Page 17 of Prize for the King
But a thing, nonetheless.
“It’s actually typical,” Khay interrupts my musing. “I told you before that a similar thing happened in the kingdoms of Zanvar, Serilla, and Troos. Only there, the royal families killed their princesses before we took their castles.”
I remember a faint echo of him telling me that in the broom closetbefore the worst happened.
“Why? Wouldn’t you have killed them anyway? That’s what I was told. That the Tyrant slaughters every royal family as soon as he breaks through their final defenses.”
Khay snorts. “Yes, he did that in those three kingdoms. They welcomed him with the bodies of the princesses displayed, still warm. You can’t blame the man for getting angry, can you? Like I told you, the youngest was four years old. Her mother cradled her to her breast, the dagger she used to cut her daughter’s throat still in her hand.”
My insides turn to ice as I ponder the horror of such a thing, unwilling to believe him, yet forced to consider he’s telling the truth. BecauseIwasn’t slaughtered today, and my father was spared, too—at least, until he attacked me. So many things were different from what I’d been told before.
Khay tries to settle more comfortably in the chair until it creaks ominously, unused to such large occupants.
“This is why I don’t mind when humans call us monsters, little diamond. I know for a fact you’re worse than us. See, I never met an Agnidari who was willing to harm their own young, whatever the reason.”
I grimace. I have to admit he’s right—if he’s telling the truth.
“But whatwasthe reason?”
Khay hums, tilting the chair back until his face is parallel to the ceiling.
“The same reason your father had for trying to kill you, I imagine. From the moment Magnar becomes one of them through lawful marriage, he is untouchable. They’ll never be able to take back the kingdoms he took, because the oldest law of the Eleven Kingdoms forbids them from warring against each other.”
“But that also means he can’t make any more conquests,” I saywith a shake of my head. “He’s bound by the same laws now. Isn’t that an advantage?”
Khay snorts, shaking his head, and I just catch the light reflecting off his eyebrow piercing in the dark. “I don’t think it’s advantageous enoughto outweigh thehumiliationof having an Agnidari as a son-in-law. They’d rather kill their daughters than let one be married to Magnar.”
I shrug, remembering that moment in the library, the Tyrant’s cold, silver eyes, and the hate burning in my stomach. “I kind of see their point.”
Khay only laughs, low and warm. Outside, the warriors sing a slow, mournful song that I don’t want to admit is beautiful.
“Is he really worse than death?” he asks in a teasing voice. “Back home, every Roharra woman would weep for joy if Magnar chose her for his wife, you know. He’s strong, just, and beautiful. You won’t find a better man in all Eleven.”
Beautiful.I sense a wistful note in Khay’s voice, something very much like longing, but maybe it’s just his accent. I consider his words. Yes, I will admit without hesitation Magnar is strong. The way he killed my father was barbaric, but it must have required a lot of physical prowess.
Is he just? It’s too early to tell. The punishments he dishes out to those who disobey him, like disembowelment for raping a Farneerian, are harsh. But if he follows through, it’s not a fault. At least people know what to expect.
“Always set down clear rules,”I remember my father’s voice, his hand kneading my hip.“Chaos reigns in uncertainty.”
I push the memory away and focus on Magnar. DoIthink he’s beautiful? Khay clearly does. His choice of the word surprises me, though. Men are called handsome, but well, if I squint and forget I hate him for a moment, I might admit Magnar possesses a savage sortof beauty.
“His hair is nice, I suppose. But the teeth spoil whatever good qualities he has.”
Khay's laughter is loud and unabashed. It sounds foreign, still, but not as unpleasant anymore. I think I’m getting used to the Agnidari—or at least, to Khay.
“His teeth are the best part of him!” he explodes, slapping his thigh in mirth. “He still has all, and they are white, healthy, and strong. He can tear out a bear’s throat with them. Few Agnidari can say the same.”
“Charming,” I mutter, imagining the Tyrant wrestling in mud with a bear, both of them roaring at each other and snapping sharp, predatory teeth. “I still fail to see the appeal.”
“Do you?” Khay asks, his chair falling onto four legs with a thud as he leans forward, watching me with curiosity. “What if the bear was about to attackyou? Would you still fail to see the appeal of a husband who can keep you safe with one well-aimed snap of his jaws?”
My mind returns to that horrible moment in the throne room, a strong arm pushing me out of danger’s way, his movements blurring from speed, and the quick, violent death he gave my father.
If it were anyone else, I would have been grateful. As it is…
“No, still unappealing. He killed my father, Khay. And before you say he did it to save me, I know, all right? But I still can’t… He was my father.”
“I know. It’s complicated. Life often is.”
