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

The funeral will be held at night so we can watch the mages align Xavelor’s star with the previous King’s—it’s every Arioch royal’s dream to be made a monument in the everlasting cosmos after dying gloriously in battle. Unfortunately, my brother’s star is going to be there before our father’s. While this honor runs in the bloodline, I’ve always doubted that my star would ever shine as brilliantly as our ancestors’.

Tonight’s funeral is a private event, since the news of Xavelor’s death hasn’t even left the castle, let alone the palace. And what would people think if they knew? Surely losing the Crown Prince at a time of war would stir up at least a little commotion.

Bernadette stands at the foot of my bed, staring blankly at the walls adorned with swirling painted shapes. I think for a moment she might be entranced by the designs, but then she looks at me, her eyes sad and droopy and red. It’s already been a week and she still hasn’t gotten over my brother’s death. Not many can accept the greedy hands of death as easily as I had when my mother left this world—I know that. She just needs more time to process it all.

I have bigger things to worry about, anyway. Finding a master, for one. And I’ve already spent a week doing absolutely nothing but thinking about how I’m possibly going to pull this off. Still, Bernadette is too important for me to ignore.

“Bear,” I coo at the old maid. She twitches with surprise at the nickname I’d called her years ago when I was still a clueless child and my mother still had the gift of breath in her lungs.

“Oh, Rami,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. For a moment, the sadness in her dark eyes deepens them a shade, almost perfectly matching the color of her bleak dress. Today, we put aside social status and wear the same colors to mourn the one we’ve lost. After all, death doesn’t discriminate.

We embrace. It’s something I’ve rarely done, but it’s so comforting. If we hold each other too long, I’d end up crying on the floor like the wimp I am, cursing Xavelor for dying. Why did he have to die? Why did he leave me here like this?

Bernadette is the first to push away, pressing her small, wrinkly hands against my black tunic. Her little grey lips flatten into a line and then shiver as her chin trembles. When she opens her mouth to speak, I interrupt her.

“I know how much you loved him.” I smile softly at her and her jaw sets. Her hands are still flat against my chest, stuck there like glue as her eyes dodge back and forth between mine, searching. If she’s looking for a remnant of Xavelor, she won’t replace it. I lift my hands up and slide my fingers under hers, then catch her hands mid-air. “But he really is gone, now. There’s nothing we can do.”

Her mouth clamps shut but her chin continues to twitch. She backs away, brushes my hands off, and steadies herself on the bedpost.

“We best be on our way,” she says quietly, after she’s had a moment to breathe. I nod and follow her out the door.

The last time I stood in the large circular tower at the east end of the castle was when my mother’s body had been showered with lavender, her favorite flower, and my father, the king, said nothing about her life or death. Instead, he’d simply glanced at her lifeless corpse as though she was undeserving of his attention, even after her death.

The circle looks much the same, with its cracked stone flooring and eroding turret wall gilded with dark metal. At the center is a fresh, blood-red magic circle with arcane letters and enchantments endorsed in its design. The official magic circle of alignment, used explicitly for the immortalization of kings. Or would-be kings, in this case.

The moon is directly overhead, as is the sun at midday. The stars are brilliant tonight, pulsating throughout the dark purple infinity like they all want to be seen and remembered in this very moment. Kings of past millennia, all straining to glow brighter than their forefathers and great grandchildren. I try my best to see them all, but there are too many and the longer I look the more I seem to see, as though they’re multiplying—greedy for attention.

I quickly turn back to the darkened tower. Others have gathered. Not just members of the castle, but also the mages, whom I immediately recognize as the same mages who’d sent my mother to hell.

Mages are terrifying creatures—pure, writhing energy contained in a human shell—but we have no choice other than to trust them. Their knowledge and resources are beyond anything we can ever imagine, so the best we can do is to learn from them, with the hope that we can eventually control the elements as well as they are able to. Many humans have died trying to use magic, which is one of the reasons why I’ve never tried.

A sour taste covers my tongue and for a moment I feel that I may have bitten my cheek too hard and it’s blood, but I know it’s just my bitter resentment for these immoral magic users. Sending whoever they’re told to heaven or hell like they’re the gods of the world.

Their robes are dark and hooded, and their faces are all covered with bandages—hiding scars inflicted by using magic. Despite their rugged appearances, their eyes glow almost as brilliantly as the stars, full of beautiful blue energy. The kind my brother knew how to use.

Azriel is behind them, dressed in his black robes. Even though he’s wearing almost the same thing as me, he is still obviously a king: burly shoulders, rough and dark facial hair, wrinkles in all the right places, making him appear stern. Xavelor had inherited these kinglike genetics, while I’d taken after my feeble mother. I push away the thought that this trivial and uncontrollable variable could’ve been the reason why I’d been confined to the castle these long nineteen years and switch my focus back to the mages.

They stand at regular intervals around the magically charged circle. We onlookers are well away against the towers’ walls. My stomach muscles tighten in distaste as their robes ripple and snap in the windless night. Invisible tentacles of magic are poured silently into the circle’s center.

Harsh vowels hiss from the mages’ lips and each raises their arms in front of them. A bright red sphere of energy takes shape, pulsing in midair above the circle’s center point.

My heart crashes against my ribs, yearning to join the magical red ball I recognize as my brother’s soul. For the first time, I feel like we are connected somehow, like I’m not just a lowlife living in his shadow. Like there’s something in his soul at the center of that circle that is pulling me toward it, telling me that we are kindred spirits: the king’s bloodline pulses beneath my skin just as it did Xavelor’s.

The moment this exultation manifests, the mages snap their arms upward and the ball of energy rockets up to the stars to join our royal ancestors. The moment of our connection is gone. My body shivers uncontrollably and the weight of what I am—and am not—bears down on me. Though by name I am King Azriel’s son, I have no training or experience with fighting, and I’m running out of time to learn.

I wake up the next morning inches away from Ronan, Xavelor’s personal servant. His eyes are wide and brown and way too close.

My hands push him away instinctively, but my heart shoves into my chest, quickening from the surprise. How has he gotten into my private chambers? And why is he here?

He sits back on my bed, his eyes alert. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Ronan, and I can already tell he’s a little different from how he was when we were younger. He’d immediately formed an attachment to Xavelor as a young duke, even lowering himself to pledge loyalty as his right-hand servant when he was just twelve years old. He’s definitely grown up, but I can see he’s still just as reckless—bursting into my room unannounced like this.

I sit up and scramble to pull the bed covers against my bare chest. “Ronan, what in Arioch are you doing here?”

He blinks at me, not a thought behind his eyes—sort of like a puppy—and I relax a little. He isn’t here to kill me, at least... but then again, why would he? I pose no threat. I never have.

“I’ve been reassigned as your aide, your majesty,” he says, not breaking eye contact.

“No,” I say immediately. Of course he can’t be assigned to me, not right after his master’s funeral. That’s too quick of a change in loyalty—to go from serving a blood-hungry knight straight to serving a slothful hermit... Why would my father make such a call? “I decide who serves me.”

Ronan cocks his head to the side and his eyebrows press together. “You refuse?”

I nod once. “Unless this was your choice, not King Azriel’s.”

Ronan thinks for a moment, sliding a hand under his round chin. He puffs a lip out and looks at the ceiling, then moves his legs into a kneeling position. The bed creaks.

“The choice is mine, your majesty.” He thuds a fist to his chest—a sign of subordination—and bows. “It was Prince Xavelor’s last wish for me to serve you well for the rest of my life.”

It was Xavelor’s wish? That’s rather hard to believe. The whiff of a lie, perhaps. After Xavelor, he can only expect disappointment and heartache in serving me. There must be more to his willingness than my brother’s dying wish.

Trying to ignore his declaration, I slip out of bed and move to the door, where my old waistcoat, trousers, and tunic hang. It’s easy to pull these on myself—grey, then black, then white. The one outfit I don’t need aid to assemble. This gives me just enough time to gather my thoughts.

“Very well,” I say, turning to look at him. He’s still sitting at the base of the bed, his eyes loyally following my every movement. “Unfortunately, you may only have the luxury of fulfilling his wish for three short months.”

Ronan’s eyes widen and I feel my chest tighten. Of course he hasn’t heard about my father’s conditions. How could he have? He’s probably been mourning Xavelor’s passing, as most of us have been.

“Please explain, sire.” His voice is taut but his eyes flare with steady sincerity and I can see why Xavelor had entrusted his life to him all this time.

“I have until the Feast of Undying to prove myself to King Azriel, or someone else will become heir to the throne. But first I need to replace a master to teach me the arts.” My words sound flippant, which I replace both aggravating and humorous. How can I already feel so hopeless that there isn’t an ounce of urgency in my explanation? Or maybe I’ve just become so good at disguising how I truly feel that I’m beginning to trick myself, too.

Ronan’s eyes flicker and he purses his lips as he mulls over my words. Then, his face suddenly lights up with a smile. “I can take you to a place that’s crawling with mages, swordsmen, and masters of martial arts. There, you will replace who you seek.”

A part of me wants to believe him and trust him; the other part of me refuses Xavelor’s help in any configuration. And then I feel ridiculous, because there’s no way Xavelor could’ve predicted this outcome. He wouldn’t try sabotaging me beyond his grave. Why would he have reason to?

“Then let us waste no time in idle chatter.” I turn on my heel and push open the doors. Ronan slides off the covers and stumbles after me. We start down the hall.

“It’s a day’s journey by carriage,” Ronan says from behind.

“And on horseback?”

Ronan goes quiet. I turn to look at him and his eyes are concentrated on the ground. And then he bobs his head up and his eyes widen. “Why, half a day at best, I’d reckon.”

A smile creeps over my lips like a shadow. “We’d best be on our way then. I’ve already lost a week.”