Page 6 of Prize for the King
“I know.” His voice rises, no longer directed at me. “Where will I find a priest who will officiate a royal wedding?”
My eyes fly open. A priest? Royal wedding?
“What?” I ask, dumbfounded, as someone starts speaking, another voice cutting in. I don’t understand the words.
But the Tyrant ignores me. With a quick gesture, he calls over another Agnidari, this one sporting dark blue hair, also tied back. He’s even taller than the Tyrant but leaner, his hands long and graceful, elbows and joints prominent. He’s wearing a brown leather vest splattered with blood.
“Guard her,” the Tyrant says, stuffing my palm into the newcomer’s hand.
He walks away. My head spins with how grotesquely inappropriate all of it is. I was convinced every royal family was swiftly slaughtered upon a successful conquest. At least, that’s what happened in the three of the Eleven Kingdoms that were invaded before us.
I stare a moment at my imprisoned palm, taking in long, light gray fingers tipped with sharp, black claws. Another horror, almost as bad as the teeth.
The warrior who holds my hand watches me curiously. His eyes are almost pitch black, but not quite. When I return his gaze, I notice his irises are a very dark shade of blue, barely discernible against the black of his vertical pupils.
We stare at each other as murmurs and frantic whispers break out in the throne room. I have a feeling the ministers and courtiers gathered here are dismayed by whatever’s happening, but before I hear anything of substance, a barked order cuts off the whispers.
“Silence! The next human to speak will lose their head.”
In my defense, I’ve never been naturally obedient. I am confused, terrified, and lost. My education has failed me. I was taught wrong about the Agnidari and their conquests, and I don’t know what to expect anymore. It’s a terrifying feeling.
“Excuse me,” I ask my guard politely, ignoring the threat of decapitation. “Why does he need a priest?”
His eyes widen in surprise before he snuffs out a low, dark huff that could be another version of a laugh. I’m not sure.
“Either you really want to die or you’re daft. Are you daft, princess?” he asks, dark blue eyebrows rising high until his gray forehead wrinkles.
“I’ve been called that, yes,” I say honestly. “I might be. See, I don’t know how to judge my own intellect since I’m biased, and now it turns out the people I trusted told me lies.”
“A conundrum,” he says, mouth lifting in a small smile that reveals hints of his sharp teeth. It’s still terrifying, but I’m too overwhelmed to panic anymore.
“So?” I press on. “The priest?”
“For a royal wedding,” he says, watching me expectantly as if the answer is obvious.
“But why?”
He snorts and turns away, his hand tightening around mine. I choke on my breath when his thumb runs over my knuckles, as if to comfort me. It’s awkward, this handhold. My palm is raised so he doesn’t have to hunch.
I study his profile as he stands next to me, head raised high, eyesfirmly ahead. His jaw is less sharply cut than the Tyrant’s, and his cheeks are a bit fuller. I notice with surprise that he has freckles, tiny dark blue specks against the light gray of his skin. There are laughing lines around his mouth, and no scars, but a glinting, metal stud pierces his eyebrow.
“The Agnidari all look the same. Like cows of the same race, aren’t they? You can’t tell two cows apart if you don’t brand them. And you can’t tell those barbarians apart, either.”
But that’s false, isn’t it? They are very different. Even if their hair and eyes were the same color, which they aren’t, their faces still differ in easily observable ways.
I take a shaky breath and look around, hoping not to see too much blood. The ministers and courtiers who stand bravely with my father are corralled into one corner of the throne room, about twenty out of the sixty who live in the castle. The rest must have hidden. From what I heard, the Agnidari will spend days plundering the castle and slaughtering or raping every human who’s left.
There are around fifty of them here, some guarding the humans, others flanking the doors. I can tell at a glance they are easily discernible from one another. Some are shorter, others taller, some sport red hair, or gray, or light blue, cut short, gathered back, or braided. Their features are different, wide mouths, small mouths, crooked or straight noses, full or gaunt faces. Scars. Freckles. Jewelry piercing their skin.
I realize with a shiver there is more variety among the Agnidari than among my father’s courtiers, who all dress in the same fashion, many wearing powdered white wigs coiffed into elaborate shapes. Somehow, no one has ever compared the courtiers to cattle.
I wonder what other lies I was told, and my eyes stray to the throne.
Two Agnidari stand behind my father. I flinch when I see him.
He’s tied to his throne, a gag stuffed in his mouth. Tears run downhis trembling cheeks, and his eyes are red-rimmed and stubbornly focused on me.
Whore.
