The Bastard Prince

by Megan Derr

  Kinnaird loved the little hint into Reyes' life before the palace. He had all the manners and movements and… finer points of someone with breeding, but every now and again he hinted at something more, a broader, less rigid life than that of the strictly upper class.

  He reached out and picked off a stray rose petal from the shoulder of Reyes' jacket.

  Reyes stared at the petal, then lifted his gaze to meet Kinnaird's eyes. "You should get some rest, your Grace. Sun and moon alone know what will happen next."

  "You should come rest with me," Kinnaird replied.

  "No," Reyes replied, with a scathing look. "I wish you would accept my refusal, your Grace. I am not, and never will be, fit for courting. You should leave me behind, and move on."

  Kinnaird frowned, and asked on sudden impulse. "Is that so? Is it really my station which bothers you so much, despite the King's approval? If I were not a Duke, would you regard me differently?"

  "You are a Duke," Reyes retorted. "The question is pointless. Goodnight, your Grace."

  "Goodnight," Kinnaird said, and obediently left.

  Reyes must be more shaken by all of this than he wanted to admit, to so unwittingly reveal so much. He had not exactly answered the question, simply evaded it. Would Reyes take him more seriously if he were not a Duke?

  Five

  Reyes called himself a thousand different kinds of fool as he braided his hair, fussing over it meticulously, tying it off with a dark blue ribbon that exactly matched his jacket and breeches, the silver-accented waistcoat.

  "Stupid, stupid, stupid," he muttered, staring at his eyes in the mirror, trying hard not to think about kisses for the thousandth time.

  Except he could not forget them, or the way it had felt to be held by Kinnaird. For a few minutes, it really had felt like everything would work out, like all their problems would go away. But, he reminded himself, some problems never went away, and Kinnaird's kisses could not solve them.

  Even if they were really rather magnificent kisses.

  Heaving an aggravated sigh at himself, Reyes shoved his spectacles onto his nose and turned sharply from the mirror, finishing up the silver buttons on his jacket. Then he stepped into his silver-buckled, dark blue shoes. Lastly, he picked up his portfolio, extinguished the lamp, then headed for the door.

  Reluctantly giving up the sanctuary of his bedchamber, he strode down the hallway to the King's chambers and slipped inside. He stopped short in surprise to see that everyone else was already seated and eating breakfast, and glanced at the clock across the room. No, he was five minutes early.

  Stung that the meeting time had changed, and no one had told him, Reyes crossed silently to the table and took his seat to the King's left, greeting Rhoten with a subdued, "Good morning."

  "Good morning, Reyes," Rhoten greeted cheerfully. "I would have called for you, since everyone showed up early for lack of being able to sleep, but you were asleep and I was loathe to wake you."

  "Thank you, Majesty," Reyes murmured in reply, feeling a little better, even if it was idiotic they had not woken him. Motioning the servant away, he poured his own coffee and glanced around the table. Everyone did, indeed, look tired. Especially the twins, who had arrived only a few hours ago, according to the missive he had read upon waking. The King looked as strained as ever, and exhaustion did not help that one bit.

  His gaze fell lastly on Kinnaird, who somehow managed to look up at precisely that moment and catch his gaze. He smiled, slow and warm and somehow intimate.

  Reyes flushed and jerked his gaze away, struggling to remind himself how reckless and stupid it would be to give in. He simply could not risk it.

  "So what word do you bring from the priests?" the King asked.

  Breit set his coffee down and replied, "Shortly after our arrival, we found a priest dead, ostensibly of accidently dropping his private shields while out in the field and dying of the cold. We suspect the death was not accidental, but do not know if it was murder or suicide. Regardless, he was the one who leaked inside information to the robbers."

  "That is a pity," the King said. "But the monastery is secure? That is a strategic advantage, should anyone care to take it. They tend not to, the river points being far preferable, but it has been tried before."

  All heads nodded in agreement.

  "I set all the extra guards I could spare," Erices said. "Hopefully a repeat attack is not forthcoming. What did you learn at the treasury, Kinnaird?"

  Kinnaird took a swallow of his coffee, then replied, "The Baron in charge of the place is a fool too busy drinking and rutting to do his job. He needs to be stripped of his title. Give it to Steward Tamark."

  Rhoten nodded. "Reyes, see that the proper paperwork is begun."

  "Yes, Majesty," Reyes replied, and flipped open his portfolio.

  "The attack was well-coordinated, and required extensive insider knowledge," Kinnaird continued. "I was recalled before I could complete my investigation. The Steward is finishing my work for me. I expect his report in not more than a few days."

  Reyes made notes of all that was being said, then penned a quick letter to the Master Scribe, who was in charge of drawing up the official papers needed to oust one Baron and put another in his place. Folding it, he signaled a servant forward. "Deliver this to the Master Scribe at once. No reply is necessary."

  "Yes, sir," the servant replied. "The runner has arrived, and would like to know if you want the post here, or delivered to your office."

  "Here," Reyes said.

  "Sir," the servant said, and bowed himself out. He returned a couple of minutes later with a bundle of post.

  Thanking him, Reyes went to the King's small writing desk and borrowed his letter opener. Resuming his seat, he quickly slit all the letters open, stacking them in relative importance as he went. Finished, he set the opener aside and began to read.

  He swore softly when he reached the fourth one, and looked up—and realized everyone had stopped talking and was staring at him.

  "What's wrong?" Rhoten asked.

  "A ship was attacked, only an hour or so after leaving Zale. Two pirate ships came upon it, and it was only sheer chance that a navy ship happened to be close by, working on something else entirely. The pirates were routed, save those captured, and of course they were immediately killed."

  Pirates were treated with no mercy. No trials, no imprisonment, just immediate execution. They were the scourge of the trading world. To date, no one had ever been able to bring the pirate nation of Welestra to heel.

  "Commissioned, likely," Dilane said. His lands were along the coast; he was all too bitterly familiar with pirates. "They would never attack so close to land, not for their own purposes."

  Reyes handed the letter over, for them to further examine, and went back to work. The day-to-day matters of the nation did not stop because of a crisis, and more was the pity.

  He swore again, and immediately the table stopped.

  "What now?" Kinnaird asked, looking concerned and amused.

  "Talon was attacked last night," Reyes said. "The bridge was set on fire. Why in the name of sun and moon is no one marking these damned letters urgent? Why are they not sending runners to bear it in person?"

  "Because they're not urgent," Kinnaird said, taking the letter and quickly reading it. "If we assume they are all connected, then this is four attacks that were all successfully stopped. They all have extreme potential to be bad—the treasury, the monastery, Zale is our second largest coastal city, and Talon one of the larger river cities. Any one of those could have fallen, with dire consequences. But they did not; we stopped them. So in the end, only basic reports were sent out, rather than the cries for help that would have otherwise been sent. All that is left for us to do is to follow up, investigate whatever meager clues remain." He worried his bottom lip in thought, making it wet and swollen.

  Reyes yanked his gaze hastily away.

  "To what purpose, though?" Erices asked.

  Kinnaird shook his
head. "I do not know. Not yet." He raked a hand through his hair. "I had best go investigate, see if I can find the pieces we need and put them together."

  An immediate protest rose up in Reyes'' throat, and he drank his coffee to drown it. What was wrong with him? Kinnaird was always coming and going. It was anyone's guess where he was at any given time, once he left the palace. He had only remained at the palace for as long as he had, until a few days ago, because of an extremely nasty break to his right leg. Now he was fully healed, he would be like the wind again.

  Yet another reason, he reminded himself, that any relationship would be a mistake.

  Still, the knowledge that Kinnaird was already leaving again, likely to be gone for days, tied Reyes back up in all the knots that had finally unwound when Kinnaird had landed on the terrace—and then kissed him senseless.

  The coffee settled poorly on his stomach, and Reyes set it down on the table. He did not even bother to attempt eating breakfast. Instead, he put his attention back on the post, sick with dread at what letter he would find next detailing some disaster. When he got through the stack without further incident, he barely stifled a sigh of relief.

  "So I will leave this afternoon," Kinnaird was saying, as Reyes rejoined the conversation. "I will start with Zale, and then travel to Talon. Reyes, if you would write letters to them stating we received word, and imply we have no intention of pursuing an investigation? I would like to catch them off guard, if I can."

  Reyes nodded, trying not to be stupidly happy that Kinnaird was actually asking him to do something—and something more important than simply fetching a box. "I will send them within the hour. They should get there before midday, easily, if I send them by wing."

  "Excellent. Keep me apprised of the situation with the interloper."

  "Of course," Reyes replied.

  "Then I am off to—" Kinnaird's words were drowned out by a sudden, frantic knocking.

  The knocker did not wait for a reply, but spilled into the room and dropped, gasping for breath and red-faced with exertion, at the feet of the King. "Majesty. Cassala was attacked just a few hours ago. Control of the heat shields was taken, and used against us. They set the city and bridge aflame."

  "My people?" Rhoten demanded.

  "There were thousands killed, by earliest estimations, Majesty, from either flame or cold."

  The King made a rough sound and stood up. "Kinnaird, Dilane. Go at once. Dilane, take this. I do not care who is walking around pretending to be my son, this is yours. Use it to fix Cassala, and find out what is happening!" He yanked a ring from his finger—the one, Reyes saw, that would normally be worn by the Crown Prince—and tossed it to Dilane.

  Dilane caught it neatly, and looked at in surprise. Then he simply nodded, and slid it onto the ring finger of his right hand. "Yes, Majesty. Kinnaird, pack whatever you need and bring it to me. My servants can carry it with my belongings, while we go on ahead. Meet me at the private terrace, we will leave from there. Try not to leave me too far behind, would you?"

  Erices stood up. "We should—"

  "Protect the King," Dilane said, cutting him off. "I cannot believe that a bastard prince would show up as all these attacks begin to occur. I want you and Breit to stay close—especially Breit, whom they will not anticipate being capable of protecting anyone."

  Breit nodded, and turned briefly to look up at his brother. They stared at each other a moment in silence, then Erices sat back down, looking disgruntled but resigned.

  "Reyes," the King said. "Draw up the appropriate letters and warrants Kinnaird and Dilane will need to act as my voice while in Cassala, in case anyone decides the ring is not enough. I want to know who just slaughtered thousands of my people."

  "Yes, Majesty," Reyes replied, and stood up. Gathering his things, carefully not looking at Kinnaird, he left.

  He fled to his office—then stopped, torn between frustration, amusement, vexation, worry, and a deep, warm fondness that scared and depressed him.

  Perched on the corner of his desk, in a green crystal vase, was a bouquet of tiger lilies.

  They were rare—extremely rare, like any genuine flower in so cold a climate. But the tiger lilies were especially rare. They were his favorite, though, and Kinnaird knew that. Kinnaird had been the one to tell him what the flower was, the first time Reyes had seen it.

  He had only been at the palace a couple of weeks then, young and overwhelmed, just one more secretary in the general pool. Then, the palace really had been a maze to him, and he had gotten himself completely lost. At one point, he found himself in a banquet hall only recently prepared for some lavish dinner. Each table had been decorated with the most beautiful orange flowers, like nothing he had ever seen.

  It had been Kinnaird who had come across him, and chatted with him, explained the flowers, before finally guiding him back to more familiar sections of the castle. That had been the first time he had properly met and spoken with the notorious Duke of Keyes, though it had had hardly been the first time he had seen Kinnaird.

  He wondered if that day had been when his infatuation had begun, or simply when he had acknowledged it.

  He wished he could pinpoint when it had gotten a lot deeper and more complicated than mere infatuation.

  Sighing softly, trying not to worry about the all too real chance Kinnaird may not return to give him more flowers, he pulled out a single tiger lily and twirled the stem in his fingers.

  He did not realize he had company until arms wrapped around him from behind, and warm, coffee-and-cream breath washed over his cheek. "Why are you frowning so, my dear?"

  Reyes scowled at the flower he held. "Should I be smiling? Let me go."

  Ignoring the command, chuckling softly, Kinnaird said, "The flowers are meant to make you smile, yes. Especially the tiger lilies. You were smiling so sweetly, that day."

  "You remember," Reyes said quietly.

  Kinnaird made a soft noise, and turned him around. "How could I forget? I had admired you before, but I think that was the day I decided you would be mine, someday."

  Reyes said nothing.

  "Well, I will convince you eventually. I would press it now, but I've not the time, alas."

  "You'll never have the time," Reyes blurted out, then immediately regretted it, wishing he could take the words back.

  "What?" Kinnaird looked at him in surprise.

  Since he could not take them back, and Kinnaird would not stop harassing him, Reyes went on. "You are the King's falcon. A Duke with a lineage as old as the country itself. You fly so high, in so many ways, in so many directions…" He bit his lip and turned away, feeling guilty. He had no right to be jealous of Kinnaird's duties and obligations.

  That aside, he had no right reprimanding anyone about making a choice that bound his feet to the chosen path, with no hopes of freeing himself from it.

  "I'm sorry," he finally said. "It is not my place to say such things."

  "No," Kinnaird replied, mouth curving in a soft smile. "If you have problems, they can be addressed and worked out. Better to have problems, than nothing at all. I cannot fight nothing, but I can deal with problems. I wondered, before, why you avoided the question of me being or not being a Duke."

  "You are a Duke, it is stupid to waste time asking hypothetical questions."

  "My father almost gave up his title to be with my mother," Kinnaird replied with a shrug. "I—"

  "No!" Reyes bellowed, startling them both. "That's—that's selfish. A lot of people would suffer if you gave up your title, and for what? Nothing worth causing such pain and suffering."

  "Reyes…" Kinnaird let go of the grip he still had on Reyes, to reach up and cup his face, tugging him in gently for a long, slow kiss.

  Stupid… so stupid to give in, but he really did love Kinnaird's kisses, the way everything else faded away for a time, even his worries, the way he felt warm and safe and—and loved, though he should not feel that way. He had no right to presume the feelings ran that deep on both sides.<
br />
  He was a fool to let them run that deep on one side.

  But he could only moan softly and reach up to cover the hands that still gently cupped his face. He barely noticed when Kinnaird tangled their fingers together, then drew their arms down so that their hands rested at the small of Reyes' back.

  Until they finally broke apart, and he realized he was neatly pinned in place.

  "We will have to continue this conversation upon my return," Kinnaird said with a sigh. "Possibly it will have to wait until all problems are resolved. But, at least promise me we will continue it."

  Reyes tried to refuse, to tell him no, this was the end of it, goodbye. But if he had ever been capable of resisting Kinnaird, he would not be in this situation to begin with, and so he could only concede defeat and say, "All right. We'll talk."

  Kinnaird smiled in that way that always warmed Reyes deeper than any fire shield would ever manage. "Thank you." He playfully kissed Reyes' nose, then took a real kiss, deep and long, leaving Reyes with a deep ache when he finally broke it and let Reyes go.

  "Just—" he coughed, suddenly feeling cold now that he was no longer being held. "Just come back alive, you idiot. And don't break anymore bones."

  "I will be careful. Stay safe while I am away. So long as he is here, I sense this place is not truly safe."

  Reyes nodded. "I will make certain we are safe. Erices will not let anything happen to us, at the very least."

  Kinnaird made a face. "I would feel better if you had any sort of magical skill beyond the very basic you possess. Or even some sort of weapons training. Anyone who attempts to harm the King, will not hesitate to get you out of the way first, my dear."

  Reyes shrugged. "Sorry. All I can do is write up—" He swore. "You made me forget I was supposed to be drawing up your papers!" He smacked Kinnaird hard in the chest, then moved around his desk and began yanking out all the things he would need to draw up papers that even the Master Scribe was not allowed to do.