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

The trees are dead.

Not in the way humans would describe them. No, these tall deciduous trees are, by all human definitions, alive. But they’re quiet. Their magical cores have been stripped from their majestic trunks like souls riven from untarnished bodies, left to wither away above the hard ground.

There is no magic here.

I lick my bottom lip and replace it’s salty from sweat. Xavelor has stopped looking in my direction, but I can’t let my guard down just yet, not when I’m getting more and more vulnerable as we press on. With every magicless tree we pass, it’s as though the energy drains from my arms, legs, chest, like blood leaking from a wound. The trees are nothing but voracious voids, greedily sucking every last drop of magical energy available to quench their thirst.

There is pity to be felt for trees like this. It’s a strange, foreign pity, but I somehow relate to them. I can imagine the fear and hopelessness of losing what makes you whole. So I release the reigns on my magical supply ever so slightly, and watch as the leaves brighten and the trunks glisten with droplets of water. That should be enough for now.

The ground is hard and flat and hot and the air is heavy, but I breathe easier down here than I did in the prince’s lap. Just thinking about sitting so closely makes my cheeks flare with heat, like an invisible fire stoked by some unknown force.

I can feel his eyes on me again, completely serious, studying my every move. Do I look strange? He mentioned not knowing much about elves. Perhaps he’s simply curious...

I clear my throat and turn my head away so I’m staring into the thick of trees. All dead. The forest is “alive,” yet nothing lives in it. No rabbits or birds or other woodland creatures. They must feel that the hard soil sows seeds of death, prolonging the famine of magic. Because of their absence, the only sounds are the striking of hooves on the ground and the soft shrieks of wind that occasionally wind through the trees and dart across the path.

And then I swear I see something black and fuzzy blur in and out of the shady spots, appearing and disappearing where the sunlight strikes the ground. I track it carefully, twitching my head to the left as it glitches in and out of existence. It’s a klopse—an adult one, at that!

Magic stirs within me, like a deep, growling hunger that suddenly takes hold. And everyone knows the power an empty stomach can have over the mind.

My eyes continue to follow the black beast as it hurdles its way in front of us, moving to the other side of the forest. My knife is heavy in its strap, begging for me to release it, to satisfy this famishment.

I hover my hand over my thigh and put all of my weight on my left leg, never blinking. The klopse is nearly to the other side of the path. I just need to wait until the horses are a pace ahead. Then, I can sprint behind them and spear the beast in the bushes. It would take mere moments to harvest its heart, rip into its other useless—but tasty—organs, and replenish the magic waning in my chest.

The moment happens quickly. I’m a second behind the horses, legs energized with bloodlust, my eyes tracking the fuzzy black illusion taunting me just meters away.

The energy in my leg explodes and I glide over to the beast just before it makes it into the eternal darkness of the woods. My arm bends back and the blade angles itself toward the creature. But now that I’m this close, a feeling of disappointment fills me like an overflowing keg of gin.

The magic in klopses is usually much stronger than what I sense from this one. My hand freezes mid-air when I realize the horses have stopped moving. Two pairs of eyes drill into the back of my skull, and I’m certain they aren’t watching me with anticipation, but with judgment. They probably don’t know my body thirsts for the magic within the creature, not the particularly small amount of meat clinging to its hollow bones.

“—hungry?” I catch the last word from Xavelor’s servant’s mouth, and just from that one word, I can tell he’s making me into an object of amusement.

I whip my head around and replace the servant’s eyes. Dark, dull, flat. His entire appearance is somewhat drab, apart from his glistening metal chainmail, sparkling under the rays of sunlight. I know very little of royal customs, but something feels off about his positioning next to the crown prince. Still, I decide to play along.

“Yes,” I say rigidly. “I was taken from my village with a very short notice, then I was abandoned and even left my bag of belongings behind.” My eyes flit to Xavelor’s. He doesn’t seem to pity my situation, but I wouldn’t expect someone like him to. I hold his gaze. “I’m starving.”

They’ll take this to mean food, of course, but I obviously mean I’m craving the magic of the forest. Without my heart beating along with the pulse of natural energy from the trees, I’m quickly growing weak. And if I’m weak, I’ll be useless to him.

Does he know this?

I look at him for a moment longer, and in that time, the heat floods my head again—an intoxicating tornado of admiration that destroys all logical thought as it picks up all rationalities and shatters them over the pathetic shards of my misshapen heart. I force my head away and slide the knife back into its holster.

“What do you like to eat?”

His question almost makes me laugh because of how innocent it sounds. And then I remember that this is no laughing matter. Anyone would be frightened by a creature from another species holding a knife. Not just holding one, but aiming and meaning to kill with it.

I knew he was going to ask this dumb question, but I’m still unprepared to answer. Should I say something humans might replace delicious, like crab or cow or rabbit? Cooked, of course. Nasty.

“Fish.” My answer is a bit delayed, but it’s the truth. I can eat raw fish and not seem entirely hideous to my human escorts. I’ve heard humans consider raw fish... a delicacy. How ridiculous.

Xavelor’s eyes shoot to the sky, searching for something to say in response. When he’s not looking directly at me, I feel less intimidated by the beating of my heart.

“What kind of fish?”

“Tallup.”

“Tallup?” He raises a sculpted brow.

“Haven’t you heard of Tallup?” I choke on my words as they barrel from my lips full-speed. They probably sound like another language entirely, but he seems to understand. His eyelids lower over his eyes and a slight twitch tugs at the corner of his lips.

“Oh, I’ve heard of it. It’s a delicacy in Arioch,” he responds.

Delicacy. See?

“Then can I only eat once we get to the palace?” I decide to play a little longer with this concept of real food. There’s a possibility that Tallup in the palace still has magical energy I can replenish myself with, albeit a small amount.

Xavelor reaches his muscly arm behind his head and tousles the curls of black hair swirling about, and his eyes are elsewhere. He seems to be pondering whether he should let me eat before securing me in the palace, or if he’s willing to let me suffer.

Finally, he drops his hand and sighs. “I have a few palace items on me. You can take your pick. Unfortunately, I don’t have any Tallup.” He removes a satchel from his waist and hoists it in the air. I catch it deftly with one hand and use my other hand to expand the fabric opening. Inside, bite-sized round treats clang against one another like glass spheres. I reach in to blindly grab one, then toss the bag back up to the prince.

Blue and green, the flat and smooth disc looks far from edible. Still, my curiosity controls my arm as it pulls the treat downward and my wrist flicks it up into the air. I catch it on my tongue and the treat begins melting on my tongue. It’s ridiculously bitter, but I swallow it down anyway.

My head thunders with pain—each ray of sunlight we pass through a bolt of lightning that triggers the rumbling. Something soft and warm presses against my cheek... or does my cheek press against it?

It takes me a moment to realize that I’m upside down, my head and arms dangling over one side of the horse’s rear and my legs over the other.

And I can’t move.

Have I been poisoned?

“Oh, you’re awake,” a voice snickers above me. It doesn’t belong to Xavelor. It’s that awful, mocking servant.

I roll my eyes to the right, as far as they can go, and watch as the chain mail shimmers across his large back like scales. He doesn’t look back at me, but I know he’s smiling. This must have been his idea.

Suddenly, we stop.

Distant footsteps approach, and there are many. Not quite enough to consider an army, but certainly the right amount to greet a prince.

“Ramiel,” one calls, huffing for air. “Where have you been?”

To my surprise, Xavelor responds. His voice is unmistakable. My body stiffens.

“To Edenburough. Ronan’s recommendation.”

And that’s when I stop listening. Who the hell is Ramiel and why have we stopped? Where are we? Have we reached the palace?

He’s wearing the silver earring of the crown prince. If he isn’t Xavelor, then who—

Something hard and cold suddenly strikes my head and the amalgamation of blood that has settled there—likely the source of my headache—oozes out like an undammed river. I make the mistake of audibly wincing, earning a snicker from my attacker.

“And what’s this?” A new voice interrupts. My vision is blurred from straining to see the horse’s rider, blotted from blood dripping over my eyelashes. The person’s hand grips the knot of hair at the top of my head and wipes the fresh blood into my eyebrows.

I blink away the crimson droplets and look into the eyes of an older man wearing a gray cloth tunic bearing the kingdom’s crest. A soldier, no doubt. His eyes are hollowed out with layers of wrinkles, his eyebrows permanently stuck in an agitated position.

“Not dead, that’s for sure,” a brute chimes in. His voice is grittier—the sound of it matches his stout, square-shaped face. He slides in next to the soldier and they both stare at me skeptically, their black eyes soulless and judging.

The man who I thought to be Xavelor finally steps in. He grabs the soldier’s wrist and tosses it away, then catches my head before it slams into the horse’s flank.

“She’s with us,” he says, suddenly underconfident. I sense an instability in it that I’m pretty sure wasn’t there before.

“Why’s that?” The soldier asks with a voice as harsh and rugged as the sun now burning across my back.

“Watch your tongue, churl,” the rider of my horse snarls. “That’s the prince you’re speaking to.”

The man is silent, then looks back down at me. Or at least, I think he does. The blood trickling down to my chin partners with the blistering heat, making me question my sanity. What exactly is going on?

“Ronan,” the prince speaks in a hushed tone, but it’s fierce. Then, he seems to address the soldiers still standing in front of me. “Bernadette has requested I replace new servants for my chambers.”

“Forgive my presumptiveness, your highness, but it seems to me your disappearance was unbeknownst to your personal troupe of servants as well. No one was aware of your whereabouts.” A new voice enters the conversation, this one clearly having more dignity than the others.

“You’re correct,” the prince says. “Except that my closest aide was aware.” He must mean the servant controlling the horse I’m strapped to. What was his name? Ronald?

The men around us clam up at the prince’s remark. Seeing as how none have more to say, the prince continues.

“As you can see, I’m bringing back a poor, dirty villager from the outer edge of the kingdom. She’s tired,” I can hear the daggers in his words, “and injured now. We must proceed to the palace gates. I won’t be hearing any objections.”

The men remain quiet as the prince remounts his horse and his steed neighs happily, ready for the wind to cool the sweat thickening under its coat.

We proceed onward, and I’m surprised I don’t lose consciousness from how weak I’ve grown.

The palace gate is very close to where we’d had our encounter. Mere minutes away. I have little energy to speak, and even less energy to look up at the palace’s entrance. I’ve always dreamt of how it would look, from the rumored columns of gold and silver and the pathways decorated with marble stone. But what does it matter when there’s no magic here?

We pass through the gate and trudge over a large wooden bridge, let down by iron chains hooked into a large stone arch.

The castle.

I crane my neck upwards, shaking unsteadily as I try to hold still. But even this slight movement is too much. I’m in an unfamiliar space where the absence of magic is no longer at zero, but now swings into the negatives—where dark magic exists. I’ve pushed myself too far.

I finally lose consciousness.