When it’s time to serve the king, I carry my plate of biscuits to the throne room, flanked on either side by two armed guards. I try to appear impassive, even as I approach the king’s throne, where he’s seated before a table set for a feast for one. Fellow servants set down plates and pitchers full of food and drink, moving silently in the vast room.
There is no sign of Dietan. I’m surprised my heart sinks—irritated, even. I want to hate him for what he’s done to me, the fate he’s cursed me with, but I find it difficult. Even when he was wielding the Whisting on the bridge to the Waste, conjuring a terrible and terrifying storm as he levitated off the ground, I wasn’t afraid of Dietan.
I was afraidforhim.
And I’m afraid for him now, despicable liar or not. Surely some part of the man I treasured was real and not a lie.
A guard nudges me forward, and I bite my lip to stop it from trembling. I force my hands to stop shaking as I step up to the table, moving to set the plate of biscuits down on the far side of the buffet, but Namreth stops me. “Here.” He gestures to an empty place near his hand.
I shudder. I don’t want to get that close to him, but I can feel the guards’ eyes on my back, so I move stiffly toward the king. I set the plate down and turn it, presenting him with the most appetizing view of the biscuits, which are still steaming from the oven. Golden biscuits in a golden castle.
He watches with that creepy smile of his. He’s almost handsome, but there’s something unnatural about him. Beyond his strange youth and his magic, he makes my skin crawl. I lower my eyes and step away, but Namreth stops me by grabbing my wrist, quick as a snake. His tight grip makes me wince.
“Don’t you want me to tell you how they taste?” he asks. “Don’t you want to know what’s happened to that precious prince of yours?”
What I want to do is tell him to choke on the damn biscuits, but fear holds my tongue.
He doesn’t let go of my wrist, even when he reaches out and selects a biscuit from the plate. He takes a large bite, groaning in apparent bliss as he tears it in half with his teeth. His eyes flutter closed, and he chews loudly, smacking his lips and savoring every morsel.
When he’s done, he licks the crumbs off his fingers, his pink tongue flicking out like a lizard’s. I feel trapped in his gaze as he runs his lips up and down his hand, softly moaning as he does.
Sick bastard.
He smiles when I can’t mask my disgust. “Delicious,” he says, eyes boring into mine. “My nephew was right about you. Too bad he’ll never enjoy these again.”
I might have fallen to my knees, if not for Namreth’s hold on me.
Dietan is dead.
The prince is dead.
My prince is dead.
I want to scream or cry or shake the king’s hand off my wrist, but I’m saved by the sound of a plate clattering to the floor.
An elderly servant, a man whose limbs tremble not just with fear but with sickness, kneels to pick up the silver platter he’s dropped along with the grapes now scattered all over the floor. His bald head glistens with sweat, and he apologizes profusely, trying and failing to scoop up all of the grapes that roll out of his shaking hands and back onto the marble. The anticipation in the room buzzes like a hive, all the servants on edge.
Namreth sighs with annoyance and finally lets me go. I stumble back as he raises two fingers and points them toward the man.
Without so much as a sound, the man clutches at his throat, eyes bulging.
Namreth picks up another biscuit and eats it languidly while his fingers are still aimed at the serving man now thrashing on the floor, slowly succumbing to what must be the Unseen Death. I imagine an enemy of Dietan’s meeting the same fate at his hand, and for the first time, I wonder if the prince would ever have been capable of such brutality. Maybe all kings and princes are.
I watch helplessly as the poor man chokes to death in front of us all. His back arches, he kicks his heels against the marble tile, he tries to crawl away—but nothing can prevent the air from leaving his lungs. Saliva drips out of the corners of his mouth as his lips move soundlessly, desperately. His face changes from pale white to red, to purple, to blue in a matter of seconds, like a horrendous sunset.
No servants come to his aid. No one tries to help him. No one can—unless we want to meet the same fate.
Eventually, the man falls limp, his face blue and frozen in a silent scream.
Namreth lowers his hand and reaches for his golden goblet. He takes a satisfied swig and continues to eat his breakfast. Guards enter the room and grab the man’s body, dragging it across the marble floor and out of sight.
Like the rest of the servants, I just stand there, mute, horrified, and paralyzed.
Namreth can kill with a flick of his fingers.
His control of the Whisting is total.
My breath comes in quick, shallow pants as I stare at the spot where the man died. Dietan is truly dead, then. Dead like the baker before me. Dead like the old man they just dragged from the room. Dietan is dead and likely met the same gruesome end at his own relative’s hand. I feel numb. My stomach is a pit of ice.
