The Bastard Prince

by Megan Derr

  "I will give flowers where I choose, and marry when and where I choose. You forget, I am the King's falcon, and I have his permission to press my suit where I like. My sister married well, and has been blessed with five children. By the grace of sun and moon, three of them are daughters. My line does not want for heirs."

  "I am a secretary, you are a Duke, and one of the oldest titles in the country. Press your suit elsewhere, your Grace, for I do and shall continue to refuse it."

  Kinnaird only smiled, and drew back slightly. He shrugged one elegant shoulder and said, "If I were inclined to give up so easily, my dear, I would not be the King's falcon. However, if you like, we can wait to continue this conversation upon my return. Rest assured, however, I shall not give up."

  Reyes nodded, even if he had no intention of continuing the conversation anytime. "Sun and moon shine upon your journey, your Grace."

  "Thank you." Kinnaird stood up, and Reyes turned away, back to the work that had lain neglected while the meeting carried on. "Oh, just one more thing."

  "Hmm?" Reyes asked absently, half-turning in his seat and looking up—

  To be met by Kinnaird's mouth, warm and sudden and flavored of coffee and apples and cinnamon. Reyes pulled away, but far too late to hide the fact that, for a few seconds, he had responded to and returned the kiss.

  "For luck," Kinnaird said with a wink, backing well out of range of any swing Reyes might take. "Think happy thoughts to bring me home to you, should I become lost in the snow."

  Reyes rolled his eyes at the folk tale reference.

  Kinnaird smiled, and blew him a kiss from the doorway. "Sun and moon watch over you. Farewell."

  Reyes let out a frustrated breath, scrubbing at his lips to banish the taste and feel of Kinnaird—but the memories lingered in his mind, hot and bright. No amount of scrubbing would banish those.

  Grimacing, he gathered up the post and abandoned the table in favor of his desk. Barely had the sun bells rung, signaling the formal start of day, than he was inundated with people needing to see the King, needing appointments made, needing papers signed, projects approved, and crises solved.

  He handled it all well, with all the skill and ability that had swiftly moved him from a mere palace general secretary to secondary secretary of the Marquis of White, to the minor secretary of the King, to the King's primary secretary, and finally to the King's only secretary, when he decided that Reyes was all he needed and would tolerate.

  When the mid-bells rang, Reyes told the guards outside the office to ban entrance for the next hour. Alone at last, the King still out riding with a couple of his favorite advisors, Reyes took a much needed break. Crossing the room, he pushed a hidden button that opened a secret door, which in turn led to a small freshening up room.

  Closing the door firmly behind him and locking it, Reyes poured water from a blue china pitcher into the matching bowl. Then he held his hand over the water and willed it to heat. The surge of magic was warm as it raced through his blood, flushing his skin slightly. In the bowl, steam began to lazily rise from the water.

  Relaxing his power, Reyes stripped off his jacket, shirt, and undershirt, hanging them on nearby hooks. Then he reached for the soap in a small china dish. It smelled faintly of lavender, and he breathed it in, reminded briefly of home, before picking up a washing rag and scrubbing himself down. Clean and dried, he felt much refreshed as he put his clothes back on.

  He frowned at the drying towel, then glanced up at his reflection in the looking glass above the wash basin. His hair was becoming intolerable, he thought, taking in the dark brown strands that lightened to dark gold at the tips. He would have to tend to it that night.

  Setting the matter aside for the time being, he set down the washing towel and adjusted his clothing. He smoothed down the soft, dark blue velvet of his jacket, the silk of his silver and blue striped waistcoat, tweaking the crisp, white lace cuffs to fall just so. Finally he settled his silver-rimmed spectacles, attached by delicate chain to his waistcoat, on his nose.

  He lingered a couple of minutes more, helplessly and pathetically drawn to his reflection, wondering what someone like the Duke saw in him, what made him claim he cared. If he—

  Cutting the thought off, Reyes left the freshening up room and returned to his office proper, smiling when he saw that Maggie had already come and gone, leaving a fine lunch spread out on the table.

  Sitting down, Reyes dug in with relish, carefully avoiding thinking about either work or Kinnaird.

  Two

  Kinnaird shifted in the forest, well away from the city. People envied his magic, had been willing to do a variety of things on the chance there might actually be a way to learn it—but all were uncomfortable with actually watching the change.

  At least his great-great-great grandfather had mastered the art of keeping the clothes, even if Kinnaird did not entirely grasp the workings.

  He shivered in the brutal cold, and raised his heat shields another increment. Snow and ice, as far as the eye could see. This time of year, it was perpetually dark, with never anything more than a hint of light, the sun always hovering just out of sight when it rose. The moon offered more light this time of year, reflecting off the snow.

  As ever, the unending fields and forests of white brought to mind the old folk tale of the lost prince, one of many his mother had loved to tell him. Once upon a time, it went, a prince was called off to war. He dutifully went, reluctantly leaving behind his beautiful, faithful bride. The years passed and passed, until at last the war ended and the prince was permitted to return home.

  However, on the journey home, the prince became lost in a terrible winter storm, and this in the heart of Extended Night, when there was no hope for ever seeing the sun. He tried to find his way, but only became more and more lost, until he grew tired and despaired of ever finding home.

  But, lo, just as he began to succumb to the cold, he heard a voice. In whispers and snatches at first, but with increasing strength and volume, until he realized that it was his bride's thoughts he could hear.

  He followed her thoughts, used them to guide himself home, until at last he fell into her arms. And she was more faithful and more beautiful than when he had left her, waiting patiently for his return. They were married shortly thereafter, and for the rest of their lives the prince and his princess shared thoughts.

  The tale was often cited as a whimsical founding tale of the creation of a legendary special magic. No one living or in recent history could use mind-share magic. Those who history said could were mostly legend and their abilities likely great exaggeration.

  Except… sometimes Kinnaird suspected Erices and Breit could do it. Something about those two, the looks they exchanged, the way they sometimes knew things though they'd not seen one another the whole day… he rather thought they had a few secrets to which even the King was not privy.

  He shook snow from his dark russet cloak, scrubbed it from his hair with his thick-gloved hands, before pulling up the deep, fur-lined hood and securing it in place against the wind. Then he trudged on, making his way with relative speed toward the nearby city.

  Feyestone was the northernmost city in the country, five days hard travel on a good day from the next city, which was one of the smaller harbor cities. Remote and north as it was, Feyestone spent much of its time in absolute day or absolute night. Getting to it was no easy task, and not a trip foreigners were typically inclined to make.

  Except neighboring Galand, but they had arduous, life-stealing mountain cities enough of their own. They were also greedy, though, and well-positioned to manage coordinated attacks at opposite ends of Elamas.

  Feyestone was a handsome city, if remote and severe and somewhat old-fashioned. Everything, from the high walls of the outer and inner curtains, to all the buildings inside, was carved from the dark, gray, nearly indestructible rock that gave the city its name. It was also extremely good at keeping in heat, a necessity in a place that seldom ceased to endure snow and ice.
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  At the farthest end of the city was the original keep, built into the mountain itself. From the keep, over the years and generations, the castle had expanded into a full-blow city. The place had been its own province once, like most of the various cities scattered across the frozen continent. At the end of Queen Basden's war, she had succeeded in uniting the choicest pieces of the continent under her crown, with the rest of the land eventually breaking up into four other countries.

  Elamas, still ruled by the descendants of Basden, was the Diamond of the North for its roughly diamond shape and its lucrative trading industry—trade that was the lifeblood of Elamas, after the magic that made the land hospitable.

  Bordering Elamas were the countries of Galand and Lesed.

  Lesed, at present, was locked in a civil war. The borders had been completely closed for nearly a year, with little to no communication from the outside. At the crown's insistence, Elamas had stayed out of the matter.

  Galand… yes, if there was anyone responsible for this it was Galand, Kinnaird would bet his title on it. They had never been satisfied with their land-locked status, the fact they were even more dependent upon Elamas and Lesed than those two countries were on trade. They were constantly demanding renegotiations of the trade agreements and tariffs, and continental history was rife with failed coups as they tried to take over one of the coastline countries.

  So he wondered if they might not be up to something similar now. It was a bit of a leap, given how little was known of the situation—but what better time to attack than during Extended Night?

  It was the most taxing, most dangerous time of year, for the country and the mages especially. Not only were they expending great amounts of time and energy to keep everyone safely warm, they must also work to provide additional light where mere candles and lanterns would not suffice. If someone wanted to stage a coup, finding a way to do it during Extended Night would be a sound strategic move.

  Reaching the city gates, shaking off snow, Kinnaird pounded on the small gatehouse door built into the heavy, iron-plated door of the outer gate. "Open in the name of the King!"

  Movement caught his eyes, and he looked up into the snow at the figure that leaned out one of the towers of the gatehouse. "Who goes there, making demands in the name of the King?"

  "Kinnaird Hess, Duke of Keyes."

  "Guess you couldn't lie about that, eh?" the guard called down. "In a moment, your Grace."

  Kinnaird rolled his eyes at the entirely too casual behavior. If the whole lot behaved in such fashion, it was little wonder robbers had gained access to the city. He stood patiently, listening as the guards on the other side unlocked the door. Finally it opened, and a soldier with pale hair and dark eyes snapped him a salute, then swept an elegant bow. "Your Grace, welcome to Feyestone. We are honored by your presence."

  "Thank you," Kinnaird replied, smiling at the small group that had assembled. "I am honored to be here. Who is in charge, and where might I find him?" He knew that Baron Marland was the lord of Feyestone, but locals liked to be asked, especially by people of importance.

  The pale-haired soldier replied, "Technically, your Grace, that will be Baron Marland. He'll be in the old district round about this time, at a tavern called the Lost Cave. You can't miss it if you just continue straight on all the way down this road toward the keep. But you'll also be wanting a word with Steward Tamark, and he'll be at the keep proper this time of night."

  "Thank you," Kinnaird said again, and nodded politely when they bowed, ignoring the whispers that sprang up in his wake. He walked briskly through the quiet streets, absently reaching out to feel the heat shields that kept back the deadly cold, the heavily falling snow, while simultaneously keeping lanterns lit to beat back the relentless dark. Catching hold of the intricate magic weaving, he threaded his own power into it, lending it to the shields for the duration of his stay.

  A handful of the mages who felt the change reached out gentle pulses, signaling their thanks. The more in the weaving, the less the strain on all involved in it. He acknowledged the thanks with a gentle pulse of his own, then returned his full attention to the tavern now coming into view.

  The Lost Cave was about what he would expect of a tavern in this place. Of respectable size, run-down but clean, warm and crowded, smelling heavily of people and sweat and alcohol. He stepped inside, but kept his hood up, acknowledging the barkeep's nod of greeting with a hand motion.

  Wishing he could afford to stop and eat first, Kinnaird glanced around for the Baron—but his eyes were caught by a flash of wavy, dark brown hair.

  It was not Reyes, of course, but the hair was markedly similar in length and color. A pity that Reyes kept his shoulder-length hair so tightly braided.

  Reyes…

  Kinnaird stifled a sigh, and for what seemed the thousandth time, reminded himself it had taken his father seven years to finally marry his mother. Still, courting the King's secretary should be a fair sight easier than wooing an actress.

  He thought the flowers might be working, in their way. Stealing that kiss had probably not been the wisest idea, but he had not been able to help himself—and he did want Reyes to be forced to acknowledge that Kinnaird was quite serious. He had been fascinated with the lanky, pretty, hard-working, and kind secretary from the moment he first saw him in the general offices. He had not approached Reyes then, but his obsession had drawn the attention of the Marquis Wend, who had taken on Reyes as one of his own secretaries.

  Eventually, the King had stolen him away. It was his relationship with the King that Kinnaird had always most admired about Reyes. Anyone else would and had abused the powerful position shamelessly. It had added still more difficulties to the King's already difficult life. Reyes, though, clearly regarded the King with affection, saw him as more than a crown. Since terminating everyone else, and keeping only Reyes as his secretary, the King had been much happier. He practically doted on Reyes, perhaps in lieu of the fact he'd never had a son, only his sickly daughter.

  Now, if he could just get Reyes to accept his suit, Kinnaird's own life would be practically perfect.

  The brown-haired man who had briefly distracted him laughed, and his laugh was so grating and obnoxious and wrong, any hint of Reyes in him was immediately dispelled.

  Kinnaird returned to the task at hand, and finally spotted a man who had to be the Baron in a dark corner, a wench spread across his thighs and clinging shamelessly to his shoulders in open invitation. If not for the layers of clothes between them, she would no doubt be riding his cock right there in plain sight.

  Sneering, Kinnaird pushed back his hood and assumed a mantle of haughty disdain as he reached the table. He looked down his nose at the drunk, crude Baron. No wonder he was buried all the way out here in this land that sun and moon barely remembered. "Pardon me," he said coolly, flicking the wench a cold, dismissive glance before leveling his eyes on the Baron. Like so many others, the Baron wilted beneath his direct gaze. "You are the Baron?"

  "Who are you?" the Baron demanded.

  In reply, Kinnaird reached into his jacket and extracted a leather card case, sliding out one calling card and presenting it to the Baron. Upon reading it, the Baron blanched and tried all in one motion to shove the wench off his lap, stand up, and re-lace his open trousers.

  Kinnaird turned politely away, to give the Baron a moment to recover himself and to spare himself the sight of the fat oaf's cock.

  "Your Grace," the Baron finally said. He extended a hand as Kinnaird turned around again. Kinnaird ignored it, and finally the Baron dropped his hand back to his side. He gestured they should speak outside, and took his things as the barkeep held them out, then led the way outside. "What can I do for you, your Grace? Strange to see one of your esteemed sort all the way out here."

  "I have come to further investigate the attempted robbery which occurred several days past," Kinnaird replied.

  "Uh—we wrote the letter, not much more—"

  Kinnaird cut him off with a mot
ion, disgusted. He recalled what else the men at the gatehouse had said. "Where can I find Steward Tamark?" he asked, mostly to see if the Baron even knew that much. He could already tell that it was not the Baron who kept the city functioning.

  "Keep," Baron muttered, looking much like he knew all too well the trouble he was officially in. "I can show—"

  "I would hate to keep you away from your rutting and drinking any longer," Kinnaird said. "Good night, Baron."

  "Your Grace."

  Turning away, Kinnaird resumed his walk, quickly rising up a steep, cobblestone incline to the pavilion of Feyestone Keep. The old castle had ceased to be used much in that capacity. Instead, it had become the repository for much of the Kingdom's treasures and wealth. So difficult to reach, it was perfect for the task of safeguarding valuable property of the kingdom. Should the worst ever come to pass, the crown could flee to Feyestone to make a last stand, with all that was necessary to starting and maintaining the country safe within the secret hollows and caves of the mountain into which Feyestone was built.

  When he approached the doors to the keep, he was momentarily startled when the guards bowed and greeted him, "Your Grace. Welcome to Feyestone Keep."

  "Thank you," Kinnaird replied. The men pulled open the heavy doors, made from sturdy wood and plated with iron strips spaced roughly three finger widths apart. He strode into the Great Hall, doors closing shut with a crashing echo behind him.

  Three long tables with benches filled most of the hall, with a shorter one at the head of them all, chairs set behind it, their backs to the great roaring fireplace.

  A man sat at one of the long tables, close to the fire. He lifted an arm in greeting. "Ho, your Grace. Care for a bit of food, some wine perhaps?"