“Your pardon,” he says with a short bow. “Jude must come immediately—”
Tatterfell waves him off. “She’s not fit to see anyone right at the moment. I’ll send her down when she’s dressed.”
“Prince Dain awaits her downstairs in General Madoc’s parlor. He commanded me to fetch her and not to mind whatever state of dishabille she was in. He said to carry her if I had to.” Gnarbone seems repentant at having to say that, but it’s clear that none of us can refuse the Crown Prince.
Cold dread coils in my stomach. How did I not think that he of all people, with his spies, would find out what I’d done? I wipe my hands against my velvet top. Despite his order, I pull on pants and boots before I go. No one stops me. I am vulnerable enough; I will keep what dignity I can.
Prince Dain is standing near the window, behind Madoc’s desk. His back is to me, and my gaze goes automatically to the sword hanging from his belt, visible beneath his heavy wool cloak. He does not turn when I come in.
“I have done wrong,” I say. I am glad he stays where he is. It’s easier to speak when he’s not looking at me. “And I will repent in whatever way—”
He turns, his face full of a wild rage that makes me suddenly see his resemblance to Cardan. His hand comes down hard on Madoc’s desk, rocking everything atop it. “Have I not taken you into my service and given you a great boon? Did I not promise you a place in my Court? And yet—and yet, you use what I have taught you to endanger my plans.”
My gaze goes to the floor. He has the power to do anything to me. Anything. Not even Madoc could stop him—nor do I think he would try. And not only have I disobeyed him, I have declared my loyalty to something completely separate from him. I have helped a mortal girl. I have acted like a mortal.
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—