Chapter 12
“What happened to you?”
And where have you been? I don’t ask.
I take in Ronan’s hunched form and exaggerated limp as he enters my bedchamber the following morning. His eyes remain downcast as he wobbles to my bedside, then drops to a knee, wincing.
“You needn’t worry about me, Ramiel. In fact, I suggest we worry about the rogue elf you’ve captured to be your master.
” He glances up, searching for something in my expression.
I’m not sure he finds it, though, because his gaze returns to the stone floor.
“We should begin your training right away, to keep her from suspecting anything further.”
“What else is there to suspect?” I ask, though I immediately regret it. What is there not to suspect? I’m the last person she’d want to trust. I clear my throat. “Yes, I suppose we should begin training as soon as possible.”
He stands, albeit unsteadily, then huffs a breath. A fist goes to his chest. “I shall escort you to the servants’ quarters. That is where she slept last night.”
My eyes widen at this news. Hadn’t I told Bernadette to put her in one of the empty courtesan chambers in my wing? At least there she’d have a bed with properly washed linens and privacy to bathe in peace. I want only the best for someone sacrificing everything for my betterment.
I simply nod, then gesture with a hand to the door. “Lead the way.”
The maids who tend to my wing of the castle sleep in a room down the hall from my bedchamber, though the area is drab and poorly decorated.
Near my room, along the wall, the image of two dragons—both silver, with ribbons of crimson fluttering from their jowls—skitters along in a beautiful mural telling the story of how our kingdom came to be.
Thanks to the help from mighty beasts that remained loyal to my ancestor, Arioch Faundor, the humans won the War of Undying.
The story of the dragons has been consecrated into the image on our crest for a millennium.
Bronze sconces flicker with life, making the mural appear as though it’s animated.
When I was a boy, I enjoyed marveling at the dragons Myrn and Steil, powerful and immortal beings rumored to be kept in a secret location only the present king knows.
The longer I look at the mural now, I realize there is no magic in the painted lines and shapes.
The magic has been lost. Or, rather, siphoned.
Much like what would have happened to Ether had I not discovered her in Arcanvale.
With a deep breath, I try not to think about what the consequences would be if her true identity is discovered. I can only hope Bernadette will help her adapt to a temporary castle lifestyle.
Though the servants’ quarters are down the same hallway, the corridor is long, separated by doors and doors of rooms meant for my eventual royal harem. They have always remained empty because I have no desire for such shallow and physical pleasures. Normally, I pass them without a second thought.
Today I stop outside the third door. It’s the one I remember my mother painting with crimson.
She’d sung that lullaby I’ve long since forgotten the words to, and brushed varying artistic renditions of the Aster flower.
Each flower grew smaller as it neared the top of the dark oak door.
Much of the paint has chipped since then, and many of the flowers no longer maintain their crisp shapes.
It brings back bittersweet memories.
But I haven’t stopped to reminisce.
Why are there voices coming from this room?
My eyebrows crease lines of confusion into my forehead. I bring a knuckle to the solidness of the door, but I hesitate before knocking. Who could be in here, and what could they be talking about?
Not maids. Servants are always required to keep doors open when cleaning or attending to guests.
“Sire,” Ronan says, voice gravelly. His weight leans on one leg, his right hand rubbing his left shoulder. “I hate to be rude, but time is of the essence. We’ve no time for…well, entertaining those in your seraglio .”
I can’t help but snort. Then, panic replaces my amusement as the door whooshes open, making me stagger.
A golden-haired woman stands on the threshold, flat brown eyes wide with surprise.
Her face flushes a bright pink and her lips suck in as though she’s holding her breath.
Then she does a quick once-over of my appearance, nodding her approval.
A sickness fills my stomach when she turns around, revealing at least ten other women, all dressed in the same light purple silk gowns.
All with different colors of hair and skin tones, all different heights and weights, but mostly on the taller, skinnier side.
“You must be Ramiel ,” the blonde one says with a roll of her tongue. My name on her lips sounds wildly seductive, but rather than feeling entranced, I wish to run away. Heat burns in my cheeks, in my ears, at the way her eyes rake over me as though I’m a meal to be devoured.
“What are you doing in my wing of the castle?” I say with as much force as I can, but instead the words sound like a scared boy who’s seen too much of a woman’s body for the first time. Certainly these women have the decency to wear more to conceal the curves of their hips, their waists, their?—
I focus on the ceiling right as the host of women adjusts their positions in a formation befitting of royal concubines.
Women in a harem typically leave a spot for their master at the center of their pose.
Several hold soft feather fans, others wear gold necklaces that mark them as especially fertile.
I learned all of this from Bernadette, studied concubinage in my books, but always prayed I’d never have to use this knowledge in practice.
“We were instructed by His Majesty to migrate from His Royal Highness’s chamber to yours. You are to own us now. He said His Royal Highness will not return for some time, and we should therefore offer you our company and services.” Her well-practiced words make my stomach flip with unease.
As untraditional as it may be, though, I have zero interest in things like this.
This is my father wishing to distract me from my mission. Does he wish for me to fail? If so, he is doing a terrible job of deflecting my attention.
I close my eyes and sigh, which helps me recompose myself. “I have no desire to host women in my bed, not until I’ve selected a woman to marry. And even then, it will only be her with whom I share my warmth.”
The blonde’s face morphs from congeniality to confusion and disgust.
“No wonder he’s not the crown prince,” one of the women snickers behind her. The blonde’s lip twitches in response, but she doesn’t say anything.
Another deep breath in, and I roll my tongue over my bottom set of teeth. “You may stay here since you’ve nowhere else to go. However, if I so much as catch one of you attempting to steal a spot in my bed, you’ll be banished from the kingdom and will have no luck with any line of work.”
The words sound petty at best. But I know I’ve struck a chord when the shock is evident and identical on each of their faces.
“We’re not known to…fight over the bed of our master,” the blonde says with a click of her tongue.
Her brown eyes bore into mine as she steps into the hall, but holds a porcelain hand to the surface of the door to keep it ajar.
The other hand presses warmly to my chest. The heat of her touch burns through the fabric right to my skin.
She fists the tunic with surprising intensity and pulls me lower.
Her lips brush against my ear, and when she speaks in a dulcet whisper, I can’t help but shiver.
“Our master loved us. He treated us equally. We never had to fight for his bed. You are nothing compared to him.”
Instead of the fear or embarrassment she’s trying to evoke, a sourness coats my tongue, and anger bubbles out.
Without thinking, my hand reaches down, and I grip her bare shoulder.
The touch is hot and uncomfortable, not at all like how touching a woman should feel.
I make sure to lace my words with as much spite as I can muster, to establish myself as one not to be trifled with.
“Too bad I’m everything he’s not,” I hiss, staring beyond her into the room of wide-eyed courtesans.
With a quick lean back, I’m face-to-face with the now red-faced blonde woman.
“Including faithful to one woman whom I will give the entirety of myself to one day.” I can’t help the smirk carving into my cheeks.
“Including a refined and willing listener.” I release her arm and wipe her warmth on my tunic. “Including alive .”
That seems to do it. The woman blanches with shock. She shuts the door quickly, the rasps of sorrow quelling behind the oak.
They have no one to tell. I figure they ought to learn of my brother’s fate now, before they can get comfortable switching their unwanted loyalties to me.
Maybe someday they’ll realize that being a man’s plaything is no life to lead, and that my lack of likeness to Xavelor is a blessing.
I cannot imagine splitting my affections for my lover between many other men.
The thought seems torturous. I will never understand my ancestors’ tradition to bed multiple women to produce many heirs.
That will perhaps be my father’s single redeeming quality. He had only one concubine. But when I was born, he never deigned to acknowledge me. Instead, he focused his attention on the son of his queen. The son whose harem will likely go down in history as being one of the largest.
Ronan clears his throat behind me, his eyes gleaming with a mischievousness I hadn’t seen there before. He raises his brows in question.
“Did you find what you were looking for, Ramiel?” He says my name with the same inflection as the woman’s, so I smack his shoulder lightly and shake my head.