The Assassin Princess (Lamb & Castle Book 2) (11 page)

“Where have you been?” Rose demanded of the two guards. “Where's Archalthus?”

“His Highness is currently occupied with extremely important matters, my lady. We apologise most profoundly on his behalf.”

“Oh.” Rose pouted at the news, then turned to Bessie with a gleeful grin. “Look at her,” she said to the guards, “she's got feathers,” and she darted forward to tug at one of the feathers, making Bessie yelp. “They're really attached to you, are they? I do beg your pardon,” said Rose sarcastically, pulling at the long feathers again. “It's a good thing I was never in any
real
danger, isn't it?” she scolded the guards as they tied Bessie's hands behind her back. “Imagine what might have happened if the intruder had been a
real
threat, and not just a little girl. But I kept her talking while you dawdled your way over here.” She smiled at Bessie, her lovely turquoise eyes spiteful and mean. “Did you really think my prince would just leave me here without some means of calling for help? I told you he intends to marry me. I always knew I was born to be a great lady, and someday soon I shall be queen.”

Bessie stared at her. She could have kicked herself for becoming distracted so easily. “But I thought…”

“You thought he'd want someone like
you
as his queen?” Rose sneered. “Some little brown sparrow girl from the Walls?”

“I'm not a sparrow!”

Rose laughed. “Just because they managed to teach you some manners at the Academy, you think that you can hope to outmatch someone with true breeding?” She tossed her head, her glossy black mane flying. “Take this girl away,” she ordered. “I tire of her company.”

The two guards marched Bessie to an enormous oak door, where a third guard waited: the one with the old-fashioned Ilgrevnian uniform and the nasty teeth. “So you didn't make much of an impression on the Lady Hartwood,” he said to Bessie. “I dread to think what His Highness will make of you, the mood he's been in lately. Supper, most likely.” And he threw open the door, dragging Bessie into a grand hall with a high vaulted ceiling, rich red and gold tapestries covering the walls, and a long red carpet leading up to a mahogany throne on a dais in the very centre of the room, underneath a grand glittering chandelier. A young woman in a simple brown cloak stood waiting there at the foot of the steps, head bowed in defeat, but Bessie recognised those long blonde braids at once. Two griffins – one black, one white – took up a position on either side of the two captured Queens. Bessie saw the blood matting the white fur and feathers, and realised to her shame that the White Queen must have put up a much better fight before
her
capture. Bessie fumed, furious with herself for falling for what had to be the oldest trick in the book. Her wings were crumpled and torn, forced uncomfortably behind her back, and the flight spell would be of no further use, even if she could escape her bindings. She noticed that the White Queen held her own hands clasped behind her back, either in a show of good manners, or to hide her gloved hands. But no: at a second glance, the White Queen had no choice in the matter; like Bessie, her hands were bound. It appeared Bessie and the White Queen were on equal footing now, although not in any way she might have hoped for.

The guardsman glanced around the hall, and Bessie would almost have thought he looked nervous… “The White Queen and the Black Queen are here to see you, Master,” he called.

At this, the dragon appeared from the shadows, gleaming fiery red-gold, climbing up over the back of the mahogany throne, his fierce claws gripping the dark wood. Smooth and serpentine, his polished scales dazzled in the light of the chandelier. “Thank you, Commander Breaker.” The dragon turned to the two candidate Queens, and smiled like a crocodile. “Good evening, Miss Lamb, Miss Castle,” he said. “I fear we have had no formal introduction as of yet: I am Prince Archalthus, future King of the Dragon Lands.”

The White Queen trembled and refused to look at him or speak.

Bessie barely managed to pull herself together. “It's a great pleasure to finally meet you, Your Highness,” she said, curtseying. It pays to be polite to dragons. She was careful to keep her ruined wings tucked tightly out of sight, willing herself as doe-eyed and prettily meek as she could manage.

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine, Miss Castle,” Archalthus replied, depositing a portion of his serpentine length uncomfortably in the throne.

As they traded the appropriate pleasantries, Bessie was still trying to untangle which threads of the prisoner's story she could believe: Rose had obviously had plenty of time to consider her situation, rehearsing and refining her narrative. Bessie suspected most of it
had
been true at some stage. If only Bessie had reached Ilgrevnia sooner, Rose might have been more well-disposed to offers of help…. She wondered which bloodline the girl had sprung from: the White or the Black. They might be distant cousins. Well, no point in dwelling on might-have-beens and irrelevancies.

“You are of excellent bloodstock, Miss Castle,” said Archalthus. Bessie had never dreamed she’d come so close to a living dragon: to feel the heat of its breath, and see in its eyes the fibres of the iris shimmering like wrinkles of gold leaf; the wet black of the depths of the pupil. “Your family tree is rooted in nobility, and whatever its present circumstances, it is sure to rise back to greatness. And to both of you, I extend my apologies for any rough treatment you may have suffered at the hands of my guards. If you had come to Ilgrevnia in more conventional style I would have welcomed you at once in –” The dragon stopped, arched his neck as if he'd swallowed a fishbone. Then, with a wet cough and a roll of smoke, the dragon became a man lounging in the mahogany throne. In human form, Prince Archalthus had an exceptionally handsome face, made almost unbearably captivating by those golden eyes, and his thick glossy hair shone an unnaturally fine shade of fiery auburn under the light of the chandelier. The richness of his clothes and the jewellery he wore hinted at his dynasty's fabulous wealth. He looked most annoyed.

He took a deep breath, squeezed his eyes shut, and failed to turn back into a dragon. His expression became alarming – Bessie thought he might strain something with the way he was going. The two girls had to wait in awkward silence until the prince temporarily gave up trying to be a dragon, and instead resumed his speech, self-conscious and stilted now. “Where was I? Ah yes – I would have welcomed you at once in a manner befitting two young ladies participating in the Queens' Contest.” He stood up and paced around, withdrawing into the shadows, where he continued to speak. It seemed to be more of the same as before his unplanned transformation, but he mumbled and scarcely looked at the two queens, so that it was hard to hear what he said. The change in his demeanour was enough to make Bessie wonder why he
so
disliked being a man. Did he feel small and powerless without terrible claws and fangs, without the scales that gleamed like plate armour? Maybe he even felt ugly in the wrong shape… Bessie could imagine how hideous she'd feel if she found herself trapped in the form of an enormous lizard. Perhaps that was why he surrounded himself with abominations against nature: the chimeric griffins; the disgusting plague-ridden razorbirds; the man stitched together from spare parts and dressed up in a guardsman's uniform. Maybe he thought they made him look better by comparison. Not that he needed them for that – Bessie could imagine how a girl might be drawn in by the glowing allure of the cursed prince's eyes.

“But, let me not keep you standing here unnecessarily long,” said Archalthus, “We
all
know what we
all
desire – the Crown which waited so long in the jade temple. The Crown which will be the making of the Queen of the Dragon Lands.” He turned his golden gaze first on Miss Lamb, then Bessie. “The Crown which I suspect one of you now possesses.”

Bessie fixed her attention on the steps before the throne, froze her face into an expression of pleasant vacancy, and refused even to glance at Miss Lamb. The White Queen (who was either unable to speak or refused to do so) had the crown, or at least one of her cohort did. Surely Archalthus knew that?

The prince came close, and even with a man's face and straight white teeth, his smile still had the treacherous spirit of a crocodile in it. “Whichever one of you can tell me the whereabouts of that Crown,” he said softly, “and bring it to me, I swear I will make you my Queen.”

Bessie steeled her nerves to meet those golden eyes, striving to read the truth in their glowing depths. Would he unceremoniously drop the lovely Miss Hartwood just in order to get his hands on the crown? Of all that Rose had said, Bessie believed readily enough that the prince had his heart set on the merchant's daughter. However, even with Rose's consent, the prince and his intended queen still needed the crown before they could rule the Dragon Lands… In the prince’s golden eyes, Bessie could see the intensity of some kind of madness, and she fought her instincts not to recoil from it.

Risking a glance at Miss Lamb, Bessie noticed the White Queen had got rid of that cat's eye spell she'd been wearing before, that her fair cheeks had flushed bright pink at the closeness of this glamorous unearthly man, and that she shivered less now that he was not a dragon. Silently, Bessie willed the White Queen to remember that she was a captive and realise the dragon prince's offer must surely be a trap. Miss Hartwood, even bored and lonely through months of captivity, was no use as an ally, but Miss Lamb… well, they shared an enemy in the form of Archalthus. It would be scandalous for Black Queen and White Queen to work together, but together they might get out of this bad situation. Apart, they might both perish. But how to communicate the idea to this ancient rival of her bloodline?

“Come now, Miss Lamb; Miss Castle.
One
of you must know where the Crown is hidden.”

“I don't, Your Highness,” said Bessie. “I swear it.”

“Me neither,” squeaked the White Queen, who apparently had a brain in her head after all.

Archalthus frowned and was about to speak when, with a sharp inhalation, he took a step back. He turned his head to stare into the distance, into shadow. “I… You don't know?” he said, dragging his attention back to the two girls with a great effort of will. Lines of discomfort and annoyance marred the perfect marble smoothness of the skin around his mouth.

“I regret to disappoint you, Your Highness, but I have yet to lay eyes on the crown,” said Bessie, perfectly honestly.

“The White Queen had the crown, last I saw,” said Commander Breaker.

“No I didn't,” said the White Queen, who'd had none of the Antwin Academy training in dissembling, but was apparently game enough to give it a try, now that she'd finally found her voice.

“Had the box, though, didn't you?”

The White Queen cringed away from him. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Archalthus, still scowling into one dark and cobwebbed corner, gripped the Commander by the elbow and pulled him away. “I am being summoned, Commander,” Bessie heard him say, quietly. “Can I trust you to continue this…
conversation
without me?”

“I'll have the truth out of them in no time at all, Master.”

Archalthus glanced from the Commander, to the girls, then into the distance again. Bessie could imagine Rose stomping her precious little feet as she shouted for Archalthus over and over. The prince shook his head like a dog trying to rid its ears of fleas. “No. These young ladies may be prisoners, but they are still potential queens, and I expect you to treat them as such. Find them suitable chambers for the remains of the night.”

“But Master…” With a glance at the girls, the Commander lowered his voice and muttered something about '
the quickest way to find out the truth',
and while Bessie couldn't quite catch the details of what he said, what she heard was enough to frighten her.

Fortunately, the suggestion only served to irritate the prince further. “
You will be quiet!
” he roared. “And if I catch you engaging in such heavy-handed methods, against my instructions, you know what the consequences will be! Now, I am being summoned away, Commander,” he repeated, pointedly, then turned to the girls. “My sincere apologies for this untimely interruption, Miss Lamb; Miss Castle. We will speak again,” and with a bow, he disappeared in a flash of fire and smoke.

~

The chamber where the Commander took the two unwilling guests was almost certainly not what Prince Archalthus had in mind for them. Deep under Ilgrevnia's skin, down damp and windowless corridors, past heavy iron gates, down and down endless stairways, these quarters were unmistakable for what they were: dungeons; rough burrows with iron bars, dug out of the rock of Ilgrevnia. Amelia had broken down begging and pleading not to be left alone with the Black Queen, but to no avail as the Commander locked the two girls in one small cell. He left behind a lantern, if only so that the inmates might better see their dismal surroundings; the spiders and mice they would be sharing their lodgings with. But their cell had no thumbscrews, no rack, and no iron maiden, at least, and as soon as the Commander had disappeared from view, Amelia whispered her knot-loosing spell, shaking off the ropes from her wrists.

Miss Castle didn't even seem to notice. “Did you see that? He didn't even make us turn out our pockets!” she fumed, making more of a struggle with her own bindings. “As if I was no more than some silly helpless little girl! Well, I have a knife in my boot and maybe next time I see him I'll show him how 'helpless' I am. He'll regret underestimating me!” Then she busied herself with crouching down awkwardly so she could get at her hidden knife and make a start on cutting her bindings. It must have been a good sharp knife, for she got through the rope quickly enough.

Amelia shrank quietly into the corner. She'd been captured, lost in the maze of Ilgrevnia's back streets, when she'd completely run out of magic to see in the dark, or fling fireballs, or even just to melt out of sight. Too late, she'd realised she ought to be more discriminating in her use of magic, saving it up for when she couldn't do without it, and she disagreed with Miss Castle, thinking it might be rather handy to be underestimated. She was only too glad the horrid guardsman hadn't searched them – not only did she have the crown hidden on her person, but also her precious spell book in a pocket of her skirt. In the midst of their audience with the dragon, she'd remembered an old story about how dragons could smell gold and jewels, and almost fainted, dreading the moment when the cursed prince might catch the scent of the hidden treasure and know that she'd lied to him. “Did you
want
him to take your knife?”

“Of course not!” snapped Miss Castle. She sighed and paced back and forth, then turned and fixed Amelia with a look that made her feel like a butterfly pinned to a board. “Why did you come here?”

“To… to find the White King, of course.”

Miss Castle laughed bitterly. “Well, you've seen him now. Not quite what you were hoping for, I imagine.”

“That's not the White King. That's…” Amelia dropped her voice to a whisper, “…
Prince Archalthus.
”