Gild (The Plated Prisoner, #1)(31)

I don’t know who looks more shocked—Fulke or myself.

The monarch of Fifth Kingdom stares hard at Midas, like he’s truly seeing him for the first time, like he’s no longer being blinded by all the gleaming gold, the immeasurable wealth. “You were never going to take Fourth Kingdom,” he says, a flat understanding braced in his tone.

Midas laughs. He actually laughs at the other king. “Of course not. Everyone knows you don’t attack Fourth Kingdom. King Ravinger decimates anyone who dares.”

All of the faces on Fulke’s guards fill with bleak hate. It darkens their brows, makes their eyes flash.

Horror fills my veins as I realize the extent of what he’s done. Midas has been forming a bond with Fulke for years. Seducing him with riches and filling his coffers, and Fulke has lapped it all up greedily. Happily.

It always made me curious—what Midas was getting out of it. But now I know. Midas was never making Fulke rich. He was treating Fifth Kingdom like his own secondary vault. Fulke was simply transporting the gold for him, while Midas bided his time.

It’s brilliant. It’s brutal. And I know without a doubt that there won’t be two kings who walk back out of this letter room.

Fulke’s lips thin, a bead of sweat collecting at his left temple as he nods—in either understanding or resignation, I don’t know which. He shows no fear, only wears a cold glare as the pieces fall into place. “Your army was never going to Fourth Kingdom to attack. You lied and drew my own soldiers away to be slaughtered so that you could invade my kingdom.”

Midas’s eyes glitter with satisfaction. Fulke’s harden with enmity.

Allies to enemies.

The bead of sweat starts to fall off Fulke’s temple, an invisible line down, like the one Midas crossed.

I don’t get a warning, and I don’t know which king gives the order to attack first. I just know that all at once, a battle breaks out.

I’m dropped hard onto the floor by someone before I can blink. The breath is knocked out of me, a woven rug the only thing to break my fall.

Purple and gold clash in an explosion of metallic clangs.

Red comes next, in violent splatters.

I hear the short shouts. The swords meeting in vicious swipes. And the abruptness of it acts like a shock to the brain, dredging up memories as my past and present meet.

Fighting is too close and too loud, and I’m sprawled on the ground just like I was on a different day, during a different fight.

A fight under a yellow moon, its shape like a fingernail scratching at a dark sky. Ten years ago, when raiders came to the tiny town where I was living. Raiders doing what they do—taking. Taking everything that didn’t belong to them. Money, livestock, grain—women.

The sound of swords clashing again is like a gruesome melody, the sound prompting my mind of a tavern song that I’ve played on my harp.

They pillaged the village,

They burned the sterns.

They hail to no king,

But they’ll bow for a ring.





The silly lyrics play in my head as I slap my hands over my ears. My mind wavers from then to now, from there to here, as I start to scramble backward, aiming for the wall. If I can just stay low and get to the wall, then I can get to the door, and if I can get to the door, I can—

A body suddenly falls on top of me, making my chin slam to the ground hard enough that I see stars. With a grunt at the heavy weight pinning me, it takes me a frantic moment of shoving and rolling to get the person off, only to realize that he is very, very dead.

Before I can really take in the fact that he no longer has a head, I’m suddenly dragged up to my feet. My ears are ringing, the stupid song still playing, as a blade is shoved against my throat.

“You fucking bastard!” King Fulke shouts beside my ear, jostling me in his hold.

I whimper as his erratic movements make the dagger dig down too far, his hands unsteady as a shallow scratch is cut in. “You think you’re so clever. You want to kill me?” he snarls. “Then I’m taking your gilded bitch with me.”

It’s a surreal feeling, to have Death breathing down your neck. In this case, Death is Fulke, and his hot exhale slithers down my spine like spilled wine, dampening my skin with slick fear. His hand clenches onto the hilt of the dagger so tightly that the blade shakes, the tremble making it dig deeper into my skin, making blood gather there.

There are eight men lying on the floor or slumped over tables, their red life pooling beneath them, falling out of gaping wounds. I blink at the puddles, like it’s just paint, and all of this is just a bad dream playing out right alongside that macabre tune.

Except it’s not.

All of Fulke’s men, including the messenger, are dead, along with three of Midas’s guards.

The other two of Midas’s guards stand at his side protectively, their sharp golden blades stained crimson. The wind howls outside, hail hurling at the glass of the window.

Midas looks at me with something indistinguishable in his eyes, while mine are probably wide with shock, shock and horror.

I squeeze my eyes tight, because I don’t want to see what happens next. I don’t want to watch their reactions as my throat is cut open.

Die. I’m going to die.

As soon as my eyes are closed, the blade presses in, like it’s cornering me, trapping me, fulfilling Fulke’s savage threat to take my life. I suck in one last breath of air and hold it in my lungs, bracing myself, willing the breath not to leave me.