Page 53 of Crown of the Courtesan

He urges Salt onward, back the way we came, as my mind falters with what to do and what to say. I finally settle on, “Thank you for not letting them hurt me.”

“If you think I’d allow you to be murdered before bringing you to justice for your crimes, you are wrong.” He rubs his left arm, stretching and flexing it to alleviate some discomfort.

“Then why did you set your shadow hounds to kill me?”

“You misunderstand,” he says darkly. “My hounds might have dragged you to me by your ankles, but they would have delivered you very much alive. I will let no one have the satisfaction of taking your life except by my own hand. Regardless, you’re here now.” He pauses before adding, “…and I’m not done with you.”

His casual words chill me to the bone as he wraps his cloak around us. He adjusts his position on the saddle meant for one, using his strong legs to squeeze my thighs as he urges the horse onward. His arm tightens around my waist to keep me from falling.

“What do you mean?” I try to keep my voice from trembling.

“A topic we’ll discuss during dinner.”

As if on cue, the bruised clouds open, and steady raindrops fall—giving me the perfect opportunity to swallow my fear and lean against his chest. “Forgive me,” I say weakly. “The sight of so much death makes me ill.” His arm muscles tense, but he doesn’t push me away. My head tilts ever so slightly, grazing his exposed neck. A woodsy scent envelops me as I pretend to relax in his embrace.

* * *

I step into a spacious dining hall with charcoal-colored paneled walls and ornate chandeliers dripping with garnets. My wool stockings slide across the black marble floors jagged from a broken foundation as the scrape of a chair alerts me that my seat at the mahogany table is ready. Two place settings sit near each other at the far end.

At least we’ll be able to speak without distance.

The clock on the fireplace mantel ticks, and I wait patiently until the Witch-King strides through the entrance. He grabs his chair before an attendant can assist him. As he sits, he waves for the platter to be brought out—an open broiled fish with its head, scales, and tail still attached, greens and cabbage, and two small but steaming potatoes.

No sauces. No butter. No bread.

The food isn’t nearly as luxurious as what we eat in Alexandria, but after today in town, seeing such abundance would make me sick. I grit my teeth, remembering the gaunt children playing in the dirty streets.

After serving me a portion, he claims the fish head for himself and forks the eyeball, plunking it into his mouth. He chews aggressively. A few moments pass before he asks, “Is there a problem with your food?”

My queasy stomach leaps at his scrutiny. I peer down at my plate and sip the wine in my goblet. “My mind is on other matters.”

He sets his fork down with a clatter. “Please enlighten me to the thoughts of a queen. Go ahead.”

“Well, if I’m to stay here as your captive, shouldn’t we at least learn each other’s names?”

“I already know your name,” he states, cocking an eyebrow, “Tabitha.”

My back goes rigid. “I don’t know yours, though, and I hardly think it’s fair.”

“But you do.”

“I assure you I do not.”

“You do.”

“I only know you as the Witch-King of Ashland.”

“Correct.”

I stand and walk to the fireplace, warming my hands over the crackling embers.

His words grow closer behind me, reverberating like the voice of a forgotten god. “I have no first name. I am Ashland. I am the land, and the land is me. We became one the minute I became the Witch-King. Like my father before me, I am an extension of this land.”

“If you have no name…” A shiver runs through my body, but I don’t turn around. “Then what do your friends and family call you?”

“When I was a boy, there was a name I was given.”

“And now?”