The Immortal Prince

by Jennifer Fallon

  “Your stalling isn’t achieving anything, Cayal. Every mile takes us closer to Lebec Palace and Declan Hawkes.”

  “I’m not stalling; I’m trying to explain something to help you, Arkady.”

  “Oh…my mistake…do carry on.”

  He scowled at her, but continued his tale. “Lukys and I were talking when suddenly Pellys cried out: ‘I got one!’ I looked over and there he was, dripping wet, grinning like a fool, holding up a fish in his left hand. It was gasping its last few breaths, then finally went limp, either from suffocation or the strength of his grasp—I can’t say which. Pellys studied the fish for a moment, and then with a gentleness that shocked me, he kissed the dead creature and tenderly placed it on the ground beside the fountain. It sent shivers down my spine, watching him do that. He stroked it for a moment longer, smiling beatifically, and then he forgot all about it and plunged his hand back into the pool to resume his game.

  “It made my blood run cold, watching him with those fish. I don’t know how long he’d been at it, pulling fish out of the pond, but there was quite a pile of carcasses on the ground. In the end, I turned to Lukys and asked, ‘Why is he doing that?’”

  “What did he say?” Arkady asked before she could stop herself, a little annoyed at how easily Cayal could pull her into his imaginary world.

  Cayal leaned forward a little, his gaze holding her in thrall. “‘Because he’s immortal,’ Lukys told me. ‘Pellys can’t experience it for himself, so he likes to watch things die.’”

  Arkady stared at him for a long, silent moment and then she laughed. “So what you’re telling me is that you’re all psychotic killers, you immortals? Not just you?”

  Cayal leaned back in his seat, turning to look out the window, clearly annoyed with her. “How long until we reach this palace of yours?”

  Arkady glanced out of the window at the budding spring pasture rolling past the carriage. The lake shimmered in the distance, a silver smudge on the horizon in the bright sunlight. “A while yet.”

  Leaning his head against the side of the carriage, Cayal closed his eyes, feigning sleep. Arkady studied him for a time, at war with herself over this man’s future. She need do nothing, she knew, and all would be well. She could deliver him to Declan, suffer him telling her off for being a fool, for taking such a risk by transporting the prisoner herself with only an escort of a dozen Crasii, but that’s all that would happen. Life would go on. She and Stellan would take up their post in Torlenia and forget all about the man who claimed to be immortal.

  Or she could rely on her gut instinct, something that didn’t come easily to Arkady. Even as a child, Declan was the one who trusted his instincts. Arkady had always been the one who wanted proof. Taking risks was something she resisted. Perhaps that was why they had complemented each other so well, when they were younger. Declan was the adventurous one, Arkady the voice of reason. She’d kept him out of trouble and he’d coaxed her out of the cocoon of her father’s tiny, comforting house and into a world of which she was terrified. Declan’s grandfather used to call her the sensible one, the one who tempered his beloved grandson’s recklessness. The trait had followed her into adulthood. She was a scholar, now. She gathered facts, evidence, proof, before she came to a conclusion. This feeling that all the evidence was wrong, that her dependence on logic might let her down, was an alien sensation, one that left her almost physically ill.

  Suppose Cayal really is immortal? that annoying, illogical voice in the back of her mind teased. Suppose the Crasii legend of their creation by the Tide Lords is more than a myth? Suppose the Tarot is actually based on fact? Was it even possible? Her last conversation about the Tarot with Tilly suddenly leapt to mind. Some of us go to a great deal of trouble to ensure this record of the true nature of the Tide Lords never fades from memory, Tilly had told her. It’s a solemn trust that we take very seriously.

  Are the Tide Lords real? A discovery of such magnitude would dwarf anything that insufferable misogynist Harlie Palmerston had come up with, including his much-lauded Theory of Human Advancement.

  “What was the quest?” she asked abruptly.

  Cayal opened his eyes and stared at her blankly. “What?”

  “You said you were given a quest,” she reminded him. “Something to restore you in the eyes of your sister. Something that would convince her to revoke your exile and allow you to return to Kordana to marry Gabriella. What was it?”

  He looked away. “You think I’m a liar. Why should I tell you anything?”

  “Pretend your life depends on it.”

  Cayal thought on that for a moment and then smiled sourly. “If only you knew how much I wish it did.”

  She shrugged, as if it didn’t matter to her, one way or the other. “It’ll be a while yet, before we reach the palace. We might as well pass the time pleasantly.”

  “You think hearing about my life is pleasant?” He seemed amused by the notion.

  “Well, it’s certainly entertaining.”

  Cayal smiled. “I’m going to miss you, Arkady.”

  Somewhat to her surprise, Arkady managed to stop herself from replying: I’ll miss you too, Cayal.

  Chapter 36

  “We charge you with bringing the Eternal Flame to Kordana. That is your quest, Prince Cayal of Lakesh. You must bring the full knowledge of the Tide to your people.”

  “We” turned out to be the Emperor and Empress of the Five Realms.

  I first met the self-appointed Imperial family a few days after my immolation. I’d met Pellys by then. And I’d already met Engarhod’s youngest son, Rance, when he’d visited the temple while I was recuperating.

  Immolated in his early thirties, Rance was—still is, for that matter—a humourless man with fair skin and reddish hair who accepted my admission into their ranks with little more than a heavy sigh in Diala’s direction. Rance wasn’t unfriendly so much as apathetic. He had his own issues to deal with, mostly to do with his siblings, although Arryl offered no further explanation about the sibling rivalry in Engarhod’s clan. When I asked Diala about it, she was even less forthcoming, so I didn’t bother to pursue it. I had my own problems, too. There wasn’t much room left for worrying about what the other immortals might be up to.

  It didn’t take me long to learn the folly of such a blasé attitude.

  Unfortunately, by then, Kordana had been destroyed.

  It was several days after my fateful assignation with Diala and the Eternal Flame that they took me to meet the emperor. News had reached the palace that Diala had introduced another minion to their ranks and the emperor was planning to throw a party to welcome me, Arryl explained. Of course, she didn’t use the word minion, she made it all sound very polite and civilised. I soon learned quite the opposite was true, but I was looking forward to it at the outset.

  The palace was built on the shores of the crystal volcanic crater lake by a family of ignorant fools with endless time and resources on their hands and was constructed on a scale commensurate with their immortal status. Designed and decorated mostly by Syrolee, the palace was a shrine to ostentatious vulgarity. Syrolee had been a whore once, and the palace was proof—in my opinion—that good taste is an inherent trait and not something one learns over time. Syrolee is immortal, after all, but even after nine thousand years, she still thinks the only difference between class and crass is a single letter of the alphabet.

  Your much-feted Herino Palace? The one that overawes visitors eight thousand years later? It’s small and mean by comparison. You can’t imagine what this building was like. Columns of gold-flecked marble thicker than six men standing close together dominated the entrance. The columns were gilded around the base and finials—the whole palace took several thousand slaves and fifteen years to construct. Arryl told me all about it as we entered it, with a touch of irony in her smile that hinted I was likely to hear the story often.

  I couldn’t help but gape as they led me inside. The endless floors were made of several different-coloured m
arbles laid out in a complicated geometric pattern, interspersed with gold-flecked travertine, inlaid with silver edging. The halls were vast caverns designed to impress, the ceilings so high they made me dizzy. Some of the rooms were there for no other reason than to be gaped at, I’m sure. The entire complex was designed to intimidate all lesser mortals—and other immortals for that matter—who happened to step inside.

  There was a throne room—naturally—in keeping with the scale of the rest of the palace. Open to the elements along one side with a vaulted ceiling tiled in mother-of-pearl, this one room was roughly the size of Dun Cinczi. Diala led the way with Arryl and me a step behind, stopping before the podium, which held two ornate jewelled thrones that looked suspiciously as if they were constructed of solid gold.

  Engarhod occupied the throne on the right. A tall, angular man, he looks about fifty. His dark hair is grey at the temples and in those days he wore it tied back and held down with a golden circlet. His face is weathered by the time he spent as a mortal, and if he doesn’t open his mouth, he looks regal enough, I suppose. That day he was wearing a cloth-of-gold wrap, his chest a canvas tattooed with an intricate scrollwork, beneath his greying chest hair. Every time I see Engarhod, the tattoos are different. He has them drawn on his skin these days, because real tattoos won’t take—his body keeps healing them, you see.

  On Engarhod’s right sat his queen—Syrolee, Empress of the Five Realms. The whore elevated to empress. Both Arryl and Diala had warned me about Syrolee, but I wasn’t prepared for the reality. She wore a golden wrap matching Engarhod’s, but I could barely make it out under the weight of the golden chains she wore around her neck. Her hair was fixed in an elaborate nest of braids, her face painted white, her thin lips defined with a blood-red paste and her eyes heavily shadowed with kohl.

  I tried not to stare, but it was a challenge. Great beauty might draw the eye, but ugliness enhanced by bad taste is impossible to look away from.

  Diala stepped forward, bowed to the emperor and empress and then held out her hand to indicate her latest minion—me. “Your imperial highnesses, allow me to introduce the newest member of our company, Cayal of Lakesh, Prince of Kordana.”

  Syrolee studied me for a time before she spoke. “Diala informs us you seek a quest that will take you home.”

  Strictly speaking, I was looking for a quest that would see me welcomed home, not one that would take me there before my exile was revoked, but I didn’t argue the point. I was being offered the quest I sought. It would have been rude, I thought, to argue semantics.

  It was Engarhod who made the announcement that ended up costing so many lives. “We charge you with bringing the Eternal Flame to Kordana. That is your quest, Prince Cayal of Lakesh. You must bring the full knowledge of the Tide to your people.”

  I had my quest. It wasn’t what I was expecting—proselytising didn’t strike me as being a very adventurous occupation, but it meant returning to Kordana with the sanction of the Temple of the Tides. Even Planice would have trouble denying me entry with the weight of an entire religion behind me.

  I was still pondering the emperor’s words when Syrolee’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Arryl tells us you’re a real prince.”

  I nodded uncertainly, a little alarmed by her tone. I’m not sure what I expected, but it certainly wasn’t such animosity or distrust. “My sister is Queen Planice of Kordana.”

  “I suppose you think that puts you above us, eh?”

  The question took me by surprise. And I had no idea how to answer it. After a moment, I shrugged. “I never really thought about it.”

  “That’ll change,” a wry voice suggested from behind me.

  I turned to see who had spoken, but Arryl answered my question before I had a chance to ask it. “Lukys! Welcome home!”

  The man smiled as he approached across the vast expanse of the throne room, stopping long enough to kiss Arryl’s cheek as he passed her. He was dressed in loose linen trousers and a sleeveless shirt with bare feet that made no sound on the white marble floor. As he drew nearer I noticed a mottled grey creature sitting on his shoulder which turned out to be a tame rat, of all things. “Hardly the place I call home, Arryl, but I do appreciate the sentiment.”

  “Nice to think there’s something you appreciate,” Diala remarked sourly.

  He ignored the younger priestess and turned to study me, instead. “Kordana, eh? You’re a long way from home, lad.”

  “It’s a long story,” I told him, trying not to stare at the rat perched on his shoulder.

  “You’ll have plenty of time to tell us the details, won’t he, Syrolee?” Lukys glanced up at the podium and then he looked back at me, with a sardonic expression. “That’s one thing we immortals have in abundance, you’ll discover, my young immortal prince. Time.”

  “Immortal?” I asked.

  Lukys turned to Diala. “You didn’t tell him?”

  “I asked him if he wanted to be like us,” she replied, more than a little defensively. “It wasn’t as though I didn’t tell him how old I was.”

  “Ah, but did you explain your ceremony and what it would do to him?”

  “What did it do to me?” I shudder, even after all this time, when I remember how naive I was.

  “It’s made you immortal, son,” Lukys informed me.

  “How can you tell?”

  “Because the only other outcome is death. You’re standing here arguing about it, ergo, you must be immortal.” While I was still trying to take that in, Lukys turned to Diala. “Must have really tickled you, Diala, to think you could make an eternal minion out of a real prince, this time.”

  “Minion?” I echoed stupidly.

  “Ah! Forgot to explain that bit too, did she?”

  “Ignore him,” Diala advised with a frown. “Lukys finds it amusing to denigrate the emperor’s mission to bring the worship of the Tide to all the peoples of Amyrantha.”

  “Not at all,” Lukys disagreed. “If I thought for a moment that’s actually what these two were up to, I’d be out there banging a drum alongside the rest of you.” He laughed suddenly and turned to me. “But, who am I to interfere with the plans of the Emperor and Empress of the Five Realms? Diala is right. Pay no attention to me, Cayal, our Immortal Prince. I am a cynic and a bore.”

  Lukys is nothing like the wise and wizened old figure in your wretched Tarot. He’s a good decade younger than Engarhod to look at and much darker skinned, almost as dark as a Magrethan. The rat—whose name is Coron, by the way—is his constant companion. It’s immortal, too, the only animal I’ve ever heard of that survived the Eternal Flame. But I was describing Lukys, wasn’t I, not his wretched pet? His eyes are blue, his hair so blond it’s almost white. Even if his personality wasn’t so beguiling, the combination of light hair and eyes against that dark skin, and the rat frequently perched on his shoulder, is unusual enough to leave a lasting impression on everyone who meets him.

  “Cayal, the Immortal Prince, eh?” Engarhod echoed. “Tides, if we start calling him that, everyone will want a title.”

  “If anybody is going to be known as the Immortal Prince,” Syrolee declared petulantly, her golden chains clinking softly as she folded her arms across her breast. “It should be my son, Tryan.”

  “Why?” Lukys asked dryly. “Is somebody else using Lord of the Witless Wonders?”

  Jumping to her feet, Syrolee raised her hand angrily, obviously intending to strike Lukys down where he stood, but before she could do anything, she was slammed back against her throne by Lukys’s invisible grip, gasping with indignation.

  I was stunned. This was the first time I had witnessed anybody using Tide magic. The first time I even knew it was possible. What made it even stranger was I had felt Lukys manipulating the Tide. Until that moment, I wasn’t even aware I could sense it.

  But the others had no hint yet that I might have the ability to wield the Tide, and ignorance stopped me from revealing myself. I didn’t know if what I’d felt was common to ev
eryone present, so I said nothing.

  “Don’t even think about it, Syrolee,” Lukys warned in a voice that chilled me to the core. “I can’t kill you, but I can surely mess that face of yours up enough to keep you out of my way for a few days.” He let her go and she slumped in her throne, glaring at him, sulking but no longer defiant.

  I watched the exchange in astonishment, a part of me noting that Lukys was probably not a man I’d like as an enemy. Lukys must have noticed my expression because suddenly he laughed again. (He laughs a lot, Lukys does. Nobody else has such an eye for the absurd as him. Or is so willing to mock it.) “Bit of a shock to realise what a happy little family we are, isn’t it, Cayal? Just wait until you meet the rest of us.”

  “You shouldn’t speak to my wife like that, Lukys,” Engarhod scolded belatedly. “She’s the empress.”

  “She’s a flanking fool,” Lukys corrected absently, his attention still on me. “A trait common among our kind, I’ve noticed. Did Diala trick you the same way she tricked Taryx and Brynden?”

  I glanced at Diala, not sure who Taryx or Brynden were. The priestess shrugged and looked away. “They wanted it.”

  “Pity they didn’t understand what ‘it’ was.” When Diala refused to rise to the bait, Lukys shrugged. “On the bright side, you’ll have an eternity to wonder whether ‘it’ was worth the price you’ve paid, son. Have they taught you anything yet?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve sort of been…feeling my way.”

  “That’s what got you into this mess, wasn’t it?” he asked with a raised brow. “Hope you’re not the squeamish sort.”

  “Squeamish?”

  “Ah, haven’t met the rest of the family yet, have you?”

  “He’ll meet them soon enough,” Syrolee announced, sitting a little straighter on her throne. “And my daughter, too. Are you married, Cayal?”

  The sudden change of subject took me by surprise. “Ah…no…”

  Syrolee smiled. “Good.” Her predatory smile made me shudder. Still does, when she looks at me like that.