The Heir and the Spare

by Kate Stradling

  “We have some willow tea brewing for you too,” the woman said. “It’ll put you more at ease.”

  Iona whispered her thanks. Her eyes sought Jaoven, who leaned within the doorway observing.

  How long had they been here?

  She opened her mouth to ask as much, but the woman cut her off. “I’ll get your tea, and then you get some more sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

  It could be the same night as they had arrived, but the prince had been nearly as tired as her and he seemed alert now. A full day must have passed while she slept, plenty of time for a messenger to ride to the capital with news of their safety.

  But Jaoven had called her Yanna and told these people they were brother and sister. Had he sent a messenger at all? And if not, why not?

  She had no opportunity to ask these questions. The woman returned with a mug of freshly brewed tea. Its contents acted as a balm on Iona’s burning throat. When it was drunk, her eyelids drooped and she sank into the bed again, curled into a ball, warm beneath the quilt and heedless of the circumstances that kept her there.

  Stiff, sore muscles plagued her the next morning. She had guessed correctly: they had been in Straithmill for two nights already. Jaoven had written a message to his delegation, by way of the capital, but with no money to pay the messenger, he had resigned himself to the speed that charity usually traveled. Their hostess, Emell, and the rest of the village knew them as Yanna and Jove, two siblings who had met misfortune in the Morreinn and gotten lost on their way out.

  “But why not tell these people who you really are?” Iona asked. They sat together on the steps leading up to a narrow porch. Emell had deemed her strong enough to get out of bed as long as she took the quilt with her. She huddled in its warmth, comfortable in the spring breeze.

  “I never announce my title unless I have the means to defend it,” Jaoven said.

  Certainly four years with a target on his head had bred such caution in him, but still she scoffed. “These villagers are not going to hurt you. Besides you have a knife. Or three.”

  “Which I’d much rather not use.”

  She tipped her head in acknowledgment. She’d rather he didn’t use any weapons as well. “But why keep who I am a secret?”

  Jaoven met her gaze, one eyebrow lifted. “Would these people recognize your title? And are you certain of their loyalty to the crown?”

  A chill coursed down her spine, but she dismissed the fear that caused it. “Wessett doesn’t have that kind of unrest among its citizens.”

  “That you know of. Five years ago I would have said the same of Capria.” He shook his head before she could protest. “It doesn’t matter. Revealing who you are would only lead to revealing myself.”

  “And then you might have to wave your little knife around,” Iona said.

  A laugh shook his frame, but he schooled it. With renewed gravity he shifted his attention to the deep green meadow and the hills that swelled toward the snow-capped Morreinn in the distance. “It probably hasn’t occurred to you, but regardless of the circumstances that brought us here, if word circulates that the second princess of Wessett traveled alone with the crown prince of Capria, it may create incorrect assumptions, which in turn might influence the negotiations between our two kingdoms.” He turned and looked her dead in the eyes. “And I think I can safely say that neither one of us wants that outcome.”

  Her heart flip-flopped. The people of Wessett might expect him to marry her instead of Lisenn, in other words, and when he didn’t, a scandal could undermine their carefully arranged alliance.

  Until this very moment, she hadn’t realized how close they were sitting to each other. The porch steps were wide enough for three people at least, but less than a hand’s width lay between them. Which one had sat first, or had they both sat down together? If she leaned in, she could easily rest her head on his shoulder, or…

  She broke eye contact and fixed her gaze upon the distant mountains instead. In a quiet voice she said, “No, no one wants that.”

  Silence stretched into a chasm that pushed them further apart. The river glittered like a silver ribbon, swollen against its banks where it emerged from the sloping land in the distance—the land they had survived together. But there was no “together” anymore. Calamity had made them brief allies, but now, in safety, they could resume their mutual contempt.

  And yet, disappointment hovered at the edges of her mind. She pushed it away with cold logic: an alliance with the second princess of Wessett would not serve Capria in the manner they needed, and she despised Jaoven anyway.

  Even if her perception of him had completely changed.

  In hindsight, there were other good reasons to hide her identity along with his. How would Lisenn react when she learned her impulsive attack had failed? She might be relieved, if she had even a glimmer of conscience, but more likely she would send someone to finish the job, thereby preventing her sister from coming home to reveal the truth.

  If that were the case, the crown prince of Capria would become collateral damage in that act, a necessary sacrifice to keep her terrible secret.

  Iona, while technically safe, felt more vulnerable than ever. The dynamic between the sisters had changed in that moment by the Awinrea. Lisenn had committed an outright crime. What, then, would stop her from committing more to cover it up? Everyone around the younger princess was in danger, even though she hadn’t told a soul what her sister had done.

  Perhaps when the Caprians came for their prince, she could convince them to keep her survival a secret and let her part a different direction. She could remain hidden in the countryside until Lisenn was safely married and on her way across the channel.

  The prospect made Iona sick at heart, but she saw no other option. Even if she accused her sister outright, it would only be hearsay. No other witnesses could attest to the crime. It would easily distort into a younger sister jealous of the heir to the throne.

  No, her best option was to remain hidden—presumed dead, if she could convince Jaoven to declaim any knowledge of what had become of her. It shouldn’t be difficult: he had already invented a brother-sister relationship to avoid having their names bandied together. If the Caprians arrived free of any castle emissaries, as she sincerely hoped they would, she could persuade them to leave her behind and then beg the villagers’ help smuggling her elsewhere.

  She ventured a glance at him, unsure how to broach the subject and racked with guilt for the part he played in her survival. She needed him to marry Lisenn. That union provided her only sure path to safety.

  Even if it landed him with a somewhat murderous wife.

  He seemed lost in his own thoughts, oblivious even to her presence. Her courage failed. She gathered up the quilt around her, intending some physical distance between them to clear her head. But as she rose and turned back to the house, she froze.

  Emell stood in the doorway, a sheepish expression on her face and a lute in her hands. “I thought, if you were feeling well enough, you might like to play to pass the time.”

  Confusion flashed through Iona. How had the woman known—?

  “I noticed the calluses on your fingertips,” their hostess continued, blushing deep red. “My late husband had them, different from a laborer’s calluses. The instrument was his.”

  Jaoven pushed up from the steps, a congenial air upon him. “You have a sharp eye. She does play the lute.” He shifted his practiced smile to Iona. “What say you?”

  Reluctantly she received the humble instrument, a simple model with only six courses and a worn finish upon its wood.

  “It hasn’t been played since he died last year,” said Emell, apologetic. “I’m sorry I don’t have a finer one to offer you.”

  But Iona was already plucking at the strings, determining how much tuning they would require. “It has a lovely resonance,” she said.

  Emell’s blush renewed. She ducked her head in mute thanks and backed away a step.

  Jaoven retreate
d inside, which Iona thought strange until she considered it. He had admitted his affinity for music, and she had repeatedly demonstrated her reluctance to play in his presence. The door and the windows to the house were open. He could listen from within if he pleased, hidden from view. Or, if he had better things to do with his time, he could devote his attention there. How he occupied himself had nothing to do with her.

  She sat on the step, carefully tuning the strings. Her faint plucking carried on the breeze, the simple act restoring a sense of equilibrium that had abandoned her these past few days. As she picked out the first strains of a melody, she closed her eyes and could almost imagine herself home in her studio. She idly played, song upon song, humming lightly.

  When she opened her eyes again, a small crowd of children knelt in the yard. Iona sat up straight, alarmed.

  “Please, milady, can you play another?” asked one of the older girls, twelve or thirteen.

  The porch creaked, and Emell moved into Iona’s periphery. “We have minstrels that travel into the village during the warmer seasons. Our youth like to gather to hear them play. You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

  She smiled, and the quiet hope that burned in her eyes touched Iona’s soul. This woman—this village, in fact—had provided her shelter when she had been on death’s door. What a paltry repayment a simple concert was.

  The princess turned back to her impromptu audience. “What would you like to hear? I’ll play it if I know it.”

  They rattled off the names of several folksongs, tunes she had learned over the years. She played each in turn and sang the words when she knew them, although her voice still had a ragged timbre to it. To avoid straining, she encouraged her audience to sing along, and their piping voices acted as a balm upon her soul.

  This was the future of Wessett, the rising generation. She felt oddly melancholy when she thought of them in those terms. They deserved better than Lisenn as their queen, but with any luck, her vanity would confine her to the royal estates when she finally ascended to that title. Her subjects might live their entire lives never encountering her.

  As she finished a ballad, one little boy sitting cross-legged waved his hand to get her attention. “Milady, do you know ‘The Bird among Thorns’?”

  Iona frowned. “I don’t.” He sagged, as did several others in the group. “But you could teach me,” she said. “Can you sing me the tune?”

  Instantly their spirits renewed. They sang for her with gusto, a song about a bird caught among briars, its wing injured and a snake weaving toward it through the bush. She recognized the melody as a variation from an older tune and soon enough picked out the chords to accompany them.

  The chorus petitioned help for the bird among thorns, and the children sang it with such earnestness that it raised the fine hairs upon Iona’s arms. It was a lament: though the words left the story open-ended, the bird was clearly doomed. And yet, that plea from such innocent voices in unison invoked a sense of hope nevertheless.

  As the song ended, she swallowed against a sudden lump in her throat. “Thank you,” she told her small audience. “You have given me a treasure.”

  They beamed. It seemed an appropriate end to the informal concert, so she set the lute aside. The children rose, each of them coming forward to grip her hand before they returned to their games or their chores. As the last of the group scurried away, Emell sniffled behind her.

  Iona twisted around, but her hostess only waved away her concern.

  “Don’t mind my tears. You have done us a dear service. We’re a small village, easily overlooked, and such a blessing as this is an occasion those children will never forget. Thank you for your kindness to them.”

  Iona blushed to the roots of her hair. “It was my pleasure.”

  Emell received the lute again, cradling it like a precious child in her arms, and Iona followed her into the house. As she crossed the threshold, her eyes met Jaoven’s where he sat in a low, comfortable chair.

  His expression was closed, almost somber. She averted her gaze and moved on to the kitchen, intending to help their hostess with lunch. Emell sent her to rest instead, and Iona didn’t argue. She took her midday meal in her room alone, claiming fatigue but in reality too much of a coward to face the Caprian prince.

  Why had he looked like that when she entered the house again? The tune for “The Bird among Thorns” was known in Capria as well, a relic of their shared heritage. Perhaps it had reminded him of his home, as “Capria Fair” did when Neven played it so many days ago.

  She banished the riddle, determined to let Jaoven occupy as little of her mind as possible.

  Afternoon brought the clatter of a carriage through the open door. Emell, stooping over a kettle of boiling stew, straightened and hurried outside. Iona, her pulse fluttering erratically, gathered up her ever-present quilt and followed at a slower pace.

  Jaoven was already on the porch with their hostess. As soon as Iona joined them, the trio descended to the small, grassy yard. A team of four horses pulled an unmarked coach up the road, with villagers gesturing to its driver where to go.

  Iona’s pulse fluttered. She hadn’t spoken to Jaoven about leaving her behind, and she wasn’t sure whether she could convince either him or his friends of the scheme.

  When the vehicle stopped, however, it wasn’t any Caprians who emerged. Instead, the door flung open and Aedan leapt to the ground.

  Her shoulders sagged from the relief that flooded her. He ran across the intervening distance and engulfed her in a crushing embrace. They stood for a long, silent moment, the whole earth standing still around them. The anxiety that had caged her for most of the day splintered and fell away.

  At long last, he pushed her back at arm’s length. He looked as though he hadn’t slept since the last time she saw him, dark circles beneath his eyes and a haggard cast to his face.

  “How—?” she started to ask.

  “Let’s get you out of here,” he said, and he ushered her toward the waiting coach. Jaoven took a halting step to follow, but Aedan waved him off. “Not you. You can go to the very devil, for all I care.”

  “Aedan!” Iona hissed.

  “What? His people will be coming for him, and I’d like you well out of the way before they get here. I don’t trust these Caprians any further than the nose on my face.”

  A blush flooded her cheeks, that he could speak so brashly of someone to whom she owed so deep a debt. She dug in her heels. “He saved my life.” Though she spoke the words softly, they yet carried.

  Aedan spared her rescuer a sidelong glance, but the hardness around him didn’t ebb. “Good. It can make up for all the times he put your life in danger. Oh, don’t think I’m ignorant. I’ve had the whole story from Bina. But even if that past didn’t exist between you two, you can’t be found here together.”

  “I sent my people word that she was here as well,” Jaoven said. “You don’t have to worry. They’ll be discreet.”

  “They won’t have to be discreet, because they didn’t get your note. The messenger came to me first, and I rewrote it to have no mention of her.”

  The prince bristled. “You intercepted a private correspondence?”

  “I didn’t intercept it. I told you, the messenger came to me first, as he would have whether you wrote or not. Do you really think the people of Wessett are so blind and oblivious that they wouldn’t recognize their own princess in their midst?”

  Shock thrummed through Iona. Her attention snapped to Emell standing at the base of the porch steps. The woman met her gaze and reverently tipped her head, confirmation of his words.

  She had known all along the identity of at least one of her house guests. In the light of that knowledge, the offering of the lute and the concert among the children took on an entirely different meaning.

  Jaoven, narrow-eyed, asked the marquess, “But why would they send word to you?”

  Aedan bucked his head. “Because I’m the one who—” He broke off, clenched h
is jaw, and exhaled a controlled breath. “Because I’m the first one in the family the messenger could get to.” He caught Iona’s hand beneath her draping quilt and squeezed. Quietly he said, “I told you that you would have help and harbor among your people.”

  His intensity raised goosebumps on her skin. “What is going on?”

  He pretended not to understand her meaning, answering as though she had asked a different question instead. “Your sister and the Caprians arrived back at the castle in the dead of the night before last, claiming that you jumped into the flooded Awinrea, that Prince Jaoven jumped in to rescue you, and that both of you were swept away by the current. Your father ordered search parties to drag the river basin ten miles west of here and to search along the banks between Sorrow’s Linn and the coast. And the treaty negotiations are obviously at a standstill, which is why both of you need to return to the capital as soon as possible. But not together.”

  He punctuated this with a fierce glare toward the Caprian prince, who scowled and said, “We already came to that conclusion ourselves.”

  “Proof that you aren’t as big a fool as I believed.”

  “Aedan.” Iona tugged a rebuke on his hand.

  He looked at her as though in anguish. “Please, Io, I told the messenger to delay a few hours before going on to the Caprians, but I don’t know how far behind me they are on the road, and there’s only one route in or out of this valley.”

  They needed to leave now, in other words.

  “My cloak is still in the house,” she said. “Let me get it, first.”

  Her cousin looked as though he might argue, but he thought the better of it. With a nod, he motioned her toward the open door. Emell ascended ahead of her, hurrying to collect the garment. They met in the small front room, where Iona exchanged her makeshift covering for its more formal counterpart.

  “Let me get you some bread to take with you, Your Highness,” Emell said. She hurried to her counter and a waiting loaf.

  Iona watched her quick work with a knife. From outside, Aedan’s low voice sounded in her ears, hardly louder than a whisper.