by E G Radcliff
Now Aifric took over and steered him into a chair. Contemplatively pinching her lip between forefinger and thumb, she leaned back to scrutinize his face. She turned to a side table that was covered with colored bottles, and after musing over them for a minute or two, she selected a couple of them and returned.
“What’s that?” Áed asked, with a sinking feeling that he already knew.
“Paint.”
He groaned internally. “Dare I protest?”
“No.” Aifric swirled the first bottle a few times and held her hand out to Aileas, who supplied her with a brush. “Stay still, Your Grace.”
Ultimately, he didn’t mind it too much. It wasn’t gaudy, it wasn’t bright, and the result was that it complemented his face rather than distracting from it. This was a remarkable feat, seeing that paint covered his visage almost entirely.
Aifric’s handiwork dusted his cheekbones with amber and hid his eyebrows beneath a layer of gold that peaked downward between them. She’d dragged three paint-drenched fingers down his lips and over his chin, gold-silver-gold, and used the same blunt technique to color the space under his eyebrows. Below his lower eyelashes, gold streaks followed his cheekbones and made his eyes appear to glow.
Áed blinked and felt the light resistance of the paint on his eyelids, felt it shimmering. “I feel so strange.”
Aileas leaned against the wall. “I hope you’re ready, Your Grace. It won’t be long now.”
✽ ✽ ✽
An hour later, Aifric fastened a cloak over Áed’s shoulders, and though her face was focused, her eyes shone. With a few gentle pushes, she adjusted his posture, and then stood back appreciatively. “Shoulders back, chin high. Oh, perfect.” Áed closed his eyes as Aifric steered him to the door. Suddenly, he couldn’t even muster a breath. “Come, Your Grace, it’s time.”
He nodded, and she opened the door.
The hall was packed with people, strangers in different clothes and perfumes and jewelry, and above the sensory clamor drifted the smoky scent of incense and the clarion, glass-like tones of singing. The spectators were silent.
The crowd stared, and Áed did not stare back. In fact, he could scarcely see them. His vision had narrowed, and the only subject clearly in his sight was the throne and, beside it, a man and a child. The child held a pillow. The pillow held the crown. Though crimson fabric lay between the soles of Áed’s shoes and the marble floor, his footsteps seemed to echo throughout the vaulted space, and the fading daylight glowed through the stained glass, which cast its shower of gemstones.
He stopped before the throne, and, remembering what he was to do, dropped slowly to his knees. The dark cloak puddled on the ground behind him, and the singing faded.
In the full hall, sound was suspended.
The man who stepped toward him was old and silver-bearded, and behind his weathered brows, moss-brown eyes pierced Áed’s like spears. Áed took a deep breath as the man approached, and he bowed his head.
The man turned to the child beside him and took up the crown. “Áed, son of Seisyll, King to Come,” the man said in a voice as soft as well-worn leather, and Áed looked up. The crown was just as he remembered it, a simple band with details like battlements, but it no longer glittered with white jewels. Instead, the brackets secured gems that shifted with the light, that flashed red and black and a stunning golden-yellow as the man held up the crown and the room held its breath. “Do you swear to lead with honor and with integrity?”
Áed licked his lips. “I do.”
The man cleared his throat quietly. “Áed, native of Smudge,” he intoned. “Do you promise to lead with courage and loyalty to your kingdom?”
“I do.”
With a faint nod, the man spoke again. “Then, Your Grace, I bestow this crown into your keeping.”
His wrinkled hands lowered the crown onto Áed’s head, and Áed felt its cold weight on his brow.
“Rise, Áed, Monarch over Suibhne, Emperor of the Darklands of Smudge, High King of the Gut.” As Áed rose, the man stepped back. “Long live the king!”
The room took up the cry, and Áed stepped up onto the dais. The hall was ringing, or perhaps it was just his ears as his heart thundered, and he turned to face the shouting masses. There, in the corner, were Boudicca and Ronan, and Éamon behind the two, and though Áed knew it to be wishful imagination, he thought he felt Ninian’s familiar presence in the hall with them. Ronan wiped at his eyes with the backs of his hands, and Boudicca wore a look of the fiercest pride; it gave Áed the courage he needed to smile.
This was what he was meant to do. He felt it, then, with a sureness that resonated in his bones, in harmony with the roar of the room. The White City would be cleansed, the Maze reborn. He would do what was right. He and Ronan would have their better life, and all would be well.
And so, to the cries of the vast, color-struck chamber, he sank into the throne.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The Hidden King would not exist if not for the work and support of some truly remarkable individuals. The people here—many of whom I now think of as my teammates— gave me a greater gift than I had ever asked for: they lifted me up to create something lasting. For that, I am grateful in ways that words cannot express… but I am an author, and I will try.
It seems only right to begin with Erin Radcliff, my mother, who was with me from start to finish. Ever the wind in my sails, she encouraged me not to let The Hidden King sink beneath the waves of daily life, and it was she who pressed me to stay the course through the occasional foggy night. Beyond that, she volunteered to do the mountains of research that went into the publication process, and I greatly appreciate that her technical prowess outstrips my own by leagues. She stepped into the role of designer, publicist, tireless organizer, and true friend.
Next are my constant supports, my sounding-boards and providers of honest feedback: Tim Radcliff, for never letting me talk myself down, and for his deep spring of inspiration. Michelle Haller, for her always-open ear. Vida Cruz, Lisa Fanelli, Maggie Schroeder, Lynne Kern, Woody Ward, Grace Phillips, Leah Gleason, and Mark Reed for beta reading and providing reactions: their honest input made The Hidden King a better book. Thanks to Mimi Black, Alyssa Williams, Jackie Crnkovich, and Alyssa Murphy for the extraordinary depth of their consideration, the bluntness of their feedback, and their encouragement that I was on the right track. Additionally, my thanks to Catherine Herina McGovern and Máiréad Ní Chatháin Uí Chonchúír for their help with the Irish expressions that I used as the language of the Maze.
The rest of my team consists of my wonderful editors and designers. Kelsy Thompson, developmental editor extraordinaire, helped me sculpt The Hidden King by her clever insights and ever-patient willingness to answer a tide of questions; her suggestions nudged me to place emphasis on everything important, and she discerned these with an artist’s touch. Thanks to Beth Dorward, copy editor and proofreader, for the repair of many a minuscule inconsistency. Affirming her extraordinary nature, she even offered insights beyond the scope of copy editing, which proved just as clever as her command of the minutiae. Last, though very far from least, the brilliantly- talented Micaela Alcaino designed a stunning cover with adaptability and vision, and I’m impressed by her patience with my ever-changing mind.
To all those who provided a word of encouragement or a passing suggestion: I extend my gratitude to you as well. Those little motivations kept me going through this long, hard, oh-so-worth-it process.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
E.G. Radcliff is an incurable writer, lifelong imaginer of worlds, and author of The Coming of Áed series of books. An insatiable reader and researcher with a penchant for all things Celtic and a love of the mysterious and magical, she brings a knowing touch to her Young Adult fiction.
She enjoys adventure, reading on the train, and dreams about flying.
She is based in Chicago, Illinois.
CONNECT WITH E.G. RADCLIFF
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COMING IN 2020
BOOK TWO OF THE COMING OF ÁED SERIES
The prequel to The Hidden King
CHAPTER ONE
His opponent’s name was Lommán, and poor Lommán wasn’t doing very well.
The sun was high and unusually warm for late autumn, and Lommán’s blood hit the dirt and turned dark brown as a meager crown egged them on.
“Quit,” Ninian suggested. He was short of breath, and his side ached; however inept, his opponent hit with respectable force.
Lommán, a big-boned young man a few years Ninian’s senior, only scowled. He advanced again, fists ready, but Ninian took advantage of Lommán’s clumsiness to strike at the man’s knee, collapsing his leg and sending Lommán tumbling to the ground. Light wind lifted dust from the street, enough to make Ninian cough, but he didn’t allow himself to be distracted.
“Last chance, mate.” Lommán, still cringing on the pavers, attempted to grab Ninian’s ankle, but Ninian evaded him with a dancer’s lightness. “Suit yourself.” With a swift kick to the back of Lommán’s round skull, the man collapsed like a ragdoll. Ninian made sure his opponent was truly unconscious before turning away.
The crowd, losing interest, dispersed, and after taking a moment to catch his breath, Ninian trotted over to the edge of the alley. His love was waiting.
“That one was stubborn,” Áed noted, his eyes catching the light as he pushed himself away from the wall. “Well done.” Ninian snuck a quick kiss before Áed good-naturedly pushed him away, chuckling. “You smell like blood, love.”
Ninian frowned. “Is that unusual?”
“You smell like fresh blood,” Áed clarified. “Come on, let’s go. You can clean up at home.”
“I’d like to go this way, if that’s alright,” Ninian said, pointing, and Áed obligingly nodded. The alley opened into a courtyard dominated by a building of crumbling stone, and Ninian paused. The hollowed-out citadel—of which only the innermost keep remained fully intact—had the bones of something once-beautiful, but over the centuries, time and neglect had degraded it to little more than a ruin. The source of its strength long ago rotted away, the centuries-old hold scarcely stood out from the rest of the city’s ramshackle constructions. Ninian ran his hand over the corner of the foundation-stones; the edge was smooth from years of his touch, and from his mother’s before him.
The first time Ninian had ever told Áed what the old citadel meant to him, back when they’d both had no more than eleven years, Ninian had been strangely embarrassed. The building was a husk, barely a shadow, and to find any meaning in the ashes of its grandeur seemed childish. “It’d feel wrong to let it go,” Ninian had confessed.
Áed had understood. In fact, Áed had been genuinely interested, and Ninian had relaxed as he told his stories.
His mother had taken him to the old castle whenever she’d been able to, even when she’d been hugely pregnant with her second child, and she had told Ninian tales about the Maze of before. She’d told him to watch for the ghosts of kings and queens, and Ninian had obeyed until he was sure that shades of his ancestors were drifting through the crumbling arches.
He remembered those moments fondly, which was easy enough to do. They hadn’t lasted, after all.
In the center of what was once the castle’s courtyard, three ratty urchins were scuffling in a ditch, clawing and punching and screeching all the while, and as Ninian and Áed crossed the space, two of the children broke free of the third and almost slammed into Áed as they tumbled across the ground. “Hey!” Ninian caught the nearest one, a little girl with wild hair and wilder eyes, by the back of the shirt. “Watch it.”
She snarled at him with enough ferocity that another man might have let it go, but Ninian lowered himself to his knees, keeping a hand on her shirt so she couldn’t break away and return to her assault on the other children.
“You like fighting in the streets?”
The girl blinked, trying to reach Ninian’s hand on her back. “They called me names.”
“Fools will talk. For gods’ sake, don’t fight unless you need to.” He let go of her shirt, and she stepped back. “Go on.”
“You gonna tell me to say sorry?”
“Hell, no. Now, scram.”
The little girl took off across the courtyard, and Ninian, sighing, turned back to Áed. “Can you imagine if Ronan was like that?” Then he caught how Áed was looking at him: his love’s eyes were a little distant, like he was looking through Ninian instead of at him. Áed got that way sometimes, and it never failed to spook Ninian thoroughly. “What?” he demanded.
“Nothing,” Áed said, looking away and breaking the moment. The sun made Áed’s eyes, always red, seem to shine crimson.
“Liar.”
Áed rolled his eyes. “Last time you said I was looking at you funny, I told you what I was thinking. You looked at me like I was a different species.”
Ninian suppressed a quick shiver. “I did not!”
“Yes, you did, but it doesn’t matter.” Áed grinned, flexing his broken hands. “Good to know that I can do something that scares you.” Áed didn’t look intimidating, that was certain—any of Ninian’s opponents, and definitely Ninian himself, could defeat Áed at hand-fighting in minutes.
Of course, there was more to the world than hand-fighting. “You are scary,” Ninian muttered.
“Seriously, though,” Áed said, the grin widening over his face. He really had a nice face. “You’re a bit of a terror yourself. You haven’t lost a fight in three weeks. Three weeks, Nin!” Evidently forgetting about Lommán’s blood still on Ninian’s shirt, Áed settled into Ninian’s side. “It’s great. Really.”
And truly, it was. Ninian hadn’t even broken a finger in the latest fights, and the victories he’d managed had hardly been insignificant. When Ninian won, there were spoils; he fought where he was told to fight, and Cathair, the leader of Ninian’s gang, only set his best fighter on people who had much to lose. Lommán, for instance, was the second-in-command of a rival group, and his downfall was opportune for Ninian’s bunch—Ninian would get paid well for that one, he hoped. In the past few weeks, he, Áed, and Ronan had eaten decently, and Ninian had even been able to buy Ronan a new coat for the coming winter. Ninian returned Áed’s half-hug with a matching smile. “Thanks, love. Couldn’t manage it without you.”
They found a seat at the edge of the courtyard, and Ninian absently watched the people as they passed. The place was alive under the midday sun. In this sector, far from the docks and the filth that collected around them, a good number of ratty children darted about or lurked in the shadows of alleys; they scampered between peddlers, beggars, and shopkeepers before fleeing the open courtyard and disappearing into the absurd tangle of streets. Heedless of their victims’ curses, the vagabond children pickpocketed their way through the passersby, and Ninian watched with a slight bias in the children’s favor. He’d been one, once.
A dark-haired head among them caught Ninian’s eye as the boy sprinted past, and Ninian frowned, leaning forward to watch the child slip out of the courtyard. “Áed, was that…”
Áed had seen it too, for he suppressed a laugh and pressed his lips together. “I think that was Ronan.”
“You’re joking.” Ninian stared at the alley where Ronan had vanished.
“I suppose he learned from the best.”
Ninian felt himself flush a little. “I wasn’t a very good thief. Ask Máel Máedóc, he’ll tell you.” Still, he whistled, impressed, and looked again to the alley that had swallowed the younger boy. “I’m proud. Good on him.” Then he shot Áed a sidelong look, wondering if Áed would admonish him for that.
Áed, however, didn’t seem displeased. “I’ll bet this explains where yesterday’s ham came from. I wondered.”
&nb
sp; Ninian raised an eyebrow. “He said he won it playing cards.”
Áed snorted. “Have you met Ronan? That boy can’t lie to save his life, he can’t win at cards.” He bit his lip. “Then again, he got you, didn’t he?”
Scowling good-naturedly, Ninian leaned back. “Playing cards, my ass.” He couldn’t help but chuckle. “I don’t think I’m going to say anything to him.”
“I’m certainly not.”
Ninian dropped an arm over Áed’s shoulder at the chilly wind that crept under the sunlight, and Áed moved in closer with a tiny shiver. Ninian had learned a while ago that Áed was not at all fond of being cold. “Want my jacket?” Without waiting for Áed to decline, Ninian shrugged out of his coat and handed it to Áed, who wrapped it around his shoulders with quiet thanks. Ninian held him close again, feeling the breeze through his shirt. The seasons were turning. “The Festival’s coming up.” He thought he could taste frost on the air despite the sun. “I hope winter’s not too bad this year.”
“Me too,” Áed said. “But you’re just saying that because you know I hate it. You like winter.” He shook his head. “You’re mad.”
Ninian didn’t think he’d ever actually told Áed he liked winter. He did like the way snow covered everything in perfect, clean white, and the way the air became visible with flying flakes. He liked the icicles that hung like glass swords from the rafters. Even the cold was a blessing, because everything quieted down with the drifting snow. Ninian still fought, but his opponents were pettier and less dangerous. Most of the time, he and Áed stayed in their flat where it was warmer, passing the time in each other’s company. Áed, perceptive as he was, couldn’t have missed the change in Ninian’s mood during the long, dark months. “A little,” Ninian admitted. “I’m a little mad.”
“That’s alright. I’ve always known that.” Áed kissed the side of Ninian’s chin, which, when he was slouched against Ninian, was all he could reach.