Protect the Prince Page 7

  Tearstone bars cordoned off the back third of the area. Three separate cells were set into the wall, but only the center one was occupied. Straw covered the floor there, softening the stone, although it had molded weeks ago, given the drops of water that continually trickled down the back wall like tears dripping off someone’s face.

  The only pieces of furniture, if you could call them that, were a small metal-frame cot with dirty, threadbare blankets that didn’t quite cover the equally dirty mattress, and two wooden buckets tucked into opposite corners. One of the buckets held water, while the other was being used as a chamber pot. My nose twitched, and my stomach roiled at the sour, pungent stench.

  A man was curled up on the cot, using his arm as a pillow for his head. He was turned toward the back wall, away from us, although his feet were dangling off the side of the cot, as though he didn’t want his ridiculously high-heeled boots to soil the mattress. Or perhaps he didn’t want the mattress to soil his boots. Hard to tell.

  “Hello, Felton,” Serilda called out.

  The prisoner slowly lifted his head and sat up so that he was facing us. He was a short, thin man who had grown even thinner during the months he’d spent here. His black hair still gleamed under the fluorestones, although it had lost its shiny luster, and an unkempt beard had grown out around his once perfectly groomed and styled mustache.

  He was wearing the same clothes he’d had on the night I’d killed Vasilia, although the gold thread on his black tunic and pants was frayed and had lost its elegant sheen, just like the rest of him had. The only part of him that wasn’t a grimy mess was his black boots, which were still surprisingly clean and shiny, given the moldy filth that coated the cell.

  Felton had been Queen Cordelia’s personal secretary, and he had helped Vasilia, Nox, and Maeven murder her and the rest of the Blairs.

  “Serilda,” he rasped. “Finally ready to start torturing me?”

  She shrugged. “That depends on how forthcoming you are. And, of course, on the wishes of my queen.”

  Felton focused on me, and his black gaze sharpened. “Queen?” he snarled. “She’s no bloody queen.”

  “I think that crown on her head says otherwise, but who am I to make such judgments?” Serilda replied. “You always said that I was nothing but a stupid, lowly miner’s daughter whose ambitions were higher than her birthright.”

  Felton’s face twisted into a smug sneer at that long-ago insult. I didn’t know everything that had gone on between them during the years they’d both served Cordelia, but Serilda and Felton despised each other. She had taken great glee in marching him to the dungeon after Cho had captured him during the royal challenge, and Felton had been rotting in this cell ever since.

  “But insults aside, we came here for information,” Serilda said. “Information I’m certain you have, Felton.”

  His eyes narrowed. “And what information would that be?”

  She gestured at me. “Who tried to poison the queen today.”

  “Tried to?” He glared at me again. “It’s too bad they didn’t succeed, Everleigh, and put an end to your wretched farce of a reign.”

  Even though he was the one behind bars, his words still hit me like a slap across the face. They echoed my own fears that I was a weak, miserable fraud, instead of a strong, true Winter queen.

  Felton had always excelled at dishing out insults, especially to me. I might be good at hiding my emotions, but Felton had known me for a long time, and he realized exactly how much his words hurt me. Another smug sneer twisted his face, and a hot, embarrassed blush scalded my cheeks, despite the cool, damp air.

  “Face it, Everleigh,” he said in a snide tone. “You’ll never be half the queen Vasilia was.”

  “You mean that I won’t arrange to have my mother, sister, and royal cousins assassinated?” My voice was as cold as the stone walls. “If that’s the case, then I will be quite happy not to follow in Vasilia’s footsteps.”

  Felton rolled his eyes at my rather pitiful attempt to mock him with his own words, but he got to his feet and walked over to the bars. “Why did you two come here? In case you can’t tell, I’m busy counting the cracks in the walls.”

  “You were in league with Maeven,” Serilda said. “I want to know everything she ever said to you, especially about the Mortan royal bastards.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Ah, so that’s who tried to kill sweet little Everleigh. One of Maeven’s many relatives. Let me repeat my earlier sentiment—it’s too bad they didn’t succeed.”

  I ground my teeth to keep from sniping back at him. I would never win a war of words with Felton, despite his current situation.

  “You should be nicer to your queen,” Serilda snapped, her voice taking on a hard edge. “She’s the only reason you are enjoying your current accommodations, instead of bleeding from every orifice.”

  She waved her hand at a table in the corner covered with swords, daggers, and tools. I could smell the stench of old, dried blood on them all the way across the room. Curiously enough, more blood coated the tools than the weapons. Or maybe that wasn’t curious at all, considering where we were.

  Serilda wandered over and picked up a small hammer. Then she started flipping it end over end in her hand, as though she was getting a feel for the tool the same way she would a sword. The motions made a small pendant glitter in the hollow of her throat—a swan made of shards of black jet with a blue tearstone eye and beak. Another one of Alvis’s designs, just like the bracelet on my wrist and the sword and the dagger belted to my waist.

  “Surely you haven’t forgotten how quickly I can make someone talk,” Serilda purred. “After all, you stood here many times and watched me work on those who would have done Cordelia and Bellona great harm.”

  Felton’s gaze locked onto the hammer. He swallowed and scuttled away from the cell bars, as if remembering just how ruthless she had been in defending her queen and kingdom.

  I knew that the palace guards had nicknamed Serilda the Black Swan years ago because of all the death she’d brought to Cordelia’s enemies, but I hadn’t realized that she had tortured those enemies for information too. I wasn’t surprised, though. Once Serilda gave you her loyalty, it was yours for life. Even though Cordelia had thrown her out of Seven Spire for daring to suggest that Vasilia would one day kill the queen, Serilda had kept on helping Cordelia as best she could from afar.

  “There’s no need for threats,” I said. “I know how to loosen Felton’s lips.”

  “You?” He sneered at me again. “Break me? Please. You’re even more delusional than I thought, Everleigh.”

  I walked over so that I was standing on the opposite side of the bars from him. “You seem to forget that I spent the last fifteen years being tortured by you every single day. Don’t you recall all those boring teas, recitals, and charity luncheons you took such obvious, gleeful delight in ordering me to attend? Because I certainly do. I also remember all the nasty things you said to me. All the times you mocked my appearance or lack of magic or whatever else you found fault with.”

  The sneer slipped from his face, and he gave me a far warier look. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I spent a lot of time at those events daydreaming about how I would get my revenge on you, if the chance ever presented itself.” I held my hands out wide. “And that fortuitous day has finally arrived.”

  Felton shook his head, as if pushing away his fear. “And what are you going to do, Everleigh? Unlike Serilda, you don’t have the stomach or the spine for torture.”

  I slammed my hand up against the bars. Felton jumped back at the sharp bang, ruining his attempt to remain cool and unconcerned.

  “And that’s where you’re wrong, you vicious little weasel,” I hissed. “I would happily cut you to ribbons for what you did to Isobel. Not to mention all the other people who died during the massacre. Part of me wants to do it anyway. Not for any sort of information, but just to make you hurt, just to watch you bleed, just to he
ar you scream.”

  Felton swallowed again. He saw the cold rage on my face and heard the icy fury in my voice. Good. I might be a pretender queen, but I wasn’t pretending when it came to this, and these weren’t empty threats.

  “But luckily for me, I don’t have to bathe in your blood to make you talk. I don’t have to cut you with a sword or dagger. I have to do only one simple thing.”

  “And what’s that?” he whispered.

  I smiled. “Take away your boots.”

  Felton’s black eyes widened, and his gaze dropped to his precious boots, the last remaining vestige of who and what he had been.

  “Vanity is a weakness, Felton,” I said in a soft voice. “And I have never, ever seen you without those boots. When I was younger, I used to think there was something wrong with your feet. In my kinder, more fanciful moments, I imagined that you were a merman, or some other fairy-tale creature, and that those boots were your way of hiding your webbed toes. But as I got older, I realized that you simply didn’t like being the shortest person in the room. After all, that makes it so much harder to look down your nose at other people. Either way, I think it’s finally time to satisfy my curiosity, don’t you?”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” he protested.

  I leaned forward so that he could see exactly how serious I was. “I don’t have to dare anything. I am the queen, and I will slice you to shreds for fun.”

  He stared back at me, and I saw something in his eyes that I had never seen before—fear.

  “Your choice, Felton. You can either tell me everything you know about Maeven, or you can lose your boots. And if that doesn’t make you talk, well, we can always try Serilda’s bloodier methods. I’m quite eager to give them a go.”

  He wet his lips and opened his mouth, but no words came out. I gave him another moment, but he still didn’t speak, so I turned around, as though I was going to leave, and winked at Serilda. Her lips twitched, but she held back her smile.

  “Okay, okay!” he called out. “I’ll tell you what I know. Just leave my boots alone.”

  I turned back around to him and crossed my arms over my chest. “Talk fast, Felton. I have a kingdom to run.”

  His lips puckered like he wasn’t going to answer me, so I pointedly dropped my gaze to his boots. Felton sighed and gave in.

  “Whoever attacked you was probably a member of the Bastard Brigade,” he said. “That’s what the bastard offspring of the Mortan royals call themselves, according to Maeven.”

  “How many of them are there?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. But I would guess at least a few dozen, maybe more. All of varying ages, from children to elderly adults. Most of them have some sort of power, but the majority are magiers, able to summon lightning, snow, wind, fire, and the like. There are even a few mind magiers. Maeven is their leader, since she’s the strongest in her magic.”

  I frowned. “Wait a second. There aren’t that many Mortan royals. The king and his children, and only a few others. But you’re telling me that there are dozens and dozens of royal bastards?”

  Felton shrugged again. “According to Maeven, the Mortan royals purposefully have only one or two legitimate children, so that the line of succession is always crystal clear.”

  Serilda snorted. “And then they have as many bastard children as they can to do their dirty work.”

  From what I’d learned over the past few months, the Mortan royal bastards worked in kingdoms all across this continent and the ones beyond, spying, thieving, and carrying out assassinations and other deadly plots. That way, if the bastards were ever caught, then the Mortan king could deny knowing what they had been up to. A clever if cruel scheme.

  “The Mortan royals think that there is strength in numbers,” Felton said. “At least among the bastards.”

  “But not among the legitimate children,” Serilda said, continuing his train of thought. “Legitimate offspring are just more competition for the throne.”

  He nodded. “Yes, that’s how the Mortans see it.”

  “And the bastards aren’t equal to the legitimate royals,” I murmured, thinking of my earlier conversation with Sullivan. “Not in the ways that truly matter. Still, Maeven doesn’t strike me as the type to bow and scrape to anyone, not even her own king.”

  “The king is her older brother,” Felton said. “Apparently, the two of them were raised together and get along well enough. Or are at least united enough in their greed, ambition, and hatred of Bellona to work together to destroy it, to destroy you. Make no mistake, Everleigh. Today’s assassin is just one of dozens in the Bastard Brigade dedicated to conquering this continent for Morta. They don’t care who they have to work with, or what they have to promise that person, or how long it takes to turn someone to their side. And they especially don’t care who they have to hurt and kill in order to achieve their goal.”

  “I wonder how Maeven feels about doing her brother’s bidding,” I murmured. “How she feels about being so far from home for months at a time and risking her life while the king sits safe and secure on his throne in Morta.”

  “Who the fuck cares about Maeven’s feelings?” Felton sneered. “She’s just another bastard, and the king will use her until she’s dead, just like the Mortans have been doing for generations.”

  My mind churned, thinking about everything I knew about Maeven. Despite my hatred of her, I had to admit that she was smart, cunning, sly, patient, and exceptionally strong in her magic. I had never met the Mortan king, but he couldn’t be that much more powerful than she was with her lightning. Maeven could have easily been queen of Morta herself.

  Perhaps she would be one day.

  Maybe it was my earlier talk with Sullivan, but a thought occurred to me about bastards and royals and this whole situation. The more I turned over the idea in my mind, the more threads I could see to it—threads that just might grow strong enough someday to strangle the Mortan king.

  “What are you smiling about?” Felton muttered.

  “Just a game I might be able to play,” I murmured.

  He frowned, as did Serilda, but I didn’t explain my cryptic words. The thought was still too new and fragile to give voice to it yet. Besides, I had no way to actually implement my idea.

  “What about Nox?” Serilda asked. “Is he a bastard too?”

  Felton shook his head. “No, Nox is a legitimate Mortan royal. One of the king’s nephews. Apparently, he wanted to prove himself to the king and to Maeven, so that’s why he came to Seven Spire and spent all those months fucking Vasilia and pretending to be her guard.”

  “That’s it?” Serilda snapped when he fell silent. “That’s all you know about Maeven and the Mortans?”

  Felton crossed his arms over his chest. “Unlike Vasilia, Maeven was never loose with her words, and she certainly wasn’t forthcoming with her grand plans. Even after Cordelia was dead, Maeven was very careful to keep up appearances, and she continued working as the kitchen steward right up until the day of Vasilia’s coronation.”

  That sounded exactly like the Maeven I knew, always plotting, always scheming, and never, ever revealing what she was really up to until after you had blundered into her trap. It was a strength of hers, but I was starting to wonder if it could be a weakness too.

  Or perhaps I could make it into a weakness without her even realizing it—until it was too late.

  “Thank you, Felton. You’ve been most helpful.” I looked at Serilda. “Make sure the guards come and take away his boots.”

  She grinned. “Happily.”

  Felton surged forward and wrapped his hands around the bars. “What? No! You said that you would let me keep my boots if I helped you!”

  I gave him the same cold, thin smile he had always given me right before he had ordered me to do something particularly unpleasant. “I lied. You don’t deserve to keep your precious boots, Felton. You don’t deserve anything at all. Not when you orchestrated the murders of so many innocent people, including Isobe
l. You’re lucky that I don’t let Serilda hack you to bits, and you’re even luckier that I don’t do it myself.”

  He opened his mouth, but I held up my finger, and he actually swallowed his protests.

  “If you say one more word, then I will cut those boots off you myself, and your toes along with them,” I hissed.

  Felton’s eyes narrowed, and fury sparked in his black gaze. Then he took another look at my face. Whatever he saw there must have convinced him how serious I was, because he slowly backed away from the bars, as if he didn’t want to be anywhere near me. Smart man.

  “Goodbye, Felton. I hope you enjoy your time in that cell. You’re going to be in there for the rest of your miserable life.”

  I gave him another cold glare, then left him to rot.

  Chapter Six

  Serilda and I went back to Cho and the guards stationed at the dungeon entrance. I told them to remove Felton’s boots and to not be gentle about it. The guards grinned and headed toward his cell.

  Felton started screaming less than a minute later. I let the sweet sounds of his suffering soak into my heart, then left.

  I spent the rest of the day dealing with the aftermath of the assassination attempt. Meeting with the nobles and soothing their concerns, reviewing the kitchen staff and procedures with Theroux, and doing the same with Captain Auster and the guards.

  My friends investigated as well, but they didn’t find out much. Libby had been working in the kitchen for about three months, which meant that Maeven had probably sent her to the palace as soon as I had become queen. Then the girl had just waited to get close enough to try to kill me.

  Xenia thought that more Mortans might already be inside Seven Spire, waiting for their own opportunities to murder me, but I doubted it. Like Felton had said, Maeven was careful. She might have snuck Libby onto the kitchen staff, but she wouldn’t try the same trick twice. Besides, she had to realize that if the assassination attempt failed, we would question every single person at the palace. So I doubted there were any other Mortans here. No, Maeven would do something else the next time she tried to murder me.