“You, Faren! What are you staring at?” The captain shouted, noticing Faren’s attention.
“Sir! Er, sorry, I was far away.”
“Lo strike me, soldier, how can we rely on you to shoot straight if you aren’t even focused on your bow?”
“Sorry, sir.”
The captain had sighed. “It’s all right, Faren. I think we’re all a bit jumpy.”
“I couldn’t help overhearing, sir.”
His superior’s expression had turned sour. “Well, we shouldn’t be discussing Legate De Vis’s personal life.”
“Do you mind my asking, though, sir, was this Tashi, Sesaro’s daughter? I know her but she hasn’t mentioned anything about a betrothal to me.”
“It’s not my business to pass on private information, Archer Faren. You know that.”
“I do sir, sorry sir, but Tashi is a friend and it might explain why she has seemed distant and worried,” Faren had lied. “I thought she was fretting over the war—”
“And I don’t doubt she is!” the captain cut in.
“Yes, sir, but I think from what the other men were saying that she’s probably upset about the legate.”
“And you think you can help, do you, Faren?”
Faren shrugged, his rage burning but tightly disguised. “I can try. We grew up together, you see, so she trusts me.”
“There’s really nothing you can do, Faren. You misunderstand. The reluctance is not on the part of Sesaro’s daughter. Her hand is already given. She is—from what I can gather—the enthusiastic partner to this potential marriage. It’s Legate De Vis who hesitates, so unless you have the ear of the legate and can advise him in his love life, I would suggest you get back to tightening that bow and worrying about landing real arrows into the hearts of our enemy rather than make-believe ones into those of lovers.”
So it was true. As the captain left him with a friendly squeeze to his arm, Faren had bristled with fury. That was why Tashi had cooled off toward him these past few weeks; she had only been playing with him, teasing him and enjoying his attention, his gifts, his youth. She’d hinted as much earlier today. He had to see her again; hear it from her lips, watch her head hang with shame as she explained herself.
“Sir?”
“You again, Faren?”
“The wax is a bit dry. I think I shall need a fresh pot from the stores.”
“You don’t need my permission,” the captain had said, his tone brisk and slightly annoyed.
“Thank you, sir,” Faren said, hurrying toward the stairs.
“Why they send up the dungeon boys I don’t know,” the captain murmured under his breath. “I think they get overawed, shooting their bows up this high.”
“They’ll be the death of us, right, captain?” someone had quipped and everyone who heard it grinned, including Faren. But Faren’s had been the grim smile of the executioner.
The day had passed in a strange string of hours for Gavriel, linking weapons practice, a brief ride around the castle park, and kicking around leather stretched over a ball framework of the dried, highly flexible asprey reeds that held an inflated, waxed sheep’s bladder. This more frenzied activity had been punctuated by various meals, a visit to the chapel to say a prayer and light another candle for the dead princess and a meeting with the royal tutors who apologized that studies had been cancelled until further notice. All of this was highly unusual for Gavriel, of course, but for the prince much of it was a normal day’s proceedings, without the dreaded letters, numbers, and language. After the main meal of their day, which they had shared alone in Leo’s chambers, and as dusk gave way to twilight, Gavriel saw to it that the prince cleaned himself up, changed into fresh clothes and was presented neat and tidy to the queen. It had been an hour, probably more, since Gavriel had delivered the boy to the hollow, all-knowing aide known simply as Freath who greeted them at the entrance to Queen Iselda’s suite.
“Good evening, majesty,” he had said in his slow baritone. He glanced toward Gavriel, his gaze sliding quickly away.
Young though he was, Leo was a perceptive child and missed little. “Hello, Freath. I now have a full-time minder. This is Gavriel De Vis—I think you know his father.”
“Indeed, I do,” the man had said, not offering a hand. “You may wait outside for Prince Leonel,” he said to Gavriel, who sensed the prince wince at the use of his full name.
As far as Gavriel knew, everyone disliked Freath, including Gavriel’s father, who was arguably the most generous person he knew. Seemingly ghostlike, the servant had been at the palace for a long time and never seemed to change his intimidating demeanor. Why the queen tolerated him was a mystery but he had been her right hand since Brennus had made Iselda his bride, fifteen years previous.
Leo had been swallowed up into the doorway that Freath now blocked so Gavriel could do little more than snatch a glimpse inside but he smelled the waft of perfume, and spied soft colors and flower arrangements. The door was closed by Genrie as she emerged from the queen’s chambers.
“You again,” she said.
Gavriel saw no smirk, heard no disdain in her tone, but even so the greeting was hardly friendly. “Yes. Consider me Prince Leo’s shadow.”
She regarded him, saying nothing and Gavriel felt his throat go dry. She really was very pretty. “Is that what you always aspired to be, Master De Vis? A nurserymaid to Prince Leonel?”
Gavriel adopted one of Corbel’s famous expressionless stares, refusing to be baited. “Firstly, he’s almost thirteen and needing to mature fast considering the situation we find ourselves in. Secondly, Lo willing he’s our next king and the more palace people who treat him as a potential ruler and not a child, the better.”
“And you believe that the crown prince will make it to the throne?” Again, she spoke evenly, no derision in her tone at all. And yet somehow it still sounded like a rhetorical question.
He answered it anyway. “I do. One day.”
She considered him with interest, a hand on her hip. “And the marauder they call Loethar can—”
“Kiss my arse,” Gavriel finished for her. He grinned and was delighted to win a smile from her.
She nodded. “I hope your humor keeps you safe.”
“Marry me, Genrie,” he teased, moving quickly to stand by her, even daring to circle her waist. “And we can run away from war and—”
“Raise the crown prince together, I suppose?”
Gavriel laughed.
“You’re not much older than he is,” she said, a trace of condescension in her voice.
“I’m seventeen summertides,” he protested, feigning indignation. “More than enough.”
“Not for me, Master De Vis,” she replied, not unkindly. Untangling herself, she made to move away. “It takes more than bravado to impress this servant,” she added.
“Like what? Oh come on, Genrie. May I kiss you—not here, admittedly, although if you insist—”
“I like older men, Master De Vis,” she cut him off.
He made a face of disgust. “Like Master Freath, perhaps. Skin like parchment, teeth in decay, that hunched back.”
Her amusement vanished. “He’s none of those things. I’d hazard that he’s barely a few years older than our king.”
“I was jesting, Genrie. But don’t be fooled by Freath. He strikes me as slippery, and I don’t trust him. Be careful.”
Genrie’s gaze narrowed. “I have no reason to mistrust the queen’s aide, Master De Vis.”
“Just be warned. Now how about that kiss?”
Genrie flashed a brief smile, which was gone in a blink. Suddenly she was back to her briskly efficient self. “Good day, Master De Vis. In case you were wondering, there are no access points into or out of the queen’s chambers other than this one. Prince Leonel is safe.”
Gavriel nodded. “For now perhaps,” he replied sadly, settling back to wait.
Leo finally emerged from his mother’s suite. His once almost white infant hair had darkened
to a deep golden and the soft sprinkling of freckles had been lost beneath the browning of the sun. Gavriel felt sorry that the young prince needed to grow up much faster than even a royal normally would if he was to survive.
Leo looked grave; all the former bravado and humor had fled.
“How is she?” Gavriel asked, pushing away from the wall against which he’d been leaning.
“Miserable. Lost, I think.”
“Is she coming to your sister’s funeral?”
Leo shook his head. “Mother said she died without her help and hardly needs her now. Is that cruel, do you think?”
“No, Leo, that’s grief. You’ll learn all about this in years to come,” Gavriel said, feeling far too wise for his years all of a sudden. But then he’d learned enough about grief through his father, who had never stopped mourning Eril, their mother. He could counsel with genuine wisdom on how grief hardens someone, as it had hardened Regor de Vis. “Come on, I’ll take you up to the roof. It might be a while before we can do that again and then you can have some supper.”
“Gav, when the time comes that you keep speaking about, what is the plan?”
Gavriel looked around, ensuring they could not be overheard. “We escape through the kitchens and the cellars. My father has worked out our route. We take nothing, Leo, remember that. Just the small sack you’ve already assembled.”
“It’s just that when that time comes it probably means my father will be dead.” He said it so flatly and it sounded so raw that Gavriel could do little other than to take a breath. Leo continued, unaware of his keeper’s discomfort. “And if father is dead that means only one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I am king,” he replied, his large blue eyes looking up at Gavriel intently.
“Yes, but—”
“And a king does not run from his own palace.”
“Leo, you know we cannot risk you,” Gavriel said, feeling flustered. He ran his hand through his long hair. “There isn’t a good time to discuss what might happen should your father die but you have raised the issue so let’s talk about it now.”
“Should father die, I would be King of Penraven,” the prince reiterated. “That means you will do as I say, rather than the other way around,” he added. There was nothing overbearing in what he said even though the words sounded high-handed, and yet Gavriel felt a fresh chill of worry creep through him.
“But while your father is alive we all have to do as he says—and he has instructed that no matter what you say or do, I am to get you away from here once the fighting begins.”
“But listen, Gav—”
“Leo, if we leave it too late, then they will kill you too. Do you understand this?”
The prince nodded solemnly.
“We cannot risk that the entire Valisar line is ended. You have to accept this. I know it’s hard and I know you want to be brave and be like your father and stay. I know you don’t want to leave your mother either but you are portable, almost invisible. They are not. I will carry you on my back if I have to but I know I can get you away, no one else. This is what everything is about—it’s about saving your life, protecting the line.”
“And you would give up your life for it?”
“If I have to, yes. That’s what honor is about; it’s what loyalty is and it’s the responsibility that comes with being one of the king’s nobles…” He could see he was losing the boy’s attention with the rhetoric but he was thinking aloud for his own benefit now. He didn’t want to die. He certainly didn’t want his father to lay down his life so easily. And he definitely didn’t feel as brave as Corbel seemed to think he could be. The truth of it was that Gavriel was feeling sad. That was it. It hit him hard and he took a deep breath, only realizing minutes later that the prince was shaking him.
“Sorry, highness.”
“Leo,” the prince corrected. “What’s wrong?”
“Just thinking. Nothing important,” Gavriel lied bleakly.
Five
That evening, up on the battlements, standing briefly alongside his father while the prince was kept well out of sight admiring the weapons and talking to some of the soldiers, Gavriel watched with a sense of doom as a rider approached the main gate. He wore the insignia of Barronel but carried no weapon and yelled to the gatekeeper that he was one of the captains from the Barronel Guard. He looked so bedraggled that it was little wonder he drew only jeers from onlookers. But he persisted, until Gavriel heard his father say to one of his own captains that someone should see what he had to say. One of the archers listening nearby, spoke up hesitantly.
“Er, sir?”
“Yes,” the legate said brusquely, annoyed by the interruption.
“I think I know that man.”
“You do?”
The archer nodded. “I think he is my brother-in-law.”
“What?”
“Sir, I, er, I think he’s married to my eldest sister. She left to live in Barronel a decade ago. I’ve only met him twice but I think it’s him.”
“It’s dark, man. How can you be sure?”
“His horse, sir,” the archer said. “It’s a cantankerous brute. I recognize it by that white flame on its forelock and the splash of white at its right ankle. It was always an odd-looking beast.”
“You’re sure now?”
The archer shrugged. “I believe it’s him.”
“Captain, send this man to see what the rider has to say. It will be easier if relatives speak, rather than sending a stranger. Well done, soldier. Your name?”
“Del Faren, Legate De Vis.”
De Vis nodded. “I won’t forget that name. Take precaution. They’re obviously using your relative as a messenger; they must be frightened we’ll attack one of their own. Find out what the barbarian wants.”
“Sir,” the archer said. “Ah, may I give him a note for my sister?”
“You can write?”
The archer nodded. “A little, sir.”
“You have one minute to scrawl something and then I want to see you out there and finding out more from him.”
The man nodded again, bowed and Gavriel was sure he must have imagined that the archer scowled at the legate as he pushed past.
The expectant hush that had fallen across the city over the past few days had infected the palace as well. Gavriel was sure that even from this height if he listened hard enough he could probably pick up the creaking of the rider’s saddle. A lot of people had fled the city but the majority had remained, trusting in their army’s strength, the impregnability of Brighthelm and their king’s ability to achieve a settlement. Gavriel reckoned many of them believed that Brennus had disguised his magical ability to coerce others but that he would now unleash it to negotiate a peaceful retreat of the barbarians. The De Vis family knew better.
“Taking a long time,” the legate muttered to the captain nearby.
“Probably the note, sir,” the man answered candidly. “Or he’s scared.”
“He didn’t seem scared when he volunteered.”
“He’s out, father,” Gavriel offered and the conversation was forgotten as everyone leaned over to watch Del Faren approach the rider. The population on the battlements became so still and silent they could just catch the murmur of the two men.
“Not very friendly are they, considering they’re family,” De Vis commented.
The captain shrugged. “Perhaps his sister has been killed in the fighting.”
De Vis ignored the response, turning back instead to see the rider hand Faren a note in return which Faren pocketed.
Gavriel thought the spectacle was done with, and had just raised his hand to the rider who gazed up at them forlornly when a sound whistled out of the nearby woodland. In the blink of an eye the tip of an arrow had punctured straight through the rider’s heart and out between his ribcage. As the rider slumped forward, revealing the stub of the arrow’s shaft protruding from his back, the horse obediently answered a whistle, turning to canter bac
k into the shadows of the trees.
“Bastards!” De Vis growled. “Get that archer before me, now!” he ordered. “In the garret.” He turned to his son. “Get the prince and follow me. And someone fetch the king!” Runners took off in various directions.
In the quiet of the garret, De Vis addressed his son and the prince alone. “Your highness. Gavriel. I suspect the moment for your escape approaches. Do you understand, both of you?”
Gavriel glanced at the youngster. “Yes, father. Leo, er, the prince and I have discussed it. I know what is expected of me.”
“Don’t even look back, son,” De Vis replied, his voice suddenly tender. “All our hopes are riding on your shoulders and the courage of Prince Leo.”
A man appeared at the door. “Tell him to wait until the king arrives,” De Vis called, returning his attention to the pair of youngsters. “All right, then. My prince, your father has been summoned and I’m sorry but this will be your best opportunity to say farewell to him before I ask Gavriel to remove you from here. The secret of your escape will be known only to myself and the king. Your whereabouts I take with me to my grave.”
“Don’t, father—” Gavriel began but was silenced by a fierce glance from the older man.
“No pretense now. We know what we face. We each have our duty. Don’t let our deaths be in vain.” He cleared his throat of the emotion that had begun to sound in his voice as the king arrived.
“I heard we’ve had a rider,” Brennus said, striding into the garret and bringing the smell of the queen’s perfume in with him. Gavriel inhaled it as though taking in the essence of life. When would he smell something so beautiful again? He glanced at Leo and could imagine the boy thinking much the same and perhaps silently fretting over his mother.
“Your majesty,” De Vis, began, “a rider has delivered a note to us.”
Gavriel watched Brennus’s expression darken.
“Terms, you think?” he asked.
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