The Cruel Prince (The Folk of the Air #1)(56)

I bite my bottom lip to keep from begging for his forgiveness. I cannot allow myself to speak.

“The boy wasn’t as badly hurt as he might have been, but with the right knife—a longer knife—the strike would have been lethal. Do not think I don’t know you were going for that worse strike.”

I look up, suddenly, too surprised to hide it. We look at each other for several uncomfortable moments. I stare into the silvered gray of his eyes, taking note of the way his brows furrow, forming deep, displeased lines. I note all this to avoid thinking of how I almost gave away an even greater crime than the one he’s discovered.

“Well?” he demands. “Had you no plan for being found out?”

“He tried to glamour me into jumping out of the tower,” I say.

“And so he knows you can’t be glamoured. Worse and worse.” He comes around the desk toward me. “You are my creature, Jude Duarte. You will strike only when I tell you to strike. Otherwise, stay your hand. Do you understand?”

“No,” I say automatically. What he’s asking is ridiculous. “Was I supposed to just let him hurt me?”

If he knew all the things I’d really done, he would be even angrier than he is.

He slams a dagger down on Madoc’s desk. “Pick it up,” he says, and I feel the compulsion of a glamour. My fingers close on the hilt. A kind of haziness comes over me. I both know and don’t know what I am doing.

“In a moment, I am going to ask you to put the blade through your hand. When I ask you to do that, I want you to remember where your bones are, where your veins are. I want you to stab through your hand doing the least damage possible.” His voice is lulling, hypnotic, but my heart speeds anyway.

Against my will, I aim the sharp point of the knife. I press it lightly against my skin. I am ready.

I hate him, but I am ready. I hate him, and I hate myself.

“Now,” he says, and the glamour releases me. I take a half step back. I am in control of myself again, still holding the knife. He was about to make—

“Do not disappoint me,” Prince Dain says.

I realize all at once that I have not gotten a reprieve. He hasn’t released me because he wants to spare me. He could glamour me again, but he won’t because he wants me to stab myself willingly. He wants me to prove my devotion, blood and bone. I hesitate—of course I hesitate. This is absurd. This is awful. This isn’t how people show loyalty. This is epic, epic bullshit.

“Jude?” he asks. I cannot tell if this is a test he expects me to pass or one he wants me to fail. I think of Sophie at the bottom of the sea, her pockets full of stones. I think of the satisfaction on Valerian’s face when he told me to jump from the tower. I think of Cardan’s eyes, daring me to defy him.

I have tried to be better than them, and I have failed.

What could I become if I stopped worrying about death, about pain, about anything? If I stopped trying to belong?

Instead of being afraid, I could become something to fear.

My eyes on him, I slam the knife into my hand. The pain is a wave that rises higher and higher but never crashes. I make a sound low in my throat. I may not deserve punishment for this, but I deserve punishment.

Dain’s expression is odd, blank. He takes a step back from me, as though I am the one who did the shocking thing instead of merely doing what he ordered. Then he clears his throat. “Do not reveal your skill with a blade,” he says. “Do not reveal your mastery over glamour. Do not reveal all that you can do. Show your power by appearing powerless. That is what I need from you.”

“Yes,” I gasp, and draw the blade out again. Blood runs over Madoc’s desk, more than I expect. I feel suddenly dizzy.

“Wipe it up,” he says. His jaw is set. Whatever surprise he felt seems gone, replaced by something else.

There is nothing to clean the desk with but the hem of my doublet.

“Now give me your hand.” Reluctantly, I hold it out to him, but all he does is take it gently and wrap it in a green cloth from his pocket. I try to flex my fingers and nearly pass out from pain. The fabric of the makeshift bandage is already turning dark. “Once I am gone, go to the kitchens and put moss on it.”

I nod again. I am not sure I can translate my thoughts into speech. I am afraid I am not going to be able to stand much longer, but I lock my knees and stare at the notch of chipped wood on Madoc’s desk where the tip of the blade hit, stained a bright but fading red.

The door to the study swings open, startling us both. Prince Dain drops my hand, and I shove it into my pocket, the pain of which nearly staggers me. Oriana stands there, a wooden tray in her hands with a steaming pot and three clay cups atop it. She is dressed in a day gown the vivid hue of unripe persimmons. “Prince Dain,” she says, making a pretty bow. “The servants said you were sequestered with Jude, and I told them they had to be mistaken. Surely, with your coronation so close, your time is too valuable for a silly girl to take up so much of it. You do her too much credit, and no doubt the weight of your regard is quite overwhelming.”

“No doubt,” he says, giving her a tooth-gritting smile. “I have tarried too long.”

“Take some tea before you leave us,” she says, putting down the tray on Madoc’s desk. “We could all have a cup and speak together. If Jude has done something to offend you …”