Rebel Prince

by Justine Davis

  Lyon drew back. “Do you have a name?”

  “I am called the old man of the mountain,” he answered.

  “I did not ask what you are called,” Lyon said.

  A wider smile came over the man’s face. He nodded. “My true name,” the old man said, “is Theon Talberon.” He looked at Lyon. “And,” he added, “years ago, I knew your mother.”

  Now this, Lyon thought, was getting interesting.

  Chapter 3

  CUB DIDN’T QUITE believe it, Shaina realized, although she doubted anyone but her would have known that look. She didn’t blame him. People from far-flung places across the system often tried to claim some kind of connection to the royals of Trios. It seemed to give them some sort of distinction they craved.

  “I see your doubt,” the old man said cheerfully. “But ’tis true. I knew the Graymist clan, even before your mother was born.” He shifted his gaze to Shaina with eyes that were alert and bright, for all his age. “And I stayed with them through the rebellion, that was won thanks to your father, the greatest flashbow warrior yet seen.”

  Although she was surprised he knew who she was, she let it go for the moment. “He is,” she said, her chin up proudly as she hid the grimace she might have let Cub see. To outsiders she showed only the greatest respect and admiration for her father.

  “But do you know the story of the first conquest?” the old man asked.

  Cub shrugged. “It was like any Coalition conquest. Bloody, deadly, and short.”

  “A succinct and sadly accurate assessment,” he said.

  “Creonic Age history,” Shaina said.

  “Not quite that old,” Theon said mildly.

  “Long before even my mother’s grandparents were born,” Cub said. “You say knew the Graymists.”

  “Yes. Of course, I have nothing to prove it but my word, a tale or two, and this,” he said, holding something out to Cub. “A gift from . . . let’s see, it would be your great-uncle? Or is that great-great? Time does slip away, children, I warn you.”

  Cub shifted his gaze to the object the old man held. Shaina quickly turned hers back to the old man; somebody needed to keep an eye on him at all times. He might be old, but her father—damn him—had always told her that sometimes threats came in the unlikeliest forms. The fact that she hated him just now didn’t negate what he’d taught her. He was, after all, the greatest flashbow warrior, just as Theon had said.

  She heard Cub suck in a breath sharply as he took the object from Theon’s hand. A quick glance told her it was a small carving, some sort of feathered creature rising out of a curved base.

  “The Sunbird,” Cub whispered.

  The old man gave him a pleased nod.

  She saw it then. The Sunbird. The mythical fiery bird of Arellia. And the name of the ship his mother had flown in her glory days with the Coalition, before the truth of what they really were had become clear to her.

  Unlike Trios, whose king had seen the truth from the beginning. The old king, Lyon’s great-grandfather, and his son after him, had held out long after every other world in the sector, making Trios the last to finally fall. And his grandson had been the one to lead Trios back to the freedom they had lost. A fine, noble tradition, set by those kings. A tradition that would one day fall to Lyon.

  Shaina sighed. It was hard to think of her lifetime companion as the king. To her he was still the boy who tolerated her knack for getting herself—and him—into trouble, and then managed to talk their way out of it. Tonight had been a dream, one last adventure, her rescuing him for once, before. . . . Maybe that’s why she clung to the childhood nickname that so irritated him; calling him Cub enabled her to forget he was indeed Prince Lyon of Trios. Destined one day to be king.

  He would be fine; he had learned what he needed, his parents and her own had seen to that. He was tough, strong, and smart, with his mother’s quick mind and his father’s cool temperament. And he possessed, she had to admit, although not to his face, some not inconsiderable fighting skills.

  But she still couldn’t picture the strong, powerful, regal King Darian not being around forever. Her head knew it would happen, that someday even Triotians passed from this realm.

  Even her father would, someday.

  Pain jabbed at her. Not now, she ordered herself. Do not think of this now.

  “I believe our meal is ready,” the old man said.

  This last was directed at Cub, and after a moment’s hesitation, he reached out and gave the old man back the carving, that remarkably detailed image of a creature that didn’t really exist.

  “This is not proof,” he said. “Many lay claim to a connection to my family.”

  “As practical as your mother, I see. Except, it seems, when it comes to keeping our dinner from burning.”

  Shaina grabbed the roasted brollet and pulled it onto the flat rock on the edge of the fire. It smelled so good, her stomach reacted with an audible growl. But Cub didn’t tease her as he usually would have. He was still staring at the old man.

  “Did your mother ever tell you of their home here?”

  “She has spoken of it, yes.”

  “Thanks to her service her family was able to keep it, until it was destroyed in the rebellion you are here to commemorate.”

  Shaina’s gaze shot to Cub’s face. His mother’s service in the Coalition was not his—or his mother’s—favorite subject. But his expression stayed even as he lifted a brow at the old man.

  “Yes.”

  She thought she saw a smile flicker across the old man’s face. This lovely brollet was going to wait, she thought with a sigh.

  “Did she tell you of the mural?”

  Cub drew back slightly.

  “I see that she did. It was from that mural of a sunbird that she drew the name of her ship, was it not?”

  “Yes.”

  The old man leaned back, smiling fully now.

  “Why don’t you portion that out, my dear?” he said to Shaina. “Less for me, my old bones don’t have much meat left, so they require little.”

  She was hungry enough that she didn’t quibble, but hesitated at putting her only weapon at hand to such use. With a wink, the old man took his own blade, carefully and pointedly still sheathed, and held it out to her. “You are your father’s daughter, aren’t you?”

  “As fate would have it,” she said neutrally as she took the knife and began to carve.

  “How do you know of the mural?” Cub asked. “You were in that house?”

  “I know of the mural,” the old man said as he took the meat Shaina held out to him, “because I painted it.”

  Shaina stopped in the motion of handing Cub his portion.

  “You?” she said, then grimaced as she heard how disbelieving she sounded. “No insult intended.”

  “None taken,” the old man said easily. “It has been years since I have painted in such detail. And,” he added with a sigh, “there is little market for such these days on Arellia.”

  Shaina took a bite of her own meat, and barely managed not to sigh aloud at the taste of it. The men began as well, although the old man was true to his word and did not eat much.

  “Now Trios,” the old man said as they ate, “is a place for such work. A place of freedom and good. And a beauty it will soon regain. But Arellia . . . Arellia is a place of wonder and mystery. Some would say magic.”

  Shaina nearly snorted aloud. Inelegant, she thought. But then, she was. She’d made her peace with that long ago, yet it still rose now and then to irk her. Her mother was tough, battle experienced, and a tactical genius, yet when moved to do so she could put on a show of feminine beauty unmatched by any save the queen. Shaina herself had the toughness, was working on the experience and tactics, but she was also inelegant, impatient, and a little wild. So be it. />
  “So, my young friends,” the old man said, after handing back at least half of what Shaina had given him, leaving it to them, “what brings you to my mountain? Are you searching for the famous Graymist coffers?”

  “The what?” Shaina asked.

  Cub smiled. “It is an old legend among my mother’s family. Of magic and lost treasure. I’ve not thought of it in a long time.”

  “The tales are commonly told here, and have been even more so of late. The visit of a prince of Graymist blood has renewed interest.” He looked at Cub steadily. “But then, your people have been a trifle too busy to be telling stories, haven’t they?”

  “It happens when evil strikes so deeply,” Cub said. “Rebuilding takes time.”

  He was quoting his father again, Shaina realized. Her Cub did pay attention.

  “Did you ever wonder why,” Theon said, “of all the worlds they conquered, the Coalition tried to erase only the people of Trios? Other worlds, the people were kept for conversion, or failing that, slaves. But Triotians were to be exterminated.”

  “My mother says they knew,” Shaina said. “They knew that of all their conquests, it was the people of Trios who would be most likely to cause trouble. They would be the most stubborn, because they were the most dedicated to their freedom, their way of life. The High Command wanted no one left for the rest of the system to rally around.”

  “And they were right,” Cub said softly.

  “Indeed, they were,” Theon agreed. “Your father rallied people the Coalition long assumed subjugated. He was exactly what they feared he was.”

  Lyon smiled. “Yes. He was. And is.”

  “What is this treasure?” Shaina asked. “I’ve not heard of it, and my mother is Arellian as well.”

  “It is particular to the Graymist family,” Cub said. “Supposedly accessible only to them.”

  “Including you,” the old man pointed out with a grin. “And who doesn’t love a tale of hidden treasure?”

  “My mother told me the story often when, as a child, I would not go to sleep,” Cub said. “It is supposed to be in a secret cave on a mountain, undiscoverable by anyone who does not have the right.”

  “It has always belonged to the Graymists. And in fact,” the old man put in, “it is said to be on this very mountain that looks over us now. That is why I asked if you were off to search. Seems an exciting adventure to have before you settle down to your duties, Prince Lyon.”

  Shaina saw from Cub’s expression that the man could have said nothing more likely to stoke the desire to do exactly that.

  “Are you searching yourself? Have you run out of strength or coin, and now must replenish either or both?” Cub asked.

  Theon laughed. “You are as astute as your father, I see.”

  “If by this you mean suspicious, yes, it is a lesson I’ve learned at his knee.”

  “And no doubt learned well. As your father had to.”

  Shaina knew from her own mother’s experiences as a collared Coalition slave more than she cared to about lessons learned hard. That history was in part why she held her king in such awe; she doubted very much she had the kind of forgiveness in her that had allowed him to forgive, accept, and even come to honor her mother—the woman who had once thought she owned him.

  “I have no need of it,” the old man said. “I live a simple life. ’Twould do me no good anyway, since if the legends are true, I could not take it. But were I younger, as bold as you are—and a Graymist—I believe I would find the hunt irresistible.”

  Shaina understood the man’s words. And indeed, she found the idea almost irresistible herself. She turned to Cub, studying him intently for a moment—and thought she saw an answering urge.

  “Shall we, Cub?” she asked. “One last adventure before you must start carrying all that responsibility on your shoulders?”

  He turned to her. She saw the gleam in his eyes, and knew the answer before he spoke it.

  Chapter 4

  NO ONE SEEMED to notice him. Wrapped up in their revelry, smugly celebrating. They thought they were safe. They did not look beyond this day. Their minds were too small, too narrow to envision the scope he, so much wiser and experienced, saw so clearly.

  The tall, thin man pulled his cloak closer around him. It was a warm day, yet no one seemed to think it odd that he was wearing the heavy garment.

  These fools do not think at all, he told himself. They are but insects, an annoyance, but not a hindrance.

  That they had, once, defeated the mighty Coalition was a part of history he chose to ignore. In fact, he had only a vague memory of the truth of that battle, so completely had it been supplanted by the official version—that the retreat had been a tactical decision only.

  He pondered this new opportunity. He knew everything would change soon anyway. Not soon enough to suit him, of course. It chafed at him that things were moving so slowly. He had plans, important plans, and they could not begin until the move was begun. But they would move, his plans would work, and he would soon be back in the inner circle, where he rightfully belonged. He would regain his position and be honored as was his due, with the apology owed him. All the time he’d spent here in the last weeks, studying, learning, waiting for his opportunity, would culminate soon, and in personal triumph. And it would taste doubly sweet, after the years of disgrace and humiliation he had so unjustly suffered. It was not his fault that his commander had been a bumbling fool.

  He had thought he would have to wait for the coming storm for his chance, that only then could he decide the best moment and action. And now it had been unexpectedly handed to him, as if on a golden platter. He had his key back into the empire within his grasp. And when he was back, those who had dismissed him, or declared him too crazed or disgraced by his late commander’s idiocy to matter, would pay.

  He dodged a knot of revelers, swirling his cloak around him to keep from touching them. The smell of wine and lingberry liquor met his nose, which wrinkled with distaste at the odor. They reminded him of nothing less than the unwashed Sowerths, whose reputation for filth was unmatched in the system.

  Yet he nodded, smiling, at them. The fools would think him just another of them, mindlessly seizing the anniversary of their silly declaration as an excuse for drunken frivolity. But his smile was not with them, it was at them, even as he pitied them their blindness and relished the thought of their shock at what was to come.

  He kept moving, taking a certain pleasure whenever he saw a trace of the scars left behind by the war. The repaired places in the roadway. The patched wall next to the Galatin city gate. Even the bright white finish of the Council Building brought him gratification, for he knew it had had to be repaired and repainted after the siege.

  The thought of the man who had caused that siege to fail pricked the rising bubble of enjoyment, and he scowled. That man had gotten away with far too much. Who would have thought Arellia, this world of foolish tales and legends, would have spawned such an unpredictable and unorthodox fighter?

  Yes, along with the others who had orchestrated this temporary setback—and it was temporary, he insisted silently, even if it had lasted years—in the glorious design, that particular Arellian captain would be dealt with once and for all. He should have died long ago, had in fact been reported dead. Only when he had come back to Arellia had he learned the skalworm had survived.

  Perhaps as reward for the coup he was about to manage, he would be permitted to kill the man. That would be a nice start.

  He hurried on. He went past the statue in the square, knowing better than to look at it now. The very image of that arrogant, brash, swaggering skypirate made him faintly ill. Silverbrake, more than anyone, even that upstart Arellian, was responsible for the ills he now suffered, for his status as outcast. And once he was delivered from this Hades, he would make it his mission to destroy him,
too. Silverbrake had been within his grasp once, and escaped. He would not be so lucky this time. By Eos, if he had to go to that damnable Trios itself, he would see that Dax Silverbrake paid.

  LYON WELCOMED the physical tiredness after the long day’s hike, even though it brought on a faint echo of his headache from that blow. Much of their journey had been uphill as they worked their way up the mountain that overlooked—and some said watched over—Galatin. It was an old singular peak among the hills, not particularly tall or wide, but rugged and varied in terrain.

  But they were in no hurry. The journey itself was the purpose, so they were taking their time. Still, this expedition would be much easier if the path were wide enough or cleared enough for an airspeeder, he thought.

  But easy, he reminded himself, was for the soft. Mental preparedness for the job ahead of him was important, but so was the physical. He had the example of his father, an imposing figure in his Triotian prime, to follow—a difficult pinnacle to reach and an inspiration at the same time. But he would reach it. Trios deserved no less than the best he could give.

  He finished the last bite of the rockfowl Shaina had snared. Coupled with the fish he’d caught from the mountain stream nearby, it had been a good meal. They would rest in the open tonight, on the lee side of the large rock their fire warmed. They shouldn’t need more, since the weather seemed to be holding fair. He would prefer the softness of Triotian grass to lie upon, but that was merely indulgence.

  Shaina was gathering bones to discard safely away; if there were animals to be drawn, better at a good distance. And since they were off looking for a mythical treasure, who was to say they wouldn’t encounter one of those equally mythical Arellian dragons?

  He smiled inwardly at the whimsy. Soon enough he would have no time for such things. He was certain his father did not. No doubt the propensity for anything whimsical had been destroyed the moment the Coalition had slaughtered his family and enslaved him.