Chapter Two
SURPRISE WAS THE first emotion Clament felt as he swam back to consciousness. He wasn’t shivering uncontrollably again, nor was he sweating through his clothes. No sharp pains, jittery limbs, or fuzzy vision. All of which meant he hadn’t been poisoned, which made absolutely zero sense. The perfect opportunity for a bit of revenge, and Prince Fenwick’s chef had let it slip on by, untaken? If they were in Namin, Clament would have been poisoned multiple times already. Clament had a small amount of immunity to most poisons, given how many times he had survived such attempts. But then, he wasn’t in Namin anymore. Toval was a completely different place, with a completely different ethos. Or so he had been taught—often by Namese teachers with incredible scorn in their voices. Braxton torturing him was completely in line with Clament’s Namin-born expectations; that chef not poisoning him must be an exception to the rule.
A rustle of paper to his left made him stiffen in surprise. Clament slowly turned his head to look and frowned. The sorriest excuse for a desk he had ever seen had been added to the room. The surface was barely large enough to hold the two stacks of paper and single pen on top. Curled awkwardly behind it on a chair was Braxton, scowling fiercely at whatever was on the paper in his hand and paying no attention to Clament.
Clament gaped at Braxton for a long moment, trying to come up with any explanation as to why Braxton was in Clament’s room and had chosen to do his work in such a ridiculous manner. No doubt Braxton had a grandly appointed office somewhere else in the palace yet for some reason, he was enduring uncomfortable conditions at Clament’s bedside. None of it made any sense to Clament. Well, boggling over Braxton’s actions wasn’t going to get him any answers, Clament decided as he clenched his jaw and steeled his nerve. The only way to find out was to ask.
Despite his determination, he had to swallow twice to wet his throat before he found the courage to let Braxton know he was awake. Clament forced the appropriate amount of scorn into his tone, hoping to hide the fact that his hands were shaking and gut roiling beneath the cover of the blankets.
“Ask your damned question, and then go away,” he said as he slowly sat up.
Braxton jumped, slamming his knee into one corner of the desk and then scrambling to catch one of the piles of papers as it listed dangerously.
“You’re awake!” he gasped. “How are you feeling? Wait—” He waved one hand through the air between them as if clearing the space. “No, I need to start again.” He walked out from behind the desk to stand at Clament’s bedside and suddenly bowed deeply at the waist. “I am so, so, so damned sorry. I know that’s not enough, just saying that, but apologizing is all I can do.”
He straightened and a zing of horror rang through Clament at the sight of Braxton’s eyes, damp and remorseful—and also incredibly pretty when they were soft like that. But, no. Clament forced that thought away as quickly as it had slithered in.
“Torture requires a royal writ,” Braxton continued, “signed by the king or heir and sealed by the other and has not been approved in approximately three decades. I cannot order it on my own, and the guards are aware they must have a notarized copy of the writ before they can engage in such base practices. I promise, no writ was drafted, let alone approved for what was done to you, and my inattention allowed you to be heinously hurt for three long months.” He paused to let out a heavy breath. Braxton squeezed his eyes shut as if he was trying to force the tears back, but when he opened them again, they were still alluringly soft and wistful. “Apologizing isn’t enough, I know. You should be aware that you are welcome to stay here as long as you need to heal and are free to leave whenever you wish. I would be happy to arrange personal escort to the Namin border, or to wherever you prefer to go. Just let me know.”
Braxton had to be bluffing. That was the only explanation Clament could come up with. As spymaster, he was likely an excellent actor who could produce tears on cue. Torture and confinement hadn’t worked—had almost killed Clament without Braxton obtaining any intelligence out of him—so now Braxton was clearly trying the carrot instead of the stick.
Clament would play along for as long as he could draw out being treated nicely. Good food, a comfortable bed, a real healer instead of a quack; Clament would enjoy the privileges for as long as they lasted, secure in the knowledge that Braxton was only offering the comforts in order to drag information out of him.
“Healer Alina told me the people who…” he trailed off, unsure how to say tore him apart and patched him back together while being politically correct. And also without shuddering as the memories tried to resurface. Clament forced them back down, barely, the echo of his screams resounding in his head for only a brief moment before he was able to make them go away—to stuff all the bad things back down into a box with a secure lid covered in padlocked chains.
“They have been tried, convicted, and their sentences imposed,” Braxton stated, his voice a dark growl filling the silent hole Clament had left by not speaking. “Whom they hurt was kept confidential, but they were made a public example to ensure something like that never happens in Toval again.” His fingers flexed as if in his remembered anger he wanted to wrap his hands around those guards’ necks.
Braxton really was an amazing actor. Or, perhaps, this anger wasn’t feigned. Those guards had allowed Clament to get too sick to continue torturing, probably ruining whatever plans Braxton had concocted.
Braxton sighed and shook his head, his hands relaxing back to his sides. “I should leave you to your rest. Can I get you anything?”
Clament should have expected that question, but his jaw still dropped for a moment before he clicked his teeth shut again. Braxton was clearly leaning hard into the carrot option, which meant Clament had an opportunity to see how far the act would go. What was something he could ask for that would require real effort on Braxton’s part but wouldn’t push the envelope too far into prematurely ending the facade? A glance around the very white room gave him an idea.
“Can you do something to make the view a little less stark?” he asked. If he was going to be living here for a while as he healed—as Braxton had implied—asking for something to look at wasn’t ridiculous, but also required Braxton to find and organize bringing it here.
Braxton glanced around as well, chuckled, and nodded. “I’m sure I can find something.” He returned to his awkward desk and gathered the stacks of papers. “I’ll send Alina in to check on you, but I’ll be back again soon.”
Braxton paused by the door and looked back at Clament, his gaze searching as if he needed to reassure himself that Clament was starting to feel better. A flash of heat sizzled through Clament’s body, rushing from his toes to the tips of his hair, and he ducked his head to hide his blush, cursing inwardly because he had zero idea why his body was reacting so inappropriately. A glance up through his eyelashes revealed Braxton’s expression suddenly soften, the slightest upturn lifting his lips in a smile, before his usual stern expression resurfaced and he left the room. The door shut softly behind him, but there was no telltale click of a lock engaging.
Something was clearly wrong with Clament. His dry mouth and shaking hands could possibly still be caused by fear, yet the way his heart was thumping said otherwise. That strong, commanding gaze, brightly intelligent while still showing a soft and gentle mien, just plain did it for him. He had to find a way to dispel such ridiculousness. Braxton was the man who had ordered him tortured, who no doubt reveled in the game he was now playing to extract information from him, and Clament was acting like a teenager with a crush. Even mentally, the last part of that thought was full of scorn.
Luckily, there was a way for Clament to find out what Braxton was really up to. He closed his eyes to reduce the distortion of seeing two places at once and called on his magic. Gold light flared—the color of royal magic—and he relaxed against the headboard as he thrust his vision through the door and into the room just beyond where Braxton was talking with Alina.
“Really does look significantly better,” Braxton was saying as Clament’s magic got him close enough to overhear the conversation in progress. “Your healing powers are far too impressive for you to be stuck here in our tiny kingdom. You should be out in the world, making millions in gold and jewels.”
“And never be able to have the face-to-face contact with my patients, or get to know the people I’m working with on a personal level,” Alina cut in, frowning at Braxton. “I like where I am just fine. Your prince was a challenge to heal—his lungs were significantly damaged by the time he reached my ward—but I’ve managed to patch him up. He’ll be a few more weeks on total bedrest though.”
“Damn.” Braxton hissed out a breath through his teeth. “The punishment the court handed down on those guards wasn’t nearly enough.” He shook his head. “Well, we should do something to keep him from going stir-crazy. I’ll have a librarian come by with a selection of books, and I’ll inform the head servant to make that room look less like a healing ward. Will you keep him company when you’re not busy?”
Alina smiled. “Of course. He’s a lovely young man. If he’s awake, I’ll get him some food. I had to find a lock to put on the pot of broth Char sent over, you know. Too many people just wanting to have a taste, and I almost ran out!” She laughed. “Speaking of someone completely overqualified for his position.”
“Yes, well, like you, Char is happy. And Fen is happy too.” Braxton shrugged. “In the end, that’s all that really matters.” A woman in what Clament guessed was a secretary’s uniform dashed into the room, arrowing straight for Braxton. “Duty calls,” Braxton said, sighing. “Thanks, Alina.”
“Of course.” She waved him off and headed to the far side of the room as Braxton followed the secretary out the double doors.
Clament wanted to follow Braxton, but the gentle tug between his eyebrows said he had better not. He was overextending, and his weak body couldn’t handle the strain using his magic caused. He floated back to his body and opened his eyes, the golden glow dissipating as he mulled over what he had just seen.
No mention of poison, or of a plot. Of course, Braxton wouldn’t tell her if Alina was innocent, but the way Braxton had appeared so concerned about Clament’s comfort seemed a little too much for mere acting. Braxton had to be up to something. Clament knew that. And yet, a part of him wanted to believe Braxton was telling the truth. Since that was the same part that sighed ridiculously over Braxton’s pretty eyes, Clament forced that thought aside. Braxton was no doubt waiting for Clament to relax his guard, to start believing in Braxton, and then the prying questions would start as he used the carrot to dig for information.
Too bad for Braxton that Clament wasn’t going to be that easy to fool. Clament’s family were masters at that very slimy craft; Braxton’s attempts were going to be feeble in comparison.
Clament smoothed the soft blankets over his lap and let out a heavy breath. Like he had thought before: he would enjoy the comforts while they lasted, braced and ready for when it all vanished again.