Page 91 of Bride of Ash & Dust

Fyrris tilts his head slightly as he stares at me. “I remember what I said.”

I swallow hard. Here it is, the fulcrum upon which the rest of my life, however short that might be, swings.

“Then, I’m sorry,” I say. My voice trembles. “This isn’t going to work.”

“What do you mean?”

I clear my throat again. “I mean, I don’t have royal blood.”

Fyrris frowns. His back stiffens. He glances toward the dark tunnel where Syvan just vanished, then back at me.

“Are you not Zarek, the hostage prince of Dungal?” Fyrris asks in a low, almost scandalized tone.

I open my mouth, but the words freeze.

My mother cried as they led us away. I can still hear her, sobbing, as the soldiers walked on either side of me, with Petrys and Gerrart before them.

“Don’t look back, kid,” one of them growled under his breath. “Easier that way.”

But I didn’t want to take the easy way.

And so, when we reached the palace walls, I turned around, back to the world I was leaving behind. I saw my mother on her knees in the dirt, the door to our cottage open behind her, my father standing with his hands on her shoulders and tears streaking his face.

They looked so small, the man and woman who’d given me life. Small and old. Just another peasant couple whose three sons had been taken by the crown.

“Speak,” Fyrris snaps. “Are you not Prince Zarek? Has King Malrik betrayed me, fool?”

“No.” The word comes out as a whisper, even as some part of me is shocked that I’m still standing up for the bastard. “Malrik doesn’t know.”

Fyrris makes a purring sound in the back of his throat.

“Interesting,” he says. “Explain.”

My breath catches, and the first sound I make is more of a squeak. Fyrris taps the stone with his foot.

“I am not the prince of Dungal,” I say for the first time in my life. “I’m the same age as the prince, and roughly the same height. We had the same color hair, the same eyes.”

I swallow against the flood of memories, then press on.

“When the soldiers from Vsenrog came to the castle of Dungal,” I admit, “the king didn’t know what they wanted or what they were going to do. So he had me sit in the prince’s seat during the banquet to welcome them.”

It wasn’t the first time I’d been asked to stand in for the prince when the situation seemed dangerous. I had no reason to believe it would be the last either.

Fyrris snorts, then narrows his eyes at me.

“So who in the hells are you?” Fyrris asks.

“I— I’m nobody.” My voice cracks on the truth. “My father was the king’s gardener. My mother worked in the kitchens. My brothers were training to be guards.”

Fyrris nods, then crosses his arms over his chest. “And when the king of Vsenrog wanted the prince of Dungal as a hostage⁠—”

His voice fades. I nod.

“The king had to send me to Vsenrog,” I continue. “Or he would have had to confess that he’d lied to the royal delegation.”

Fyrris looks down at me. The light from the torches casts strange shadows across his face.

“They call you the snake, don’t they?” he says. “Apparently, you’re a killer. And a very practiced liar. How do I know you’re not lying right now?”