Page 7 of If The Crown Fits
The guardsman remained silent, staring straight ahead of him, his hands keeping a tight grip on my chained wrists. It was the one from the rooftop again, the one with the dark brown eyes. I was starting to get annoyed with his face. But I had a right to know if I was going to die, didn’t I? We followed a guard in front who carried a candle to light our way in the dark.
I kept quiet, realising I was being taken further away from the prison and deeper into the palace. They didn’t take people who were about to be executed for a tour of the palace, did they? So it must have been something else. It was pitch-black outside the windows, so I presumed it to be the early hours of the morning.
They marched me through long halls and corridors until I had almost completely lost track of how to get back. Eventually we stopped in front of two large wooden doors. I had a few ideas of what might be behind them. None of them were pleasing. The guard in front knocked twice and another guardsman inside opened the door. With little effort, I was pulled into the candlelit room.
The royal chambers.
The prince’s royal chambers, to be more specific.
Evident by the fact that there were the kinds of furnishings you would see in a sleeping chamber. The prince himself was lounging on a chair with his feet on the table, drinking a cup ofwhat must have been wine. And though he had shed his tunic and only his white linen shirt was now visible, that darned crown still sat atop his head.
I wondered for a moment if perhaps he was drunk and then I wondered if I could use that to my advantage.
“You may leave.” He gestured to all of the guards.
“But, sire—” the one holding me protested.
“I thank you for wanting to protect me, Rhen, but you are dismissed.”
The prince repeated himself, half annoyed, and reluctantly the few guards left. Rhen unchained me and then closed the door behind him.
I stood frozen, unsure of what to do next, waiting for him to say something, to perhaps explain why I was there. He stared at my face and I knew my identity had already been revealed to at least half a dozen people. A character I had spent years creating... gone in a moment. But there would be no use in sulking about it. I tried to comfort myself with the thought that, should anyone start spreading stories about it, no one was likely to believe them anyway.
“Would you like something to drink?”
I glanced at the wine and shook my head. “No, thank you.”
“How was prison?” He asked casually, as if asking me about the weather.
I crossed my arms. “Not quite the luxury service I was expecting, but certainly a royal-quality stay.”
He chuckled, putting his feet down, and proceeded to get up from his comfortable seat.
I eyed him as he walked around the table, taking off his crown. Based on his mannerisms, I could definitely confirm that he was not drunk and I might even admit that I was slightly disappointed at this fact. To escape from a drunken prince would be much easier than from a sober one. My eyes scannedfor the windows, my mind in the habit of looking for the quickest way out. Lance caught me doing this, but he didn’t say anything about it.
“So, you do talk? Tell me,” he started. The knot in my stomach tightened. My life was still in his hands. “Why did you try and steal that necklace?”
I wanted to grin, just a little. He might have had the upper hand in power, but I was a trained thief. Of course, I had a few tricks up my sleeve. I had to remind myself that even though I’d made a mistake, even though I’d got caught, I was still the best bandit in the business and that I would not be belittled by a spoiled prince any longer than I had to be. He could always have me hanged, but not if I escaped first.
“Tell me something first.” I tested the waters. Lance was unpredictable but I might still be able to talk my way out of this. It was worth a try. I had nothing to lose... Except maybe my head.
He tilted his chin up, his expression intrigued. “You want to askmequestions?”
“Why am I here?” I quickly replied, trying not to sound nervous or afraid.
Lance squinted a little. “I don’t think you’re in a position to be interrogating me.” His tone suggested a strange form of familiarity, as if we were old acquaintances. Before I could think of how to respond, he asked, “What is your name?” Not the question I was expecting, but one innocent enough that I might just be able to keep him distracted while I figured out my plan to get out of there.
“I have many names,” I replied somewhat truthfully. “Thief, rogue—”
“Masked Bandit.” He finished my sentence.
“You said I was an imposter.”
“But we both know you’re not.”
I started walking around the large oak table he’d clearly dined at earlier, each step calculated like a move on a chessboard. I slid into one of the chairs. What he failed to notice was the knife that was on the table, which I slid into my sleeve.
“I’m talking about your real name.”
