Page 21

Chapter 21

Kat

I’m desperately weak as the remnants of poison finish working through my system the next day. So weak, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to do another raid again. Chopping wood, cleaning the prince’s room, or hauling water—even setting out his clothes—feel like tasks so monumental I don’t think I’ll ever be capable of them now. When I peel away the bandage from my face, I discover eight small cuts scarring over. They’re small enough I doubt they will be very noticeable, but I can already hear Mary having a fit.

The prince tells me to rest, to eat slowly, and to regain my strength. When I try to go back to work, he orders me to sit outside and soak up the sun, so I do just that. I find a sunny spot on the patio with my Fool’s Circle book, and I read until my face is sunburned and hundreds of new freckles have appeared on my arms.

I do feel better though.

That night, when the prince suggests we play our game over dinner—dinner where he ordered I eat with him so he can make sure I don’t go too fast—I’m so eager to do something normal again I almost trip over myself getting the board.

Our first game we play mostly in silence. Until we near the end, and my gaze shoots up in outrage. “You’re letting me win!”

The prince’s gaze flicks up to mine. Is that a smile tugging on the corner of his lip? “You’re improving quickly. I see the book is helping you.”

“How dare you!” I cry, shoving the pieces off the board.

“You took a poisoned blade for me!” he protests. “It feels cruel to beat you.”

“I want a fair game, or no game.”

We lock eyes. I hold my ground, glaring at him, while he regards me mildly. He is the one who looks away first.

“Very well. Let us start again.” He sets up the pieces. “If a merciless beating in Fool’s Circle is what you need to feel better, then a merciless beating you shall have.”

I take my minions and arrange them properly. “It’s not that I want to be beaten. It’s that I plan to beat you one of these days, and I want it to be for real. A false victory holds no satisfaction.”

He places the Fool in the center and leans back, lacing his fingers together as his eyes run over my face, lingering on my new scars. “The number of strong opinions you hold as a twelve-year-old continues to amaze me.”

You’re acting too much like yourself, I think in self-chastisement.

I must have flinched or given some indication of my chagrin, because the prince adds: “I do not disparage you for your age. I compliment you. Few lads know their own minds. Few men do, for that matter. It’s an admirable thing to be so young and yet so thoughtful.”

He’s teasing me. In what manner, I cannot fathom. But he’s somehow goading me. He has done this before, but there used to be an edge to it that now seems to have . . . softened? It’s as though he was previously trying to catch me in a mistake, but now it’s like he wants to know me better. As if he conducts a curious study of my character.

None of it makes sense, so I shove it from my mind.

“I don’t need to be grown to know I don’t like to be patronized.” The words are muttered, and I mean them in reference to him letting me win, not to what he said. But when he’s silent, I realize just how bad those words sound. “I—I’ve misspoken, Master. I meant—I meant the game—”

“You haven’t offended me.”

I uncurl my tense fingers. Then, I blurt: “You are very kind to me, master. I don’t mean to be ungrateful for your kindness and patience. I know I have much to learn, and I say things without thinking and act foolishly. You are merciful to not punish me. You have the patience of a saint.”

He opens his mouth as though to say something else, but stops himself. “You don’t need to flatter me to appease my moods.”

I sag in further relief. “That is a relief.”

He laughs outright at that. I hide my self-satisfied smile and quickly add: “But I mean what I said.”

To my shock, he reaches across the table, his hand landing on the top of my head and ruffling my hair. “Your turn,” he says.

I blink too quickly and steer my attention down to the game.

We’re halfway through the next round—in which I’m getting thoroughly trounced—when the prince’s face turns more contemplative, as if his mind is elsewhere. I take turns watching the board and his expression, and on one such occasion, he looks up and catches me.

“You look troubled,” I say.

He lifts one shoulder in a casual shrug. “Much is on my mind.”

Like how to quickly hunt me down. I curse myself for enjoying his laughter only a few minutes ago. “Like what?”

He moves his pieces. “Like marriage.”

“Marriage?” I drop the minion I just picked up. It falls to the floor, and I scramble to retrieve it.

He gives a quiet snort of amusement. “Don’t you think about marriage?”

My mind trips over itself for the right twelve-year-old boy reaction and I settle on screwing up my nose.

He chuckles. “Give it some time. You’ll think differently sooner than you think.” He winks at me—and it is a wink like we share some secret, just between the two of us.

“You think differently, then?” I probe, curious.

“It is complicated.”

“Because you’re fae?”

He moves his pieces. “That is part of it.”

“Do fae marry?” I ask, knowing the answer.

“We do. We call it bonding . It’s like a human marriage, but, because we are magical beings, our bonding is infused with magic. It is a powerful bond. Many fae choose never to bond, or if they do, they wait until later in their life. They may have many dalliances before and after a bonding, but once the bond is in place, it can rarely be broken by a force besides death.”

“Is that why you haven’t marr—bonded?”

“In part, yes. It is not something to do lightly.”

I wait, and when he does not continue, I say, “But there are other reasons.”

“There are.” He inclines his head, then frowns down at the board. He considers it carefully for several long minutes before moving his pieces. “The Court I come from is especially notorious. It is not safe to get your heart tangled up with someone who can be used against you. In Faerieland, we cannot lie, but we are very good at deception. There has been no one I trust enough to bind my life to.”

I bite back my initial pitying response, and instead say, “That’s probably good.”

He looks up, surprised. “How so?”

“Because if you wanted power in Harbright, you could woo the queen. She’s the widowed regent for her son. You could be reigning King of Harbright until the crown prince is of age.”

“Marry the queen?” His bark almost startles me. “She would sooner bite my head off.”

“I think you can handle her.”

“You do me credit.”

I frown, and before I can stop myself, I gesture at his massive physique, his bulging arms and powerful shoulders. “You’re a veritable mountain. You’d be fine.”

He laughs again while I duck my head to hide my blush. I’m beginning to grow fearful of what foolish things I will say and do to elicit such laughter. The little clinks of our pieces moving on the board fill the silence for several long minutes, until the prince clears his throat.

“Nat.”

The seriousness underlying that syllable lifts my attention to his. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, refusing to look at me. I chew on the inside of my lip, hardly breathing as I wait for him to continue.

“I don’t think I have properly thanked you for what you did,” he says at last.

Now it’s my turn to shift uneasily. “No, you have.”

“No, I haven’t, and I owe it to you,” Rahk says, firmly, still not looking at me. “Frankly, I am deeply ashamed that those assassins ever made it onto my estate, much less inside this house—and it is an egregious offense that I ever let any of them close enough to hurt you. I would have lost my head if I’d proved such poor competence in the Nothril Court.”

“How was it your fault?” I cry. “They are the ones who broke in. They are trained for this. It’s not your—”

“ I am trained for this, Nat!” It comes out in an angry snap. He rakes a hand through his hair. Is that a tremor in his fingers? My lips part.

He is serious. He truly is ashamed, which somehow succeeds in making me ashamed that I couldn’t have gotten there faster.

Finally, his gaze latches onto mine. It is so strong, I immediately want to retreat.

“You were hurt because of me,” he growls. The words falter slightly. “That is never going to happen again. I swear it. You may not trust me, and that is fine—I have not earned your trust. But I promise anyway that I will not let you down again.”

“You haven’t let me down,” I insist. We haven’t played any minions for several minutes now. I don’t remember whose turn it is. “It is my fault that I didn’t get there faster—”

His tone turns almost . . . distraught . “Why won’t you accept my thanks? Why won’t you accept my apology? You did nothing wrong—you were brave and courageous and sometimes I think it is impossible that you didn’t have some ulterior motive for it because where I come from, aiding people is done for selfish reasons and protecting someone can cost you everything.” His words are tumbling out, fast and breathless, and for this moment, he sounds nothing like the stern, quiet Prince Rahk I’ve come to know. “I’ve been forced to do things that I hate, been prevented from doing the things I want, and anyone I protect becomes a means of manipulation. I have this little sister and—” He cuts off with a growl, shaking his head. He runs a palm down over his face, as though trying to wrestle control back. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet. “What I’m trying to say is that I am envious of your ability to just choose to help someone. Simply because you want to. I admire that you did not just have the option, but you took it. I am thankful that you saved my life. If you hadn’t . . . one of the only people I care about in the world would have likely died. So please, Nat, please accept my thanks and please accept my apology. It upsets me that you seem disinclined to do so.”

I stare back at him, my mouth agape.

Little sister.

He must be talking about the youngest Nothril princess—Princess Pavi.

So the fae can love, I think, closing my mouth. But why would Pavi have died if Rahk had? Unless he was talking about someone else?

I run my tongue over my lips and try to find my voice. It feels impossible to get the words out. They go against every instinct inside me that screams I have no right accepting either thanks or apology. He is so distraught, though. I cannot bear to look at the expression on his face and refuse the one thing he asks.

“Yes,” I say finally, quietly, ducking my head. “I accept them.”

Rahk lets out a deep exhalation. He works his jaw, then abruptly leans forward and moves his minions. We play silently until he speaks again.

“I am told it would be wise to marry a human woman to secure my position in Harbright’s court.” The furrow between his brows returns.

“You don’t want to?”

“I do not.”

“Then don’t.”

He only smiles and then moves his piece to claim the last opening around the Fool. “I win.”