Bound to the Shadow Prince

Chapter 43

Chapter

Forty-Three

I t takes three glasses of his mushroom wine and two chewed leaves before Nemeth loosens up. I watch him carefully, and after a while, the shine in his eyes seems to get fuzzy, and his lids get heavy. While I sit next to him, threading a needle, he reaches out for my braid and strokes a claw down it.

“So soft,” he murmurs. “Like petting a kitten.”

My brows go up. “How are you feeling, Nemeth?”

The smile he gives me is lazy and heart-stopping, his eyes closed. “Good. Except my wing. It hurts like dragon shite. But other than that, I feel good.”

Oh, is he borrowing my phrases now? Biting back a giggle, I hold three fingers up. “How many do you see?”

“I see three kitten claws,” he murmurs, taking my hand in his and kissing each fingertip as if to prove it.

All right. I think the leaves are definitely working. “I’m going to clean your wing and then sew it up, all right, love?”

He groans, the sound more reluctant than pained. “Must we?”

“We must,” I say firmly, amused. “This will be easiest if you lie on the floor next to me and I spread your wing over my lap. Can you manage that?” I get to my feet and grab one of the biggest pillows off the bed. By the time I turn around, Nemeth is on the floor already, his strange legs bent, and his head turned due to his sweeping horns. I tuck the pillow under his head and he tries to kiss my fingers again. “Not now,” I cajole. “You can kiss them after you’re stitched up.”

“Have you ever stitched up anyone before?” he asks as I make him comfortable on the floor, adjusting the pillow.

“I have not.” I’m bloody nervous about it, too. Terrified, really. What if I can’t do it? What if I’m too disgusted by the thought that I can’t pull the needle through his flesh? But if I don’t, there’s no one else that can.

“Then I am proud to be your first,” he says.

I snort. Now I know he is truly drunk. I settle in next to him, sitting on my knees, and I spread a towel in my lap. “Let’s just get you taken care of, all right? Spread your wing for me.”

He does, and I want to cry all over again at the sight of his poor mangled wing. How am I ever going to sew it so tightly that he’ll be able to fly again? I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood, determined not to panic. He needs me. He needs me.

I can do this.

“Is it very bad?” he asks in a hushed voice.

“Not so bad,” I lie, wiping more blood away and then applying a cleansing ointment sent by Riza for cuts and scrapes. “I’m trying to figure the best way to go about this. I think I can get the stitches tightest if I tack the sides together in a few spots, and then go back over to the smaller stitches to pull everything together like two pieces of fabric. All right?”

Nemeth doesn’t answer, and when I look over at him, he gives me a dreamy look. “You are so beautiful, Candra.”

I smile at that momentary distraction. “Thank you. I’m going to sew the first stitch now.”

He continues to watch me as I take the needle in hand and brace myself. Then, holding my breath, I make the first stitch. He doesn’t so much as twitch, and when I’m done, I expel a gusty sigh. All right. I can do this after all. “How are you holding up, love?”

“You called me love,” he muses. “Twice now. You must really like my knot.”

Chuckling, I make the next stitch. Flirty drunks, I can handle. “Thinking about that, are you?”

“Constantly,” he admits.

I continue stitching his wing, hoping that I’m doing this right. I tack it in several spots to hold it together, then go back to the “beginning” of the wound and wipe away blood. I make the first tiny stitch, wishing for the first time that I’d paid attention to Riza’s needlework lessons. Still, how hard can it be? You make a stitch on one side and pull the needle through. That’s all. I make a tiny cross-stitch instead, since that seems more secure, and glance over at Nemeth to see how he’s handling the pain.

He’s still watching me, his expression thoughtful.

“I’m doing the best I can,” I tell him, making another stitch. “Tell me if you need me to pause so you can handle the pain.”

The Fellian snorts. “Mere tickles.”

I wipe away more blood. “Uh huh.”

“Is it true?”

I pause, looking over at him. “Hmm?”

“You called me love. Twice now. Did you mean it?”

For a drunk, he has an amazingly sharp mind. I’m not used to being confronted on my flirting. “It’s an affectionate name. I feel affection for you. Of course I’m going to call you ‘love.’”

“You feel affection for me?”

“I said that, didn’t I?”

“And you enjoy sucking my cock. And you liked my knot. Those weren’t lies?”

I make another stitch, wincing in sympathy as I tug it through his wing. “Where are you going with this?”

“That perhaps you have feelings for me.”

I already know I do. That’s not the problem. The problem is that he’s forcing me to choose frolicking in bed with him and giving up my kingdom. “I adore you,” I confess. “Being with you makes me happy. You’re the only reason I haven’t given up a dozen times over. You’re the only reason I didn’t race out that door the moment they opened it.”

“That and the wrath of the Golden Moon Goddess, yes?”

I’m silent, because I’m not a good person. If it was up to just me? I’d probably have left. I like to think that I’d be noble and sacrificing, but I don’t think I’m strong enough for that. I’m a weak coward. “I’m just glad you’re here. You saved me down there.” I wipe the blood off his wing again and make another stitch. “Something tells me those men wouldn’t have stopped at simply taking our food. They likely would have murdered us, too.”

Well, after raping me.

The thought is a grim one, and it reminds me that those men were humans. Liosian humans. They’re supposed to be my people. Yet every time I’m contacted with my people, they’re treating me with derision. Or worse. I think about the fluffy letters that Riza and Nurse sent, letters that were sweet and thoughtful but shared no information about the outside world, because they did not trust me with it.

“You haven’t answered,” he says. “Perhaps these feelings mean we should be together after all?”

I nod absentlyas I stitch, focusing on the work in front of me as I think more about my people. How those men showed up early with the supplies this time. They didn’t wait for the solstice. They said they didn’t have to…and I’m reminded of how much I struggled last year, fighting to make my candles last, fighting to make every bit of wood count. They could have brought me more at any time—Riza points out in her letter that she knew I didn’t have any—and no one did.

It hurts.

Those choices, combined with the men that broke in, make me question my kingdom at all. I know King Lionel is a complete arse. If he fell off a cliff, I’d cheer. I’ve got no love for him or this war he’s started. But he’s married to my sister, and she’s everything to me. I can’t abandon her.

And yet…she wanted me to kill Nemeth. Probably still would the moment I left this tower.

The thought sickens me. She doesn’t know him. Not like I do. She doesn’t know that he takes care of me, fusses over me when I’m not feeling well. He administers my medicine to ensure that I don’t bruise myself. He’s shared his supplies and everything he has with me, simply because he’s a good person.

Erynne wouldn’t understand that, and it feels like a knife in my chest. Nemeth’s insistence upon an honorable mating between us means I would be choosing between him and my sister.

It’s a choice I cannot make.

“It’s all right,” Nemeth says in a soft voice.

I glance over at him, startled. “Hmm?”

“If you don’t want to be with me. I know I am not the same as your kind. To them, I am a monster.” He gives me a sleepy smile. “If nothing else, I am glad I will have this time with you.”

My heart aches. “I wish it were simple, Nemeth.”

“It is,” he says, closing his eyes. “It is all very simple. And I am content to wait.”

Once his wing is stitched and slathered in salve, I gently help him fold it closed and then change the blankets on the bed so he can have somewhere clean to lie down. It’ll be impossible to bandage the wound itself, but I stick a bit of cloth to the thick salve to cover the worst of it and help him into bed. Nemeth is an affectionate drunk. He tries to pull me into bed with him and kisses my neck and face over and over again, until I’m breathless with need.

“I love you,” he whispers, brushing my hair back from my face. “My beautiful Candra. I would die before I would let anyone harm you.”

That just makes my heart hurt more. I force a bright smile to my face and give him a sassy wink that I don’t feel. “You think about your reward for being a good patient. But for now, get some sleep.”

He doesn’t let go of my hand, and I hold it tight as he mumbles to himself and drifts off to sleep.

I stare down at our joined hands. His is easily twice the size of mine, his palm huge. His thick fingers are tipped with deadly looking black claws, but I’ve never been truly afraid of him. He’s always been so kind and gentle, even when it’s obvious that he could crush me in his grip. I feel safe with him, and that’s oddly ironic because I’ve never felt safe at court. I love court, and I know how to survive—and even thrive—on the games played there. But it feels like living on the edge of a knife, where the slightest wrong move could destroy you.

It’s definitely not safe or comfortable, and until Nemeth, I didn’t think those were things I wanted.

I toy with his fingers, tracing each dangerous claw, thinking of how Nemeth would fit in back at the Liosian court. Provided they didn’t immediately toss him into the dungeon, he still wouldn’t fit in. He’s a scholar who delights in his books and loves to sit by the fire and discuss what he’s read. He’s far more suited to a monastery or a college. The court is a place where fashion is discussed, not philosophy. Of who is fucking who, and which lord is about to make an advantageous marriage, and which lord has been cuckolded. It’s an aggressive, shallow place, and I think Nemeth would hate it.

And that makes me oddly sad, because he doesn’t fit into my world. If we weren’t in this tower together, we’d have never met. If Meryliese had lived, I’d still be at court, being chased by Balon, and Nemeth would be here, reading his books and enduring quietly.

Alone.

Because I don’t know if Meryliese would have been his friend. I don’t know if they would have spoken. I don’t know if she would have lived through that first long year in which all my wood ran out far too quickly.

I like to think that Meryliese would have shared with him, but what if Erynne had given her the same dagger she gave me? What if Erynne had given her the same instructions—to kill the Fellian in the tower before he killed me? Erynne is all wrong about Nemeth. He is fierce when he needs to be, but he’s also a good, kind man.

I’m more torn than ever.

Placing Nemeth’s hand carefully back on the bed, I pull the covers over him and get to my feet. With a lamp in my hand, I head upstairs for my trunk, where I’ve left Erynne’s letter. Maybe reading it again will give me more clarity of mind. I head up to my old room, and again it feels oddly empty and strange. To think that there is so much life in a room shared with Nemeth and his things. I don’t even mind the cozy clutter of his books, because it feels like we’re snug in a den together.

Or perhaps it’s the “together” part that I’m so enamored with.

I sit on the floor in front of my trunk and pull it open. Erynne’s letter is waiting there, and I unfold it, running my fingers over the parchment as I do. The light hits the thick paper with a strange angle, and as it does, I notice something peculiar. Certain letters seem to be bolder than others. Here is a large C, and in the next line, an overlarge H. I thought Erynne had sloppy writing, but perhaps it’s an encoded message?

Holding my breath, I whisper each letter aloud.

C-H-E-S-T-L-I-N-I-N-G.

By all the gods. How could I have missed this?

I jump to my feet, frantically searching the room for the chest that the letters came in. Which one was it? The one with the brass buckles or a plain one? Have we yet burned it? I race back downstairs, heading for the first floor storage room, where Nemeth painstakingly detailed our supplies and made plans for them to last us. I find the chest in question, and, panting with anticipation, I pull it free and flip it open. Still full of herbs. I pull the bags out and when they are removed, I can see a dainty fabric glued to the bottom of the chest itself, with a delicate repeating pattern. I skim my fingers over the fabric, holding the lamp up to see. Sure enough, there is a hint of a bulge, and when I run my fingers over the lining, there’s a give, as if a thick sheaf of parchment is underneath.

Using my fingernails, I pry the lining up and snatch the letter inside. It’s folded and sealed with Erynne’s scented wax, the impression of House Vestalin’s symbol staring back at me. I flick a finger under the wax and unfold the letter.

A small pouch flutters into my lap as I do.

This time, the message is brief.

Candra,

I am told the Fellian yet lives in the tower with you. The war goes badly and we need to send a message. I’ve sent you the tools. Do not be a coward.

For Lios,

Erynne.

I stare at the letter and read it again.

And a third time. Because I cannot believe what it says. Erynne knows I didn’t kill Nemeth and now she’s demanding that I do so? She’s sent poison along? I push the sachet off my lap in horror and skim the message again, looking for more hidden messages. There is nothing I can see, no strange letters more pronounced than others.

The writing is unmistakably Erynne’s, as well.

They know he’s alive…how? There must be a spell of some kind that tells her of our doings. If she gave me a magical knife that answers questions, it stands to reason that she would have a second for herself. She can’t see inside the tower itself, I don’t think, or she would know that Nemeth and I share every meal. That he takes care of me. That the idea of killing him is unthinkable.

For the first time since I’ve arrived, I don’t feel helpless guilt over my sister’s commands.

Instead, I’m enraged.

How dare Erynne ask for this? How dare she demand that I kill my only company? The man who has been nothing but kind and protective to me? Who saved me from those men below? My cheek still throbs from the smack across the face I was dealt. I think of Nemeth’s poor wing, and how distraught he was over the wound. How he didn’t want to show it to me because he felt responsible for his wing’s destruction.

How wings are useless in a tower.

My heart hurts. Here I’ve been so focused on my own struggle that I’ve failed to acknowledge Nemeth’s. However hard it is for me to be here, it’s equally difficult—or more so—for him. I can’t imagine having the freedom to fly and then being trapped here in the tower. I’ve always been forced indoors due to my illness, never very far away from a nurse or an assistant who can administer my potion.

A potion that I have to administer to myself tonight, since Nemeth is probably going to be unconscious for the remainder of the day, drunk and relaxed.

I head for the garderobe, and I toss the packet of poison in without hesitation. Then I’m going to start a fire to cook a meal, brew my potion…and burn my sister’s letter.

The gods can take Erynne’s plans and send them straight to the Gray Lands. I’ve got plans of my own and they don’t involve killing Nemeth to send a message of any kind. She thinks I’m a coward? I’m going to show her a different sort of bravery and do the very thing I’m terrified of.

I’m going to marry Nemeth.

Provided that’s still what he wants, of course. But I know a sure way to find out.