12. Chapter 12
Chapter 12
Rahk
I spend several hours at the edge of Caphryl Wood, but when my spells remain untouched and the cart shows no sign of being moved, I return to Nothril briefly to meet with Pelarusa. She informs me that Pavi has kept herself out of trouble so far, and agrees when I ask her to have a servant leave notice for me on the Nothril Path when the Ivy Mask strikes. Not without vicious complaint however, and a promise to make my life miserable if I don’t catch him soon.
After that, there’s nothing more to do except trace the scents of the escaped slaves. I track them through the field into Ashbourne. Their scents—four of them—stay close together. They lead to a coach in the poorer part of the city and end there.
They’ve left the city. There’s no tracking them from here. Not unless I wanted to spend a significant amount of time pursuing a few humans who might not even know much about the Ivy Mask themselves.
I mark the lead as dead and return home to catch a few hours of sleep. Humans need far more sleep than fae, but it still catches up to me every few days.
Quietly, I slip into my own room, not disturbing Edvear or the other staff. I toss away my jerkin and tunic, only to pause a second later. The memory of Nat’s scandalized expression when she saw me shirtless resurfaces. I roll my eyes once more, but then I remember that she is supposed to be sleeping in the room adjoining this one.
Curiosity makes me approach Nat’s door. I don’t open it to respect her privacy, but I do place my ear close to the wood. I can make out her faint, even breaths from here. She’s asleep.
My brow puckers slightly.
Is the sob story she told me at breakfast true? The emotion in her body was clear: the haunted look in her eye, the slight inward curling of her shoulders, the shift in her breathing. I’m inclined to think it was, though the timeline she offered is inaccurate. Her parents have been dead for much longer.
If she did lose her mother to the expansion of Caphryl Wood, and her father not long after, then what turns did her life take to bring her here? Why would she have a skilled servant for an older sister, but she herself not be skilled? And the ever-present question: why the disguise?
I step away from the door.
Nat wasn’t raised as a servant. Which means Mary likely isn’t her sister.
I return to my spy theory as I navigate the darkness to my bed and lay down, staring up at the rafters. On one hand, it still seems the most plausible that Nat would be a spy sent from Queen Vivienne.
I just cannot believe an official spy would be this bad . Perhaps she is this bad, and I am letting my own bias cloud my vision. Still, it doesn’t sit right. I could interrogate and threaten her until she broke and told me the truth. I could even use some . . . forceful persuasion, if she proved difficult to crack. If I was Pelarusa, or either of my parents, that is exactly what I would do.
But I have always been inclined to lean back and watch. To observe. To wait and see how things will play out. Perhaps part of me also enjoys the game of it.
Another theory has been stirring in my mind. One that grows more compelling by the day.
She’s hiding.
From what, I do not know.
None of this is my business, and as long as she doesn’t threaten my errands, I see no harm in letting her do whatever she came to do. The moment she does, though—and by consequence, Pavi’s life—she’ll be dismissed. Or worse.
For now, however?
I’ll let her continue her charade as long as she likes.
Kat
“It was nice to see Mary yesterday evening. I thought the two of you looked nothing alike, but then she crinkled her nose like you do. I couldn’t stop seeing the resemblance then,” says Charity the next morning as she spoons oatmeal into dishes for the staff’s breakfast.
“I wish I had a big sister,” says Becky from her stool.
I give a little laugh as I take the prince’s breakfast tray. I try to think of a proper response, and come up with nothing. So, I give an awkward shrug to Charity and carry my tray out.
I’ve already laid out the prince’s clothes. He was measured for new, human-styled clothing yesterday. Soon, he’ll look less like a warrior sent to destroy us all and, aside from his striking features and unusual hair color, he will almost look human. If he pulls his hair back in a way that covers his long, pointed ears, that is.
For the first time since I arrived, I woke to evidence that he slept in his bed last night. He was long gone by daybreak, however, if the coldness of the bedclothes I rearranged were any indication.
I lay out his breakfast on the low table in his bedroom. His approaching footsteps in the hallway make my spine stiffen, and I pray desperately that this morning, he will be fully dressed.
The door squeaks on its hinges. The prince’s voice is low and monotone behind me. “Thank you.”
I turn around. He wears the new set of black clothing I laid out for him. He hasn’t donned his jerkin, but his tunic is embroidered with silver thread fine enough to make even a queen weep. I release the breath I’d been holding and bow.
He hardly even looks at me as he sits down to his breakfast.
I turn to leave.
“I’m attending a ball in three evenings.” His voice arrests my progress. I turn around and fold my hands, waiting for his orders. “Some of my new wardrobe will be delivered by then. You will work with Edvear to select what I shall wear. I need a human’s opinion on the matter, as it will be my first public appearance as ambassador in Harbright.”
I cringe inwardly. I sent my intention to attend this ball weeks ago—before Agatha sold Bartholomew. The queen will be offended by my absence.
Well, there is no use worrying about it. I’ll just have to deal with her displeasure when I return to court.
I bow. “I will do my best to pick out suitable clothes, Highness.”
His head whips up, his eyes going sharp like a cat’s. “Highness?”
My hand flies to my burning lips. “Master. I mean, Master .”
The look he gives me is shrewd and calculating. His low voice takes on an edge that makes my teeth tingle. “How did you know I was royalty? I haven’t told anyone here.”
A rock drops into my stomach. I scramble for any excuse. “Oh, I just assumed—with being an ambassador, that you were someone important. Aren’t ambassadors always royalty?” I try to thread my question with enough ignorance to cover my slip.
Stupid, stupid Kat. You’re going to get yourself killed.
“I’d say they’re usually not royalty,” the prince replies.
“Oh. Forgive me.” My voice pitches high, and I desperately drag it back down to my lower registers to exude curiosity instead of supreme discomfort. “But . . . you are royalty?”
He blinks once, slowly. “I am.”
I lean slightly forward, feigning surprise. “Are you a king?”
To my relief, the question seems to genuinely amuse him. “No, I am a prince. Most kings don’t do their own emissary work.”
Slip of the tongue successfully recovered from.
Now time to make my escape.
I bow. “I will remember what you have taught me and will say foolish things less often.”
“Don’t.” His mouth curves slightly. “Your foolishness is the only delight I have to look forward to.”
He eats his breakfast, signaling the conversation’s end. I leave the room as quickly as I can and head outside. I already have more wood to chop. When I walk into the sunshine, I let out the curse I was biting back. I think I’m offended—and not for Nat’s sake, but my own.
I stomp over to the stump and woodpile. I grab the axe.
The violence of the task calms the simmer of my blood.
It’s fine if he thinks you’re an idiot, I tell myself, puffing hair out of my face. Let him think less of you. It’s only then that you can take advantage of him.
Work keeps me busy until sundown. While my hands move, I occupy my mind with the problem of doing a raid without Bartholomew. I used to do them that way a long time ago, while I was still getting her used to Caphryl Wood. Until Bartholomew gets back, I’ll have to go on foot. It’ll slow us down, but I cannot use another horse—for so many reasons.
The prince summons me to his study after supper. I brace myself when I open the door. Almost immediately, a chest is dumped into my arms.
“Organize the contents of this chest in my room. It was misplaced during unloading,” the prince orders.
“Yes, Master.” I bow and turn to leave.
“I heard your sister stopped by to see you.”
I go still. Then I force a smile, shoving away my growing premonition. “Indeed. I was glad to see her.”
“Good. She is welcome here. You must introduce me when she comes next.”
He speaks the words so casually, but I don’t trust it for a minute. Is he suspicious after I called him by his royal title today? Does he wish to corroborate Mary’s story with mine?
I make a mental note to never let him meet Mary if I can help it. “Thank you, my lord.”
In the bedroom, I set the chest on the vanity and open the lid. Of course, right on top are several very sharp knives. I force myself not to be afraid of them and lay them out on the vanity, one after another. After that, I find a silver medallion on a long chain. The medallion is engraved with a crest: a jagged fang with a star in its center. I place it in a small drawer in the wardrobe.
The bottom of the chest contains two items of interest. A pouch containing two vials of ollea . They snag my attention at once, with their slender size and blue tint. It would be so simple to snatch one—and endlessly stupid. I go to place it on the bedside table where he will find it the moment he wakes up each morning?only to stop. That is where I would put it if I knew ollea was for him to dull the intensity of scents to his nose. But I’m Nat. A twelve-year-old boy who wouldn’t have a clue what this is.
I set it on the vanity beside the knives instead.
The second item of interest is a flat, circular container of thin, carved wood. My heart leaps—not from fear this time, but pure excitement. Fool’s Circle . A fae game that the tailor taught me when I was a child. A game I have not played in years.
I cannot resist sliding open the lid. There, on top of the board, is a carved piece with a red, painted cap and a comically long nose. A wave of comfort rolls over me, bringing a smile to my lips. This was how Tailor calmed my tears when he discovered me, frightened out of my mind, wandering the Long Lost Wood in search of my mother.
“Everything will be alright,” he told me while we took turns moving our pieces. “See how silly the Fool’s nose is?”
“That is a fae board game.”
My throat slams shut in fright. I whirl, releasing the piece back into its container.
Prince Rahk stands just inside the doorway. I didn’t even hear him approach—I must have been too caught up in my discovery.
“I was not trying to snoop,” I say quickly, slamming the lid of the game shut. “I wasn’t sure where I should put it, so I opened it to see what it was. That was when I saw it was a game. I love games and this one seemed interesting, but I promise I was just about to put it away.”
His arms are crossed over his chest, his face utterly blank.
“I can put it beside your bed?” I rush over to his bedside table and set the game there. “I wasn’t sure where you wanted your knives or your blue vials. I didn’t want to put them somewhere where they’d break, as they seemed valuable.”
In a few strides, he stands in front of me. I swallow, looking up at him, trying to read his thoughts in the impenetrable set of his hard, wide-set jaw and the black depths of his pupils. Have I pushed him too far this time? Have I proved myself untrustworthy and incompetent beyond redemption?
His hand slips behind me. I brace myself, forcing myself not to squeeze my eyes shut. He withdraws his hand—and I realize he’s grabbed Fool’s Circle.
He holds it up. “Would you like to learn to play?”
My jaw unhinges and falls to the floor. “Yes! I would love to. But I thought—I thought you were angry with me!”
His lower lashes twitch, the severity of his mouth shifting just slightly. “For having excellent taste in games? Certainly not.”
He goes to the table and sits on the cushions as he opens the game. My relief sends my legs almost melting into water. I force them into motion and make them carry me to the opposite side of the table.
I fold my feet beneath me as he slides a thin disc of wood onto the table and dumps the painted pieces beside it. The board has a circular grid carved into it, with one center space reserved for—
“The Fool goes here,” says the prince, setting the biggest piece in the middle. “The goal of the game is to surround the Fool with four of your minions—the smaller pieces—and claim your win. You arrange your minions like so, one in each of the edge spots on your half of the circle, and I will do the same. On your turn, you can move three spaces between any of your pieces. They can only move to the spaces adjacent to it. You can use all three of your spaces on one piece, or you can split it between two or three pieces. If you want to capture a spot I’m currently residing in, you must surround me on three sides—and thus force me to retreat.”
I nod, already planning my moves out as I stare at the board.
“There are various strategies—”
“I prefer to learn as I play.” I shouldn’t have interrupted him. I kick myself.
He only looks up, settling his gaze on me. “Then let us begin. You may take the first move.”
I take my leftmost piece and move it three spaces inward.
A slight smirk twists his lips. He mirrors my movement on the opposite side. I immediately veer into his territory, halfway to the one of the coveted slots.
“Aggressive,” he mumbles.
“Am I doing it wrong?” I say, to cover my confidence in my moves.
“Not at all. I have a friend named Ash back in Faerieland who is good at this game, and this is his favorite strategy to use on those who are new to the game. It works well on those likely to get flustered and defensive.”
“But not against someone like you?”
“It’s not going to make me fall back on my defenses and give you the edge, no. That doesn’t mean it can’t work with someone more experienced, though.”
“Hmm.” I bite my lip, focusing on my moves. Adrenaline sharpens my attention. It isn’t likely that I could successfully win against someone like Prince Rahk, but the force of my desire to do just that surprises me. I’m so completely focused on the game that I hardly even think about the prince until he speaks.
“You have a knack for this game.”
I look up. He studies me intently, his head slightly cocked to one side. If I’d known he was watching me like that, I wouldn’t have been able to think straight about my next move. I shift in my seat and look away. “I enjoy games.”
“Even fae ones?”
“I haven’t met a game I didn’t enjoy,” I reply.
He smiles. Actually smiles. “Me neither.”
I clear my throat to rid myself of the strange tickle that appeared. The pieces on the board shift in my vision. I blink to focus. I study the board, then sag against the table in realization.
Rahk’s smirk widens. “I’m impressed.”
“Impressed?” I blurt. “Impressed that I lost?”
He encircles my last piece and claims the fourth spot surrounding the Fool. “I’m impressed that you saw your loss that quickly. I thought it would have taken several more turns to notice.”
I make a vague sound of displeasure.
“So, you like games,” says the prince, sliding the board back into its container, “but you don’t like losing.”
“No one enjoys losing,” I reply tartly. “Though I’m sure you’re not very familiar with the concept.”
He pauses just before he drops the Fool into the container. One eyebrow cocks slightly. “That is a bold assumption, considering you know nothing about me.”
I shut my mouth, chastened.
“But you are correct. I do not lose often.”
When I look up at him, surprised, his gaze holds an unexpected twinkle. I blink twice. Then, because he seems to be in a relatively good mood, I decide to test my luck. “My lord, may I speak plainly?”
“So long as you do not offend me,” he replies, and I cannot tell if he is serious or if he is somehow teasing me with an unreadable deadpan.
“I know I am lacking in many ways,” I begin cautiously, “but I wish to please you. I fear that I usually cannot tell from your face whether you are pleased or not.”
There is no shift in his expression. He nods slowly. “That does put you at a disadvantage, considering that I can tell very easily when you are pleased and displeased.”
I do not think he could have given a more frustrating reply.
“Nat: currently very displeased with his employer,” the prince declares.
“My lord!” I cry, wishing I could hide the way my skin suddenly turns hot. “You must delight in tormenting me! I cannot tell if I am to get on my knees and beg your forgiveness or if you are merely teasing me.”
He nods again. “I do delight in tormenting you.”
My mouth falls open. I try to collect my composure. “Then . . . you do not require penance of me?”
“The penance I require of you is that you play Fool’s Circle with me tomorrow evening.” At this, he seems to allow himself a small smile. Enough to prove that he is, in fact, teasing me and that he is not angry.
At the mention of playing again, I forget my frustration and perk up. “Tomorrow?”
“Considering that your world smells like rotting animal corpses, I ought to indulge in anything that makes up for it. You’ve proven yourself an interesting opponent, and perhaps with enough practice, we’ll turn you into something formidable.”
That . . . is a compliment. Very backhanded, but a compliment nonetheless. I don’t have a clue what to do with a compliment from a Nothril prince.
“Perhaps with enough practice, we can reacquaint you with the experience of losing,” I reply, too cheeky for my own good.
“You are bold for one with years beyond your skill.”
“Ouch.” I rub my arm. “I will endeavor to bridge the gap formed by not growing up in Faerieland.”
“Nothing would please me more,” he replies.