Page 9 of A Cursed Son

“Why are you here?” I ask. I don’t bother being polite because he doesn’t deserve it.

He leans back in his seat, all relaxed and aloof, not once turning in my direction. “Why do you care?”

“It should be someone standing in for Prince Aramel.”

“Isn’t that what I’m doing?” He points at his chest. “Here as myself.”

He’s not drunk and doesn’t smell of alcohol. Well, it’s early, and perhaps he had no plans to drink on this trip. What were he and Sayanne up to? The worst is that I can’t ask him.

I snort. “I’m sure Lord Stratson will be delighted to see you.”

Ziven turns to me, a cutting smile on his face. “Yes, he’ll be so happy. He’ll say, oh, they sent the useless bum. But at least I’m the real thing. Of course, there’s always a chance our carriage gets attacked, in which case our king will be the one who’ll be more than delighted.”

He might have a point—a dreadful point—but I can’t change any of that, so I try to focus on our assignment. “Did you bring the wedding gift?”

He blinks. “Gift? What gift? Oh, the stupid drunk doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. Is that what you think?”

I just stare at him, and then he pulls something from his coat pocket. It’s a golden chalice decorated with a large, clear stone.

“Here, a special magical gift!” He holds the chalice with one hand and waves another over it, making a dramatic voice. “It can tell you if there’s poison in your drink!”

The carriage moves, and there goes my hope that someone would get this wacko out of here and call Quin.

Ziven laughs. “The perfect gift for when you want to kill someone, since beacon stones don’t work.”

True. They’re supposed to change color and turn red to indicate danger, but the few remaining beacon stones are clear and never do anything. I think they need to be activated, like the opus stones, but the knowledge on how to do that has been lost. And yet…

“They’re still rare relics,” I say.

He stares at the chalice. “Useless, rare relics. A symbol of something that’s gone. Of course, a dandy gift to please a small lord.”

Small, but somewhat important. “Stratson’s state is near our northern borders. That’s a key area.”

Ziven puts the chalice back in his pocket and waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Please spare me your useless knowledge.”

“At least I have some knowledge, Your Highness. Do you also tell Sayanne that?”

His face is placid as he blinks. “I have no idea who that is.”

Interestingly, he truly sounds like he doesn’t know her. Still, he doesn’t convince me. He could have taken some personality classes. Would he, though? Who would teach him that?

I can lie well, but I practiced that a lot.

The day I first heard Otavio explaining that humans, like fae, can’t lie, is a day I’ll never forget, as it changed my perception of people.

While fae can’t lie with words, humans can’t lie with their tone of voice, expression, gestures. We tend to give ourselves away. This is why fae excel at tricking people. They can twist words to make you think you hear something that’s not there. Since they speak confidently even when misleading, human ears and eyes, trained to notice tone and gestures more than words, get tricked easily.

Now us, we can say anything we want, but our face, voice, and movements betray us. We’re at a bigger disadvantage than the fae, unless we train to lie and not show. For the substitutes like me, who might one day have to pretend to be someone else, it’s an imperative skill, drilled through hours and hours of practice.

Ziven doesn’t give any indication that he’s lying when he says he doesn’t know who Sayanne is. Perhaps he has learned how to lie on his own. But why? That doesn’t sound like the action of a mindless drunk. Who could have guessed that there’s so much more behind that fascinating, pretty face?

Excited and exhilarated, I keep my eyes out the window, my ears alert, as we slowly leave the city by the castle, and then travel through farms and fields. And then more farms and fields. After some time, everything looks the same, and all I want is to puke the dry toast I ate. Good thing we have a bucket.

As to Ziven, no face is fascinating after three hours in an enclosed space, without even talking. I eye the bucket on the floor, wondering if carrying something like that is normal, since he never asked about it, or if it’s because he doesn’t want to talk to me.

A small retinue with four guards accompanies us, the sound of hooves clopping on the road making me drowsy.

Ziven is quiet and grumpy. Well, too bad. It’s his fault he took Quin’s place. Now we have to barely tolerate each other for hours and hours. My plan now seems so foolish, and the worst is that I betrayed Master Otavio’s trust for nothing.