Page 134 of Heartbreak Prince

He’s less imposing than I imagined. The man standing behind the throne, slightly to his right, is bigger and broader, wearing the silver-toothed helmet that marks him as the Paladin, the Exemplar’s second. Looking at both of them, judging by their body language alone, I suspect that the man standing behind the throne is the true power here.

My suspicion is confirmed when the Paladin subtly taps the edge of the throne. The Exemplar sits upright, laying aside the object he was fiddling with—some kind of scepter, inset with jewels… but it isn’t metal. It appears to be made of bone, and there’s a spiral pattern to its surface. Why does it look familiar?

“Heim Cordall, the artist?” The Exemplar speaks in a deep voice, but it sounds somewhat fake, like he’s feigning a lower register than his natural tone.

“Yes, Mighty Exemplar.” Cordall bows low. “I come bringing joyful word of the Naughty Prince’s demise.”

“Joyful indeed, if it is true. Show us the proof.”

Cordall slides a canvas out of its protective case and presents it with a flourish. It’s the second image of Vawn’s feigned death, the one we’ve been circulating throughout Belavrin for the past several days.

It didn’t take long for the rumors to travel. Once we got the image and the story to the gossip runners, most of the work was done for us. And as I predicted, it wasn’t long before Cordall was accosted by Redeemers and presented with a summons to appear before the Exemplar.

The moment the Exemplar sees the painting, he exhales beneath the helmet, and his shoulders relax. The Paladin leans forward, inspecting the magical portrait. Then he taps on the throne again.

“We, um…” The Exemplar glances over his shoulder. “Ah yes, we want to see you produce images of the Naughty Prince’s death live, right now. That way we can be certain that you actually witnessed it.”

“Of course.” Cordall beckons to me and I step forward, carrying his easel and a pair of canvases. The locks of the brown wig conceal my face as I prop the wooden legs of the easel in place and set one of the canvases on it.

I can feel the eyes of the Paladin and the Exemplar on me. There’s no way they should perceive me as a threat, dressed plainly as I am, with nails that appear to be bare of glyphs. Both Cordall and I were searched for weapons and glyphs when we entered the palace. The guards even brought over a glyph lexicon to ensure that the five visible glyphs on Cordall’s right hand were solely for his art and posed no threat to the Exemplar.

I turn the easel to face the throne and step behind it, my fingertips placed lightly against the wooden frame as if I’m ready to support it.

Cordall moves in, his back to the throne, facing the canvas and me. His eyes meet mine briefly. Then he pricks his left thumb and touches the blood to each fingernail on his right hand. He plants that hand against the canvas.

Judging by the exclamation from the Exemplar, the image of the death scene is beginning to form on the canvas. But I see Cordall tuck his left hand against his chest and slide that bloody thumb across four fingertips that appear to have no glyphs at all.

He blinks three times at me.

I find the splinter on the easel’s frame, the one I created just for this purpose, and I press my thumb against its sharp tip. Blood beads there, and behind the shelter of the canvas I sweep it across each fingernail of my left hand.

“We’d like to see another angle,” says the Paladin from behind the throne.

His voice tugs at my memory, like the shape of the scepter does. They are two pieces of a terrible puzzle that’s very nearly complete.

“The second canvas, please,” says Cordall to me. He whips the first one off the easel with a dramatic flourish. As he moves, I drop the canvas I’m holding, and both of us throw our intent behind the activated glyphs on our fingernails.

The eight guards in the throne room go rigid, but they do not fall. Vawn altered the standard paralysis glyphs, creating a version of his own that freezes the guards in position rather than making them go entirely slack.

I fling my right hand toward the throne, using two of the same glyphs. The Exemplar’s body locks up, the man behind the throne ducks just in time, and when he comes up again, he twitches a finger toward Cordall. The artist chokes and collapses, his body shaking and seizing with pain.

But I trigger my right-hand shield and fend off the incoming pulse of pain magic.

“Severin,” I whisper. “Severin, hurry.”

I’ve used all five paralysis glyphs on my left hand, and the shield glyph on my right index finger, leaving me with only a few more options. I activate an attack glyph, but the Paladin deflects the burst of nerve magic and charges past the throne, drawing a broadsword, seemingly intent on dispatching me personally without the aid of glyphs.

I shift aside a bit of wood at the end of the easel’s trough, and I draw out a long, narrow knife. The resident carpenter at Anyssir Castle carved that hiding place for me and oiled it, too. I bless his name as the weapon slides out easily, fitting comfortably in my hand.

My attacker’s blade descends in a heavy arc, and I meet it with mine—but the impact jars my very bones, and pain flares through my right elbow, echoing in my side. I duck and spin, jabbing toward the Paladin’s kidney, but he twists out of the way with shocking speed for such a large man. With one long arm, he reaches out and grabs at my wig, which rips free along with some of my real hair.

I yell, but I take the opportunity to rake the blade along the underside of his upper arm. Despite his leathers, I think I hit flesh, because he flinches and draws back.

A quick glance in Cordall’s direction reveals that he’s no longer writhing in pain. He’s sweating, and he looks weak from the torturous spell, but he’s alive, pulling himself into the shelter of a pillar.

The paralysis on the guards won’t last long. “Severin,” I say under my breath.

The Paladin is panting beneath his helmet, and though I can’t see his eyes, I know he’s glaring at me. I can practically feel the rage emanating from his body.