by M C Dwyer
“Help you what?” Nepenthe asked, starting down the hall and glancing back to see if Ingrid followed. “And what makes you think I’d say yes?”
The princess looked around shiftily. “I’ll tell you when I’m sure we’re alone.”
Since he could see both Mae and the big blond Aileron—Barth, he’d learned—looking at them curiously, he let this pass. He nodded at the Ailerons as they passed, and wasn’t surprised when one of them fell into step some distance behind.
Nepenthe led them to the end of a secluded hallway. A large leaded window with a cushioned bench occupied this dead end; Nepenthe had spent many an icy winter evening here when it was too cold to sit on his balcony. They’d left Mae back at the last turning of the hallway, so there was no one to see Ingrid clamber up on the cushioned bench and press her nose against the glass to peer out.
“You won’t see much,” he said. “It’s raining this morning, and that window looks out at another wing of the palace.”
“Oh,” Ingrid said, sinking back to her knees in disappointment.
Nepenthe sat at the other end of the bench and pulled his knees up to his chest. “Well, we’re alone.”
The princess sighed. “I don’t want to marry your king. I’m planning to cancel the betrothal before I return home.”
Unable to formulate an immediate response, Nepenthe merely blinked for a moment. Finally, he gathered his thoughts and said, “Is that why Marid’s upset? Will your parents be okay with that?”
“Yes, and no, respectively,” Ingrid said, but continued mulishly. “I won’t do it, though. I won’t be forced into a marriage with a man old enough to be my father who has absolutely no interest in me, even if it’s for the good of the kingdom. I want,” she continued, her eyes lighting up, “someone who will take care of me and cherish me.”
Curious as to what had prompted this volte-face, Nepenthe reminded her, “In my admittedly limited experience, royalty doesn’t usually get the luxury of romance in their marriages.” Something about that statement tugged at Nepenthe’s memories for some reason, and he was busy pursuing it and so missed what Ingrid said next.
“—and that’s why I’ve decided on you,” she finished, and Nepenthe blinked.
“I’m sorry? Say that again.”
“That’s why,” she said, obviously annoyed, “we have to run away together. Tonight, preferably.”
The absurdity of that statement precluded understanding for a long moment, and when it finally sank in, Nepenthe barked a short, unamused, “Ha!”
Ingrid pouted. “It’s perfect, though! If I’m married to you, no one can force me to marry King Edmun, and you get to be a prince. Though,” she said apologetically, “since you’re a commoner you can’t be crowned king, but you’ll keep the title of Prince until you die.”
“This might come as a surprise to you,” Nepenthe said flatly, “but even that doesn’t tempt me to marry you.”
“Is there someone else?” She leaned forward and put a hand on his arm. He twitched away from her touch. “There is! I don’t mind,” she said, and then hesitated. “Well, I mind a little bit. But you’ll get over her eventually and fall in love with me. It’s perfect.”
Nepenthe had a flash of sympathy for the princess. She was in an untenable position. He patted her hand where it rested on the cushion. “I can’t marry you; I’m sorry.” He held up his other hand to forestall whatever comment she was about to make. “There is quite literally nothing on this earth that you could offer me that would make me change my mind.”
Ingrid sat back and her eyes filled with tears. “Then you’ve sentenced me to a loveless political marriage.”
“Are you so certain you could never learn to love the king? Is he so very terrible?”
“Don’t you know?” she shot back. “He’s so stern and forbidding, and his eyes are such a pale blue they just give me the chills.”
“Really?” Nepenthe said. He usually thought of blue eyes as warm, but that might be because he was remembering his mother’s blue-green or Tad’s grey-blue ones. “I’ve never actually met the king.”
“Well, he’s old and grumpy,” Ingrid said petulantly.
“He’s also not a monster,” Nepenthe said. “That clause in your betrothal agreement was put there for your sake. If you truly don’t wish this marriage to happen, just tell him. He won’t pursue it.” He continued wryly, “I don’t think he’s particularly interested in marrying you, either; he just needs the alliance.”
“Truly?” Ingrid sniffed.
“Truly.” Nepenthe was silent for a moment, then cautiously changed the subject. “If you want to talk about monsters, what’s the story on those guards of yours?”
The princess giggled. “Aren’t they the worst? My father hired them before I came here. He said the two of them would be worth any eight of his own guardsmen.”
“Really? Did he look into their backgrounds before he sent them here with you?”
Ingrid shrugged. “I’m sure he did. They came highly recommended, though. Or at least that’s what I heard. But I don’t like them, and Marid is always complaining about them. I think I would have preferred eight of my own guardsmen to these two.” She frowned and picked at the edge of the cushion. “At least I had some friends in the guards.”
Nepenthe filed this information away for later relay to Tad. “Well, since we’ve successfully ditched yours, shall I show you some of my better hiding places in the palace?”
Princess Ingrid looked up with a smile. “Yes, please.”
Late that evening, Nepenthe was ghosting along the hallways on his way back to his rooms when he heard quiet voices approaching. Old habits died hard, and he slipped into an alcove that was even more shadowed than the hall to wait for them to pass. As they approached, however, he recognized the hulking forms of Ingrid’s guards.
“—still think we should pin it on that brat. He’s spirit-touched. We could spread some rumors about the Butcher of Brae striking again. That’d stir up some trouble, alright.”
“That’s not what we were paid to do,” the other one growled as they passed. Nepenthe slipped out behind them, hugging the darker shadows and glad he was still wearing the dark blue palace livery. “Tell Marid to just pick an Aileron’s room—just avoid that big blond, whatever his name was.”
“That spirit-touched brat is connected to the Ailerons,” the other persisted, and the first man drew to a halt. Nepenthe froze as well, then melted into the shadows behind a decorative pillar.
“That might work, then,” the first man said eventually. “Fine. Have Marid stash the poison in the brat’s room, but make sure she doesn’t do it before tomorrow morning. It needs to be in place before we give it to the princess but not too soon, or he might find it.”
“I’ll tell her tonight after the princess falls asleep,” the second man agreed, and the two of them moved on.
Nepenthe stood in the shadows, heart pounding and mind racing furiously. The phrase “Butcher of Brae” had affected him strangely, but that paled in comparison with what else he’d heard. After a week of trying to overhear the guards’ plotting, he’d managed it by sheer chance. But now they knew—or at least, he knew—the plan and could possibly prevent it.
All other concerns were driven out of his head as the overriding thought have to find Tad intruded. Tad would know what to do.
Nepenthe turned back down the corridor, not anxious to run into the guards, and took another route to the king’s quarters. He didn’t know where Tad could be found at this time of night; he hadn’t visited the balcony earlier, but he usually returned to the king’s quarters afterward—Nepenthe would start there.
Dashing through the dark and empty halls, Nepenthe found his heart thumping painfully in his chest. His thoughts continued to swirl unproductively, and he ruthlessly banished all but the most important: find Tad, report the killers’ plans. He was glad, he thought as he pushed through the last door of the queen’s quarters and crossed the hallway to the k
ing’s, that they’d decided against telling the princess. She might have let it slip to Marid, which would have been a fatal mistake.
Pushing open the first door he came to, he glanced around but saw no one. He hurried to the next door and surprised a liveried servant who was putting tea things back onto a tray.
“I need to find Tad,” Nepenthe gasped, and the man simply pointed mutely to the next door.
He ran through this and the next room; this was a bedroom, elaborately decorated and hung with rich tapestries. He absorbed this in passing on his way through, finding time for an errant thought that the king had good taste, even if he was old and grumpy. Nepenthe burst through the next door and froze. He recognized this room; he’d been in it once before. But that wasn’t what stopped him.
The floor was tiled in blue and a huge sunken tub occupied most of the room. A pile of clothes sat next to a towel on a low stool, and a few puddles of water glistened in the light of several candelabra positioned around the room. But this wasn’t what stopped him, either.
What had brought his mind and body to a screeching halt was the figure currently occupying the tub, staring at him in shock that was as open-mouthed as his own no doubt was. There was no mistaking that dark hair, the silver earring that glinted in the candlelight, or those pale blue eyes that Princess Ingrid had found so forbidding.
Something in his chest clenched with an emotion he couldn’t begin to name or describe, and he stepped backward and pulled the door shut even as there was a surge of water, as of someone climbing out of a tub, or a tidal wave breaking on the shore to destroy everything that had been built there.
Moments later, Tad emerged, the doorknob slipping from Nepenthe’s nerveless fingers as the door opened. He was damp but fully clad, though his towel was still over his shoulders.
“Nepenthe, what is it?” he said, picking up Nepenthe’s limp hand.
“Assassins,” Nepenthe whispered, staring down at Tad’s strong, calloused hand wrapped around his own. “They’re going to poison the princess sometime tomorrow and try to frame me. Marid’s in on the plot.”
Tad put his hand under Nepenthe’s chin, bringing up his gaze. “You’re sure?”
Nepenthe nodded, dropping his eyes again.
“Alright. I’ll take care of things.” He let go of Nepenthe and ran his hands through his wet hair. “I’ll—yes, I know what to do. Listen,” he said, putting his hands on Nepenthe’s shoulders. They seemed too warm, somehow, or maybe it was just that he’d gone cold. “Stay here,” Tad said. “Please. I need to talk to you—to apologize—just—just stay here, okay?”
A slight nod was all Nepenthe could manage. The tightness in his chest wouldn’t let him speak.
Tad hesitated a moment longer, then took off down the hallway calling for a servant.
His servants, Nepenthe thought numbly. He stumbled back and was caught by the wall. Tad was Edmun; Edmun was Tad. Why hadn’t he seen it? Aidan had known; Aidan must have known. Nepenthe tried to remember the very first time he’d seen Tad. Aidan had been so familiar; he hadn’t called him “Your majesty” or anything like that, just greeted him as a friend. That was nice, Nepenthe supposed, except that it gave onlookers the wrong impression. And that night at the fire—but it was no use remembering, now.
His feet carried him back through the king’s—Tad’s—rooms and out through the queen’s. He tried to sit on the balcony bench but missed, somehow, ending up kneeling on the stone floor. That was all right, too; he pillowed his head on his arms and leaned on the bench. He did not think, could not think; he simply waited.
Chapter 20
It was several hours later that Tad found him there, eyes open but not really awake.
“Nepenthe?” he said, crouching in front of him. “Are you alright?”
“I have bad dreams,” Nepenthe whispered, but then blinked and seemed to wake up. “Tad. Is the princess safe?”
Tad breathed a sigh. “Yes, Shadow, the princess is safe; I’m more worried about you, at the moment.”
Nepenthe straightened but did not move from the floor. “I’m fine,” he said. He was not fine. The tight, achy feeling in his chest was still there, and he felt perilously close to tears. He felt the fire from his earring pushing at him and drew a little of it out to dry up his eyes. It also fed his anger. “You lied to me,” he said, rather more calmly than he expected to.
“I tried very hard not to,” Tad—Edmun said, “or at least to only lie by omission.”
Turning over his memories of his time with Tad, Nepenthe found this to be true, which killed the anger but left the embarrassment and wounded pride. “But why didn’t you just tell me?”
Edmun ran a hand over his face and looked down at the floor. “At first, because it didn’t matter. I only saw you at a distance, and it made no difference whether you thought of me as Tad or King Edmun. Then after we started to talk, I began to appreciate that I didn’t have to be the King for you. I could just be Tad, which I haven’t been able to do for a very long time.” He shrugged helplessly. “I’m sorry; it wasn’t meant to hurt you.”
Nepenthe gave a small, hiccupping sob, and Edmun picked up both of his hands and pressed them.
“Forgive me, Shadow?” he whispered.
Nepenthe wasn’t proof against that, so he simply nodded and concentrated on not letting any tears fall.
After a few moments he mastered himself and let Edmun pull him up to the bench.
“Can I ask you a question?” he said, and Edmun chuckled.
“You just did.”
Pushing Edmun away while a tiny smile tried to break through, Nepenthe shook his head. “What is the Butcher of Brae?”
Edmun sobered immediately. “Where did you hear that name?”
“The guardsmen said it. They said it was better to pin the murder on me because I’m spirit-touched, and they could spread rumors that the Butcher of Brae had struck again.”
Edmun’s eyes flashed angrily in the moonlight. “I’m sorry for that, Shadow.” He paused, and then asked, “Do you know anything about Breccia?”
Nepenthe flinched at the name, which was answer enough. However, he said, “I think I used to. It’s hidden behind the wall.”
“The wall?”
“In my mind. I can’t see past it, though sometimes things slip through.”
Thoughtfully, Edmun said, “I see. Well, Breccia is a small country north of Talus and west of the mountains. About five years ago, there was a spirit storm that wiped out the entire city of Brae. Everything was destroyed, down to the very foundation stones of the castle, and everyone in the city was killed. Rumor has it that the royal family escaped—or at least, what was left of it at that point, which would have been the new-crowned king and his younger sister—but they haven’t been seen since. After that, most of the country packed up and left, flooding into Talus and Iona, though a few crossed the mountains and are living in western Alain.”
“And the Butcher?”
Edmun shrugged. “No one knows who summoned the spirit storm, or even if it was summoned. It had to have been a high order spirit if it was summoned; the spirits generally don’t move like that except for one of their own.” He sighed. “There’s been some backlash against those who are spirit-touched in the last few years, especially in places like Talus that absorbed the bulk of the refugees. I haven’t tolerated it in Alain, in part because there’s a fairly strong history of intermarriage with the spirits here, and in part because of our proximity to the Farlan. They’d never trade with a country that allowed that kind of abuse.”
Nepenthe shivered, and not from any chill. “I know something about this, but I don’t know what I know.” He rubbed his brow with the heel of his palm and sighed.
“Well, if you do remember, will you tell me? I’d like to know what happened as much as anyone else. Who knows? You might be one of the only people who survived the destruction of Brae.”
“Or maybe I am the Butcher,” Nepenthe whispered, looking for a denia
l from his memories. It didn’t come.
“That’s hardly likely,” Edmun said, ruffling Nepenthe’s hair. As Nepenthe fingercombed it down with a longsuffering sigh, he added, “It will be dawn in a few hours. I’m sorry, but I’m going to need you to come to court tomorrow—well, this morning—to testify against Ingrid’s servants. It’s going to be messy, but I’m hoping we can forestall any declarations of war against our neighbor.”
Nepenthe opened his mouth to protest, and then realized he didn’t have much choice. Besides, the princess would no doubt need the support. “Fine,” he sighed. “I’m going to try to get a couple hours of sleep, then.”
Edmun nodded and gave him a gentle shove. “I’ll have someone come fetch you in the morning, so don’t worry about oversleeping.”
Stifling a yawn, Nepenthe nodded and headed to the door. He paused in the doorway and said over his shoulder, “I understand why you did it.” At Edmun’s look of inquiry, he added, “Pretended to be a nobody, I mean. I might do the same in your position.” His mouth twisted in what might have been a smile.
Edmun smiled back. “It was nice to just be Tad. No one calls me that any more, and I found I missed it.”
“Who used to call you Tad?”
His smile turned wistful. “My mother. Good night, Shadow.”
“Good night—Tad,” Nepenthe managed, and was gone.
As promised, someone knocked on Nepenthe’s door way too early the next morning. Nepenthe looked at the light coming in the window and guessed he’d managed about four hours of sleep. He splashed some water on his face on his way to the door, patting it dry with his nightshirt. Upon opening the door, he found Drinian dressed in his finest Aileron formals, a midnight-blue cloth embroidered and edged in silver, with a silver sword at his side.
Drinian bowed and held out a suspiciously similar pile of clothes to Nepenthe.
“What’s this?”
Drinian smiled. “King’s orders. Present yourself in court in fifteen minutes.” So saying, he shoved the pile of clothes at Nepenthe, then bowed again and left.