Chapter Three
CLAMENT FOUND HIS bookmark as a knock sounded on the door.
“Enter!” he called. A moment later, the door opened and Braxton stepped into the room.
Clament slid his bookmark into place and shut the book, setting it aside on the small table next to his bed. The table’s rich, dark wood complemented the green sheets on his bed and the patchwork quilt in deep reds and purples made from velvet and weighted silk cloth cut in different-sized squares and rectangles.
The rest of the room was just as fancy. Over the last two weeks, the items with color had slowly trickled in. A small tapestry hung next to the door, a green meadow dotted with red and purple flowers that matched his quilt. The window shades were a gauzy fabric in light green, covering the more generic, white, light-blocking ones original to the room, which hung underneath. A deep purple rug filled the floor between the bed and windows. The look was garish and not what Clament would have chosen for himself, but eons better than the painfully stark white.
If he had an informal parlor here, Clament would consider commandeering the quilt to use as a throw blanket for the couch. He didn’t particularly care for the rest of the furniture, but the quilt was definitely growing on him. Back home in Namin, he only had a small room and attached bath at the castle, which he only saw maybe a handful of times a year. He was always being sent out on one mission or another—often in the hopes he wouldn’t return, he thought—and his failure at this latest mission likely meant he wouldn’t see his room again. Of course, it wasn’t as if Clament actually enjoyed spending any time in the castle. Even when he tried to hide in the alleged sanctuary of his private bedroom, his father and brother could find him readily.
Somehow his room in the healers’ ward, as garish as it was, came across far more welcoming than his room in Namin. Plus, his only visitors were Braxton and Alina, and he liked Alina despite all his mental admonitions. She legitimately seemed to care only about helping him heal; she had no ulterior motives and had never come across as if she knew she was only healing him so he would be strong enough to endure the next round of torture when it arrived.
Braxton, on the other hand… Clament let out a soft sigh.
“Good afternoon, Your Highness,” Clament said.
“Hey,” Braxton replied, one of his blindingly brilliant, far too beautiful for Clament’s resolve smiles breaking across his face. “How are you feeling today?” He settled into the chair next to the too-small desk now pushed back against the wall. Braxton didn’t visit every day, and the amount of time he could stay differed, but he did come by regularly. Sometimes he brought a stack of papers and hunkered down at that desk for an hour or two while Clament read, but most of the time was like today, where he could only stop by for a few minutes to say hello before his duties dragged him off again.
“Not much different than yesterday,” Clament explained, shrugging. “Alina said she would be by soon to help me take another short walk to build back my strength. My lungs are as strong as they’re going to get with magic; they just need time to heal at this point. And all of my other wounds are better.” Clament had said basically the same thing yesterday and the day before, but despite that, Braxton’s smile took on a relieved edge as if he had let out a pent-up breath and relaxed slightly.
“Good to hear. I can’t stay long today, unfortunately. I wanted to let you know I have to leave the city for a few days. I should be back by Moonsday. If you need anything while I’m gone, please tell Alina. I’ve instructed my siblings to help you while I’m away, and she can contact them for you.”
More likely, he had instructed his siblings to keep an eye on Clament to make sure he didn’t do anything squirrely—which Clament firmly believed was the real reason why Braxton visited regularly—but it was good to know Clament wasn’t being handed off to some army stooge or one of Braxton’s subordinates in whatever clandestine business he ran for Toval.
In some ways, Clament enjoyed Braxton’s visits. Only in the small, hidden part of himself he was vehemently suppressing, of course, but the warmth Braxton exuded—even if it was feigned as part of his act—was addicting.
“Safe travels,” Clament responded, giving Braxton a small smile in return.
“Thanks.” Braxton stood and started walking to the door, but paused awkwardly to look back at Clament as if he wanted to say something more. His mouth opened, then closed again, and he gripped the handle and pulled the door open. “I’ll see you on Moonsday,” he finally said before leaving and shutting the door firmly behind him.
“See you,” Clament echoed into the empty room, wondering what that was about. Part of Braxton’s act? A mistake in his act or failure of his acting skills? Or was Braxton genuine? Clament dashed that last thought away with a mental scoff. Whatever Braxton was up to, Clament refused to fall victim to it.
Not willing to dwell on it, Clament returned to his book, settling in until Alina came by to help him get some exercise a few hours later. He tried to get lost in the novel, but his brain was churning, thoughts swirling on wondering where Braxton was going and why. The spymaster of Toval had people come to him or sent out minions to gather information from his people in the field. There was no reason for him to travel somewhere unless whatever he was up to was so incredibly sensitive Braxton couldn’t trust it to anyone else. Which, of course, no doubt meant Namin was up to something again.
Clament let out a sigh, forcing himself to focus on his book. Worrying about his father scheming was like worrying water was wet. Father schemed and plotted and distrusted everyone constantly, and his biggest target when Clament wasn’t around was Toval.
What if he told Braxton about the plot to take over the southern farms in Toval? The traitorous thought slipped out before Clament could suppress it. Still, the plot was dead at this point since his role as a distraction in the north had failed so miserably. Would telling Braxton hurt anything more than his pride? Certainly it would end the painful status quo they were stuck in, where Braxton pretended to be offering a carrot since the stick hadn’t worked and Clament pretended he didn’t know what Braxton was doing. Ending the facade would almost be a relief, since Clament would finally know where he stood.
Of course, then it would be back to the prison and an end to all this luxury. Yet, at the same time, it would also mean an end to waiting for the other shoe to drop. Was losing his access to comfort worth stopping the constant anxiety? Clament didn’t know.
Clament growled to himself, disgusted with both his indecision and the fact that he was even considering betraying Namin. The answer was no; he could not tell Braxton anything. He could not let Braxton win their little game.
Resolute—or at least pretending to be—Clament picked his book up again and this time it swept him away.
He looked up again when there was another knock on the door. This time, Alina walked into the room, holding a tray with a steaming teapot, a delicate china cup, and a rocks glass full of about a finger’s width of the murky-green-colored, opaque, and bitter liquid masquerading as medicine that Alina had him taking every afternoon. The shadows on the floor cast by the sun through the windows said quite a few hours had gone by since Braxton had stopped in. Braxton was likely well on his way to whatever task he was journeying to, but Clament firmly yanked his thoughts back to Alina and the green goop. He didn’t need to worry about what Braxton was doing and whether he would be okay, or how dangerous the assignment he was on that the Prince Spymaster had to attend to it personally. No , Clament scolded himself. He had already banished those same thoughts once. All he needed to worry about right now was forcing that noxious green sludge down without throwing it up again.
“I brought you tea to help wash it down,” Alina said, correctly guessing what half of Clament’s grimace was about.
“You think tea is going to cover up the taste of that slime?” he asked, whining slightly because he knew it would make her smile.
She laughed. “It won’t hurt. Your daily dose of slime is why you’re already walking. The sooner you drink it, the sooner we can go get that exercise.”
“Fine, fine.” Clament made a production out of sighing heavily as he reluctantly reached for the glass as she held the tray out toward him, his behavior only half feigned. His fingers touched the side of the glass, and then he stopped, freezing in place as an odd sort of tingling swept through his awareness. His magic roiled, the slightest bit of gold shining out of his eyes. Someone with ill-minded intent toward Clament had just stepped into his magic’s passive field of awareness. Which meant somewhere nearby, inside the castle, someone was preparing to kill him.