Page 3 of The Prince

“There you are,” she said, still smiling. “Glad to see you’re feeling better. Terrible what happened to you.”

Clament swallowed, trying to push back the feeling that his heart was beating in his throat. She seemed harmless, and Clament’s experience with healers—albeit admittedly limited—was that they didn’t inflict additional pain on their patients.

“The orders of a royal prince…” Clament forced out with a fatalistic shrug, trying to seem nonchalant about it all. She might be a healer, but she was still in the employ of Prince Braxton. Clament couldn’t afford to come across weaker than he already did. Except, she adamantly shook her head in response, making him blink in surprise.

“That’s the most terrible part of it, or so I’ve heard.” She tapped the side of her nose. “The main guard who tortured you was executed,” she whispered, her tone full of horror. “The second guard and the healer who failed so spectacularly at patching you back up both got life sentences. And Prince Braxton delivered the orders in court himself. He was that furious.”

Furious Clament had gotten so ill Braxton had needed to pause his ministrations and make what he was doing to Clament public knowledge, no doubt.

“Never fear though,” she continued, not noticing the direction of his scornful thoughts. “I’m the best healer here in Toval, remanded to the royal family almost exclusively. Prince Braxton was most insistent. I’ll have you fixed right up in no time,” she finished, grinning at him.

Which meant, of course, in only a short period of time Clament would find himself back in that dungeon under a more capable torturer’s care. Well, at least he had a little longer to enjoy a comfortable bed and warm blankets. The last time he had slept in a real bed had been well before his assignment at Lake Estaral which had been a rather long time ago. Clament didn’t actually know how long had passed since his capture. Weeks, probably months, but his torturers hadn’t come every day, nor had Braxton, so he couldn’t count the days by their appearances. His cell hadn’t had a window either. He was certain his healer had been instructed not to answer any of his questions, so Clament didn’t bother asking.

“I appreciate your help,” he said instead.

“Oh! Where are my manners!” she gasped. She stepped back and executed a perfect curtsy. “Healer Alina, at your service. A pleasure to meet you.”

Clament bowed from the waist, not certain he could stand long enough to give a proper reply. “I can’t say it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Healer Alina, but I appreciate your help.”

She giggled at his cheekiness as she stood straight again. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t be. Anyway, now you’re awake, I suspect you’ll be wanting some food. Prince Fenwick’s personal chef sent over some chicken broth for you. Said it would help heal you even more than my magic, and I have to agree. I tasted it, and it’s like drinking liquid gold. I swear.” She tapped two fingers to her heart in the sign for a heart’s promise. “Be right back.”

She scurried from the room, leaving Clament trying to hide a frown. Fenwick’s personal chef was probably the man with blue cooking magic who had saved Fenwick when Clament had been following through on his orders to kill anyone who might interfere with the grand plan—such that it was. Clament had seen the way Fenwick looked at his chef, and the way the chef had looked back. The chance the chicken broth was poisoned was very high, and Clament knew he would have to eat it. Alina seemed to think he was safe here, but he knew better. He very much knew better.

She puttered back into the room before Clament had steeled himself and gently deposited a tray in his lap. Below the cloche was a cereal bowl full of clear, yellow broth and a spoon. A small glass full of orange juice was next to the bowl.

Clament tried to swallow back his nerves, but his mouth was completely dry. Still, it was better to get it over with. He picked up the spoon and dipped it into the broth, blew on it for a second to cool it, and then stuck the full spoon into his mouth.

Liquid gold was an apt description. Deeply flavorful, nuanced with hints of the vegetables, chicken, and spices that had boiled together for hours to create such a glorious taste.Yet it was still mellow and easy for his fever-weakened body to handle. Another spoonful arrived in his mouth, as if his hand were autonomous from his brain. If the broth was poisoned, it was worth dying while eating this.

Clament almost felt like crying when his bowl was empty, but he felt full and rather sleepy, so he didn’t ask for more.

The juice was tart and definitely didn’t go with the soup, but there were different vitamins in the juice, so he understood why Alina waited until he finished that before she whisked the tray away again.

He yawned when she returned, which made her cluck. With her help, he was able to lie back down. Alina tucked the covers around him, but as Clament’s head sank into the depths of his pillow, sleep swept him away.

Chapter Two

SURPRISE WAS THEfirst emotion Clament felt as he swam back to consciousness. He wasn’t shivering uncontrollably again, nor was he sweating through his clothes. No sharp pains, jittery limbs, or fuzzy vision. All of which meant he hadn’t been poisoned, which made absolutely zero sense. The perfect opportunity for a bit of revenge, and Prince Fenwick’s chef had let it slip on by, untaken? If they were in Namin, Clament would have been poisoned multiple times already. Clament had a small amount of immunity to most poisons, given how many times he had survived such attempts. But then, he wasn’t in Namin anymore. Toval was a completely different place, with a completely different ethos. Or so he had been taught—often by Namese teachers with incredible scorn in their voices. Braxton torturing him was completely in line with Clament’s Namin-born expectations; that chef not poisoning him must be an exception to the rule.

A rustle of paper to his left made him stiffen in surprise. Clament slowly turned his head to look and frowned. The sorriest excuse for a desk he had ever seen had been added to the room. The surface was barely large enough to hold the two stacks of paper and single pen on top. Curled awkwardly behindit on a chair was Braxton, scowling fiercely at whatever was on the paper in his hand and paying no attention to Clament.

Clament gaped at Braxton for a long moment, trying to come up with any explanation as to why Braxton was in Clament’s room and had chosen to do his work in such a ridiculous manner. No doubt Braxton had a grandly appointed office somewhere else in the palace yet for some reason, he was enduring uncomfortable conditions at Clament’s bedside. None of it made any sense to Clament. Well, boggling over Braxton’s actions wasn’t going to get him any answers, Clament decided as he clenched his jaw and steeled his nerve. The only way to find out was to ask.

Despite his determination, he had to swallow twice to wet his throat before he found the courage to let Braxton know he was awake. Clament forced the appropriate amount of scorn into his tone, hoping to hide the fact that his hands were shaking and gut roiling beneath the cover of the blankets.

“Ask your damned question, and then go away,” he said as he slowly sat up.

Braxton jumped, slamming his knee into one corner of the desk and then scrambling to catch one of the piles of papers as it listed dangerously.

“You’re awake!” he gasped. “How are you feeling? Wait—” He waved one hand through the air between them as if clearing the space. “No, I need to start again.” He walked out from behind the desk to stand at Clament’s bedside and suddenly bowed deeply at the waist. “I am so, so, so damned sorry. I know that’s not enough, just saying that, but apologizing is all I can do.”

He straightened and a zing of horror rang through Clament at the sight of Braxton’s eyes, damp and remorseful—and alsoincredibly pretty when they were soft like that. But, no. Clament forced that thought away as quickly as it had slithered in.

“Torture requires a royal writ,” Braxton continued, “signed by the king or heir and sealed by the other and has not been approved in approximately three decades. I cannot order it on my own, and the guards are aware they must have a notarized copy of the writ before they can engage in such base practices. I promise, no writ was drafted, let alone approved for what was done to you, and my inattention allowed you to be heinously hurt for three long months.” He paused to let out a heavy breath. Braxton squeezed his eyes shut as if he was trying to force the tears back, but when he opened them again, they were still alluringly soft and wistful. “Apologizing isn’t enough, I know. You should be aware that you are welcome to stay here as long as you need to heal and are free to leave whenever you wish. I would be happy to arrange personal escort to the Namin border, or to wherever you prefer to go. Just let me know.”

Braxton had to be bluffing. That was the only explanation Clament could come up with. As spymaster, he was likely an excellent actor who could produce tears on cue. Torture and confinement hadn’t worked—had almost killed Clament without Braxton obtaining any intelligence out of him—so now Braxton was clearly trying the carrot instead of the stick.

Clament would play along for as long as he could draw out being treated nicely. Good food, a comfortable bed, a real healer instead of a quack; Clament would enjoy the privileges for as long as they lasted, secure in the knowledge that Braxton was only offering the comforts in order to drag information out of him.

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