Chapter 50
Zarek
THE PRINCE OF DUNGAL
Fyrris ignores me for what feels like a long time. I shift on the chair as various parts of my body go numb. The manacles around my wrists are cold and heavy, but the chains are loose enough to allow me some freedom of movement.
I could, possibly, try to attack the man in the white robes. But something about the way he moves makes me think that would be a bad idea. Besides, it’s not like I have anywhere else to go. There’s only one way out of this hole, and it’s guarded by Syvan and his soldiers.
Fyrris mutters under his breath as he walks back and forth between the rock wall, the table, and the strange assortment of metal wires strung across the stone.
The air shifts and moves around him in a strange way. Sometimes, when he walks past me, my skin prickles and pulls tight. Other times, when he moves one of the silver wires, I swear I feel the tug somewhere deep inside of me. Maybe this is a common reaction to being about to die.
“What’s all this for?” I finally ask, after he’s turned one of the wires on one of the metal poles embedded in the stone for what must be the tenth time.
Fyrris snorts dismissively, like I couldn’t possibly be expected to understand his answer. I shift in the chair, trying to bring some circulation back to my leg.
“I’m guessing it’s not about gold,” I continue.
“Gold!” Fyrris snaps, as if I’ve just insulted him. He spins to glare at me. His eyes look very dark above the blinding white of his robes. “Do I look like a miner to you?”
I grin at him like we’re old friends. “Then what is it about?” I ask.
My chest feels tight. I can see exactly one way that I might survive this disaster. It’s a horrible risk, but hells, isn’t it worth taking the shot?
“This?” Fyrris snorts again, then runs his hand down the stone wall in a gesture that’s almost loving. “It’s well beyond your comprehension.”
“You told Prince Syvan you need me,” I say, light and easy, like we’re talking about the weather or which lady in the marketplace has the nicest tits. “What for?”
Fyrris turns back to me and shakes his head. “Such a pity,” he says. “You could have been something, you know. If the Towers still stood.”
He comes closer, then puts his hand in his pocket. A chill pulls my skin tight.
“Royal blood,” I say. My voice sounds a bit pinched. I clear my throat, then start again. “That’s what you said. The ritual specifies royal blood. Isn’t that right?”
Fyrris tilts his head slightly as he stares at me. “I remember what I said.”
I swallow hard. Here it is, the fulcrum upon which the rest of my life, however short that might be, swings.
“Then, I’m sorry,” I say. My voice trembles. “This isn’t going to work.”
“What do you mean?”
I clear my throat again. “I mean, I don’t have royal blood.”
Fyrris frowns. His back stiffens. He glances toward the dark tunnel where Syvan just vanished, then back at me.
“Are you not Zarek, the hostage prince of Dungal?” Fyrris asks in a low, almost scandalized tone.
I open my mouth, but the words freeze.
My mother cried as they led us away. I can still hear her, sobbing, as the soldiers walked on either side of me, with Petrys and Gerrart before them.
“Don’t look back, kid,” one of them growled under his breath. “Easier that way.”
But I didn’t want to take the easy way.
And so, when we reached the palace walls, I turned around, back to the world I was leaving behind. I saw my mother on her knees in the dirt, the door to our cottage open behind her, my father standing with his hands on her shoulders and tears streaking his face.
They looked so small, the man and woman who’d given me life. Small and old. Just another peasant couple whose three sons had been taken by the crown.
“Speak,” Fyrris snaps. “Are you not Prince Zarek? Has King Malrik betrayed me, fool?”
“No.” The word comes out as a whisper, even as some part of me is shocked that I’m still standing up for the bastard. “Malrik doesn’t know.”
Fyrris makes a purring sound in the back of his throat.
“Interesting,” he says. “Explain.”
My breath catches, and the first sound I make is more of a squeak. Fyrris taps the stone with his foot.
“I am not the prince of Dungal,” I say for the first time in my life. “I’m the same age as the prince, and roughly the same height. We had the same color hair, the same eyes.”
I swallow against the flood of memories, then press on.
“When the soldiers from Vsenrog came to the castle of Dungal,” I admit, “the king didn’t know what they wanted or what they were going to do. So he had me sit in the prince’s seat during the banquet to welcome them.”
It wasn’t the first time I’d been asked to stand in for the prince when the situation seemed dangerous. I had no reason to believe it would be the last either.
Fyrris snorts, then narrows his eyes at me.
“So who in the hells are you?” Fyrris asks.
“I— I’m nobody.” My voice cracks on the truth. “My father was the king’s gardener. My mother worked in the kitchens. My brothers were training to be guards.”
Fyrris nods, then crosses his arms over his chest. “And when the king of Vsenrog wanted the prince of Dungal as a hostage—”
His voice fades. I nod.
“The king had to send me to Vsenrog,” I continue. “Or he would have had to confess that he’d lied to the royal delegation.”
Fyrris looks down at me. The light from the torches casts strange shadows across his face.
“They call you the snake, don’t they?” he says. “Apparently, you’re a killer. And a very practiced liar. How do I know you’re not lying right now?”
“You don’t.”
Our eyes meet. And Fyrris laughs.
It’s so sharp and sudden that it makes me flinch, then wince as my shoulders hit the back of the chair.
“Who else knows this?” Fyrris demands, his sudden burst of good humor evaporating even as his laugh echoes off the cold stone. “The king of Dungal, yes? The real prince? And who else?”
“No one who still lives,” I reply, the lie falling as smooth as silk from my lips. My brother knows who I am, but I’ll die a hundred miserable deaths before this bastard drags that knowledge out of me.
“Vsenrog invaded Dungal two years after I was taken,” I continue. “The castle burned. The royal family was killed.”
And so were my parents, although I don’t bother to add that detail. None of the reports included their names. No one mourns the loss of the royal gardener.
Fyrris’s lips pull into a cold, thin smile. “All these years,” he begins, “you’ve kept this a secret?”
I nod. My brothers, Petrys and Gerrart, were introduced as guards in training and friends of the prince.
That was all true; my two older brothers were my closest friends.
The only lie was the heavy cloak on my back and the cold, thin circle of metal on my head.
I remember looking around the throne room, wondering what they’d done with the real Zarek.
Where his mother and father had hidden him to keep him safe.
Fyrris rocks back on his heels, then brings his hand to his chin and looks down at me. I can almost hear the scales in his head clicking as they slide into place, and I wonder what invisible thing I’m being measured against.
“Impressive,” Fyrris finally says. “Very impressive. You managed to convince the entire royal court of Vsenrog that you are a prince. You’ve lived a lie for this long.”
My chest pulls tight. He’s right.
Everything in my life is a lie. Even my name. A memory surfaces, candles and incense in the temple. Princess Lilias, in her red dress, promising herself in marriage to a man who doesn’t exist.
Which means my marriage is as much of a lie as Prince Zarek, captive son of the murdered king of Dungal, current snake of Vsenrog. Our vows are no more real than the shadows scraping across the stone wall behind Fyrris’s white robes.
I smile at Fyrris like he’s my best friend.
“Well,” I admit, “people mostly see what they want to see.”
Fyrris leans a little closer. His grin widens.
“Then I’ll tell you another little secret,” he says. “I don’t give a shit about your blood.”
I flinch, as surprised by his profanity as I am by his confession. He looked too elegant to let the word shit sully his lips.
“I’ve dealt with kings before,” he continues.
“The bastards will praise you until you’ve finished your work, then sink their royal knife into your ribs as payment.
I know all about King Malrik of Vsenrog.
And I knew I had to make him pay first.” He leans back, his arms behind him.
“I had to make the king of Vsenrog invested, you understand? He had to have something to lose.”
I frown. “Royal blood?”
“Of course,” Fyrris replies. “He thought he’d have to give up one of his sons, or one of his grandsons.”
I shiver at the mention of Acelina’s children. Gods, I hope they’re well hidden.
“But I asked for you,” Fyrris finishes.
I glance up, startled. Some part of me screams this can’t be true. My mouth opens to ask why in the gods’ names he would ask for me.
And then it stays open. Because Fyrris dips his hand into the folds of his white robe and pulls out a long, silver chain. My skin crawls as the chain spins below his fist.
“You feel it,” Fyrris whispers. “Don’t you? You felt it the first time I saw you, standing like a puffed peacock before the tailor.”
I grit my teeth. He’s not expecting an answer, so I don’t give one.
“You know what this is?” Fyrris asks.
The silver chain in his hand twists like a living creature. My gut shifts, and for a heartbeat, I feel like I’m going to be sick.
“Magic,” Fyrris whispers, answering his own question. He’s staring at the chain the way I imagine a parent would stare at their infant asleep in the cradle. “It’s the greatest injustice in this world, that humans are denied the magic those inferior races flaunt so easily.”
He steps closer. Heat, or something like it, washes over my skin. Some horrible part of me wants to reach for that writhing silver chain, to feel its cold links against my skin, to let whatever sick energy pulses through it soak into my body.
I push back in the chair. The manacles burn against my wrists.
“You’d be surprised how few of us can sense it,” Fyrris says. “That was my life’s work, finding those of us who have the gift, taking magic from those who didn’t deserve it, and giving it to those of us born to wield it.”
My fingers wrap around the arms of the chair, and I squeeze until my knuckles turn white. I don’t know anything about magic, but I’ve never been particularly sympathetic to someone claiming to take from those who don’t deserve what they have.
Fyrris finally turns to look at me. His dark eyes are wide and wild, like he’s burning from within. I suddenly wonder what happened to the creatures he decided didn’t deserve the magic they were born with. Nothing good, I suspect.
“You could have been part of it,” Fyrris continues. “You. You could have been great.”
“That’s too bad,” I growl.
Fyrris shakes his head, my sarcasm lost on him. The chain in his fist rises and stretches toward me, the end swaying like a viper. My back digs into the chair as I try to put as much space as possible between me and that damned thing, whatever it is.
“If it’s any consolation,” Fyrris says, “you’ll still be a part of something great. Do you know what a conduit is?”
I shake my head but don’t reply. The more time Fyrris spends talking, the more time I have to think of a way out of here.
“Think of a stream,” Fyrris continues, as the chain rises and sways toward me. “If, say, you want to power a water wheel, the stream flows through the paddles, pushing the wheel. But what if that’s not enough? What if you want the wheel to move faster?”
I shake my head again. My skin pulls tight as the chain climbs over my legs. Panic claws at the back of my throat; I try to shove it down.
“That’s when you add a conduit,” Fyrris says.
He’s so close now I can smell him, old sweat and the faint whisper of mint. He smells cold, somehow.
“If you build walls on either side of that stream,” he continues, “the water isn’t just going to flow, you see? It’s going to run.”
I swallow hard. “What do you want me to do?”
Fyrris laughs again. This time it’s sharp and hard, like a blade in the dark.
“Do?” he says. “My boy, you are completely untrained. You aren’t going to do anything.”
“Then what am I?” I ask. “The stream or the wheel?”
He smiles at me. “You’re the walls,” he says. “I’m going to run the magic through you.”
With that, he drops the silver chain in my lap.
It burns; I clench my jaw against the scream as every part of my body seizes with a kind of pain I’ve never felt before.
The manacles around my wrists begin to glow.
Slowly, I trace the path of the thick silver chains from my wrists to the strange table, where silver wires lead to dozens of bolts in the stone wall.
“Oh, one more thing,” Fyrris says as his hand drops to the folds of his robes. “Try not to scream.”
He pulls out a second silver chain, then drops it in my lap. Magic scorches my body. My back pulls tight, and my head bangs against the chair.
I don’t scream until the fourth chain.