The Boon of Alon

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

The crown prince of Pangessa doesn't speak again until the servant boy tries to offer him a cup of tea.

"Not now," he says tightly, waving a careless hand. Or maybe it's on purpose that one of his rings catches the servant's tray, sending it flying and dousing the poor boy in scalding tea. The boy yelps and stumbles back, clutching his face; the prince doesn't even look to see what's happened.

"Come here," I say quickly, though I reach the boy before he can take more than a single stumbling step. I pull his hands down to look at his bright red face, his eyes squeezed shut, then call on my magic and pass a shaking hand over the burn. Healing isn't my strongest suit, but I can handle a small thing like this—I just know the prince won't like it.

The boy is still drenched in tea, but he opens his eyes and blinks at me, then whispers a thank you and scurries off. I go back around the table to resume my spot before the prince, and only then do I look at him again.

He is, of course, watching me. "Why bother?" he asks, and I'm sure his voice is colder now.

"I'm obliged to aid the suffering," I say carefully. It's not exactly what the oath says, but I feel it's implied—strictly speaking, I promised to help the oppressed, but I don't think I want to tell the prince to his face that he's the oppressor.

"Hm." He doesn't sound impressed. "Tell me more of this assassination."

Here, at least, I know what to say. "I'm afraid that's all I know, but my companion knows more about it."

He frowns. "You've come with news, but you have no details?"

This would be so much easier if he'd just been willing to talk to Chama, too. "My companion has the details. I just arrived in Pangessa. I only know what she told me."

He leans forward, then, one elbow on his knee, eyes narrowed. "Just arrived? You are Pangessan, aren't you? You won the Tournament this year."

Shit. I thought I was beneath his notice, too. "Yes, but I've been with the riders since then." I don't like this line of questioning—I'd rather not have to tell him I'm brand new at this.

"Yet the rebels are trying to kill you," he says.

Shit, I wasn't expecting him to go in that direction, either. I force myself to stop and take a breath to compose myself—going too fast only means I'll end up saying the wrong thing.

"The rebels have been trying to kill me for years," I say evenly. "Well before I did anything worth noticing on the tourney circuit, let alone joined the riders."

At least I'm expecting it when he asks, "Why?"

"They were given a prophecy," I say. He raises a brow and tilts his head, a clear expectation that I continue, so I do. "They were told I would end the rebellion."

There it is again—greed, and this time it's not just a flash. Just like that, this man has decided he can use me. He sits back in his throne and his voice is much warmer when he says, "Well, now. That's good to hear."

I can't exactly tell him that doesn't mean I'm on his side. So I just nod. He looks up at the silk and canvas above us and rubs his thumb over the stubble on his chin.

"Destined to stop the rebels...excellent. And a rider. That must rankle." He chuckles. "Yes—I'll have my revenge. But, come." He stands and starts around the table. "It is late, and you and your companion must be tired. We'll discuss this further in the morning."

With that, he opens the tent flap to let me out—the sounds of the camp abruptly resume—and tells the guard that his "honored guests" need quarters for the night.