Prince's Fire

by Amy Raby

  She continued to work his muscles, expanding her range to his neck and upper back. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about today.”

  He shook his head. “I had so little time to make my case.”

  “You made your case years ago, when you stood up to the Land Council’s abuses. Your people remember that.”

  “Worryn’s been smearing my name.”

  “And it’s not sticking,” said Celeste. “I think it’s not what you say to the people that matters. It’s what you do. Everything you’ve done has been in Inya’s best interest—even when you originally declined the trade agreement and marriage because you had concerns about a country you didn’t trust. It exasperated me at the time, but now that I understand it, I respect that choice.”

  “Come here,” he rumbled, pulling her around the back of his chair and into his lap. “I just thought of something that will help me relax.”

  “What, last night wasn’t enough?” she teased.

  His hand slipped beneath her robe and found her breast. She gasped, and his mouth covered hers.

  She turned molten in his grasp, like the liquid stone beneath Mount Drav, as his mouth had its way with hers. Maybe this was the best way to spend the morning prior to a ratification vote. She stroked his hair. Last night he’d let her unbraid it so she could run her hands through it. There wouldn’t be time for that this morning, but there might be time for other things.

  He knew just how to touch her. When she’d been with Gallus, she hadn’t liked having her breasts touched because he liked to mash them around. But now she understood why women liked this sort of touch. Rayn stroked her breasts, alternating light touches with firmer ones. She made little mewling noises as the sensations shot through her like miniature lightning bolts.

  It wasn’t that Rayn was a man of superior sexual skills—though perhaps he was; she had little basis for comparison. Rather, it was a matter of awareness. A lover like Gallus did as he pleased and was indifferent to how his partner responded. But Rayn was exquisitely aware of her response. Every time they were together, he found ways to drive her to greater heights of pleasure.

  Someone rapped at the door.

  “Go away,” called Rayn. He lowered his head and took her nipple into his mouth.

  The knocking continued. “Prince Rayn!” The voice was unfamiliar to Celeste.

  “Come back later!” said Rayn.

  “We’re here to prepare you for the ceremony,” called the voice.

  Rayn lifted his head from her breast with a noise of exasperation. “Gods-cursed ratification vote.” He pulled her robe back into place, covering her up. “Tonight, we finish this.”

  “I should hope so, after you’ve put me in such a state.” She climbed off his lap, smoothed her clothes, and returned to her seat at the breakfast table. She felt warm all over, and her sex was swollen with need. She sipped her chocolate, hoping the mundane act would return her to a less obviously aroused state.

  “Come in,” called Rayn.

  A quartet of servants entered the room. One carried a red, jewel-studded robe and a crown woven of live flowers. Another carried a basin and a razor, and the other two, a small box apiece—she wasn’t sure what was inside.

  “I’ll go back to my own room,” she said. “I need to get dressed.”

  Rayn nodded, looking with trepidation at the servants. “I’ll see you shortly.”

  She left her breakfast behind, but took the unfinished glass of chocolate.

  Lucien had been exceedingly thoughtful in planning his trip to Inya. Not only had he brought Bayard with him; he’d brought Celeste’s complete wardrobe—everything, at least, that had been on the Goshawk before she and Rayn had gone overboard. The clothes had since been brought up to her room. She sorted through them, hoping to find something that wouldn’t leave her stifling in the Inyan heat. Her syrtoses and formal dresses were all long-sleeved and made of heavy fabrics. Pox it—if she’d thought of this earlier, she might have had one of them altered.

  Never mind; she’d wear something Inyan. Sipping her chocolate, she sorted through her borrowed Inyan gowns, looking for something striking.

  Her stomach cramped as she worked. Nerves, perhaps, or had she eaten something she shouldn’t have? The latter was certainly a possibility. Inya was full of new-to-her foods.

  She put down her glass of chocolate, no longer interested in finishing it, and continued searching through the gowns.

  A stomach cramp bent her double, and her mouth flooded with saliva. Abandoning the dresses, she made her way to the chamber pot. Weak and dizzy, she lowered herself to the floor. The room was blurring. She had some idea that she ought to be concerned about what was happening. She ought to be yelling for help. But she seemed to lack the will to open her mouth. Despite the nausea, she felt contented. Even blissful.

  She was floating on a bed of air. She lay flat, staring up at the ceiling. Holding her eyelids open seemed like too much work, so she closed them, and drifted away on a cloud of mist.

  34

  Inyan ratification ceremonies were rare. The last one had taken place before Rayn was born. He had not realized there was so much ritual involved: a special robe, a crown of flowers, war paint on his face. War paint! Such adornment had not been used in the archipelago for centuries. The ceremony was old and apparently hadn’t changed much. He supposed there was little reason to modernize it when it was such an infrequent event.

  Celeste was taking longer than he’d expected to get ready.

  Several robed magisters had arrived and were walking him through the ceremony and what was expected of him. It wasn’t complicated. There would be music. He’d make a speech. After that, the Inyans in attendance would vote, yes or no, as to whether they wanted him to be their next king.

  Tiasa’s population had swelled in recent days. People from the outlying villages and other islands had come into town to attend the ceremony and cast their votes.

  “Check on the Kjallan princess,” he ordered one of the servants. “Tell her we’re almost finished here.” He was shaved and painted and wearing his ceremonial robe. The servants had done something curious with his hair—they’d separated it into three parts and dyed one part black and another red. The third they left in his natural blond. Then they’d braided them together.

  “Yes, Your Highness.” The servant left the room.

  The officials were teaching him some ritualistic words he was supposed to recite at the beginning of the ceremony. They were in the Old Language, but not difficult to memorize. He repeated them mindlessly.

  The servant came dashing back. “The Kjallan princess is missing.”

  Rayn stood up so fast he had to catch his chair. “What do you mean? Explain that.”

  “She’s not in her room. The door guard is in a panic because she says she was standing in front of the door the entire time, and no one came or went.”

  “Are you sure she’s not just in the dressing room? She can be shy.” He turned to the magisters. “Excuse me for a moment.” Feeling ridiculous in his ceremonial garb, he jogged down the hallway to Celeste’s room.

  The door stood open, and Vitala and Lucien were already there. Vitala was searching the room while Lucien spoke to a tearful Atella.

  “Sage’s honor,” said Atella. “I never left her door. I stood right here the entire time. Nobody came to the door, and she never cried out, never left the room—”

  “Well, obviously she left the room,” said Lucien.

  “Not through this door!” cried Atella.

  Vitala moved to the balcony and looked outside. “Where were her balcony guards?” she called.

  “She reassigned them,” said Atella. “They’re watching Rayn’s balcony.”

  Lucien turned to Rayn with a look of fury.

  Rayn felt hot all over. This was his fault? He swallowed. It was no u
se casting about for blame; first they needed to find Celeste. “What do we know so far? Is there any sign of violence?”

  “None,” said Vitala, returning from the balcony. “She’s simply missing. It may be harmless, but I don’t think so. Atella says she came in here to get dressed, and when your servant came by and inquired as to when she’d be ready, she knocked on the door and got no response. She looked inside and Celeste was not here.”

  He stepped into the room. Stay calm, he told himself. Keep sharp and figure this out. First he went to the balcony. Unless the room had a secret exit he didn’t know about, the balcony was how she’d been taken. It was three stories up from the ground, but that problem was solvable with a ladder or even a rope. “You,” he said, pointing at a servant. “Go into the garden and look for ladder marks.”

  “Yes, sir.” The servant ran off.

  She’d come to her apartment to get dressed. He turned the corner into the alcove that served as her dressing room. One of the cabinets holding her dresses stood open. On the floor next to it was Celeste’s mostly empty chocolate mug. “She was in here recently,” he called.

  Lucien hurried into the alcove.

  “See?” He pointed at the mug. “That’s her morning chocolate.”

  Lucien picked it up. “Why would she leave it sitting here?”

  Rayn, spotting another servant, called out, “Fetch Magister Lornis.”

  The servant ran off.

  The man he’d sent to the garden returned. “Your Highness, there are deep grooves in the ground below the balcony. Would you like to see?”

  “In a moment.” So the kidnappers had fetched her from the balcony with a ladder. Maybe they’d left some tracks he could follow.

  “Found something!” cried Vitala. “There’s a note wedged under the chamber pot.”

  Rayn and Lucien ran into the bedroom and crowded around Vitala to read.

  I HAVE HER. COME AND FIND HER.

  “Oh, gods,” said Rayn. “Who has her?”

  Magister Lornis skidded into the entryway. “What’s going on?”

  Rayn took the note from Vitala’s hand and pressed it into Lornis’s. “Celeste is missing. Read this.”

  Lornis read it, and his face went ashen. “Who’s got her, and what does he want with her?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  “What are we going to do about it?”

  “Find her,” said Rayn.

  “Well, you can’t do that,” said Lornis. “That’s what the kidnapper wants you to do. Besides, you’ve got the ratification ceremony.”

  “I realize the kidnapper wants me to come looking for her, but what else can I do? I can’t just leave her there.” Furthermore, if his racing heart and sweaty palms were any indication, he was in no condition to give a speech this morning. Not until he’d found Celeste and assured himself that she was all right.

  “We can’t delay the ceremony,” said Lornis. “People arrive hours before it starts just to get a good view of the proceedings. And if you don’t show up—well, think of Prince Turon.”

  “Yes, I know.” Prince Turon had been a candidate for the throne centuries ago, who’d been passed over because in his arrogance he’d been three hours late to the ceremony.

  This unseen enemy had forced on him the worst possible choice: lose Celeste, or jeopardize his sole opportunity to win the Inyan throne. He saw now that he was going to lose Celeste no matter what he did. If he didn’t win ratification, he’d become a powerless political exile, and Lucien would never allow him to marry her. But at least in that case she’d be alive.

  “Let’s consider who’s behind this,” said Magister Lornis. “It’s obviously Councilor Worryn. I don’t see that he has anything to gain from harming Celeste. He intends only to use her for the purpose of manipulating you. Which is why you have to go to the ceremony. If you’re not ratified, you know full well what’s going to happen. Worryn will seize control of the throne using your illegitimate daughter. You can’t allow that to happen.”

  Lucien pushed his way in between them. “Did I hear you right? Did you say you’re going to sacrifice my sister so Rayn can win his ratification vote?”

  “I’m saying they’ve no reason to want her dead,” said Lornis. “They just want to manipulate Rayn.”

  “How do you know they won’t hurt her?”

  Lornis hesitated. “I’m making an educated guess.”

  “My sister’s well-being cannot be hazarded on a guess,” snarled Lucien.

  Vitala stepped forward. “Why are we letting Worryn manipulate anybody? We know he’s behind this. Arrest him! Make him pay for his crimes. We’ve got Bayard, who will testify against him. Take him and force him to tell us where Celeste is.”

  “We haven’t time,” said Lornis. “Rayn has to leave in about an hour for the ceremony. Arresting Worryn and getting the story out of him will take days.”

  “If it’s done through your Inyan court system,” said Lucien.

  “What are you suggesting?” said Lornis.

  “I’m not bound by your courts or your laws,” said Lucien. “I’m the emperor of Kjall, and my sister has been kidnapped. If I order my troops to take this Councilor Worryn and interrogate him, they’ll do it. No one will stop me.”

  “You haven’t an army here to back you up,” said Rayn.

  “I have two dozen Legaciatti,” said Lucien.

  Rayn felt profoundly uncomfortable at the thought of the Kjallan emperor arresting a member of the Inyan Land Council. It was practically a declaration of war against Inya. But then, kidnapping the Kjallan princess might be considered a declaration of war itself. If he and his people were not careful, they could end up with disaster—tens of thousands of people dead in a pointless war. “I cannot authorize such an action.”

  “I don’t need your authorization.” Lucien turned to one of his guards. “Take a dozen Legaciatti to the council room and arrest Worryn. Bring him here—and bring a mind mage as well.”

  • • •

  Celeste awoke with her arms bound behind her back. She was aware of having been conscious for a short time already, in a dazed, uncaring stupor. Now the fog was lifting from her mind. The room was dimly lit, and she had the impression she was underground, perhaps in a cellar. The dirt floor pressing against her cheek was surprisingly chilly. Along the walls sat casks and barrels and lumpy sackcloth bags. The room smelled earthy. She thought the bags might hold freshly dug root vegetables: potatoes and turnips, or whatever their equivalent was in Inya. Rutabagas, perhaps.

  Despite the underground chill, she figured she had to be still in Inya. She couldn’t have been unconscious long—she wasn’t even hungry yet.

  She tried to move her legs and get to her feet but couldn’t. They were bound. Her arms were twisted behind her at an awkward angle, and she felt almost certain the bindings were cutting into her wrists. Yet she felt no pain. She tried to move by curling and extending her body like an inchworm. Might that accomplish anything? No, it didn’t.

  “You’re awake,” said someone behind her.

  She angled her head back awkwardly and spotted a woman sitting in a chair, sharpening a knife with a whetstone.

  It was Zoe, no longer possessed of that vapid look Celeste had seen before. Now the Riorcan assassin looked determined and cold. “For your information,” said Zoe, “we’re too far underground for anyone to hear you scream. But if you do, I’m cutting that pretty throat of yours.”

  “You’re after Rayn, not me. Why take me instead of him?”

  “You were easier to carry,” said Zoe.

  Ignoring that flip answer, she tried to make sense of the situation. It was ratification day, and the assassins had taken her. They’d captured her alive, when clearly they’d had the opportunity to kill her. Why? Probably they wanted leverage over Rayn. “Has the ratification ce
remony happened yet?”

  “Should be starting about now,” said Zoe.

  Celeste shifted, trying to make herself more comfortable on the dirt floor. Was Rayn at the ratification ceremony? Would he have the sense to win his political vote first and then search for her? Surely these people wouldn’t kill her—to do so might start a war. Even Councilor Worryn wouldn’t want that. But then, who knew what these assassins were after? Zoe wasn’t Inyan; she was Riorcan, and a rogue Riorcan at that. She’d probably like it if Kjall and Inya went to war. “If I die here, my brother will destroy this nation.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a shame?” said Zoe. Shick, shick, went her knife against the whetstone.

  “I see. You don’t care,” said Celeste. “You’d like this peaceful nation destroyed. And Kjall embroiled in a meaningless war.”

  “Honey, I don’t give two tomtits,” said Zoe.

  Above them came a faint sound, a wailing, as if someone were injured. No—after a moment, Celeste recognized it as the sound of a baby crying. “Is that your daughter? Yours and Rayn’s?”

  “Little brat never shuts up,” said Zoe, not moving from her chair.

  “I’ll quiet her,” offered Celeste.

  Zoe just laughed.

  “A war benefits nobody,” said Celeste. “Councilor Worryn wants to control the Inyan throne, and you want your daughter to be queen of Inya. But what good does that do either of you if Kjall invades?”

  “Worryn is an idiot,” said Zoe. “He wants to rule, but he hasn’t the stomach for it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He says we can’t kill Rayn on Inyan soil. Why should he care about Inyan laws, when he’s broken dozens of them? But he didn’t say I couldn’t kill you.”

  Celeste shivered. “If you wanted to kill me, you’d have done it already.”

  “What fun would that be?” said Zoe. “Rayn has become such a bore. Now I’ve got his daughter and his lover. He’s going to dance for me—you watch.”

  35

  Down in the garden, Rayn searched for clues. There were a few boot prints in the soft mud by the ladder marks, but they disappeared entirely when the mud ended at a paved walkway. He tried to pick them up again on the other side, without success. He searched up and down the walkway, looking for a spot where the prints might resume.