Prince's Fire

by Amy Raby

  “Hardly,” said Lucien. “You’re the only one who can do it.”

  “I’m not skilled at this sort of thing.”

  “You’ll do better with him than I would,” said Lucien. “Please say you’ll try. For the sake of Kjall.”

  How could she deny Lucien when it was for the good of her country? “I’ll try.”

  • • •

  Prince Rayn was bored. The negotiations this morning had gone nowhere, and they’d disbanded the meeting in mutual frustration. Now he was back in his stateroom with little to do and wondering how long he’d have to stay in Kjall before he could in good conscience return home.

  His stateroom had a bookshelf, but the books were written in Kjallan. He could read Kjallan, but it was a tedious translation process, more work than it was worth. He’d tried it for about half an hour and given up. Then he’d watched out the window for a while, but his view was of a garden. Pretty, but it got old. Full of pent-up energy like an unexercised colt, he began to pace.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  He froze, his muscles knotting with tension. “Who’s there?”

  “Lornis.”

  At least it wasn’t Zoe. “Come.”

  Magister Lornis entered. “Why do you act like a caged tiger? Nobody’s locking you up.”

  “Because nothing is being accomplished here. We should go back to Inya.”

  “You were ordered here by the king to negotiate a trade agreement,” said Lornis.

  “Not by the king. By the Land Council.”

  “Via the king,” said Lornis. “You can’t talk to the Kjallans for one day and then give up and leave.”

  “Then what am I supposed to do?”

  “Come to an agreement with the Kjallans.”

  Rayn snorted.

  “At the very least, stay here long enough to look like you tried.”

  “This Emperor Lucien—he’s a bad king,” said Rayn. “Have you seen how he’s accompanied constantly by an escort of four or five guards?”

  “You can’t judge him by that,” said Lornis. “Kjallan culture is different from ours. All their rulers have bodyguards. Even the princess has one.”

  “So they’re all bad kings,” said Rayn. “The princess included.”

  “Didn’t she invite you to go riding? That would get you out of your stateroom at least.”

  “I’m not marrying her, so why bother?”

  “It would be better than pacing your rooms.”

  Rayn wasn’t sure about that. That princess was a Kjallan temptress; he wasn’t getting anywhere near her. He wouldn’t let a pretty face trick him into trading brimstone to the Kjallan warmongers.

  “Well, the emperor’s offered you an alternative,” said Lornis.

  “What’s that?”

  “He suggests you take a sightseeing trip.”

  Rayn halted midstride. “Why?”

  Lornis shrugged. “I think he wants to play for time. Let you get used to Kjall while tempers cool. He means to send the princess with you.”

  “Ah,” said Rayn. “That’s his angle. He thinks she’ll seduce me.”

  “You should accept,” said Lornis. “We can’t go home yet, so why not spend our time more productively? You could get a look at the country.”

  “Where does he want to send me, exactly?”

  “Your choice.”

  That was surprising. He’d thought for sure the emperor would maneuver him toward some particular location, one that best showed off Kjall. “Riorca, then.”

  Lornis’s brows rose. “The frigid north? That’s a long trip.”

  “By sea it’s not bad—five or six days each way,” said Rayn. “I want to see this country that Kjall conquered, enslaved, and then supposedly liberated. I have my suspicions that the Riorcans are not as well treated as he claims they are.”

  “If you travel by sea, you’ll be trapped in the small confines of a ship for upward of twelve days, with this princess who intimidates you.”

  “She doesn’t intimidate me,” said Rayn.

  Lornis smiled. “So you say.”

  “Convey my answer to the emperor,” ordered Rayn. “I’ll go to Riorca by ship. Six days north, we take a look around, then six days back. We go through a couple more horseshit days of negotiations, throw our hands in the air, and head home to Inya.”

  “Surely you don’t want me to tell him all of that.”

  “Just the first part.”

  “Look, on this trip—” began Lornis.

  A blast of trumpets silenced him.

  Rayn turned, trying to locate the sound. It was coming from above his head, probably from atop one of the towers. He went to the window and spotted a pyrotechnics light show above the middle tower. “Look there.”

  Lornis joined him at the window. “The Kjallans are celebrating. I wonder why. Some sort of holiday?”

  “They probably just declared war on someone,” said Rayn.

  4

  Celeste quivered with excitement. The palace was astir with the news. Empress Vitala had returned! Celeste was part of the small welcoming party who greeted the empress when the carriage arrived at the palace gates. Vitala looked exhausted—not a good thing, in the state she was in—and Emperor Lucien whisked her away for the remainder of the day. Celeste didn’t expect to see either of them until the morrow.

  It was not until past lunchtime the following day when a knock came at her door. “The emperor and empress,” called Atella.

  “Enter,” called Celeste.

  The door opened.

  “And hangers-on,” added Vitala, as two dogs trotted into the room ahead of her and Lucien. One was the black-and-white Patricus, the other the gold-and-white granddam Flavia. Tottering at Vitala’s side was Imperial Prince Jamien, Lucien and Vitala’s three-year-old son and heir to the Kjallan throne.

  Celeste’s eyes went to Vitala’s belly, searching for a bulge. It wasn’t there—too early yet. But it would be there soon. She was three months into her second pregnancy. “Sit down. Make yourselves comfortable. How was your trip? Are you rested?”

  Vitala plopped onto a sofa, and Lucien sat beside her, slipping an arm around her. “The trip was, shall we say, interesting. And I’m rested enough, even if some people”—she glared at Lucien—“might have woken me up a little early this morning.”

  Lucien grinned. “Some people were eager to hear details about your trip.”

  “They were eager for something,” said Vitala.

  Flavia curled into a ball at Vitala’s feet while the younger Patricus trotted about the room, sniffing everything. Jamien wandered off in search of shiny things to destroy, which made Celeste’s stomach tighten, but Lucien reached forward and scooped him up—obviously a well-practiced motion—and settled him on his lap.

  “Were you able to install your new agents?” asked Celeste.

  Vitala nodded. “They’re in place.”

  One of the empress’s projects over the past five years had been the establishment of the Order of the Sage, a covert organization whose mission was to collect information and promote peace within the empire. Before becoming empress, Vitala had been an assassin working for the Obsidian Circle, which at the time had been an underground resistance group, so she knew about secret societies and how they operated. When she’d come to Kjall, she’d discovered the Kjallan intelligence infrastructure was shockingly primitive, and she was taking steps to correct that.

  Little Jamien pointed at Flavia. “Horsey.”

  “Not a horsey,” said Vitala. “That’s a doggy.”

  “I ride the horsey,” announced Jamien, trying to squirm out of Lucien’s lap.

  “She’s not a horsey, and you cannot sit on her.” Lucien turned to Vitala. “He’s been doing this lately—climbing on the dogs. I’ll send for his nurse so we ca
n speak without distraction.” He carried a fussing Jamien to the door, conferred with the Legaciatti outside, and returned to his place beside the empress. “I believe you had something to tell Celeste?”

  “Indeed.” Vitala turned to Celeste. “You heard that Prince Rayn requested a sightseeing trip to Riorca?”

  “Yes, I’m to go along. We’re taking a ship to Denmor.”

  “Well, I’ve a message I need delivered to my agents in Denmor. Recruiting for the Order of the Sage has been slow, and I haven’t many couriers yet. But I don’t trust the signal network. You’ve proven amply that our ciphers can be broken.”

  “Easily,” said Celeste.

  “I was thinking since you’re going there, you could be my courier.”

  “I’d be happy to.”

  “Excellent,” said Vitala. “One of my agents in Denmor will approach you. He or she will use the code phrase lemons in winter. When you hear that phrase, I want you to give him two names: Aulus Helividius and Gaius Cinna.”

  She blinked. “Can I write them down?”

  “Absolutely not. You must memorize them.”

  “All right.” Aulus Helividius and Gaius Cinna. Aulus Helividius and Gaius Cinna.

  “Got it? Repeat the code phrase to me, and the names.”

  “Lemons in winter. Aulus Helividius and Gaius Cinna.”

  Vitala smiled. “You’re all set.”

  Celeste loved being part of Lucien and Vitala’s inner circle and knowing things that no one else did. Vitala was one of two people in the world she trusted absolutely. When she was thirteen years old, there had been a palace coup. A distant relative named Cassian had deposed Lucien, seized power, and forcibly married Celeste—a political marriage only, never consummated, thank the gods—to legitimize his claim to the throne. Vitala had been one of a team of Obsidian Circle agents who had broken into Cassian’s tent, assassinated him, and rescued her.

  Vitala’s mouth twisted a little. “Lucien told me you heard about Prince Rayn’s history.”

  “You knew about it too?” That stung. She’d thought Vitala would be on her side in wanting her to know as much as possible about her husband-to-be.

  “I did, and I told Lucien he was making a mistake in keeping it from you.”

  “Rayn doesn’t seem to trust us,” said Celeste.

  Vitala straightened her skirts, protectively cupping her not yet bulging belly. “I actually see that as a point in his favor. He shouldn’t trust us until he gets to know us a bit better. With this sea voyage, we’ve bought a little time. You’ll bring him around. How could he resist a woman as lovely as you?”

  Celeste looked down at the floor. She wasn’t that lovely. No man had ever loved her for anything more than her wealth and her position as the emperor’s sister. She’d had only one romantic relationship so far, not counting Cassian, and it hadn’t turned out well. She wasn’t skilled at enticing men or winning their trust. Her talents were in mathematics and linguistics, and they wouldn’t do her much good here.

  “Don’t think of this as needing to charm Prince Rayn and win him to our side,” said Vitala. “Instead, think of it as an intelligence mission. You’re good at research and solving problems. So solve the problem of Prince Rayn. Find out what motivates him so that when you come back, we can bring him into the fold.”

  That sounded a little less intimidating. “I’ll do it.”

  5

  Celeste gazed out the open window, swaying in her shipboard cot and sipping her morning chocolate. Below, the ocean undulated, flecked with foam. On the distant horizon, dark shapes swam in the haze: the cliffs and lowlands of the Kjallan shore, which the Goshawk was skirting on its northward journey to Riorca. The captain had granted his commodious quarters to herself and Rayn, although they were not rooming together. A partition had been constructed between the two halves, and they used different doors to enter and exit. She liked that Rayn was sleeping so near, near enough that she might hear him breathing, and sometimes she sat quietly and listened, hoping she might hear him moving about. But the partition was thick and the ship noisy, with the wind groaning in the sails and the sailors calling as they went about their work.

  Atella sat cross-legged on the cot across from her, crocheting a tablecloth. The cots were clever contraptions, not mounted upon the floor, but hanging on ropes from the ceiling, so that when the ship heeled over, causing the floor to slant, furniture didn’t slide across the room and nobody fell out of bed.

  Celeste returned to her treatise in hopes of losing herself in a world of mathematics, where everything was systematic and logical. This wasn’t the problem she was supposed to be solving; she was supposed to be solving the problem of Prince Rayn and his reluctance to make any kind of alliance with her family. But the prince was ignoring her. From the beginning of the voyage, he’d claimed seasickness, a plausible assertion except that Celeste saw and heard no signs of illness. On two occasions she’d knocked at his cabin door and been turned away. She’d approached him on the quarterdeck several times, only to watch him retreat to his cabin. And when the captain had invited both of them to dinner, Celeste had attended but Rayn had declined.

  Nearby, a door squeaked open. Was Rayn going out on the quarterdeck? She met Atella’s eyes and they froze, trying to silence their cots, which creaked on the ropes. Voices outside the cabin—Magister Lornis, and, yes, Rayn as well.

  Atella set her crocheting aside. “Are we going out?”

  “In a minute,” Celeste whispered. “I don’t want to look too obvious.”

  She reread the page she’d just written. Then she set aside the treatise, put down her chocolate, and hopped out of her cot. She left the cabin, flanked by Atella, and emerged onto the quarterdeck. Pale midmorning sunshine spilled over her. The ship was driving upwind and heeling over, giving the deck a slight slope, but Celeste was accustomed now to maneuvering on a surface that didn’t stay horizontal. Where was Rayn?

  There, on the opposite side of the ship. He stood at the rail, looking out at the open ocean with Magister Lornis at his side. Loose hairs from his braid danced in the wind.

  Atella sighed. “That is one handsome man.”

  “One aggravating man,” said Celeste. But Atella was right. Rayn had that effect on women. He wasn’t vain. She never saw him striking poses or showing off; if anything, he seemed oblivious to his good looks, though he had to be aware of how women responded to him. If she were an artist, she would paint him where he stood, pensive and looking out over the water.

  “You’re so lucky,” breathed Atella.

  “Not really,” said Celeste. “He’s not interested in the marriage.”

  “He’ll change his mind.”

  Celeste doubted it. But she’d promised to do her best for Lucien and Vitala. As she braced herself to step forward and open a conversation with the prince, somebody else walked up to him. It was a woman, young and blond and pretty.

  “Who is that?” she whispered to Atella.

  “I’ve no idea.”

  Celeste watched as the woman spoke. Rayn’s body language was not open to her; he folded his arms and took a step back when she intruded into his personal space. His movements were stiff and unwelcoming, which Celeste found perversely satisfying—at least she wasn’t the only woman having trouble approaching this man. But who was this woman? All the sailors on the Goshawk were men. She looked Inyan rather than Kjallan. Probably she was part of Rayn’s entourage, but then why did he seem not to want her around?

  Her heart thudded in her chest. Was this the servant woman he’d impregnated?

  There were indications of an intimacy that went beyond the relationship a prince would normally have with a servant. The woman’s manner was soft and enticing; she stood closer than she ought. Even Rayn, though he clearly didn’t want her around, was not behaving in a businesslike manner. He looked more like a man rebuffing an unwant
ed advance.

  Curious.

  The blond woman walked away and took the ladder that led belowdecks.

  Now it was Celeste’s turn. She headed for the rail. Rayn glanced over and saw her coming. After a word with Lornis, he left the rail with his adviser in tow and took a wide circle around the ship. Celeste felt hot all over, flushed with humiliation. The other woman was worthy of a few words of conversation, but apparently Celeste wasn’t. She considered following him, but decided she’d look ridiculous. Instead, she went to the rail where he’d been. Rayn and Lornis returned to their cabin. Gods curse them. “I can’t believe this,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “He’ll come around,” said Atella. “He has to.”

  He wasn’t going to come around; she could see that. But even if he didn’t like her, he could show her a little respect. And she was going to tell him so. “I’m going to his cabin.”

  She marched across the deck to Rayn’s side of the captain’s quarters, knocked, and spoke loud enough to be heard through the door. “I wish to speak to Prince Rayn.”

  “He’s indisposed,” someone called from inside.

  “He was fine just moments ago,” replied Celeste.

  No response.

  “Rayn!” She banged on the door again. “You’re avoiding me, and I feel I should know why.”

  The door opened. Celeste shivered with anticipation, nervous at the possibility of actually speaking with the prince, but the man who stepped through it—and closed the door behind him—was Magister Lornis.

  “Your Imperial Highness, I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “Prince Rayn is seasick. He went out on the quarterdeck in the hopes that it would help his condition, but unfortunately it did not.”

  “Seasick,” Celeste repeated doubtfully.

  Magister Lornis bit his lip. “It’s been a problem this trip. He offers his most sincere apologies.”

  If Rayn was seasick, she had the pox. She pushed her way past Lornis. “I don’t care if he’s sick. I must talk to him.”

  “Your Imperial Highness!” Lornis protested. He reached out as if to grab her arm, but pulled back. One did not manhandle the Imperial Princess of Kjall.