Pleasure and Purpose

by Megan Hart

  He'd been a fool to think he could buy affection. Purchase peace. She didn't know him and never had, and now he hoped she never would. He would have that, at least. The memory of how she'd taken his hand and thought him an entirely different man. She stared up at him with eyes softer than any she'd ever given him. Cillian didn't want her pity. He willed the lie to his lips and into his eyes and forced himself to believe it so she would, too.

  "Perhaps I do," he told her. "But I no longer want you." The king had not yet died, the prince had been put into custody, and Honesty had been escorted from the palace with only the clothes on her back and the hand-trunk she'd brought with her. She hadn't been allowed to see him, but caught a glimpse of that fine fall of red-gold hair from a distance as he'd been hustled down a far-off hallway.

  "They can't put him in gaol," she said as Bertram opened the carriage door for her. "He's a prince! And he's committed no crime, he can't be treated like a common criminal!" It might have pained the man to have to treat her with so little compassion, but his orders had come directly from that insufferable idiot, Devain. Bertram, his fingers clutched uncomfortably tight on her upper arm, shook his head. "He's not only having to face the Council of the Book about whether he's fit to succeed his father, he's having to face the Temple priests now, too."

  The glare he gave her meant this was somehow her fault, and though she knew she couldn't be held accountable, her stomach dropped. She shook off his grip and clutched her hand-trunk closer to her. He'd already searched it, the humiliation of having to prove she wasn't a thief was nothing compared to what Cillian must feel having to fight for his rightful place. Bertram had the grace to look discomfited.

  "The priests? Why?"

  Bertram shrugged, looking down, and gestured at the carriage. "Please, get in. I'm to take you to the train, lady. Please just get in."

  "No. You tell me what's going on. It's obvious Devain has had it out for him for a long time and can do this only because the king fell so suddenly ill. If the king had named another his heir it would have had to go through the council, yes? Before now? So Devain is merely using the king's illness to throw everyone into confusion. He's been plotting this for a long time."

  Bertram cleared his throat. "Lady, it's not for me to say." It had been a long time since Honesty had played these kinds of games, though she'd learned them at her father's knee. A long time since she'd had to stretch her mind in so many directions to imagine what might be done and how it might affect an entire situation. She'd been focused for so long, her duties to one person at a time, so now she struggled to put into place all the pieces she could grasp.

  She was missing too many. "Why is he being questioned by the priests, Bertram? Firth is of the faith but not strongly so. I've never even heard the Temple chimes once since I've been here."

  Bertram sighed heavily. "It's not enough for Devain to prove the prince's lack of ability, he's now got more against him than madness and debauchery and whatever else he's thrown out. Since you failed—•"

  Guilt slashed at her. "I didn't fail him."

  The man looked at her. "Since our prince sent you away, since he declared his Handmaiden of no use to him, Devain is contending the prince is incapable of solace. He's incapable of anything but what he's known to be, and therefore, unfit to rule. Devain has a strong and solid case, the documented support of the king himself, and the support of many of the lords of the court. He's been stoking this fire for some time while, forgive me for saying it, our prince has been playing at everything but what he was meant for. It's no wonder Devain's been able to topple him from his place."

  "He's not toppled yet," Honesty said.

  "No. But he will be," Bertram said. "There is no way around it, lady. You can't take away what he done in the past or what has happened since, and you can't take away the fact he's not done what's required of all our princes before they become kings."

  "Which is what?" she cried, wishing more than ever she'd read the papers in her hand-trunk when she was meant to. "What, by the Arrow, could he have needed to do that would keep him from taking his place?"

  Bertram sighed, apparently accepting she wouldn't do as she was told until he gave her what she wanted. "He's not married, lady. Nor betrothed, nor has he ever been and nor will anyone send their daughter to him."

  This struck her back a step. "The prince must be wed before he becomes king?"

  "Or promised in some fashion. How else can he get an heir?" Bertram shrugged and rubbed his forehead. "The king has sent his requests to many with whom he'd like to make an alliance. Because of what happened, none will take it."

  "What happened, what happened," she cried, irritated. "Everyone says it's because of what happened, but I scarce can think of anything that he might have done that would be so terrible years later!"

  "He killed someone, lady, and went to the madhouse for it." Bertram's low voice held shame, but truth.

  Honesty's stomach turned again, twisting. "He's not insane." Bertram looked pointedly at the open door. "You would be one of the few to think so."

  "He's not... I would know. He's not crazy, Bertram." Honesty got up into the carriage and arranged her skirts out of the way of the door.

  "There's all kinds of crazy, lady," Bertram replied and closed the door so firmly there was no way he could hear anything she said after that.

  In moments the carriage began its rocking and a short time after that Honesty was on the train, moving out of the station and away from Firth. She hadn't even asked where they were sending her but assumed it was back to the Motherhouse. She stared out the window as night fell and the countryside changed. She stared through darkness and until the light again filled the sky.

  Then she pulled open her hand-trunk and began to read.

  Chapter 15

  The plate of food stood untouched on the table, drawing flies, but Cillian didn't bother even to wave them away. Devain hadn't been so foolish as to try and hold the king's son as he would have a man of lesser status, but even if the room was decently appointed it was still a cell, and though the food was as fine as any that had ever graced Cillian's table it was still a prisoner's fare. It turned his stomach to take even a mouthful. He hadn't even taken any of the small ale Devain had ordered for him.

  What he wanted was a bath and some sleep, but the former had been denied him these five days past and the latter he dared not take. They kept you from bathing to demoralize you and put you closer to the beast they claimed you to be, but sleep was when they came to hurt you. Lessons well learned and not forgotten. Devain would know that and would be watching Cillian for signs of it breaking him, but Cillian refused to give the bastard even a hint that this treatment had affected him. He wore his soiled, five-days-worn clothes as though attired for a formal ball, and he stretched out on the thin mattress of the cot and closed his eyes for hours at a time, though he didn't sleep. He'd had visitors aplenty, for Devain couldn't dare deny him that, either. Cillian greeted them as though holding court, even as he knew sluts like Persis Denviel were coming so as to brag on his closeness with the prince rather than true concern. Alaric had come, looking worse than Cillian, his blond hair dulled and tangled and shadows on his face but bringing a bowl of herb to share and news of what was being said, mostly about the king's health and what had brought him low, speculation it was something other than his long habit of overindulgence. Rumors of if the king had indeed officially named Devain as his heir and denounced Cillian, and if he had the right to do so. Nonsense, mostly, but satisfying nonetheless. The country might have shaken its collective head at Cillian's recent exploits, but most of them couldn't also forget he was the son of Queen Ingrid, their beloved, that he bore her features and the color of her hair, and how they'd celebrated his birth and first steps as though he were their own dear boy and not only the king and queen's.

  Edward came, too, grim-faced but determined, revealing what was being said in the court amongst the lords who'd judge him when the time came. Devain had been hasty, a
cting as soon as the king fell, and people panicked about who'd take his seat. It had been easy to garner enough signatures to arrest Cillian on the charges Devain had provided, but it was taking him longer than he'd thought to get enough men to agree to bring Cillian to trial.

  "And yet he can hold you here," Edward said through gritted teeth, his fists clenched at his sides as he paced. "For your safety, he says. Lest there be an uprising." Cillian found a laugh, made easier by Edward's presence. "So he holds me for a few more days. So he brings me to trial, Edward, what then? What will he prove? I am my father's son, and there is none who will deny that. All the rest is detail." Edward turned with a shake of his head. "Devain has his heart set on your seat, Cillian. He wants it and he'll stoop as low as he must to get it. There have been pantomimes in the public square called 'The Mad Prince.' Think you Devain doesn't encourage them? He has the truth behind him."

  "And I'll not deny it," Cillian said quietly. "But you and I both know the worst I've ever done is better than some of the kings this country has seen." Edward's smile came slowly, but warmed the room when it did. "He's trotting out that ancient ruling about being wed."

  Cillian's man had brought him the old texts laying out the lines of succession. "I have a year after taking the crown to marry. Perhaps no father has wished to send his daughter to a prince of questionable person, but I'm fair certain, my dear one, that a king's crown and castle are of sufficient sweetness to lure at least one princess to overlook the fact of madness. And I'd only need one."

  Edward looked doubtful. "He's going to make you face the priests, as well." They would be more difficult to sway. "I shall have to put my trust in Sinder, then. I know my holy texts, even if I'm not a Temple-goer. I can quote them to please the priests. I can promise them money, if that's what it takes. Who knows. Maybe I can even find some true faith, if I have to. More than one condemned man has found his way to the light."

  "You have an answer for everything." Edward came closer and put his hand on Cillian's shoulder. "But then, you always have."

  The muscles beneath Edward's hand leaped and tensed, and the face Cillian had maintained to keep Devain and any who watched on his behalf at bay cracked. Edward saw it or felt it, he had to.

  He'd known Cillian too long not to notice. His fingers curled squeezing, and then Edward had both his arms around him.

  Cillian pressed his face into the familiar scent of Edward and gave in to his dear friend's comfort. He closed his eyes and pretended they were lads again, running and snapping at each others' heels. He pretended they were young and nothing had yet come between them, not jealousy, not fury, not hate. Not love.

  "I can help you." Edward's lips tickled Cillian's ear. "There are many who would see Devain encounter an accident and be happy of it."

  Reality snapped into Cillian, and he stepped back to stare into Edward's eyes. "No."

  "Cillian—"

  Another step back took him farther from Edward's embrace. "No, Edward. You have your lady wife and child to think of. What you say is too dangerous. I won't allow it. There are many who support him who'd look first to you should something happen. I won't have it. I won't have you risk your entire life."

  Emotions struggled on Edward's face. A flash of anger, of guilt. Cillian had put himself forward years ago to save Edward, and now the man, damn him, felt he should do the same.

  "I was a prince," Cillian said in a low voice, eyes never leaving his friend's. "With naught to risk but myself. And I loved you."

  Edward's jaw clenched and loosened. "I know you did."

  "And I still do." His heart swelled into his throat, threatening to choke him. "As I ever have. But you will not do that. If harm comes to Devain, you'll be the first blamed, and I won't be able to save you from this cell."

  "You would be king," Edward pointed out.

  "And what you did would still be wrong," Cillian told him. Silence. Edward's chest heaved and he blew out a long breath, then turned away. Cillian swallowed hard and sat, his legs gone weak from lack of sleep and anxiety. His heart pounded, choking him further, and he loosed his collar.

  "It would be wrong," he murmured to Edward's back. "I cant let you make yourself what you are not for my sake."

  "What I'm not?" Edward sounded strangled. "But I am, Cillian, have you forgotten?"

  "An accident caused by passion's heat is not the same as a premeditated one." He didn't say murder aloud, aware that Devain's guards could be bought off but the word would raise the price.

  Though he had at times imagined what it might be like to have Edward at his feet, Cillian had never truly expected to find him there. Edward crossed the room in three long strides and knelt, his hands on Cillian's knees and his forehead pressed to the backs of his hands. Cillian felt their heat even through the heavy velvet of his trousers, but was too surprised to do anything except place his hand on Edward's hair. His fingers dug deep into the depths, the strands thick and coarse and yet as silk on Cillian's skin.

  "Edward, my dear one," he whispered. "Don't."

  "I plead your mercy," Edward said without raising his head. "Cillian, by the Arrow, I beg you for it."

  How many times had he imagined a moment like this? Some nights, with the rats nibbling at the edges of his blanket and the darkness pressing into his eyes it was all he'd been able to think of. Edward, his dear one, his friend. Sometimes he'd thought of him with somewhat shameful desire mingled with thoughts of revenge, especially in the long, long days when Cillian had died a little every hour under the care of men whose cure was worse than the disease and Edward did not come.

  He'd never imagined that Edward on his knees would make him feel nothing but softness and clear-sighted love unblemished by anything else. He wanted to weep with it, but tears had stayed behind in the darkness with the rats and he could only manage to blink against the sting.

  "You have ever had it, Edward. How could you not know it?" Cillian's hand stroked down the dark hair and over the braid at the base of Edward's neck. "Rise you up, my dear one. You don't have to do this."

  Edward heaved another sigh and raised his face, and Cillian saw tears had not deserted his friend. He handed Edward a handkerchief from his pocket, but Edward only swiped them from his face without shame. He didn't get off his knees.

  "You will be king, Cillian, and I shall bend my knee to you then." Edward said it without any doubt, so firmly Cillian could believe it himself. "And you will be a fine king. Better even than your father. I know this."

  The tumblers of a lock deep inside him shifted, like tiny gears moving at last after long being rusted tight. Something moved in his heart and in his head, like a flower unfurling or the glimpse of sunshine through black clouds, or the parting of a curtain on a play long-delayed.

  Cillian opened.

  "Rise you up, my dear one," he murmured with a smile, "else I think you'd like to spend an hour on your knees in a different sort of service."

  Edward grinned. "If I were to serve you in that way, my prince, I guarantee it would not take me an hour."

  Cillian's hand found Edward's neck and pulled him close. He kissed Edward's mouth with his lips closed and his eyes open, and only for a moment. Then he did it again softer. And then, he let Edward go.

  "You have ever been my dear friend," Cillian said. "And I am fair grateful you will always be."

  "Then let me help you," Edward said, still on his knees.

  "Have you signed Devains petition to bring me to trial?" That sent Edward to his feet. "No! Of course not! By the Void, Cillian, how can you ask that of me?"

  "Sign it," Cillian said calmly. "Have Alaric sign it. Have Persis, though he might be more hindrance than help, I'm uncertain. Have all the lords who would serve me sign it."

  "Are you mad?" Edward cried, aghast.

  Cillian stood, his laugh genuine. "Well, yes, I've heard it said so.

  "If we sign Devain's petition, you will come to trial for your seat.

  "And all those who sign it will be made to
sit upon the voting committee, Edward. I need a majority to rule in my favor. Now, what do you think I'd rather have? A small list of men convinced I need a trial to determine my worth? Or a long list of those who know I'm worthy of the crown?"

  Edward stopped, shook his head in wonder and then again. "So simple."

  "Not all intrigue needs be complicated," Cillian said.

  Edward looked impressed. "I daresay Devain wouldn't have thought of it."

  "Even if he has, he can't stop you from signing."

  "You, my prince, are a marvel."

  "More than merely handsome, yes?" Cillian shrugged. "I lived more of my life than not being groomed to rule, Edward. Devain forgot that."

  "I forgot it, too."

  Cillian gave another shrug. "Well, it's a good thing I never did, yes: Edward came close and clapped his hand on Cillian's shoulder. "I'll go now and make it so. We'll shake him up, Cillian. We'll put that rat back in his hole."

  "And bring me word of my father, will you?" Cillian asked quietly, pleased with Edwards reaction but unable to forget the only way any of this would matter was if his father died.

  "Yes. Of course."

  They embraced again, without lingering, and Edward made to

  "My regards to your wife," Cillian said with a smirk, if only because some things would never change.

  Edward didn't rise to the bait. He made a rude hand gesture, instead. "I may have to remind her who you are, first. She does tend to forget every other man's name." Cillian laughed so loud and long the guard opened the door. Edward grinned and left. Cillian ordered a fresh plate and a jug of wine, and the guard looked surprised but nodded and closed the door.

  Cillian smiled to himself, well pleased for the first time since Devain had shown up at Edward's door. The guard brought more food and more visitors. Alaric had come, and Edward, and a few of the fabric merchants still seeking boons though imprisoned Cillian was unable to do much for them. Friends and enemies had all been to visit, but Honesty had not. And in the end, he mused, had it mattered? For he'd found his solace in forgiveness, the giving and the getting, both.