Bartered by the shadow p.., p.8
Bartered by the Shadow Prince, page 8
“Ariadne…I am speechless. This is the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. You truly are the most talented dressmaker.”
She smiles in a way that seems to come straight from her heart. “It suits you. We will hem it, of course. The queen was taller than you.”
“You made this for Nyx?”
Ariadne lifts her chin a half inch. “This was the last dress I made for her before…”
Before she died.
“I’ll take it,” I say. “I can’t wait to show Damien.”
“Very well. Let me mark the hem.” She grabs a cushion of pins and kneels beside me. “Will you be wearing this with flats or heels?”
I sigh. “The only shoes I own are the ones I’m wearing.”
Her mouth pops open. “The cobbler no longer keeps hours, but I will trace your feet for him.” At her prompting, I remove my boots. She grabs some blue paper and charcoal and carefully traces my feet. “All the royals are wearing heels this season. They’re frightfully uncomfortable, but you’ll be in style.”
I snort. “I’m not interested in being in style. I need to be able to move, to hunt, to work, and to ride.”
“A set of leather slippers, then. Not as flashy or modern but a conservative classic. They won’t stand out, but the other royals won’t judge you for them either. Still, I’ll leave the dress floor-length so that your shoes won’t be a topic of conversation.”
“That sounds like the answer I’m looking for.”
Carefully, she starts pinning the dress at the appropriate length. “You really aren’t a royal lady, then. How is it you ended up with Prince Damien?”
“He wasn’t a prince in my world.” I tuck my hair behind my ear, frustrated with this conversation. Does she like the royals? Hate them? Blame them for the condition of her shop? I’ve been dancing around her comments, trying to figure out what she wants from me. “Anyway, he’s not a prince anymore here either, is he? It’s a new kingdom.”
She finishes the line of pins and stands up, turning around to put her tools away. When she turns her head slightly, I notice tears in her eyes. “Ariadne? Did I say something wrong?”
“Remove the dress. I will hem it while you wait. It will take me two minutes. You cannot leave my shop wearing the other one.”
“Ariadne? What’s wrong? What did I say?”
“The dress,” she demands, holding out one hand.
I unclasp the shoulder and strip out of the dress. Frustrated and angry, I’m careless as I hand it to her and catch my finger on one of the pins.
“Ow!” Blood beads. It happens so fast, for a moment, I don’t know what’s happening, only that the room has gone dark. And then she’s in front of me with my finger in her mouth. Her fangs sink into my palm, her eyes wild with bloodlust.
I grunt as she takes a long draw of my blood. I could shove her or pull my hand away, but I look at the way her bones protrude under her thin skin and know she needs the blood more than I do.
I gently place a hand on her shoulder. “Ariadne? When was the last time you fed?”
She releases my hand immediately, like she only then realizes what she’s done. Her eyes are the size of saucers, and she plasters her hands over her mouth. Tears flood her cheeks.
“I’m so sorry, Eloise. The blood! I couldn’t help myself.”
“Of course not. You’re starving. Is this what the wasting disease does to you?”
Her brows knit, and her lips draw back from her teeth as a sob breaks from her throat. “There is no wasting disease,” she hisses. “The wasting disease is just a fancy name for starvation. The new queen has been slowly killing us for years.”
12
I Am No Prince
DAMIEN
While Eloise is fitted for her dresses, I leave Ariadne’s, and stride down the center of town toward the general store. A few Bolvet citizens are in the street, until they see me and duck behind the nearest doorway. This isn’t right. I don’t recognize the faces that stare at me from windows or disappear around corners, but there are a few things that stand out to me.
This town is dying. Everyone is like Ariadne, unnaturally old and thin. Part of me wants to believe Brahm, that this is due to some wasting disease that still plagues this community, but the tone of Ariadne’s comments makes me think there is something else going on here. Something far more nefarious.
Fuck. Brahm wasn’t what I’d describe as responsible in the past, but I’d never suspect he’d let a village in our kingdom fall into squalor. Then again, maybe this isn’t because of Brahm. Maybe the dark elf at his side is poisoning his mind, poisoning the kingdom. I need to know more before I draw any rash conclusions. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the centuries, it’s that when it comes to royal politics, jumping to conclusions can cost you your head.
I step through the open doors of the general store to find a single candle burning on the counter and more empty shelves then full ones. As for the full ones, I find a strange assortment of goods for sale. Plates, clothing, musical instruments. It reminds me of a thrift store.
A man comes out of the back room. At least he looks relatively healthy. Too thin, maybe, but not ancient like the rest of them.
“Are you lost?” he asks me, a defensive edge to his voice.
“No,” I say. “Just looking.”
He clears his throat. “Not much to look at honestly. Or steal.”
I skip a glance his way. “I wasn’t planning to steal anything.”
He grunts and murmurs, “Damn Rivertoads.”
Leather saddlebags catch my eye on an upper shelf. It wouldn’t hurt to have an extra set. Leaving the castle with Eloise is looking more a possibility by the minute, and if that happens, we’ll need to travel light.
I take them down and blow the dust off them. Carrying them to the counter, I ask, “How much?”
The man pulls a pair of glasses out of the pocket of his tunic, perching them on his nose. Through the curved glass, he studies my face. “You’re not a Rivertoad.”
“No.”
This causes him to scrutinize me even more intensely, his fingers twitching where they rest on the counter. The way he hesitates, swallowing repeatedly, I get the sense that he’s nervous, maybe afraid of me. But why? I’ve never met this young man. Does he even know who I am?
“You can trade me a stag for it,” he whispers, his eyes shifting right, then left. “But you must bring it here without being seen. If the umbrae stop you, the deal is off, and I will not acknowledge this offer.”
“You don’t want money?”
Now he looks truly confused. “No one in the west villages needs money, outsider. We’ve nothing to buy with it here, other than what’s left when someone dies.” He points his chin at the saddlebags.
“You can’t leave?” I ask. “You can’t hunt yourself?”
He stiffens and takes a step back. “Where are you from?”
“I’ve been away a long time, maybe longer than you’ve been alive.”
He slides the saddlebags off the counter, gripping them in one hand. “You have my price.”
“Dad?” A small child pokes her head out from the back room, her eyes overlarge in her small face. I have limited experience with shade children, but this one appears to be underfed.
He makes a sound like a hiss and shoos her away, closing the door so I can’t see her anymore. When he turns back to me, he looks desperate and exhausted. “The stag,” he says, lifting the bags. “These were made before the war. You can’t get this quality anymore. You won’t find them anywhere else.”
A deep sense of dread settles in the pit of my stomach as I turn and exit the store. Why can’t these people leave? Why can’t they hunt?
Whatever is going on in this village, it’s dark. And I still don’t know if it is disease, social conflict, the politics of New Stygarde, or a combination at work here. I am not keen to blame this all on my brother and his mate…yet. Doing so would open a Pandora’s box that I could never close again. But I have questions—so many questions. And I know down deep, I’ll have to face them eventually.
I need to find Eloise. The faster we can finish our business here, the better.
ELOISE
“Eloise? Ariadne?” Damien calls. I didn’t hear the door open, but his heavy footsteps land on the other side of the curtain, interrupting the revelation Ariadne just tossed in my direction that Nevina has somehow been starving the people of Bolvet.
“I’ll have it ready in two minutes,” Ariadne calls, her lashes fluttering. She moves for the back room.
“Wait,” I mutter, my hand still throbbing where she bit me to drink my blood. Fuck, I can’t let Damien see this. He hasn’t even tasted my vampire blood yet. Seeing the bite, the blood could trigger him to do something impulsive. That’s the last thing Ariadne needs. The woman clearly has enough problems.
“Eloise?”
“We’re just finishing up,” I call through the curtain.
I rub the remnants of blood from my palm, thankful the bite wound has already healed, and pace the dressing room. If there is no wasting disease, then how exactly did Damien’s father, mother, and sister die? The implications are grim.
But the more I think about it, the more I question everything. Brahm is still in power. If Damien’s family did not die of a wasting disease, what killed them? Would Damien’s own brother have watched his mother, father, and sister starve to death? Assuming he was heartless enough to perform the act, something I find hard to believe considering his warm welcome of Damien, it seems an implausibly slow way to perform regicide.
What if I misunderstood? I’m understanding Ariadne through Nevina’s translation spell. Is it possible that what Ariadne meant is that whatever is happening now, in Bolvet Village, is not due to the wasting disease? Maybe the disease happened during the war and she only meant it’s not still at work here, now? It’s possible that nuance was lost in translation. I need Damien to talk to her. As a native speaker, he has the best chance of clarifying her meaning.
I whirl when, true to her word, Ariadne returns to me with the dress. In silence, she helps me into it. I want to ask her a million questions, but I can’t find the words. Why are she and the others starving when the fields are overflowing with grain and Damien had no trouble finding stag to eat the other night? But I don’t trust my words. Not when I have only a week in this world for context.
I glance in the mirror as she finishes buckling me into the gown. The dress falls exactly to the floor, long enough to cover my toes but short enough to walk in. The effect is stunning. I look like a princess or a pageant queen.
“It’s perfect,” I stammer. “Ariadne, you’re a genius. Thank you.”
She won’t meet my eyes but mutters, “You are very welcome. As for the other gowns, I’m afraid I have only this selection of material in my stores.”
I flip through the small collection of fabric swatches. None is as beautiful as what I’m wearing, but I choose a dozen different options, more than I actually need.
“Can you make half of these with pants for riding?” I ask.
She smiles, finally lifting her gaze to mine. “That’s a request I’ve never encountered before.” She pulls out a pad of paper and sketches a quick design. She shows it to me. Pants and a tank top are camouflaged by a long, belted top layer that mimics the style of the dresses I’ve seen Nevina wear. “This is perfect.”
She nods but her face falls. “For the dresses, undergarments, shoes and accessories, it will be expensive.”
“How much?”
“Twelve thousand quill.”
“For all of them?”
She nods.
“Give me one moment.”
I pull the curtain back. The second Damien sees me, he smokes at the edges like he’s coming apart. He’s in front of me in an instant, his deep inhale filling my ear as his lips brush over my neck. “Little bird, you look achingly beautiful in that dress.”
“Thank you.” I allow my lips to brush his before placing my hand on his cheek. “Ariadne says it will be twelve thousand quill for this and the others I’ve ordered. Is that too much?”
Slowly, without taking his eyes off me, he shakes his head. There’s a clinking sound. He looks away only long enough to drop twelve large gold coins into Ariadne’s hand.
“Very well, sir,” she says, bowing deeply at the waist. “I’ll send a trunk to the castle in a few days’ time.”
“Thank you.” He lifts one of my arms, and I twirl in place. “You’ve truly outdone yourself with this piece.”
“Well, that one, I had ready. It was the last I designed for Nyx.”
Damien does a double take and then looks again at the dress, his expression more serious. “It suits her,” he manages, although his voice is thick.
“I agree,” Ariadne chimes softly.
“Can I talk to you outside for a moment?” I whisper.
He nods, and we say our goodbyes to Ariadne, who watches us go with an expression that I can only interpret as one part pain and two parts gratefulness.
Only when we’re back at the rabble beasts do I gently explain what happened.
“She drank your blood?” He seems truly alarmed.
“I’m okay.”
“I don’t like anyone treating you as prey.”
“She’s starving. She couldn’t help it. Everyone in this village is.”
I sigh. “I suspected as much after my visit to the general store. The man who worked there seemed thin but healthy. He implied he couldn’t leave the village but wouldn’t explain why. He acted as if I should know. If everyone here is hungry, why can’t they hunt?”
“Ariadne wouldn’t tell me much either, other than that their condition is not caused by the wasting disease. I think she was afraid. But she suggested that the queen had something to do with it. What if there’s a policy or a law that’s keeping them from feeding themselves?”
A storm brews behind Damien’s eyes. He hands me his rabble beast’s reins and a few gold coins from his bag. “Take these quills to the tavern.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going hunting, and when I return, I will make damn sure this town is fed.” He kisses me, giving himself over to it just long enough for me to press my body to his. And then he breaks into shadow and is gone.
13
Secrets
ELOISE
Damien leaves me swooning after a kiss that turns my knees to jelly. “I could have used another hour of that, thank you very much,” I mutter, patting the necks of the two rabble beasts who chuff contentedly beside me. I try not to focus on their fangs, although they shouldn’t unsettle me as much as they do. I have my own fangs after all. Everyone here does.
With a gentle tug, I lead Borus and Romulus toward the building Damien indicated.
Bolvet Village Tavern is a circular, thatched-roof structure at the center of town that reminds me of a medieval ale house from a fairy tale. Although, the charming façade has fallen into disrepair. The place looks abandoned and badly in need of upkeep. Even from the street, I can make out a hole in the roof.
At least it’s not raining. I tie the rabbles to a post out front. I have the unsettling thought that I don’t even know if it rains on this planet. It hasn’t since I’ve been here. It must rain, though, right? How else would the crops grow? I make a mental note to ask Damien.
As I move for the door, I notice people watching me from the homes and buildings surrounding the tavern. Faces loom in chipped doorframes and behind dingy windows. A half dozen eyes rake over my gown and then dart to Ariadne’s. I smile at any who will meet my eyes, but no one smiles back. Instead, the moment our eyes meet, they disappear behind walls and curtains, like children I’ve caught breaking the rules.
Carefully, I pull open a door that creaks as if it might fall off its hinges. The inside of the place is as squalid as the outside. I run my finger across a table, and it comes away black, the trail I’ve made visible in the dust. I brush off my hands and decide the bar looks a tad less filthy. I lift my skirts and settle in on one of the barstools.
What I need right now is a very chatty bartender to spill the tea on what’s been happening in this village. Someone to fill in the gaps in Ariadne’s story. But as I take a seat at the round bar and stare into the cold, charcoal-stained hollow under an empty spit at the center of the place, I wonder if anyone at all still works here. All the bottles I can see are empty. Maybe there’s nothing left to serve.
“You can order, but we have nothing to eat and very little to drink,” comes a voice from across the bar. An old man stands in the back entrance. When I look his way, he rounds the bar and opens a gate to step in behind it. Oversized, wide-set eyes perch on either side of a bulbous, reddened nose. A head of white hair that’s long enough to belong to a stereotypical wizard grows wild and uncombed from his head. He’s tucked the sides behind his ears to little advantage. He could be anyone’s grandpa on Earth, but even there, he’d be too thin to be healthy and too unkempt not to raise eyebrows. Here, where the people choose their appearance when in their polite form, I realize this shade has chosen to wear his impending death like a badge.
“That’s all right. I’m just waiting for a friend,” I say.
“Picked an odd place for a meeting. Hasn’t your friend heard that Bolvet Village is a tomb?” He releases a dark, cynical laugh.
My heart drops at the comment, but I see my opening. I flip one of the gold coins that Damien called a quill onto the bar. “You seem well animated for a corpse. Are you sure you have nothing to sell me back there? Even zombies need a drink now and then.”
