Masked Prince (Fated Royals 2)

Once my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw that we were a strange mix of high- and low-born, all thrown together by circumstance and luck. Or lack of luck. From what I overheard, it seemed that all of us had wronged the queen, or were collateral payment for a debt owed to her, or an imagined debt.

The other prisoners said the king was sick and Randal was to take his place, which meant Queen Patara would not rise to rule. She was angry and vengeful; she didn’t intend to go down without a fight.

That day, I had seen her for the first time with my own eyes, and I now understood just how awful that fight would be. Though I understood little of court politics, I did understand that the queen’s power and standing were threatened by Randal. If she wanted to secure the crown, all those who posed a risk to her had to be stopped. I was part of her final purge. To hurt Randal was to hurt the biggest threat to her power. And so there I was.

The queen’s men were brutal, and there were many injuries. I did what I could to help my fellow prisoners. Broken bones and lacerations, shattered cheeks and head wounds. I knew little of human medicine, but I was happy that much of what I had learned from animals seemed to apply to people, too. So much of healing was in the mind as much as the body, and again and again I said the words, Everything will be okay.

And each time I said them, I tried to believe it myself.

When I first arrived, the room was abuzz with life and worry. But as everybody became more and more accustomed to their surroundings, idle conversation became the way to pass the time. Strangers struck up conversations with those that surrounded them, trying to make best of a terrible and terrifying reality.

All the gossip was about Randal. I listened but added nothing. An old man next to me, who had the fish-shaped tattoo of a smuggler on his hair-covered wrist, asked, “What do you think about it all, lass?”

I looked up at him. One of his eyes was clouded over like a hazy blue sky.

“I… I’m just a milkmaid. I know nothing of princes.” A lump in my throat stopped me from saying more.

Wherever Randal was, I hoped he was safe. And if he was safe, I prayed he was coming to help me—to help all of us.

“And I’m just an old man. Doesn’t mean I don’t have an opinion or a story of my own,” he said, blinking his old eyes patiently, and rubbing his arthritic fingers. “Tell me, how did you end up here? Hard to imagine what a milkmaid did to wrong the queen.”

It was as if the close, heavy air of the dungeon had slowed my thoughts. It had taken hours for me to stop trembling, and now it felt as though talking itself required more strength than I had.

“My father,” I said. “The queen’s men killed my father.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” he said, with a grandfatherly pat on the back of my hand.

It was enough to stop the conversation, and I was thankful. I turned my attention again to those who surrounded us, but conversation went again and again to the bastard son. Everyone knew something about him. Or thought they did. Many of the prisoners expressed the very fears that I had long heard, that the prince was a monster, a horror.

But a servant woman who had been at the banquet said she had been there for the unveiling of the masked prince. He looked a lot like the carpenter who had helped during the floods, she said. Was it the same man, everybody wondered? Could it be? Could that monster that everybody feared actually be a kindly man who they all knew so well already?

It’s true, I said to myself, willing the rest of them to come to the same realization. But the old, cruel rumors were stronger than this new hope. It couldn’t be, they said.

“The bastard prince’s hands are so disfigured, he can’t even feed himself,” said a lady with dark kohl eyes and henna-red hair. A prostitute, I guessed. She was pretty, but it seemed to me she’d once been even prettier. She was haunted by it, soured by it. I could tell from the ripple of wrinkles above her upper lip.

Others in the dungeon agreed. More monstrous rumors flew around. It was clear to me how it had happened, how he’d become this prince of demons. People loved to feel the zinging quiver of fear. As I now knew better than I ever had before.

I couldn’t stand the rumors any longer. I had to speak. I had to put things right.