Page 117 of Artemysia
With one graceful swipe, he unclasps his white cloak from his shoulders and whirls it at me. I don’t understand why he’s offering me the clothes off his back. He could have ordered anyone to give up their cloak or jacket.
My bloodied palms snatch it out of the air, staining the royal moon-white wool. He continues to stride toward the grand entryway, past the dead guards. He adjusts his red ascot around his neck over his crisp white dress shirt. He is fit and strong, but his hands appear soft.
The muscles on his svelte body are not from battle. I’ve trained nobility. They want to learn swordplay, to show off, but what they want more is for someone else to do the work for them.
I could take on the prince. Overpower him. My gaze darts to the entryway, still littered with bodies. If I made a run for it, what then?
There’s nothing I can do here, alone in a crowd. I’ll need to wait to make a move. Amongst the vultures, poor Gregory had said. Cowardly creatures, these nobles.
When I stand, the rest of my tattered dress slips off, gathering around my feet. But I don’t move to cover myself.
Instead, I wait with the prince’s cloak hanging from one hand, if only to shock the vultures. Gasps echo around the room; the murmur rippling through the pack pleases me.
I may not be in my right mind.
Ivy would be proud.
The thought almost makes me laugh out loud, as a maniac would.
These people need to wake the hell up. Why didn’t anyone know what to do with a rabid Syf? How did he get through so many guards? Everyone froze, as if they’d never encountered one before. Even our weakest villagers will fight or run without hesitation.
With this last thought, I finally fling the cloak around my shoulders.
Despite my disbelief, I jab my finger at the prince irreverently, feeling like I’ve adopted Riev’s persona again. “No one else came to your rescue. They would have let this Syf reach you, if only to save themselves. I don’t hear anyone thanking me.”
Where the hell is Riev, by the way? He’d be the first to come running at the sound of screaming and chaos. The fact that he didn’t means he’s out of earshot.
The prince spins on his heels and waves a hand at the bloody carnage around me, ignoring my indignance. “Someone clean that up,” he snaps. “Now.”
Servants rush from their hiding spots and swarm around me. One poor woman scoops up the Syf head with a bucket. She looks as if she’s holding her breath.
I’m still standing barefoot in the spreading warm Syf blood when Prince Toryl catches my seething glare. The green in his eyes reminds me of the leafy flecks in Throg’s. I shiver all of a sudden, morbidly wondering if I’ll ever see those I care about again—my father, Throg, Ivy, Riev. My stomach curdles at the possibility of being imprisoned here forever for being a spy.
I step out of the tatters of my dress and walk toward him. “Why didn’t anyone stop the Syf—”
The sheer contempt on Toryl’s face is unmatched. “You will address me as High Lord.” He turns to the crowd. “The rest of you—when I return from dealing with the spy, I expect you all to be having the time of your life.”
“I’m a fucking marquis, and I’m enjoying it.” - Riev
I’m no dummy and immediately figured out who has access to the king. I charmed my way to the attention of his niece, Sylvi, and her twin brother, Kye. Those closest to the king try their hardest to show they’re better than everyone else, and these two, with their tiaras, were easy targets.
That’s right. I can be delightful when I want to be. As I always say, everyone likes the mysterious stranger who says clever, vulgar things. But tonight, this mysterious stranger comes with a fancy-ass title, and I plan on using it to my advantage.
I’m a fucking marquis, and I’m enjoying it.
“The Marquis of the Outer Riverlands? I’ve never been that far,” Sylvi, the sister says.
“We produce the sweetest white wine,” I say, enjoying my adopted persona. “You’d love it.”
“I need more wine if I’m going to get through thisball,” she says.
Sylvi wants to play a round of a drinking game, announcing that these functions are tedious. The next time a server passes, she grabs an entire frosted bottle of bourbon off his tray.
I spin it into a question-and-answer game. Answer a personal question, or drink if you can’t or don’t want to answer it.
“Are you the king’s favorite kin?” I ask.
“Of course. Kye and I are twenty-three, a year older than the prince. Cousin Toryl is like our baby brother. We grew up together,” Sylvi says.
