Page 92 of Bride of Ash & Dust

“You don’t.”

Our eyes meet. And Fyrris laughs.

It’s so sharp and sudden that it makes me flinch, then wince as my shoulders hit the back of the chair.

“Who else knows this?” Fyrris demands, his sudden burst of good humor evaporating even as his laugh echoes off the cold stone. “The king of Dungal, yes? The real prince? And who else?”

“No one who still lives,” I reply, the lie falling as smooth as silk from my lips. My brother knows who I am, but I’ll die a hundred miserable deaths before this bastard drags that knowledge out of me.

“Vsenrog invaded Dungal two years after I was taken,” I continue. “The castle burned. The royal family was killed.”

And so were my parents, although I don’t bother to add that detail. None of the reports included their names. No one mourns the loss of the royal gardener.

Fyrris’s lips pull into a cold, thin smile. “All these years,” he begins, “you’ve kept this a secret?”

I nod. My brothers, Petrys and Gerrart, were introduced as guards in training and friends of the prince. That was all true; my two older brothers were my closest friends. The only lie was the heavy cloak on my back and the cold, thin circle of metal on my head. I remember looking around the throne room, wondering what they’d done with the real Zarek. Where his mother and father had hidden him to keep him safe.

Fyrris rocks back on his heels, then brings his hand to his chin and looks down at me. I can almost hear the scales in his head clicking as they slide into place, and I wonder what invisible thing I’m being measured against.

“Impressive,” Fyrris finally says. “Very impressive. You managed to convince the entire royal court of Vsenrog that you are a prince. You’ve lived a lie for this long.”

My chest pulls tight. He’s right.

Everything in my life is a lie. Even my name. A memory surfaces, candles and incense in the temple. Princess Lilias, in her red dress, promising herself in marriage to a man who doesn’t exist.

Which means my marriage is as much of a lie as Prince Zarek, captive son of the murdered king of Dungal, current snake of Vsenrog. Our vows are no more real than the shadows scraping across the stone wall behind Fyrris’s white robes.

I smile at Fyrris like he’s my best friend.

“Well,” I admit, “people mostly see what they want to see.”

Fyrris leans a little closer. His grin widens.

“Then I’ll tell you another little secret,” he says. “I don’t give a shit about your blood.”

I flinch, as surprised by his profanity as I am by his confession. He looked too elegant to let the word shit sully his lips.

“I’ve dealt with kings before,” he continues. “The bastards will praise you until you’ve finished your work, then sink their royal knife into your ribs as payment. I know all about King Malrik of Vsenrog. And I knew I had to make him pay first.” He leans back, his arms behind him. “I had to make the king of Vsenrog invested, you understand? He had to have something to lose.”

I frown. “Royal blood?”

“Of course,” Fyrris replies. “He thought he’d have to give up one of his sons, or one of his grandsons.”

I shiver at the mention of Acelina’s children. Gods, I hope they’re well hidden.

“But I asked for you,” Fyrris finishes.

I glance up, startled. Some part of me screams this can’t be true. My mouth opens to ask why in the gods’ names he would ask for me.

And then it stays open. Because Fyrris dips his hand into the folds of his white robe and pulls out a long, silver chain. My skin crawls as the chain spins below his fist.

“You feel it,” Fyrris whispers. “Don’t you? You felt it the first time I saw you, standing like a puffed peacock before the tailor.”

I grit my teeth. He’s not expecting an answer, so I don’t give one.

“You know what this is?” Fyrris asks.

The silver chain in his hand twists like a living creature. My gut shifts, and for a heartbeat, I feel like I’m going to be sick.