Page 4 of Prize for the King
“A prize, hm?”
I release a harsh, hissing breath as the man holding my arm speaks. His voice is rough and low, his cadence slightly off, spiced by an accent I’ve never heard before, yet know all about.
“All of his soldiers know the language of the Eleven Kingdoms. They used to kidnap people and force them to teach it, then learned from each other. But their teeth are wrong, their tongues abnormal. They can never get it right, no matter how long they learn. You’ll always know a beast by their speech.”
The reality of this moment smashes into me like a cannon ball. The Agnidari are here, in my castle. One of them touches my body.
“Let go,” I say, pleased to hear how haughty I sound. Like a proper princess, ready to bleed out with dignity.
“Maybe I will.” His words are followed by a harsh sound, something like the bark of a wild beast.
After a moment of confused trepidation, I realize what it is. A laugh. My insides curl with disgust at how unnatural, how ungodly it is.
“Barbarians, all of them. They can do nothing properly. Uncivilizedtrash.”
He walks backward, facing me, and tugs me deeper into the room. My father calls out again.
“No, Caliane! Ten thousand manoli to the man who saves her! No, twenty! Fifty thousand manoli!”
The Agnidari who’s dragging me toward my pleading father lets out another abrasive bark of amusement.
“All the manoli in your coffers belong to us, half-sized king. You have nothing to bargain with.”
I almost look up, outraged that my father, who is the largest man I know, was just calledhalf-sized.But of course, I know the stories.
“They walk on two legs, but they are as tall as a bear is long from head to rump. It stands to reason. They are animals.”
I was naughty that day, I remember vaguely, the memory slipping into my head between two frenzied heartbeats. I checked the lengthsof other animals out of curiosity, and learned that the length of a wolf from head to rump is the same as the height of an average human. When I asked Avinia if that meant we were beasts, too, she beat my hands with the book I learned it from.
We stop in front of my father’s throne dais. I want to look at him and apologize, but the Agnidari stands in the way, blocking the view. I refuse to give him the courtesy of my gaze.
“You can’t take her!” my father cries out, so desperately, it’s unseemly.
That is not how a king behaves. My guilt crushes me, suffocating and tight in my belly, and I press a hand there, trying to appease it. My other hand is numb, faint tingling the only sensation I have. It’s not because his hold is too tight—it’s not—but because I need to protect myself from the barbarian’s sullying touch.
“Do you yield, half-sized king?” the Agnidari asks, clearly mocking. “Do you give me your crown, your kingdom, and all that is yours? Do you make me a king in your place?”
I stop breathing. Just like that, it’s as if my body forgets how to draw air. I am suspended, horror slowly blooming inside me like a garden of poisonous flowers. My ears ring, and I think I hear another beastly laugh from afar.
No. No, it can’t be.
But he said it. I heard it, didn’t I? And there’s only one Agnidari who wants to rule over humans. Only one who’d ask that question. The most terrible demon of them all.
I raise my head as my mouth opens in a mute scream, and look up into the horrifying face of the Tyrant.
II Knight
What surprises me first is that he looks nothing like the caricature drawings I saw over the years. They were horrifying, depicting a beastly face with too many teeth, bulging eyes, multiple scars and warts, sitting on top of a spindly, hunching body. He looked like a monster from the darkest depths of a night terror.
That is what I brace for as I look up, so I flinch back in shock when I see something completely different.
His skin is gray, just the way I saw depicted, but it’s clear save for a small scar on the side of his chin. His hair is long and white, tied back at his nape. His mouth is proportional, and dare I even say handsome, with bluish gray lips that spread in a smile when our gazes connect.
That’s when I recoil. He bares his teeth in a mocking grin, and I realize the caricatures got that partly right, after all. These are sharp, horrible fangs, fangs that belong to a predator.
No wonder he speaks differently.
The shape of his face is elongated, and there’s a pointy quality to it—a triangular chin, prominent cheekbones, and ears that end in sharp tips.
