Chapter 24

It seemed that his escape, if it could even be called an escape, had at least succeeded in making his existence known. Within days, the guards summoned Kosha back.

For the poor mage, who had spent every waking hour counting the passing days with mounting anxiety, it was an extraordinarily fortunate turn of events.

Kosha fidgeted with the frayed collar of his threadbare shirt, his fingers repeatedly brushing the small metal badge pinned to the fabric. It bore the crest of a stag’s antler, fastened there that very morning by Mailot himself.

“Let us handle it this way,” Mailot had said. By then, his face had grown comfortably familiar to Kosha. “I have no intention of treating you as a servant, but as long as you remain inside this castle, you cannot avoid a certain degree of scrutiny. At the same time, it would be rather awkward to claim that we have suddenly taken on another servant, since the East Wing is hardly short of them.”

He had gestured vaguely down the corridor.

“For your information, we are presently in the West Wing of the royal castle, and we occupy most of it. Another prince resides here as well, the fourth or fifth, I believe, but you need not concern yourself with him. You will not encounter him, provided no problems arise.”

In Kosha’s opinion, the senior secretary had a habit of speaking far too quickly and at far too much length. People burdened by excessive thoughts and worries often did, though most of what poured from their mouths proved of little use to the unfortunate souls forced to listen. Kosha had simply stood there beneath the torrent of words, scarcely understanding half of them.

“Therefore, officially speaking, you are an errand boy summoned from my estate,” Mailot had concluded.

“Sir Mailot?” Kosha had ventured.

“I am not a knight, so you should not address me as ‘Sir.’” Even then, Mailot had corrected him with his characteristic kindness. “You may simply call me Mailot. Whether I am a senior secretary or anything else is of no concern to you. In any case, you have come from Carlot to run errands on my behalf. This badge serves as proof, and most people here will recognize it. That way, should you become lost or behave like a fool, no one will find it particularly suspicious.”

Mailot had paused, fixing him with a pointed look.

“No, that does not mean you are free to wander off alone until you actually become lost.”

Startled from his recollection, Kosha lifted his head. Before him stood a man with mottled blond hair and a beard that had grown noticeably scruffier since their last encounter.

“Sir Gosrick,” Kosha murmured.

“You’ve been summoned.” The knight nudged him forward with one broad hand. “Go inside.”

Even that light shove sent Kosha stumbling. Ever since Kosha had been dragged back for a second time, Sir Gosrick had treated him with unmistakable coldness, which was perhaps entirely inevitable.

A faint stab of bitterness pricked Kosha as he reached for the heavy wooden door. It proved far weightier than he had expected, but Eydric, the new guard assigned to him the previous night, pushed from behind and helped the massive oak panel swing open with ease.

The moment Kosha stepped into the chamber, every thought that had occupied him a heartbeat earlier vanished.

Heat surged into his cheeks, staining them what was undoubtedly a pathetic shade of red. His green eyes darted around the luxurious room, unable to settle anywhere, but such an overwhelming reaction was unavoidable.

Lucien sat in a velvet-upholstered armchair positioned squarely within a spill of brilliant sunlight. His posture was anything but proper, bordering instead on complete indolence. With his long legs crossed and his body angled so loosely that he looked ready to slide from the cushions, he studied a thick bundle of papers in his hands. Another veritable mountain of documents had been stacked on the table beside him.

An orderly row of cups stood beside the paperwork. Some had been carved from quartz, while others gleamed in glass, silver, or tin. A few possessed delicate stems; others were long and cylindrical or flared elegantly toward the rim. Some stood empty, while others held liquids of varying colors and consistencies.

Kosha hesitated.

Bathed in sunlight, Lucien looked almost unbearably radiant. Kosha did not know whether he could carelessly approach the enormous pile of documents, and he was even less certain whether he could approach Lucien himself.

Was it even proper for us to be alone together? Not that I intend to do anything to him. I would never dare, even if I wanted to.

The moment the thought crossed his mind, Lucien lifted his gaze.

Kosha caught his breath.

“Do you intend to stand there forever?” Lucien crooked two fingers in a beckoning gesture, much as one might summon a stray dog.

Even so, Kosha’s feet carried him forward as though he had fallen under a powerful spell. His progress remained agonizingly slow, but this time Lucien waited with unexpected patience.

The sun was still up, after all.

“Sit there.” Lucien indicated a small seat off to one side. The words carried a languid courtesy so ornamental that it barely softened the command.

The squat, four-legged stool lacked a backrest and was clearly intended as a footrest rather than a proper chair, but the prince did not appear to care.

Kosha, meanwhile, felt utterly overwhelmed. For one thing, he wondered whether he would be sitting too close. He would not be kneeling but seated as though they were equals, facing Lucien from a chair. They were already much too near and far too alone. Kosha felt that such a thing required at least some measure of mental preparation, and he would have greatly preferred that someone, even Sir Gosrick, remain nearby to watch over him.

Lucien studied the mage, who continued to glance uneasily over his shoulder.

“Did you leave something outside?”

The finely shaped gentleness of his voice made Kosha’s shoulders jump. The servant’s shirt he had been given had not been tailored with any precision, leaving the delicate line of his neck fully exposed. From throat to shoulder, he looked painfully thin.

Scrawny as hell, Lucien thought as he continued his appraisal.

“You have been looking behind you since you came in.”

“Oh, no.” Kosha hurriedly lowered his head. “It’s nothing.”

Lucien’s inquisitive blue-gray eyes continued to track his every movement. Unable to endure the silent interrogation for another moment, Kosha finally surrendered.

“It’s only… Sir Gosrick, perhaps,” he admitted.

“Sir Gosrick?”

“I wondered whether someone else ought to be here, since there is no one.”

“Ah.”

Lucien’s lips parted slightly, and he tilted his head at the graceful angle he so often favored.

“Are you uncomfortable with me?”

“Pardon?”

“Does being alone with me make you uncomfortable?”

Kosha fell completely silent.

“It is all right,” Lucien continued, affecting a generous tone. “You may answer honestly, considering what happened between us.”

He did not truly expect the mage to admit his discomfort, even if he felt it.

“No, not at all.” Kosha shook his head frantically, exactly as Lucien had anticipated. The vague mention of what had happened was more than enough to summon the memory in full, and his face flushed almost instantly. “That was an accident. Yes, an accident. You did not do it deliberately.”

The crimson color spread steadily across his face until even his neck had turned bright red.

“Yes,” Kosha repeated weakly. “It was an accident.”

A strange and deeply unpleasant sensation stirred within Lucien as he looked at that flushed neck. Even so, he smiled with the flawless serenity of a painted portrait.

“Sir Gosrick is a busy man. He cannot remain here indefinitely, and naturally, neither can the others.”

Lucien had deliberately chosen to meet the mage alone because it allowed him to dispense with his usual pretenses more efficiently. In matters such as these, his aides inevitably became a severe nuisance.

“And we have work of our own to do, do we not?”

He extended one arm.

Kosha flinched, though Lucien’s hand never came close to touching him. The prince’s fingertips passed over several cups before settling upon a faceted quartz glass. The movement flowed like running water, polished with a refinement so deliberate that it could only have been meticulously practiced.

With a casual turn of Lucien’s wrist, Kosha found himself accepting the proffered cup.

A dark, unfamiliar green liquid swirled thickly within the crystal. It smelled sharply of grass, but Kosha could detect no trace of poison. When he slowly raised his eyes, he found Lucien’s gray-blue gaze resting heavily upon him, silently urging him onward.

Am I supposed to drink it?

That certainly appeared to be the expectation.

After a moment’s hesitation, Kosha raised the cup to his lips. Although the vessel itself possessed considerable weight, the liquid amounted to no more than a few shallow swallows. Had there been any more, he doubted he could have forced himself to finish it.

“Ugh.”

The sound escaped before Kosha could suppress it.

The medicine tasted unspeakably foul, bitter and astringent enough to make his lips feel as though they were shriveling back toward his gums. His face twisted in absolute misery, and while fighting the desperate urge to gag, he forced himself to swallow.

Lucien watched him with open, analytical interest.

“Do you even know what you just drank?”

The prince had reclined farther into his chair, resting his chin against one elegant hand as he studied Kosha intently.

Kosha stared at him in utter bewilderment. “Was it not meant for me to drink?”

“If I handed you something and told you to drink it, would you simply obey?”

Unable to follow the twisted logic of the question, Kosha blinked rapidly.

Then… was I not supposed to drink it?

Lucien examined his confusion with peculiar concentration, as though Kosha’s failure to understand were itself an object worthy of intense study.

“What would you have done if it had been poisoned?”