the smile forming on my mouth and continue. “This game allows you to get to know other people better. Each of us gets three questions—equal to the number of players—and you can choose to ask them to one, two, or both players. Any questions about the game?”

“Yes, I have one,” Ronan chuckles. Then, he clears his throat and his voice takes on a nasally malice I haven’t heard before. “Are there rules against lying in this game?”

My thoughts return to Ether again. The curse on her people had been cast by our line of royalty, down to Arioch Faundor, the conquerer of our kingdom. For punishment and control, something as delicate as the choice to be honest or deceitful had been taken from them.

My forehead wrinkles in concentration as I try to figure out a way to answer his question. “Since there’s a member among us who cannot tell a lie, we must all adopt the same handicap.” This seems fair.

Ronan laughs quietly—there’s a darkness to it.

“Can I go first?” Ether asks, her voice light and unbothered by the touchy subject.

“Of course,” I say as I take in a deep breath.

We continue on for a few moments—hooves clipping the ground beneath us—as Ether ponders her first question.

“Okay, Ramiel..,” she begins. I’m thankful for her pause, because the way she says my name has forced my heart to pick up its pace, thumping with energy in its little cavity, and the moment of silence allows me to recapture my breathing. “How old are you, compared to your brother?”

My skin prickles. Why bring Xavelor into this?

“I’m nineteen,” I respond flatly. “If Xavelor were still alive, he’d be twenty-one.”

“Ah, I see,” she mumbles.

I want to ask her how old she is in return, but Ronan cuts in before I can form the words.

“My turn,” Ronan shouts, and I flinch. His volume is filled with robust excitement; he seems to have discovered this game will be a lot more fun than he originally anticipated. “Ether,” he says with a low growl, “would you kill to protect our prince?”

“Yes,” she says without hesitation.

“To protect our king?”

There’s a pause. Then, I can just barely make out the quick, sharp whisper from the elf: “Is that your second question?”

Ronan must nonverbally confirm, because Ether heaves a sigh, then continues.

“I don’t see why such a fierce king needs protection,” she says, though there’s an unfamiliar instability beneath her words, like she’s hiding something. She isn’t lying, but perhaps she’s hedging around the truth, as Pluto mentioned doing in the past.

The tension in the air is palpable. I cough, hoping to clear it away. “Okay... Ronan,” I say, turning my head toward him. Though I wish to ask Ether a question, it feels only right to ask my aide, since he hasn’t answered any yet. I’m a bit reluctant to discuss my kin, but because I don’t know what else to ask, I pose the question that perhaps Ether would also like to know the answer to. “What did you and my brother talk about while you were out fighting battles in the outer kingdoms?”

There’s another moment of silence, and for a moment I think Ronan may be struggling to replace the words. His opinion of Xavelor seems to be strongly positive, barring the fact that my brother had wrongfully lain with elven women just to slay them the following morning. Perhaps there are other, worse things I know nothing about, that Ronan has purposefully not mentioned.

“Well, we talked about magic. And we talked about girls. He was quite bitter about his ruddy appearance, about his ability to capture women with even the slightest twitch of his lips. He got worse about that after Queen Karmin died. He was no longer fun to hang out with; he was all broody and bloodthirsty. I think that’s when he started to, you know... not care so much about the women we ran into.”

“Ramiel told you not to lie,” Ether sighs.

Ronan chuckles. “You can choose to not believe me. Xavelor had many wonderful qualities, and as a human, he had his own issues, but in the end... he was his own undoing.”

“I thought he’d been slain,” I interject. My heart forms a lump in my throat. We’d been told he died gloriously in battle. Am I about to hear differently?

“Of course,” Ronan quickly covers, and relief washes over me. “I witnessed it with my own eyes. But... it was strange, he... he didn’t go down fighting. He just stood there as the Yaratik tore into his flesh and painted the battlefield with royal blood. Xavelor never backed down from a fight, but I’d never expected him to just... give up.”

A chill runs down my spine when I hear this information. It’s true: how can a warrior prince give up so easily? “He used magic, though,” I start, confused. “Was he unable to withstand it, even with the pills you gave him?”

To my surprise, Ether laughs. The sound puzzles me. Have I said something funny?

Ronan ignores her outburst. “I think he was corroded by dark magic. I’d like to think that had he been able to control his body, he would’ve moved or fought back or... something."

It is strange, indeed: to think that his death wasn’t as simple as we’d been told.

“Okay, my turn again,” the elf giggles. I still haven’t recovered from Ronan’s testimony, but then she speaks my name.

“Ramiel.” That sweet twang she adds to my name makes my heart sing despite the confusion surrounding Xavelor’s death. I allow it to carry me away, remind me that the past is in the past, and now we are working toward a hopeful future. My full attention rests on her sweet, soft verbiage. “Can you promise me something?”

I want to say of course, but I know I have to be cautious. There are many standards I’m wont to uphold as a prince, though I’ve yet to live out any of them. Much of my textbook learning—which explains castle etiquette and diplomacy—hasn’t yet been put to practice, since Xavelor had always performed those duties. Come the Feast of Undying, they will all become my burden to bear.

“What do you propose?” I ask dryly.

“I don’t know yet,” she says. “Just tell me that, when the time comes, you will promise me something.”

Cryptic. I’m not sure what she’s implying, but I go along with it. “Sure, you have my word.”

A silence passes, and the sun is suddenly present. We’d left early enough that the air had been nothing to worry about, but now, my back quickly heats to the temperature of crackling coals.

“How many questions is that?” Ronan asks.

I shrug. “I want to ask one more.” My head turns in Ether’s direction and a drop of sweat rolls down the side of my neck. “Ether.”

She’s silent when I address her, though I wonder if her cheeks are flushing that flattering shade of red, or if her body is crunching in on itself to appear smaller. I’d like to think at least some part of her thinks her name sounds nice when I speak it, as I now feel my name does when she says it.

“Tell me about the magic you use.”

“I suppose you’d want to know since that is what we’ll be jumping into when we reach Hearthstrom,” she says thoughtfully. “Well, to start, my magic is natural: it lives in the heartbeat of the forest, spreading across networks of roots and vines. It is all connected, though it truly comes to life in the trees.”

“How do you harness the power of the trees?”

The elf lets out a hearty laugh. “We don’t use the trees themselves, but rather the energy that lives within them and flows into each of us woodland beings. It’s something we are born with, something that grows stronger as you learn to understand the forest.”

To be one with nature... I remember hearing or reading about that somewhere. Perhaps from a textbook? I scratch my head thoughtfully as she continues.

“There are also magic-embued weapons, made by carving stone and wood from the forest. Similar to how we can transfer magical energy between each other, magical cores can also be used to increase strength and durability in these weapons.” She takes a breath, then sighs. “In the forest, there are many creatures whose magical cores are strong enough to enhance broadswords and armor, but the only one that can provide immortality to a weapon is the magical core of a healthy klopse hatchling.”

“A klopse...”

“Yes, the beast who snacked on your arm,” Ronan butts in. I laugh in spite of myself, though the situation is rather unamusing.

“Klopses are strange creatures, though we don’t need to get into that right now. They’re dangerous, so it’s important to steer clear of them unless you’re prepared to catch them unawares,” the elf continues. “Back to your original question, though: channeling natural magic is only meant for those who are in tune with their spiritual attachment to the forest.”

“How long does that take?”

“You’re a human,” she says sharply, perhaps a little too sharply, because her voice softens and she stutters her next words. “This isn’t to say it’s impossible, but it might be incredibly difficult to create an intense bond like that within such a short period of time... At this point, how long do we have?”

I think for a moment and inwardly cringe. “Forty-five days,” I say. We’re just about halfway into our three-month training period, and we’ve done very little training. We are running out of time.

“Okay, perfect,” she sighs in relief. “Once we get to Hearthstrom, training will be full speed ahead until the day you fight your beast.”

Her confident, hopeful tone encourages me. I nod once and smile. “I can’t wait.”

My excitement drastically reduces the time it takes to get to Hearthstrom. Once we arrive, Ronan helps me off of Claude and takes the horses to a stable somewhere.

In his absence, Ether’s soft hand slips into my left one, and I swear I jump a little at her sudden touch. She quickly mutters an “I’m sorry” and squeezes my hand for comfort. Then, her fingers abandon mine to travel up my arm; I realize she’s feeling along the muscle, testing the strength that’s been resting there after being afflicted by dark magic. Each press of her fingers leaves a hot mark on my arm, similar to how it felt even long after our kiss.

“To be honest,” she says giddily, “I’m quite excited.”

I let out a nervous chuckle. “Why’s that?”

Her fingers pause, then drop to my hand, which she clutches in her small palms. “It’s just a feeling. Don’t you ever get excited for no reason?”

I lift my other hand over hers in a way that folds her fingers inward, like an oyster protecting its precious pearls.

Before, it had difficult to replace life interesting or meaningful, but since meeting Ether and realizing my incomprehensible fondness for her, I can confirm that even the silliest things excite me. Like the natural warmth of her hands or the way her eyes dance between colors—mysteriously communicating her complex emotions.

A smile worms its way onto my lips and I nod once. I wish to see her eyes, to know what color they’re flicking to at my affirmation. Perhaps brown again? I can hope for brown.

Sylvia’s words pound rhythmically from the back of my mind, suddenly coming to the forefront, though I hadn’t dwelled on them previously.

Never underestimate the authority you have over your own magic.

Maybe she is strange. But something about these words reassures me, rekindles a fire within me. A crazy thought whips through my psyche—a thought that never could have crossed my mind without Ether’s support and encouragement:

Perhaps I can cure my blindness on my own.

I allow the thought to simmer. Is it possible to cure blindness caused by dark magic? Perhaps it’s silly of me to hope there’s a way, but a feeling in my gut tells me that I can do it.

Ether squeezes my hand again, as though once again reassuring my unspoken thoughts.

Then we take our first steps into the abandoned village of Hearthstrom.