“If it means keeping the peace between our people, then yes,” the prince responded with finality.
“This isn’t peace, it’s a surrender,” Milo muttered. “And those loyal to you are the ones who suffer for it.”
The prince smirked at the dissatisfaction written upon Milo’s face. The commoner turned to leave and Rayhan moved to seize him for his insolence, but the prince held up a hand.
“Are you certain?” the general whispered. “He was bold and outspoken, that one.”
“He is harmless,” the prince scoffed. “Let him go. The loss of his village is punishment enough.” Jaycent watched Milo walk away, his shoulders bowed under the weight of his dejection. “He is number four today…”
“What?” Rayhan lifted a curious ear, confused by his cousin’s mutterings.
“Nothing,” the prince shook his head.
But it wasn’t nothing. The looks of disappointment were mounting. Milo marked the fourth soul Jaycent disappointed in less than an hour, and his day had barely begun. With a huff, the prince departed from the throne room, haunted by a question he could not answer.
How many looks would it take before he would begin to feel them?
Strangers in the Dark
Even a much needed bath and grooming didn’t free Jaycent from his dour spirits. After his poor audience with the Sarrokian, the prince wasted hours sitting in front of his counselors as they argued over ways to charm foreign ambassadors. A task that most of them concluded should fall on Jaycent’s “young and able” shoulders.
To his dismay, those shoulders became more laden as the day went on. Nevaharday’s royal equestrian competition had been moved up a week so those who came for the trade faire could partake in the city’s most popular event.
Now the eve of the competition loomed in front of him and parchment after parchment of orders regarding the event slid under Jaycent’s tired eyes. The prince barely noted what the pages said before he scrawled his signature across the bottom.
Nothing ever made it to his desk without Rayhan approving it first. All of this was just a formality, but he was aware enough to understand the goal.
For too long, Nevaharday was thought to offer little profit to elves, dwarves, and men. Now that Jaycent’s kingdom was garnering attention, it needed to show neighboring races something big; something that would amaze even their harshest critics.
Thus far, his attempts to impress their foreign guests had been an utter failure. When the elves weren’t debating over the purity of rahenyan wine, the dwarves were grumbling about gaps in the castle’s stonework.
Jaycent tried to explain that such things were intentional; that his people had built the walls of his castle in a way that would allow natural air flow throughout the rooms. But the short folk, used to their stifling holes, didn’t understand the need for fresh air and breezes.
By the time His Highness returned to his chamber it was well after nightfall, though sleep was far from his conscious desires. Everything in the room seemed to make his temper bristle. The tall, overstuffed bed reminded him of the nobility and their need for lavish comforts. The thick layer of furs that sank beneath his feet illustrated the softness of the upper class.
What did not cater to their tastes was deemed barbaric or insulting. Jaycent couldn’t even judge them wholly, for his own court behaved the same way.
Disgusted, Jaycent pulled open his closet and snatched an old cloak from its place in the corner where it had been crinkled into a forgotten ball. Exchanging his silk ensemble for an obscure cotton tunic, he draped the old black cloak over his tall frame and moved toward the balcony. His fingers laced the balustrade as he looked out across the walls that hugged the castle grounds. Beyond the acres of pasture and below the parapets of his home, Nevaharday glowed in a way that was both soft and inviting.
Simple candles inside simple houses, built to meet necessity and little more. That was his city and Jaycent craved a taste of it. More than anything, he yearned to get away and be around the sensibility that existed beyond the walls of his sheltered world.
He waited until the horns sounded, marking the change of the guard. Then, with the soldiers’ attention diverted, he skittered down the balcony.
His feet and hands moved independently, searching for holds that would guide him to the unicorn head statue above the first floor archway. Planting his feet between its ears and the crook where the statue’s neck met the wall, he crouched and swung to the ground.
Jaycent then ducked into the shadows behind the archway, concealing himself from the new sentries’ eyes. He knew the castle’s summer routine by heart. The warm months were the easiest when making his late night excursions. As the sun went down, the merchant wagons would line up at the east gate to take the empty crates back to their shops where they would be refilled for the morrow’s return.
Jaycent snuck his way east through the covered walkways to the doors where his favorite wagon—the winery’s—sat while servants packed in crates of empty bottles. Once there, he held his body tight against the wall until the final bottles clinked into place.
The merchant turned to chat with one of the palace hands. As he did so, a shadow slid from the wall and under the wagon. Four long limbs intertwined with the lower beams, lifting Jaycent into the hidden storage pallet that hung inches above the ground.
Within minutes the wheels were moving. Jaycent steeled himself against the jarring ride, the promise of a short reprieve spent within his city’s streets making every jerk and jab worth the bruises that would mark his ribs in the morning.
He didn’t bother to contemplate the irony behind hijacking a ride out of his own castle. If he did, his cynical laughter would give him away, stealing the few hours of freedom he went to great lengths to achieve.
Inside the box, Jaycent closed his eyes as he gained his bearings on the wagon’s progress. The jerk as it crossed the deep rut carved by the castle’s sliding iron gates led into a jostling of wheels over cobblestone streets. His teeth vibrated together as they moved along, and Jaycent was more than relieved when three rights and a left later the wagon assumed the softer roll of Nevaharday’s dirt streets.
It was a sign of the city’s poorer district. Rowdy voices and the unmistakable scent of cheap pipe weed struck the prince’s senses as the wagon made its predicted stop near the back of a smoke-filled tavern.
The prince waited for the slam of the tavern’s back door before lowering his boots onto solid ground. Sliding out from beneath the wagon, he checked his cowl, brushed off his cloak, and strode out of the wide alley.
The front door of the Armed Maiden hung open as always, its tangle of scents assaulting its patrons in a manner that was both foul and fragrant. Jaycent inhaled deeply, welcoming the aroma of a place that strayed as far away from royal standards as one could get. A handful of gamblers crowded the back tables, hardly taking note of Jaycent’s entrance.
The prince wove his way between a huddle of quaint, round tables to claim one of the wooden bar stools. Perching his arms casually against the counter, his shielded eyes scanned the bar for its owner.
Talya Buckskin wasn’t a hard maiden to spot. Her dull red hair and sharp, angled brows gave her a hard look that made most drunkards think twice before causing a ruckus. The prince found her at the end of the bar, her calloused hands scrubbing mugs while she chatted with one of her patrons. Talya glanced his way a few moments later.
“The usual?” she called to him, to which the prince nodded. He then turned his back against the bar, his forearms hung over the lip of the counter as he listened in on the local gossip. A couple of tradesmen bragged about the sales they made during the trade faire while barmaids flirted shamelessly with a couple of locals, hoping to rustle an extra coin or two. Yet what caught, and held, Jaycent’s attention were the hushed voices of a trio discussing tomorrow’s equestrian competition.
“Whispers speak of a female competitor,” said one of the strangers. Jaycent subtly tilted his ear toward the
speaker, eager to hear more. “And not just any female. A gypsy.”
His companion, a rather obscure looking fellow whose hair looked to be something between blonde and brown furrowed his brow. “No gypsy of ours,” he stated firmly. Jaycent could tell he was skeptical.
“Nay, though we know the name well enough,” his friend insisted.
“Then tell us,” dared the third, his arms crossed to match his doubtful expression.
A clever smile drew across the storyteller’s mouth. The first syllables of a name rose to his lips, but he stopped when he caught sight of Jaycent’s hooded gaze. With a distrustful glare, he leaned in closer and whispered the answer into his friend’s waiting ear.
“Ale, fresh from the barrel!” Jaycent jumped when a mug slammed down beside his elbow.
“Much obliged, Talya,” the prince grunted. He turned to face the barmaid as she plopped her rag down on the bar. Talya’s curious stare drifted to the three patrons that had captured the prince’s attention.
“Gypsies caught your interest?” she asked through the corner of her mouth. Talya knew whose face hid under the long black cowl. She had been paid handsomely by the general to keep His Highness’ occasional visits a secret. It was the only thing she kept quiet about, and even then Jaycent believed it was the money—not loyalty—that kept her gossip-filled tongue from wagging.
“I’m surprised you let them into your bar,” Jaycent muttered more out of disbelief than any prejudice. Politically, the prince hated the nomadic folk. But on a personal level, he was fascinated by their lifestyle.
“I admit I’m not fond of them,” the barmaid confessed. “But they pay honest money and have yet to cause any trouble.”
Jaycent nodded. “They speak of a female gypsy participating in tomorrow’s competition. Have you heard any such rumors?”
The surprise in Talya’s face gave the prince his answer. “Not a word of it. Did they mention any names?”
His Highness shook his head. “They caught on to my curiosity before I could overhear it.”
Talya smirked, disheartened by the dead-end trail to gossip. “A secretive bunch, the lot of them.”
Jaycent took a long swig of ale. The thought of a female gypsy competing tomorrow stirred his curiosity, but little else. The nomadic folk were not bold enough to pull any antics against Nevaharday while so many soldiers were about.
Perhaps her participation would spark some unity between Nevaharday and bands that scattered Jaycent’s kingdom. He filed the rumor away in his mind and savored the hearty flavor of the Armed Maiden’s brew.
“Tell me, Talya,” the prince leaned closer to the wily barmaid, his voice husky with the hunger for gossip. “What other murmurs have your attentive ears heard?”
“I was hoping you would ask,” she leaned in close, her low-cut blouse drooping down to reveal a full bosom. Jaycent made no effort to conceal his wandering stare as he rubbed the stubble on his chin.
Talya snapped her fingers in front of his face and pointed two fingers at her eyes. “Focus! You’ll want to lend me both ears for this.”
The prince’s voice drifted over the lip of his mug, his eyebrows raised in intrigue. “By all means, they’re yours to have.”
Talya glanced around the smoky room before speaking. “There’s been talk about a new threat on the roads. Few will venture outside the city gates after sunset.”
Jaycent snickered at her excitement. “That is old news, Talya. I’ve been hearing about such activity for weeks now. It likely has to do with the diversion of traffic caused by the gypsy’s tolls. The Guard has made note of it and doubled patrols along the walls and outside of the gates until the new route is paved.”
“Clearly, you have not been out of your castle as of late.”
“Hmm?” the prince set down his glass.
“Look around you. This city’s not friendly toward gypsies, so why do they make up a fourth of my rooms here tonight? They aren’t leaving anymore, not after dark. You point the blame at their kind, but from what I see, something has them scared, too.”
Jaycent took a good look around the room. Talya was right. Nearly a quarter of the small tavern was outfitted in the trinket-laden belts and bandanas common among the northern bands of gypsies.
“Best you leave soon before they mistake your curiosity for ill intent,” Talya advised. “They are far more attuned to what goes on than the rest of us. I wouldn’t doubt they’ve heard every word we’ve exchanged tonight.”
A turn of Jaycent’s head confirmed the barkeep’s suspicions. The gypsies made no attempt to hide their scrutiny. He sighed, knowing it was best to leave before they pieced together whose face hid underneath his cloak.
With one last gulp of his drink, the prince slid the mug into Talya’s waiting hands along with a silver coin. “Until next time.”
The rahee tucked the coin inside a pouch at the front of her skirt and nodded. The prince then slid from the stool as he pretended to ignore the many eyes following him all the way out of the tavern.
Jaycent gave a resigned sigh as he shoved his way through the door, frustrated that his escapade had come to an abrupt end. It was a foul end to a poor day.
Falling into a leisurely stride, the prince took his time walking up the sloping roads that led to the castle’s grounds. Day in and day out, he masked his feelings, shielding every emotion in attempt to uphold an impossible reputation.
No one, not even Arelee or Rayhan, had ever allowed him the freedom to truly express himself. Everything he felt and feared was expected to remain behind closed doors where the populace couldn’t see it.
A secret. That’s what his life was. A tightly wrapped secret hidden behind a well-manicured visage. Frustrated, the prince unleashed a growl that echoed down the winding streets. Cats mewed and scrambled deeper into alleyways while rats slid between sewer grates. A few brave heads poked out of the windows above him, but Jaycent’s shadowed glance had them ducking quickly back into their houses.
He continued on his way, mulling over the unfortunate aspects of his meticulously controlled life. Yet those thoughts soon shifted to the least of his concerns when he caught sight of another hooded figure following several paces behind him. Jaycent walked on, noting how the stranger mimicked every pause and turn in the prince’s stride while keeping an unobtrusive distance between them. He cursed under his breath.
The last thing he needed was a tail to follow him all the way back to the castle. Extending his stride, he slid his fingers beneath his cloak to rest upon the short sword he’d brought along for safety. Jaycent hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but the prince knew better than to underestimate a pursuer. He turned down a narrow alley, hoping to shake his newfound shadow.
His ears swiveled when he heard the soft tap of light feet against a wall. Out of the corner of his eye, the flicker of red cloth disappeared onto a nearby balcony. Adrenaline sent his heart into a steady rhythm, heightening his senses.
Years of training alongside Rayhan had familiarized the prince with the tactics of many foes, including gypsies. They were nimble fighters, with grace and balance that could rival even Whitewood’s elves. If that was indeed what was trailing him, they would beat the prince to the castle’s northern entrance before he even caught sight of the gates.
Jaycent glanced at the houses surrounding him, unnerved when not a thing looked out of place. It wasn’t until he turned onto a back road that his pursuers gave any hint of their presence.
Footsteps launched into action upon the rooftops above. Jaycent veered toward the empty crates stacked like mini towers against one house, their lengths running two to three rows deep. He shrank his slender body into a tight space between the tallest stack and the wall.
There, he waited.
The footsteps multiplied: one pair, then two, a scuffle, then three, at least, bolted out of the alleyway. Jaycent’s right ear flicked back in confusion when he heard several grunts and the ring of metal as two swords clashed against one another.
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He turned his head enough to peer through the cracks in the crates. Three gypsies circled a cloaked figure that appeared to be wearing Nevahardan armor.
The soldier’s face was hidden, guarded by a silver helmet. It was rare for his men to wear the traditional helm except for in battle, but that mattered little to Jaycent’s conscience. The unicorn etched into the metal chestplate told him all he needed to know.
The prince slid his weapon free and swept the hood away from his face. Then, with a deep breath, he stepped out from behind the crates, ready to break up the unfair fight.
But he never got close enough to do anything.
The moment Jaycent showed himself, the soldier threw out his hand toward the prince. Immediately, an intangible force pummeled his senses like a heavy club.
Jaycent stumbled backward, his balance assaulted. The world around him began to sway. In his wavering consciousness, Jaycent wondered if something had been in the ale at Talya’s tavern.
Struggling to keep himself on his feet, he tried to focus on the trio, but his vision blurred. Three gypsies doubled into six and back again. Yet the prince couldn’t be drunk. Not off of one mug.
Before he could reason further, he felt something snap inside of his mind. It felt like a burst of light, blinding his senses to the point that he didn’t even feel his blade slip from his hand.
Two of the gypsies launched toward the soldier, their weapons hacking in a reckless and desperate offensive. The third turned to face Jaycent, his wide eyes filled with unexpected concern. His lips moved and the prince vaguely noted whatever was being said was directed at him, but his ears didn’t catch it.
As he tried to unrattled his senses, the armored stranger’s helm was knocked to the ground. Their gazes met, and for that brief moment Jaycent felt ensnared by the soldier’s cold, red eyes.
The Rogue Trilogy Page 5