Protect the Prince (Crown of Shards #2)(20)

Two guards I recognized as gladiators from the Black Swan troupe were posted outside the door, and they snapped to attention as Serilda strode toward them.

“Any change?” she asked.

“No,” one of the gladiators said. “He’s been quiet so far.”

The two guards took hold of the large ring set into the metal and used their combined mutt strength to wrench open the door. The loud screech-screech-screech of it sliding across the floor made me wince, and the harsh sound echoed off the walls and rattled down the hallway.

Serilda stepped through the opening. I followed her, but Cho stayed outside with the guards.

We walked along a wide corridor with regular-size metal doors embedded in the walls. The cells in the front part of the dungeon were empty, and we stepped into another corridor. More cells lined the walls here, but they were empty as well, and we strode past them to the very back of the dungeon, which opened up into a single, large room.

Tearstone bars cordoned off the back third of the area. Three separate cells were set into the wall, but only the center one was occupied. Straw covered the floor there, softening the stone, although it had molded weeks ago, given the drops of water that continually trickled down the back wall like tears dripping off someone’s face.

The only pieces of furniture, if you could call them that, were a small metal-frame cot with dirty, threadbare blankets that didn’t quite cover the equally dirty mattress, and two wooden buckets tucked into opposite corners. One of the buckets held water, while the other was being used as a chamber pot. My nose twitched, and my stomach roiled at the sour, pungent stench.

A man was curled up on the cot, using his arm as a pillow for his head. He was turned toward the back wall, away from us, although his feet were dangling off the side of the cot, as though he didn’t want his ridiculously high-heeled boots to soil the mattress. Or perhaps he didn’t want the mattress to soil his boots. Hard to tell.

“Hello, Felton,” Serilda called out.

The prisoner slowly lifted his head and sat up so that he was facing us. He was a short, thin man who had grown even thinner during the months he’d spent here. His black hair still gleamed under the fluorestones, although it had lost its shiny luster, and an unkempt beard had grown out around his once perfectly groomed and styled mustache.

He was wearing the same clothes he’d had on the night I’d killed Vasilia, although the gold thread on his black tunic and pants was frayed and had lost its elegant sheen, just like the rest of him had. The only part of him that wasn’t a grimy mess was his black boots, which were still surprisingly clean and shiny, given the moldy filth that coated the cell.

Felton had been Queen Cordelia’s personal secretary, and he had helped Vasilia, Nox, and Maeven murder her and the rest of the Blairs.

“Serilda,” he rasped. “Finally ready to start torturing me?”

She shrugged. “That depends on how forthcoming you are. And, of course, on the wishes of my queen.”

Felton focused on me, and his black gaze sharpened. “Queen?” he snarled. “She’s no bloody queen.”

“I think that crown on her head says otherwise, but who am I to make such judgments?” Serilda replied. “You always said that I was nothing but a stupid, lowly miner’s daughter whose ambitions were higher than her birthright.”

Felton’s face twisted into a smug sneer at that long-ago insult. I didn’t know everything that had gone on between them during the years they’d both served Cordelia, but Serilda and Felton despised each other. She had taken great glee in marching him to the dungeon after Cho had captured him during the royal challenge, and Felton had been rotting in this cell ever since.

“But insults aside, we came here for information,” Serilda said. “Information I’m certain you have, Felton.”

His eyes narrowed. “And what information would that be?”

She gestured at me. “Who tried to poison the queen today.”

“Tried to?” He glared at me again. “It’s too bad they didn’t succeed, Everleigh, and put an end to your wretched farce of a reign.”

Even though he was the one behind bars, his words still hit me like a slap across the face. They echoed my own fears that I was a weak, miserable fraud, instead of a strong, true Winter queen.

Felton had always excelled at dishing out insults, especially to me. I might be good at hiding my emotions, but Felton had known me for a long time, and he realized exactly how much his words hurt me. Another smug sneer twisted his face, and a hot, embarrassed blush scalded my cheeks, despite the cool, damp air.

“Face it, Everleigh,” he said in a snide tone. “You’ll never be half the queen Vasilia was.”

“You mean that I won’t arrange to have my mother, sister, and royal cousins assassinated?” My voice was as cold as the stone walls. “If that’s the case, then I will be quite happy not to follow in Vasilia’s footsteps.”

Felton rolled his eyes at my rather pitiful attempt to mock him with his own words, but he got to his feet and walked over to the bars. “Why did you two come here? In case you can’t tell, I’m busy counting the cracks in the walls.”

“You were in league with Maeven,” Serilda said. “I want to know everything she ever said to you, especially about the Mortan royal bastards.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Ah, so that’s who tried to kill sweet little Everleigh. One of Maeven’s many relatives. Let me repeat my earlier sentiment—it’s too bad they didn’t succeed.”