He had wandered there himself in the days following the battle, walking up and down the rows of little pawnshops, trying to pick out something that had belonged to Tyvian in a window somewhere. It was impossible—he had no idea what Tyvian had been wearing that night, and so he had no idea what might be there. Tyvian’s collection of jewelry was comprehensive, after all. The only thing Artus knew Tyvian was wearing that night was not the kind of thing that would show up in a pawn shop window.
So he had to resort to more direct means.
“Do you know what was taken?” he asked the mudlark, trying to look the man in the eyes.
The mudlark bowed rather than meet his gaze. “Some wards enchanted in some brooches, I think, and three rings, all silver. He might’ve also had a blade, or maybe just a scabbard—I didn’t get a good look, more’s the pity.”
Artus picked up the right hand of the corpse. There, nestled on the ring finger, was a plain iron band. His breath caught. No.
The mudlark smiled. “Your Highness sees it, eh? I knew it! I knew it! I told my brother and he didn’t believe me—looking for something on the right hand, I tells him, and maybe a ring. And there it is!”
Artus thrust at finger at man. “Watch it with the big smiles, friend. This was . . . might have been . . .” He couldn’t quite finish the sentence for the tears that sought to choke him.
The color drained from the mudlark’s already pale face. He bowed deeply. “Oh! My apologies, Your Highness! I was forgetting myself! Of course, of course!”
The stink of rot nearly made Artus gag again. Clenching his teeth, he grabbed the ring and worried it off the corpse’s finger. A fair amount of dead flesh came with it. Damned thing still doesn’t wanna come off.
The ring was lighter than Artus had expected. He brushed away the filth and death until he could see it clearly. He produced Michelle’s enchanted handkerchief and rubbed it clean.
The mudlark was still bowing. “I will not trouble Your Highness in his time of grief. If all’s in order, I’ll just collect my reward and—”
“Wait!” Artus held up a hand. The mudlark froze as the two White Guards silently stepped forward, their ivory volto masks peaceful as always.
Artus held the ring up to a shaft of sunlight pouring in from a hole in the distant palace roof. There, etched on the exterior of the ring in his hands, was the inscription A.V.B. WITH LOVE. Artus threw it on the floor. “That isn’t the right ring.”
The mudlark did not rise from his bow, but he did shuffle backward. The White Guards matched him, pace for pace. “Please, Your Highness—a mistake, is all. A misunderstanding!”
Artus found himself shouting. “You tried to trick me! You wanted to dupe me into thinking this was the king’s body!”
The White Guards loomed over the mudlark, their long spears gleaming, their white robes perfectly still. The toothless, filthy man trembled beneath their nongaze. “No! I swear! Please, Your Highness! Mercy!”
Artus’s heart pounded in his chest. He knew he had only to give the order and the undead constructs would kill this man instantly, without hesitation. There would be no repercussions, either—he was the Young Prince, beloved by the people, fresh back from his first victory in battle. He wanted to do it, too—this disgusting scavenger, looting dead bodies to sell their things to weeping widows and haggard old knights. The last two weeks had been nothing but death and blood and grief, and there were always men like this—grinning, soulless husks—making a few coppers off it. It made him more ill than the stench of any dozen corpses.
The mudlark had his face pressed to the floor, his whole body trembling. Artus took a deep breath. “Get out of here.”
The mudlark cocked his head. “Wh . . . what? Truly?”
Artus turned away and waved him toward the door. “Just go. Don’t come back.”
The mudlark stood slowly, eyeing the stone-still White Guards still flanking him, and gave Artus a cautious salute. “You’re a good man, Your Highness. A good man, blessed by Hann.”
“Vanish already.”
The mudlark left at a dead run. When he was gone, the two White Guards silently retook their places behind each of Artus’s shoulders. He looked at them both, not for the first time wondering who or what they had been in life. Myreon had spread the word that they were Eretherian peasant levies killed in the spring campaigns of years past and buried in mass graves outside the city. Artus wasn’t so sure. Though you couldn’t see what they looked like, thanks to the masks and the white robes, Artus was pretty sure some of them were too short and too small to have ever been men-at-arms. He had, however, resisted the urge to unmask any of them. In the end, he just didn’t want to know.
“Artus? Are you in here?” Artus turned to see Michelle entering through a servants’ entrance at the far end of the hall, her gown of bright green flowing like a cloud behind her slender silhouette.
“Over here!” He waved. And then she was there, draping her thin arms around his neck and planting a soft kiss on his cheek. The feeling of her lips made his spine tingle.
“You were missed at the celebration! Everyone’s asking for you.” She looked down at the two bodies lying on the floor. Her face fell. “Oh Artus, why do you do this to yourself?”
Artus leaned his forehead against hers. “Do what?”
“The mudlarks. You dragging every person with a pulse in here to ask them about red-haired men. You’re torturing yourself.”
Artus placed a hand on his chest, feeling Tyvian’s letter in the pocket where it always rested. “He’s alive, Michelle. I know he’s alive.”
Michelle sighed and gave him another kiss, this one on the temple. “I know, my love. But if he is, then he wished to appear dead, and from what you’ve told me of him, he probably did it for a good reason.”
Artus frowned. “No. He was just . . . just running away again.” The words hurt to say, like a knot in his chest he couldn’t remove. They always were followed by an unspoken phrase, one that echoed in Artus’s mind as loud as thunder: Except this time he didn’t take me with him.
Michelle seemed to sense his tension. Her delicate hands played with his hair. She pulled him close. “You’ve got to stop this, Artus. People are beginning to talk. They say you’re mad with grief.”
“Well, maybe I am.” Artus pulled away from her. He found himself staring in a full-length mirror hanging on the wall. He was almost six feet tall now, with broad shoulders that supported a cape of royal blue linen clasped with gold at his throat. A shirt of enchanted mail, a mageglass broadsword, riding boots of fine Eddonish leather. Sandy blond hair that fell in ringlets just below his ears, a close-short goatee that was filling in nicely for once. Artus had trouble reconciling the man in the mirror with the street urchin who had once been in his place. The one who’d stuck with Tyvian Reldamar through a hundred adventures, only now to be alone.
Gods, he thought, even Brana . . .
Michelle came next to him, and wrapped her arms around his waist, and put her head on his shoulder. He felt some of the tension bleed out of him—Michelle always had that power, it seemed. She was so thin, Artus felt as though he could break her with one hand, and yet she’d become a kind of anchor for him. Without Hool and without Tyvian, Artus felt adrift for the first time in years. Even Brana would have offered a companion in disorientation. But instead of a gnoll-brother to wrestle with, now he had responsibilities, expectations—he was the Young Prince of Eretheria. Without Michelle there to hold him, he thought he might have gone mad.
Michelle gave him a squeeze. “You have duties to attend to, my prince.”
Artus’s stomach fell at the sound of those words—my prince. “Right. Sure—of course.”
“You’ll be a great leader, Artus. I know it. You just have to believe in yourself.”
Artus didn’t answer—he had no idea what was appropriate to say and didn’t want to argue. It never felt right, arguing with Michelle, so he just let the young noblewoman hang on his arm as they walked o
ut of the hall.
Outside, on the muddy ground of Peregrine Palace’s once beautiful gardens, a great celebration was underway. Casks of beer, stacked in a pyramid, were tapped one after another to serve endless rows of peasant men in bleached white tabards—the soldiers of Myreon’s new army. These men were the guests of honor, and a whirling carnival of musicians and dancers and games of chance had been erected to celebrate their victory. His victory.
Someone in the crowd recognized him. Beer tankards were raised and a thunderous cry of HUZZAH, THE PRINCE echoed off the scorched walls of the palace. They also saluted Michelle, who waved happily to the half-drunken, gleeful mob. Artus found himself searching their faces for his friends, all dead or gone. Brana would have loved a party like this.
“Go on,” Michelle whispered into his ear. “Wave to your people.”
They aren’t my people. But Artus waved anyway. He smiled. He let himself be led across the gardens to the opposite wing of the palace. They might have arrived there without ever going outside, but Artus guessed Michelle wanted to be seen with him. She was staking her claim, as it were.
It was presumed by the world at large, if silently, that he and Michelle were to be married. They had not discussed this expectation themselves, though—there was something . . . delicate between them, Artus knew. Like dew on a spiderweb, he feared poking at it too much might ruin something forever. He could not tell how much of their relationship was based on . . . well . . . on him being a prince. Which he wasn’t, no matter what Michelle said. But, at the same time, he was in no rush to dissuade her from thinking he was.
Artus had a hard time verbalizing such feelings. This little slip of a highborn girl, with her sharp features and her soft voice, seemed able to drive him mad with a gesture. He had not ever been in love—he hadn’t ever thought he’d be that lucky—and now that he might be, he found himself full of doubts. Did she feel the same way? Was she using him? What if he wasn’t really in love? What if he was stringing her along, only to ruin her later? The thought of making her cry was agony. The thought of his promise on that hellish night in the palace—that he would never let her go—haunted him. Who was he to take such an oath?
But, for all of that, when Michelle held him, when she laughed at his jokes, when her eyes shone with admiration of him—as they often did—he felt a warm glow deep inside, powering him forward. His heart rose into his throat at the thought of her smile or the feeling of her lips against his, and he knew that he would be a prince if he had to, if that meant he would have her. He suspected, though he didn’t know, that this was love.
But he had no one to ask.
The prisoner—the leader of the now-defunct Army of Davram—was located in the least damaged wing of the palace. It was in this wing that most of the administrative “staff” for Myreon’s burgeoning White Army was based, and so he and Michelle had to pass by rows of burly guild types—blacksmiths, carpenters, stonemasons, and the like—who had come to comprise most of Myreon’s officer corps, in order to reach their rooms. They also cheered as Artus passed and doffed their hats to Michelle, smiling their gap-toothed and gold-capped smiles. Michelle elbowed him and told him to wave, so he waved.
These men were like a different species when compared to the kind of people who used to loiter about the Peregrine Palace. They were loud and poorly dressed, they laughed too long and smoked pipes indoors, but they had the unique distinction of being respected community leaders without being of noble birth. Loyalty to guild—a network of masters and journeymen and apprentices that stretched across the whole of Eretheria—was the foundation upon which Myreon was building her revolution.
But not a one of them was a professional soldier.
“Don’t look so worried,” Michelle whispered as they rounded a corner to reach their rooms.
Artus scratched his head. “Shouldn’t we be worried?”
“Yes, of course,” Michelle said as she opened the door. “But there’s no reason to let them know that!”
Artus thought this over as he walked to a door flanked by two more of Myreon’s eerie White Guard.
He took a deep breath. “Are you sure about this? You want it to be me?”
Michelle kissed his hand. “The Gray Lady insisted, and I agree with her. You are the only person here he will respect.”
“He tried to kill me!”
“You’re a prince, Artus—act like one.” She stepped away from the door and waved him on. “You’ll do fine!”
Artus straightened his cape and nodded to the guards. They stepped forward and threw open the doors. There, on the other side, in a bedroom watched over by two other White Guards, was Valen Hesswyn.
He was still muddy from the battle in the shallows of the Fanning River the day before. He had a bandage over his head and his tunic was stained with blood. He had the expression of a man drained of all his vigor—like an invalid, resigned to death. He looked at Artus with dull eyes. “You. They would send you, wouldn’t they?”
“I’m a prince. Nobody sends me anywhere,” Artus lied. “How are you feeling?”
“Go to hell.”
“Oh, so not that badly, then? Great—we were worried you’d caught quite a beating.”
“We?”
“Myreon, Michelle, and I,” Artus said. “You’re lucky the White Guard were there to break it up—those peasant levies of yours were really planning to give you a stomping.”
Valen sputtered. “What? White Guard?”
Artus jerked a thumb at the guards on either side of the door. “I’d say you should thank them, but I don’t think they’d care much. C’mon—get up. Myreon wants to see you.”
A flare of resistance lit behind Valen’s eyes. Artus could see him weighing the risks of attacking him, of making a break for it. Artus tensed and moved his weight to the balls of his feet. He didn’t want Valen to wind up killed by the White Guard, and if Valen made a move . . .
The moment passed. Valen seemed to come to his senses. “How’s your stomach?”
The place where Valen had stabbed him—only barely healed—twinged slightly. Artus laughed despite himself. “Oh, is that you taunting me? Adorable. Come on, jackass—the Gray Lady hasn’t got time for this.”
He turned and walked away.
Valen had little choice but to follow. The White Guards fell into step on either side of him, matching his pace perfectly.
The palace was largely in ruins. Several grand galleries had collapsed, scorch marks peppered the walls, and rubble and bodies were still being cleared away by teams of commoners. In places, the sun shone through holes in the vaulted roofs. Though Artus had grown used to this over the past weeks, to Valen they were a revelation. The young knight stared, openmouthed, at the wreckage.
“I take it I’m to be ransomed, then?” Valen asked as they descended a half-crumbled marble staircase.
“Nope,” Artus said absently as a beefy stonemason bowed to him and insisted on kissing his hand. Artus’s skin crawled as it happened, but he let it happen anyway. He was supposed to be royalty, so here he was, being royal. When the man rose, he gave Valen an ugly look before returning to his repair work.
Valen gaped at them both. “What do you mean, ‘nope’? Look at the damage done here! You must need money! My grandmother will pay!”
Artus winced. He had been hoping he wasn’t going to be the person who had to say this. “Valen, your grandmother is dead. She didn’t survive the battle at Fanning Ford.”
Valen froze. “What? You . . . you didn’t give her quarter?”
“She refused to surrender to our field commander, so he killed her.”
The White Guards pulled open the grand doors to the Congress of Peers. Valen suddenly looked sick. He sank to one knee. “Why . . . why would she . . . why . . .”
Artus looked down at him, remembering at once that Valen was only a few years older than he was and that he had just learned that his grandmother—the most important person in his life—had been killed. No matter
how much of a witch old Velia Hesswyn had been, that still had to hurt. He spoke softly, so that no one nearby could hear. “The field commander was a carpenter, Valen. Your mother refused to surrender to a carpenter. She tried to blast him with a wand, and so he had to kill her.” Artus offered Valen a hand. “Which is where you come in.”
Valen glared at the hand for a moment, but again some kind of internal battle was waged and, in the end, the civilized part of Valen won. He took the hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. There was now something different about Valen—Artus could see it. His eyes were clearer now, his jaw set. It’s because he knows he’s the Count now. That’s all it took for him to be ready to accept that responsibility. Saints, what I wouldn’t give to feel that certain of anything.
The destruction inside the Congress was almost absolute. The benches were wrecked and burned, the floor was scorched and stained with blood, and part of the great domed ceiling had collapsed. At the far end of the great room, the Falcon Throne rested in pieces, scattered all across the dais. Sahand’s message to us all, Artus thought.
A space had been cleared beneath the center of the dome. There stood Myreon, her blond hair ragged from lack of care. She wore gray robes that made her look like a beggar, but she was surrounded by people listening to her every word. At her side stood a short, broad man with a bald head and thick beard—Gammond Barth, the carpenter who had put an end to Velia Hesswyn. He had a war-hammer—the implement of the countess’s demise—slung over his back. When he saw Artus and Valen come in, he nudged Myreon and pointed.
“Ah, Valen Hesswyn,” she said, her voice clear. “So glad to see you’re feeling better.”
“Necromancer!” Valen shouted. “The Defenders will make you pay for this!”
Myreon didn’t react to the threat. “I’m very busy and I don’t have time to quarrel, so I will make this brief: House Davram is finished. Your army, such as it was, has either joined me or is lying dead on the banks of the Fanning River. Your knights and noble vassals are crushed and are currently resting in the dungeons of the Young Prince here. Your attempt to put down my revolution and restore the old order in Eretheria is over. In short, you have no bargaining position. Do you accept this?”
The Far Far Better Thing Page 6