Page 52 of Crown of the Courtesan

Guards jump to attention as my captor strides into view, mounting his horse in one fell swoop, the beast giving a little prance. To complement the grandeur of my gown, he’s outfitted himself in a dark dress coat of regal quality, which molds to his muscled form. The sword he threatened to run through me hangs at his waist, that iridescent jewel glinting at the end of the pommel. I’m surprised he doesn’t wear my stolen circlet, which makes me realize I’ve yet to see him wear any crown.

Looking down at my undignified feet, I can’t help but wish for shoes. Perhaps they keep me this way to make escape more difficult.

I’m guided by the elbow and assisted onto the mare’s sidesaddle.

“Her name is Pearl, m’lady,” the attendant says, not unkindly. “And the king rides Salt.”

“Thank you,” I murmur. I hate to ride sidesaddle, but it does make it easier to rearrange my skirts so they drape down to hide my stockings.

The Witch-King trots over, and the attendant hands him the reins of Pearl. It’s clear he wants everyone to see that I hold no control.

That’s fine.

I’m just relieved to have finally left that tower.

As the castle courtyard continues to bustle with servants busy with chores and loitering courtiers, I realize we’re raised on a hill, and my view from here shows an angry sea crashing against a pebbled shoreline. My thoughts wander to Lir, but there isn’t much time to think about him as the Witch-King leads my horse through the portcullis.

All of a sudden, black tendrils swirl around me, creating ropes of smoke and shadow, binding me in place.

My head snaps toward the Witch-King, but he doesn’t even glance back.

What a bastard.

Soldiers ride a few paces behind us, carrying the rippling black banners of the ivory tree. Silently, we travel down a path lined with pine trees into a sprawling village.

If I thought the City of Alexandria was falling into disrepair, then I didn’t know what true poverty looked like. The buildings here are dilapidated. Doors are gone, with nothing to protect the homes from the outside except ripped fabric. Whole swaths of neighborhoods are missing; charred remains left behind.

Vendors have wares for sale on the street, but their produce stalls are full of wilted cabbage and other scant vegetables. A too-thin mother holds a squealing baby as she yells at her husband to finish a task. Children in rags run alongside us until the Witch-King throws out a handful of coppers. The elderly stand on corners begging, prompting the guards to pull loaves of bread from satchels to pass out as we wind through the village center. The air smells of fish rot, but I avoid covering my nose for fear of causing offense.

I close my eyes momentarily—this is nothing like Cliodna described. The castle. The village.

None of it.

A mass of commonfolk grows thick in the streets, many hoping for more food or coins. Some of them have silver irises, just like the king. Some beg for news about the infirmary camps. Harsh words fly. The people are dirty and angry.

A group of men, wearing scowls and stinking of drink, saunters out of a dark alleyway and circles Pearl. With his back to me, the Witch-King begins to soothe the crowd, easing their growing concerns. Seizing his opportunity, one man flips out a rusted blade and cuts the rein, freeing my horse from the Witch-King’s control. My breathing stops as shock invades all of my senses. Even if I want to do something, I’m unable because of the shadowy ropes that still bind me in place.

At the sharp glitter of metal, Pearl rears back and whinnies.

I scream.

The Witch-King whips around and curses, while the guards readies their swords, waiting for a directive.

The Witch-King yells at the drunk men, “Disperse at once, lest you make your final mistake.” But they are devoid of reason. Pure murderous rage shines in their drooping eyes. They’ve probably dreamed of this moment, and here I am, offered as revenge on a silver platter.

A behemoth of a man in ripped overalls snarls, snatching me down off Pearl. My heart nearly beats out of my chest. I want to scream again, but my body freezes in place. He expels hot breath into my ear and grunts, “No ‘Xandrian slut queen is going to ride through my streets—ugghh!”

My bindings disappear, and the man’s pupils dilate until blackness consumes his eyeballs, shriveling them to nothing. A force of slithering shadows penetrates the remaining holes—nostrils, ears, and mouth—like serpents trying to find their way out of a burrow. His skin drains of color, and his veins turn rotten and necrotic as he crumples to the ground without life.

The other men plotting violence with him scatter over fences and into alleyways behind tenement buildings. The guards go after them, but the Witch-King waves a hand, and they fall back to their stances. Staring at the retreating men, he motions for a captain to come forward. “Find out if he had a family. The wife and children shouldn’t be punished for the death of the father. Give them this.” The captain catches the leather pouch of coins and nods before taking off toward the slums.

I stare at the dead body on the ground. Before I can process what I’ve just witnessed, large hands encircle my waist. I turn my attention from the gruesome scene to peer into my captor’s strained face as he lifts me onto the saddle in front of him. He wraps his arms around me, gathers the reins once more, and shelters my frame by pulling my back flush against his torso.

My pulse doesn’t slow; I don’t feel any safer.

The crowd of villagers grumbles and points at the corpse lying in the street and then at us. Their king addresses them, “Too long we’ve suffered deprivation—all because of the Metalla reign. This captured queen proves the turning tide in what feels like a losing war. Now, we have Alexandria right where we want them, begging for mercy. We will finish what they started!” He grabs my arms for emphasis, sending a jolt through my spine. “But be warned: this woman is a spoil of war. My captive. My prisoner.” He growls, “Mine.” He spins his stallion around before adding, “Touch her and die.”

No one has ever defended me like this, especially not with such swift violence. There were times when Balor offered the illusion of protection, but this feels different. My resolve hardens—to use this to my advantage, to use him as he’s trying to use me.