Chapter One
HIS BODY’S SHIVERING knocked Clament out of what had been a rather pleasant dream of being curled against a warm chest, strong arms carrying him, and a comforting voice telling him it would be all right soon. He felt a bone-deep iciness, as if his actual bones had been replaced by icicles, and the shivering only made his frozen joints ache even more.
Clament clutched at the thick blankets on top of him, trying to wrap them tighter around himself to preserve some warmth. They didn’t help. The cold was coming from within his body, not outside, so the barrier couldn’t stop the cold. At least the blankets were plentiful and the mattress underneath him soft; he could attempt to derive some comfort from that.
Except… Clement forced his eyes open, looking blearily around at his surroundings. The white walls wobbled as he shook, and the space slowly spun around him too, but it was definitely not a prison cell. He shut his eyes again before he added nausea to the cold he was feeling, but at least his brain was engaged and whirring again.
He was clearly very ill. Perhaps being captured and tortured was all a terrible fever dream? But that couldn’t be it. He remembered starting to feel bad after the healer had finished with him a few sessions ago, an odd tightness to his lungs and a slow cough that said something wasn’t right. Which meant he must still be in Etoval, but that didn’t explain why he wasn’t in the dungeons. Prisoners didn’t get soft blankets and mattresses, even if they were princes.
The click as the door opened seemed loud in the room, and Clament tensed instinctively, his body curled to protect his vulnerable stomach. Soft footsteps clicked closer, as if whoever had entered the room and was approaching Clament was trying to be quiet. Even despite his body’s constant shivering, Clament was ready for whatever was about to be inflicted on him. A moment later, soothing warmth filtered through his body rather than sharp pain, and Clament risked opening his eyes again, surprised and anxious to figure out what was going on.
The woman standing at the side of the bed was wearing a light green tunic over brown pants. Green light glowed around her hands, which she held about an inch over Clament’s blanket-covered body.
“How is he?” a familiar voice asked quietly. Clament thought it sounded like Braxton, but Braxton had never before sounded so gentle and meek. When he showed up at the prison to question Clament, he presented the picture of a man certain in his skin, one who was always confident and aggressive in getting what he wanted. Braxton had to have been the man who had ordered Clament’s torture, but then had him all healed up so he wouldn’t have to see the ugly parts of what breaking a man like Clament entailed.
“He is healing surprisingly well, considering, Your Highness,” the healer replied. “As you know, the pneumonia was really advanced, with significant damage to his lungs. I have repaired the worst of it, so his lungs are almost cleared of the fluid buildup, but he still has quite a ways to go. I exhausted a lot of his energy while I was healing him, plus his muscles were somewhat starved of oxygen, so I expect him to feel weakness in his limbs for a few weeks, if not months. The poor boy is going to have a very a long recovery ahead of him. The problem right now is reducing this stubborn fever so we can get him started in that direction.”
“You’re the best healer in this palace, Alina,” Braxton said, his tone half joking, half serious. “I know you can help him feel better.”
“I’ll certainly try,” she answered, the green glow intensifying.
More soothing warmth filtered deep into Clament, cracking some of the ice surrounding his bones. The feeling was so comforting. No matter how badly he wanted to stay aware when Braxton was in the room, Clament’s eyes slid closed and his mind drifted off, sleep taking him away.
Waking a second time was better. He was still tucked beneath thick blankets, on an incredibly comfortable mattress in the white room. He wasn’t shivering, though, which made for a very nice change. Instead, he felt completely worn out as if he hadn’t slept for a week, coupled with doing multiple stints in the gladiator’s ring. Namin’s national sport was fighting, and the ring was the grandest place to show off the best of the best. Clament would never come close to being good, let alone the best, at any kind of fighting. He was passable with a sword, although Prince Fenwick had handily beaten him there. He knew how to hand fight and wrestle, but he wouldn’t want to test his abilities. Clament’s skills had always leaned toward his ability to reason—he knew he could outthink every one of his family members—but that wasn’t something that impressed in Namin. Brawn always beat brains. Yet another reason for his so-called family to despise him. And apparently, he also felt nasty enough for his thoughts to go morose. Clament let out a huff of air and carefully pushed the blankets away. He sat up slowly, waiting for the moment of inevitable ache. Except, it didn’t come. He didn’t feel up to actually getting out of bed, but at least he could look around.
White walls. White ceiling. White blankets on a white bed. Even the floors were pale gray that did nothing to break up the stark unpleasantness of the room. The wall to his right had a tall cabinet, also white, and aside from the bed, that was it for furniture. The opposite wall had a window covered with an opaque white shade that blocked the light so Clament couldn’t guess the time or even whether it was day or night. He had no idea how long he had been here rather than in his cell.
The door clicked as the handle turned, cutting Clament’s swirling thoughts short as a spike of adrenaline shot up his spine and his heart rate accelerated. He turned to look, trying to school his features into a bland expression to conceal the fact that a moment ago he had been wide-eyed with fear at the idea of someone approaching. Thankfully, only the female healer from before stepped into the room. She smiled when she saw he was up.
“There you are,” she said, still smiling. “Glad to see you’re feeling better. Terrible what happened to you.”
Clament swallowed, trying to push back the feeling that his heart was beating in his throat. She seemed harmless, and Clament’s experience with healers—albeit admittedly limited—was that they didn’t inflict additional pain on their patients.
“The orders of a royal prince…” Clament forced out with a fatalistic shrug, trying to seem nonchalant about it all. She might be a healer, but she was still in the employ of Prince Braxton. Clament couldn’t afford to come across weaker than he already did. Except, she adamantly shook her head in response, making him blink in surprise.
“That’s the most terrible part of it, or so I’ve heard.” She tapped the side of her nose. “The main guard who tortured you was executed,” she whispered, her tone full of horror. “The second guard and the healer who failed so spectacularly at patching you back up both got life sentences. And Prince Braxton delivered the orders in court himself. He was that furious.”
Furious Clament had gotten so ill Braxton had needed to pause his ministrations and make what he was doing to Clament public knowledge, no doubt.
“Never fear though,” she continued, not noticing the direction of his scornful thoughts. “I’m the best healer here in Toval, remanded to the royal family almost exclusively. Prince Braxton was most insistent. I’ll have you fixed right up in no time,” she finished, grinning at him.
Which meant, of course, in only a short period of time Clament would find himself back in that dungeon under a more capable torturer’s care. Well, at least he had a little longer to enjoy a comfortable bed and warm blankets. The last time he had slept in a real bed had been well before his assignment at Lake Estaral which had been a rather long time ago. Clament didn’t actually know how long had passed since his capture. Weeks, probably months, but his torturers hadn’t come every day, nor had Braxton, so he couldn’t count the days by their appearances. His cell hadn’t had a window either. He was certain his healer had been instructed not to answer any of his questions, so Clament didn’t bother asking.
“I appreciate your help,” he said instead.
“Oh! Where are my manners!” she gasped. She stepped back and executed a perfect curtsy. “Healer Alina, at your service. A pleasure to meet you.”
Clament bowed from the waist, not certain he could stand long enough to give a proper reply. “I can’t say it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Healer Alina, but I appreciate your help.”
She giggled at his cheekiness as she stood straight again. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t be. Anyway, now you’re awake, I suspect you’ll be wanting some food. Prince Fenwick’s personal chef sent over some chicken broth for you. Said it would help heal you even more than my magic, and I have to agree. I tasted it, and it’s like drinking liquid gold. I swear.” She tapped two fingers to her heart in the sign for a heart’s promise. “Be right back.”
She scurried from the room, leaving Clament trying to hide a frown. Fenwick’s personal chef was probably the man with blue cooking magic who had saved Fenwick when Clament had been following through on his orders to kill anyone who might interfere with the grand plan—such that it was. Clament had seen the way Fenwick looked at his chef, and the way the chef had looked back. The chance the chicken broth was poisoned was very high, and Clament knew he would have to eat it. Alina seemed to think he was safe here, but he knew better. He very much knew better.
She puttered back into the room before Clament had steeled himself and gently deposited a tray in his lap. Below the cloche was a cereal bowl full of clear, yellow broth and a spoon. A small glass full of orange juice was next to the bowl.
Clament tried to swallow back his nerves, but his mouth was completely dry. Still, it was better to get it over with. He picked up the spoon and dipped it into the broth, blew on it for a second to cool it, and then stuck the full spoon into his mouth.
Liquid gold was an apt description. Deeply flavorful, nuanced with hints of the vegetables, chicken, and spices that had boiled together for hours to create such a glorious taste. Yet it was still mellow and easy for his fever-weakened body to handle. Another spoonful arrived in his mouth, as if his hand were autonomous from his brain. If the broth was poisoned, it was worth dying while eating this.
Clament almost felt like crying when his bowl was empty, but he felt full and rather sleepy, so he didn’t ask for more.
The juice was tart and definitely didn’t go with the soup, but there were different vitamins in the juice, so he understood why Alina waited until he finished that before she whisked the tray away again.
He yawned when she returned, which made her cluck. With her help, he was able to lie back down. Alina tucked the covers around him, but as Clament’s head sank into the depths of his pillow, sleep swept him away.