Chapter 21
W e fall into a comfortable routine. As well as my usual visits, each time the prince turns, I am escorted to his bedchambers to aid his recovery. Each time, it becomes a little easier to open up in conversation, and I can feel the same in him. He laughs more but also cries more, sometimes a few tears which quickly dry but sometimes great heaving sobs which rack his whole body. It is during these times I take to holding his hand tight and letting him release the sadness and the pain he has held. Sometimes, the anger, too.
In turn, I find myself laughing more and crying less. When I am not with the prince, I paint in the art room, creating vast landscapes and experimenting with the hundreds of colours I now have access to. Or I am with Inez, sharing afternoon tea and exchanging stories with hushed giggling.
Occasionally, I am slipped notes from the kitchen, updating me on the latest gossip from Vanya and I send notes in return. I write recipes my aunt taught me with a promise to finish the tale of the siren and the witch when I am able to see her next. Each time I go back to my chambers, my cage , the anger and fury are a little less sharp when I know I have allies.
The secret passageway leading outside the castle remains stuck in my mind, like corn between teeth. I cannot use it, not without the rest of the king’s hostages, but I cannot ignore it either. The prince, while his curse remains, will never leave. This knowledge troubles me, corroding our time together.
???
I am in my art room one day, painting the morning sky, when the prince sends a guard to escort me somewhere.
“His Highness has asked it to remain a surprise, miss,” the guard tells me when I ask where we are going. Curious, I follow him through the never-ending castle halls until we reach an area I have not yet explored.
The prince is standing outside grand double doors accented with gleaming silver. He gives a toothy smile when he notices me.
“Miss Shivani.” He greets me with a slight bow, his hand on his stomach.
“Your Highness.” I curtsy back before he dismisses the guard. As soon as he leaves, the prince leans forward to brush his lips against my cheek. I inhale the scent of him, blushing as he draws back.
“So, where have you taken me?” I ask, trying to stifle the flutter in my stomach.
He merely smiles at me, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and opens the doors. As I step in, all the breath leaves my lungs.
A library . It is vast, three stories tall and lined with thousands of books. Each floor has its own walkway circling the shelves with ladders dotted around. The smell of books hits me all at once, the sweetness mixed with dust and age. I take a few more steps in and spin slowly on the spot, taking it all in.
“This is amazing!” My voice comes out louder than I intended and echoes around the vast room. “Sorry,” I whisper, contrite.
“No, no.” The prince steps forward to join me. “You are right. Even after seeing it my whole life, it never ceases to amaze me.”
We look sideways at each other, smiling, as though we have a secret only we know.
“You are free to come here whenever you wish. I come here myself often, and maybe we can…” He trails off, and the tips of his ears turn pink. “Spend more time together.”
“I would like that, Your Highness.” My voice is even despite the millions of butterflies in my stomach. Although I know he views me as merely a friend, I have only grown fonder of him. His presence, large and soothing. The dark and sweet smell of him when he comes close to me. The slightly lopsided smile he gives when I laugh, as though pleased to have elicited such a reaction from me.
The gentle soul he houses behind the bars of his curse.
To calm myself, I turn away and begin wandering the library.
We spend several hours there, occasionally speaking in hushed tones about a book we have found or are hoping to read. The library is bigger than anything I could have even dreamed of, having only had access to the one-room library my Aunt owns. I try to ignore the dull ache at my temples at how much she would love to see this place.
The immediate possibilities of researching the prince’s curse open up to me—the information we need could be right here.
The prince gravitates to the flora and fauna section and I accompany him as he tells me excitedly of his favourites. He is the most animated I have ever seen him, and his joy fills my heart. Afterwards, he guides us to the history section where my enthusiasm grows.
“Where did you learn to read so many languages?” the prince asks me as we peruse some thick texts on the history of sirens.
“My aunt,” I answer absently, running my finger along the spines. A few of the books are familiar but I mentally log some away to come back to later. “She is a magical woman and taught me many things.”
“Really?” The prince cocks an eyebrow, intrigued. “She taught you magic?”
“She did.” I cock my head to the side, reading the title of a book about siren songs. “She taught me how to read spells written in witchtongue.”
The prince’s eyes widen in understanding.
“Ah! I have found many books here which are written in an unfamiliar text. Perhaps they are spell books? Let me take you to them.”
He slides his hand into mine and whisks me off, up two sets of ladders and several landings until we reach the very top floor. It is not as well-lit here, but it is warmer. A purple glow emanates from one of the bookshelves. My breath hitches at the sight of it.
“Here.” The prince brings me to the glowing bookcase which, upon closer inspection, is only coming from one book. “This entire shelf is written in another language—even the letters are different from ours. I tried searching in the other books for a translation, but the only reference I found to it was the word faeth.”
“Faeth,” I mutter to myself. “It means magic.”
“In what language?”
“Dragon,” I whisper .
We fall silent, staring at the glowing book. I frown at the purple glow.
“Do you think it is safe to open?” the prince asks, taking a large step back from the bookcase. “I have opened it before, but maybe it…it has some kind of, uh, slow-acting poisonous magic—”
I shake my head.
“It is likely safe. Dragon magic—faeth—does not affect other people, only the wielder.” I shoot the prince a reassuring smile before turning back to the book. “Which is why it is so interesting this book is clearly enchanted by au’mana.”
If I was connected to my magic, I am sure it would be humming in tandem with the book. I reach out and grab it by the spine, sliding it out from where it is sandwiched between two other books. It is heavier than I realised and releases a plume of dust as it slips off the shelf. I raise my hand to waft it away and nearly drop it. The prince swoops to grab it.
“My thanks,” I say gratefully, and we both carry it to the nearest table. It sets off another cloud of dust as we slam it heavily. The prince wrinkles his nose.
“I know,” I say in disgust as I wave the dust away.
“No, it is not that.” He sniffs the air. “Can you smell that?”
I pause, inhaling, but I cannot smell anything other than old books.
“Salt,” the prince confirms.
The book sits innocently on the table, bathing it in a lavender glow. Text is embossed across the top of the cover, along with distinct artwork. Realisation dawns on me.
“It is definitely enchanted then,” I whisper, running my hand across the cover to feel the ornate ridges of the design.
“By witches?” the prince asks, frowning in confusion. “But the other texts called it faeth.”
“No, no, look.” I run my finger underneath the title. “They have a similar-looking alphabet, but this is definitely witchtongue—the letters curve more, whereas dragon text is more straight lines. This word here is au’mana, not faeth.”
The prince peers over my shoulder.
“That is why it smells of salt,” he says. “When au’mana is used, it has that smell. Correct?”
“Correct,” I confirm. “Faeth does not have a smell. It has a…”
I stand up straight, my brain churning.
“What?” he asks, a look of concern crossing his face.
“It has a taste,” I say, turning to him slowly. We stare at each other.
“Well, what taste? Snowberries?” The prince tries for a half-smile, but it quickly drops when I do not respond.
“Your Highness.” I try to swallow but my mouth has gone dry. “I am sorry to bring this up, but…your mother…”
The prince stiffens, and a muscle in his jaw twitches.
“What about her?”
“Was she a dragon?”
There is a beat of silence before the prince laughs nervously.
“Do not be absurd. How could she possibly be a dragon? Think of the logistics of it,” he tries again for a joke, but I shake my head.
“No, Your Highness, a dragon descendant . Before, I told you faeth only affects the wielder. This means dragons can alter their appearance into something more…human-like. They carry all the magic of their ancestors but they look no different than you or me, unless they choose to shapeshift, although it often takes decades to learn how to do so safely. I have never met one before, of course, but I have studied them immensely—” I am babbling now, overwhelmed by the knowledge as my mouth tries to keep up with my brain.
“Shivani,” the prince cuts me off, raising his palm. “What are you trying to tell me?”
I shift from one foot to the other, trying to formulate a tactful sentence.
“I believe your curse is dragon magic, Your Highness,” I say. “You cannot smell faeth like you can au’mana, but…you know it is there. It tastes like blood.” I recall all the times I have spent with th e prince while he has turned, the coppery tang sitting uncomfortably on my tongue. Because there was faeth in the air. “I believe your mother was a dragon, and she used her magic to curse you.”
“But…” The prince swallows hard, his throat bobbing. “But how is that possible? You said dragon magic cannot affect other people.”
I cringe at my earlier blanket statement.
“It has been known to happen.” I spread my hands, contrite. “Curses are…different. Their very nature defies the rules of magic, which is why they are extremely rare. The wielder must not only be a master of their magic, but they…they must be a truly broken person to draw on such strong hatred.”
The prince’s shoulders sag, crestfallen.
“My mother could only curse me because she hated me that much.”
My mouth gapes uselessly as I try to find the words to comfort him.
“I am so sorry, Your Highness.” It is all I can think to say.
He stares at the floor for a long moment before taking both my hands in his.
“My apologies, Miss Shivani,” he says, his old formalities slipping in. “I feel I need to be alone for a while.”
I watch him as he presses his lips to the back of my hands, my mind desperately scrambling for something, anything, which might help. But I have nothing.
“I am sorry.” His voice breaks, and my heart snaps clean in two. Before I can reply, he leaves.