The Shadow Prince (7 page)

Brim meows like she’s scolding me and hops onto my lap as I sit on the window ledge.

“I know,” I say, stroking my hand over her gray fur so she won’t get angry. “I should have told you where I was going.”

I slide one of my fingers over the silver bracelet she wears as a collar—trying not to think of the person it used to belong to. Brim huffs and then looks over at the door, as if waiting for someone. I know that if Brim has found me, Dax is only a few seconds
behind. Not that either of them had to look that hard. Dax is the one who showed me this place, back when he was still an Underlord and everyone in my age group aspired to be just like him. It’s the one place in the Underrealm where one can see not only the royal stables and the pomegranate groves, but also the asphodel meadows, which stretch for miles beyond the palace. When I was younger, I used to sit up here, watching the owls fly in and out of the roost. I used to stand in the stone-framed window opening, stretching my arms out, and dreaming about taking flight. About being free.

But where would I have even gone?

There’s nothing beyond the meadows but the Wastelands. The place where the shades—the souls of the dead—wander, wailing their tormented cries, as they search for a way out of that final resting place of grief and shadow.

I may not come to the roost to fantasize about flying anymore, but it is still my favorite place to sit and think. I’d packed what few belongings I might need from my bedchamber for my quest, and then came here, where I’ve spent the entire night running through every lesson I’ve ever been taught about the Overrealm. History. Politics. Mythos. Fighting styles. Anything the Court might choose to test me on before sending me through the gate. All in an attempt to drown out the things Rowan said to me.

And I know it’s not enough.

“It’s time,” Dax says solemnly as he comes to stand in the doorway.

“I’m not ready,” I say.

“Everyone is waiting for you.”

“I can’t go through the gate. Not yet. I need more time. I need more training.”

“There’s no more time to be had. You know the gate only opens twice a year. Today’s the day, my friend.”

“What if I wait six more months? I can go when the gate opens then. I can get the training I need and go later.…”

Dax folds his arms in front of his large chest. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Why is that absurd? The Elites receive years of specialized training in case they are Chosen. Why send someone like me without it?”

“Because you’re the one the Oracle chose. For this time and this purpose.”

“But what if I’m not the right choice? Rowan is right. I’m predictable in my impulsiveness. I’m weak.”

Brim sinks her claws into my knee.

“Rowan is wrong,” Dax says.

I glance at him.

“Don’t listen to a word that
koprophage
says. I know you better than anyone. Yes, you’re impulsive, but that doesn’t make you weak. It means you listen to your emotions.”

I suck a breath in between my teeth. That’s an insult if I’ve ever heard one. Emotions are something to be stamped out, controlled, not
listened
to.

“What I mean to say is that you are equipped with unique traits that make you well suited for the mortal world. They’re the reason why the Oracle chose you—I’m sure of it.”

I shake my head. He might as well have called me a human—and meant it as a compliment. Dax has never been the same since his time in the Overrealm. It’s as though being declared a failure permanently altered his psyche. I want to laugh at him but something stops me. “They should declare the Oracle addled, just
like you,” I mumble instead, “if she thinks the entire future of the Underrealm lies on my shoulders.”

“Did she tell you that?”

I nod. “Obviously, she’s gone insane.” I pick up a rock from the ledge—probably something one of the owls brought up here—and chuck it toward the moat below. Brim tenses and follows the rock with her eyes, but she knows better than to jump from the window to chase it. Her getting wet wouldn’t be good for anyone involved. “Perhaps I should tell the Court that I resign as Champion. Tell them to send Rowan in my place.”

“You will do nothing of the sort,” Dax says. “This is your chance, Haden. Your chance to show them who you really are. They think Rowan is the best in your age group, but that’s only because they ruled you out long ago.
Make
them pay attention now.”

“They’re never going to look at me as anything other than the embodiment of disgrace.”

“You don’t know that.…”

“Stop.” I glare at him. “We both know the truth. There’s no point in coating it in siren songs. What would you know about success anyway? You were kicked out of the Court altogether. You’re barely better than a filthy Lesser.”

Brim yowls. She never likes it when I harden my voice at anyone.

My harsh comments are meant to hurt Dax, but he barely lifts an eyebrow. Six years ago, Dax had been considered the best of the Elite. As Lord Killian’s son—the Underlord credited with bringing back an entire sorority of Boons from his quest—great things were expected of him. He’d been Chosen by my father to bring
back a Boon who had been hand selected for Dax by the Court. But six months later, when the gate opened for the return, he had been the only Champion to come back alone. He’d failed, and suffered the wrath of the Court as a consequence. He’d been stripped of his rank, cast out of the Underlords, and had lived as a servant ever since.

“It’s time to go,” Dax says, like he won’t take no for an answer.

I pick up another rock, toss it up in my hand, and catch it. Dax’s words about this being my one chance to prove myself start to edge into my despair. Isn’t that the reason I’ve always dreamed of being Chosen in the first place? Ren had even said that if I succeeded, he’d grant me back my rightful place at his side.

But he’d also made it very clear what would happen if I don’t succeed. His oath to my mother prevents him from casting me out of the ranks of the Underlords as he did with Dax. Which means if I fail, he can do something much worse. My jaw clenches as I remember the feel of Ren’s knife on my throat.

I fling the rock out the window. It flies so far that it misses the moat and disappears into the treetops of the orchard. I turn back to Dax.

“What if I fail?”

“You
won’t
,” he says so definitively that I don’t want to argue. Dax has always had that power over me. “Besides, you’ll have me to help you.”

I really look at him for the first time since he entered the roost and see that instead of his servant’s robes, he’s dressed in strange dark blue pants made from a thick cloth, and a short-sleeved tunic, which has a picture of something that looks vaguely like a horseless chariot on it. It reminds me of the odd garments many of the Champions and Boons are dressed in when they return from the
Overrealm. Over his shoulder, Dax carries a satchel that looks like it’s packed to capacity.

“You’re coming with me?”

He shrugs. “I convinced Lord Killian that since you are the sole Champion this year, you should be allowed a small entourage for your quest. I assumed you’d like a guide who’s been to the mortal world before.”

I try to stifle a grateful smile. “But you botched your quest.”

“Then who better to make sure you don’t do the same?” Dax puts his hand on my shoulder. “Haden,” he says, lowering his voice, “the fact that Killian agreed to letting you take a guide and my knowing what the Oracle said to you about the fate of the Underrealm resting on your shoulders only serve to confirm my suspicions. There is more going on here than anyone is telling you.”

I nod. “The Oracle said that the Boon I am after can restore something that was taken from the Underlords. She said something about a Cypher.”

Dax startles when I mention that word. “So the rumors are true.…”

“What rumors?”

A shadow blocks the light in the doorway, and I look up to see one of King Ren’s guards leering at us. “Is he coming with you or do I need to drag him there?” he asks Dax, with a self-satisfied grin that makes me recognize him as the harpy who kicked me in the knees at the altar yesterday.

“He’s coming on his own,” Dax says.

The guard grunts and moves back out into the hallway.

“What rumors?” I ask again.

“We’ll discuss this later—when there are fewer ears to overhear. Now it’s time to go.”

Panic swells inside of me. “It’s too soon.” I take a step backward, but Dax grabs my arm. “Leave me,” I seethe at him. I know I am being irrational, but I can’t help myself. I’m not ready for this.

Dax lowers his voice. “Haden, you
must
go now. It will be worse if they have to force you. The dishonor alone …”

I want to strike him and make my escape, but his words about dishonor make me hesitate. Brim paces in the windowsill, growling in a way that makes both Dax and me bristle. The owls flutter and hop in their nests, screeching frantically.

“What is it, girl?” I say, anxious to soothe her. Getting a hellcat mad—especially in such a confined space—is never a good idea.

Then I see three shades come into view over the horizon. Shades usually stay far away from the palace, their moaning the only evidence of their existence, but sometimes hunger drives them into the outskirts of the asphodel fields. Hunger—insatiable hunger—is all they know in this world. One of the shades throws himself down on top of an asphodel plant, shoving the ghostly gray blossoms into his sagging mouth. The other two clamor to get ahold of some of the flowers, but he pushes them away. I wince as their moans morph into shrieking screams. They’ve turned on each other, clawing and gnawing at each other’s faces and limbs. They’d kill each other if they weren’t already dead.

This is the plight of those who die without honor.

Heroes, Champions, those who know glory in this life go to Elysium when they die. I hear it is paradise. But those who are never given honor or who have had it stripped away from them, like myself, are doomed to wander the Wastelands for all eternity—trying to fill their cold, empty souls, which cannot be satisfied, no matter what. It’s the worst-possible existence, save the fate of those who have openly wronged the gods.

Yesterday, when my life was in Father’s hands, I’d thought I was ready to die if that was what he chose. I’d been resigned to the idea. But this ghastly reminder that dying without honor is a fate worse than death itself makes me realize that I am not resigned at all. I will not accept such a terrible destiny without a fight.

Dax is right; the Oracle has handed me the chance to show everyone what I am truly made of—to have my honor restored.

And I
will not
allow myself to fail.

I grab my bag, which holds what few belongings I am allowed to take. It is heavier than I remember and I wonder if I am feeling the weight of my quest on my shoulders. I hitch it up, ready at last, and let Dax propel me through the doorway. A loud clank echoes in my ears as he pulls the door to the roost shut behind us. Four guards, who’ve been waiting in the hallway, flank us immediately. The only path for us now is forward. Toward whatever destiny the Fates have measured for me.

chapter six

The next few hours after I agreed to go with Joe are filled with so many firsts that I am not sure my brain knows how or where to process and store it all: My first time hearing the wind whip through the sunroof while riding in a limo down Apollo Canyon. My first time experiencing the cacophony of excited, dreading, and anticipating tones of people arriving and departing on new adventures in an airport. My first time on a plane—and a private jet, at that. My first time outside of Utah. My first time stepping foot in California, with its soupy humidity clinging to my skin, and realizing sound resonates differently in wet air than it does in dry. My first time seeing LA—granted, it was mostly a bunch of blobs of lights, and traffic noises, as it was pretty late on our way to Olympus Hills.

But of all the firsts, the one I’m having the hardest time processing is the first time seeing the sparse dots of houses and shops in the red dirt as we flew over Ellis Fields from the airport in Saint George.

Because that image meant I had done it—I had said good-bye to everyone I loved.

“Call me at least once a week,” Jonathan had said with a hug
and a big kiss on my cheek. “I want every juicy detail, you hear me.” I could hear low notes of disappointment in him, but he’d managed to keep a smile on his face.

“Of course.”

“I’ll pack up the rest of your things tonight and make sure they get FedExed tomorrow. I just expect Mr. Tight Pants here to pick up the bill,” he said with a smirk.

Joe nodded, and Marta—the glossy woman turned out to be Joe’s “personal assistant slash handler slash babysitter” (her words, not mine)—handed Jonathan a card with Joe’s address and account information for sending my things.

Indie gave me a melty Twix and half a bag of minipretzels for the plane. A gift I ended up being grateful for later, as the only service on Joe’s jet was of the bar variety.

“Do you have everything you need in the meantime?” Mom had asked. It was the first thing she’d said to me since I’d left her office in the shop. I’d expected another plea from her to stay, and almost felt disappointed by her question instead.