him all the places after all. But on entry, it was evident that he would not need to hide his presence. He hauled his meagre sack of possessions through the window with barely a care. The library should be open by now, but such was the lack of demand, the new chief-librarian often neglected to air the doors at all. It saddened him despite the freedom it offered. Delfinia was rotting.
He pulled the window casually shut, but before it was closed, the inflamed cry of the baker drifted in. That man truly did hold a grudge, and he chuckled. Then he popped a morsel of the stolen bread into his smiling mouth, appreciating its flavour all the more. It was very good bread, he had to give the bastard that. And with that satisfaction, plus the waning stimulus of panicked flight, he had a sudden urge to lie down. He appreciated the deathly isolation, and found himself looking to the Royal Gallery. If anywhere was likely to house comfy surroundings, then...
He licked his lips at the prospect of cushioning. After all, he was nearly a king here. But unfortunately, the climb to that place was a bit of a challenge, especially with aching limbs. It was toil he could do without. And yet despite his fatigue, he managed to claw his way across the far wall of the library, gripping barely proud bricks. But halfway across the void, he almost succumbed to the tiredness that now infected his body. He made the final precarious moves with incredible care, and with his hand on the rail of the gallery, he exhaled. Ha. King after all!
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Shit!” If he hadn’t been holding the rail, he would now be dead. In fact, he wasn’t entirely sure that wasn’t still the case. A hand extended, offering support over the banister, but he did not know what to expect on the other side. When he found it, it did not bode well.
The young man was pristine; utterly pristine. He wore simple black trousers, pressed to a dangerous edge, and a shirt of such whiteness that it was actually painful. It had been a long time since he’d seen anything that clean. His hair was glossy and well ordered, his face trimmed deadly tight, and he had deep eyes which betrayed a lot of confidence. And it was remarkable confidence too, because it seemed so out of place on such a young man. But in this man, a man he recognised, it was not out place. This man was born into confidence. He looked to the belt and saw it immediately. It was there. The sabre that he’d helped forge with his very own hands hung at the prince’s waist. It was an effort to look away from the thing.
“I said, what are you doing?”
He remembered himself and dropped to a knee. “Apologies, your Majesty.” Urgency rose in him, and with it came that consuming and possessive anger. He dearly hoped he would not need it.
“Oh, get up. And I’m not ‘your Majesty’. I am the heir. Not the king.”
Could he get up? Could he stand gaze to gaze with the future head of his nation? He was Kantal, and he’d always battled the odds. The deeper shades of his character unwound further, but they were well in check. The sense translated into a confidence of his own, and he extended himself, standing almost toe to toe with the heir. He smiled as he nodded.
Only then did embarrassment strike. He was in a state, and he was sure he could make out his own dishevelled reflection in the man’s teeth.
“So?” The prince tapped a foot, and then reinforced the question a seemingly final time. “What are you doing here?”
What better way to shock than with the truth?
“I hear that my king has an excellent collection on military mechanics and weaponry. I have come to indulge.” And perhaps have a nap? No; that was too much truth.
Those deep eyes had firmed in the two years since they’d last met. The expression was hard, and daunting. But he had grown too. He was rougher certainly, but he had his own particular brand of defiance. The heir stated the obvious.
“What makes you think that you have a right of access to these archives?”
Bulge escaped in his words, “the library, and all its contents, is for the people. And besides, what possible harm is there in perusing these volumes when no other bugger is looking at them?”
He regretted the use of the word almost instantly, but his coiled anger prevented him from apologising.
“This bugger minds.” Stern authority and a hand on the hilt of the magnificent weapon diluted his resolve ever so, but he stood firm. Then that stony face melted into something else. The hardness had been for show after all. “Oh, don’t worry about it. There’s nothing but dull statistics in these tomes anyway. This is no way to win a fight. This is.” The prince tapped the pommel of his precious sabre.
He gazed longingly once more. It was an effort to respond.
“I beg to differ, your…”
“Highness. It is highness.”
“Yes of course, your highness. But as I was saying, the maths behind the mayhem is of utmost importance.”
The prince turned and strutted into the room. He followed obediently.
“Nonsense. It is an easy equation. If I have a thousand fine men with fine weapons, and you have a thousand modest men with modest weapons. Then I am victorious. The equation is therefore simple: take more men with finer weapons. Victory is assured.”
The ignorance was exquisite. He could not proclaim authority on the matter of course, but he had read enough to know the basics.
“And from where will all these fine men come?”
The prince swept about the room, and he followed the exhibition. There truly were some treasures here, and a comfy looking lounger in the corner. His tiredness heaved at that.
“Well, I shall train and arm them of course.”
“And do you think your opponent sits idly while you train your army?”
The royal face turned stony, and the circumstances clicked smoothly into place. He now understood why the prince was here. He was supposed to be learning. But he evidently already considered himself an expert, which was folly. He was anything but.
“The borders will be defended by the lesser forces.”
He jumped hungrily into debate. If he had lacked intelligent conversation at the smithy, then the streets were barren. Excitement pushed him on. “And if these inferior forces are pounced upon by the enemy, will they not be defeated by your very logic?”
The prince was evidently not used to being attacked, especially by a vagabond. Come to think of it, the heir hadn’t even offered recognition. He must be unaware of their previous encounter.
“They will be in defensible positions.”
“And when you assault with your finery, is there not a chance that your enemy digs themselves into defence? Are you still assured of victory?”
“Well yes, I must admit that this does―”
“And even in open combat, what about the lay of the land? And the most unforgiving of all masters: Father Fortune himself. What if the Father is against you? And while these fine men are about their business, what happens to the heartland? And even despite all of this, even if you have all in hand, what if—”
“Yes, please, stop.” He had been raising his voice, almost to the point of anger, and now he flushed. It would not be sensible to shout at one’s future king. He hung his head.
“Sorry, your highness.”
“No; not at all. How is it that one so bedraggled comes to have such an intimate understanding of military mechanics?”
He shook his head. “I don’t, your highness. That’s why I’m here.” That and swordsmithery. He found himself looking to the weapon once more.
“Then you should stay. And you should teach me.” A door slapped shut below, but when he turned to look over the banister, the main entrance remained closed. The prince bridged the confusion. “Though perhaps some other time. My father is here, and he is rather less tolerant than I am.”
Shit! The King, here. What was going to happen? The prince stepped forward, arms reaching for him. He was going to be grabbed! He was going to be handed over to the Wings. No! He wouldn’t succ
umb. He slapped the prince’s hand away, his anger spitting into life. He wouldn’t succumb…
He paused. It was mighty bold to strike one’s future king. Bold or stupid.
The prince looked affronted, which was unsettling. He hadn’t meant to do that. He edged to the banister, but peculiarly his breathing slowed. He stared levelly at the prince, and went no further. He wasn’t sure of the basis for his actions, but he stood nonetheless. The heir furrowed his brow, but then he smiled. It was a broad and friendly-looking smile.
“I only wanted to show you this.”
With a kick of a lever, a trapdoor sprung and a ladder ran smoothly to the library floor. Oh blessed relief! He didn’t know whether he could struggle across that precarious wall once more. His limbs had suffered enough already.
As he started down the steps, his head just above the floor of the gallery, he paused. He could hear voices, so he didn’t have much time.
“Sorry, highness. I meant no offence.” It was not in his nature to apologise, but on this occasion...
“No need. Go. Flee.” He took the first steps down to safety, and was looking up at the prince when the instructions were expanded. “Oh, and Kantal. I will see you at the Fields tomorrow at midday.”
That he was not expecting. It turned out that he was more recognisable than he gave himself credit for.
________
“What are you doing here, you little shit?”
He hadn’t been expecting friendly in the Fields, but
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