Twice a Prince: Sasharia En Garde Book 2

by Sherwood Smith

  He swung with a power stroke I could not block with a mere rapier. He had that heavy cavalry sword, and he was fighting to kill. I backed gracelessly out of the way, slipped on gritty dust just like Jehan had and dropped my rapier.

  Randart laughed as he advanced.

  “Your mistake,” I said, though my voice quavered.

  He took another swipe at me. I whirled under the blade and did a sweep kick. He was too well planted, and my feet only bounced off his heavy boots. But he looked down, and in that moment I dove to one side, rolled (Ow! Never roll on gravel!) and came up with Jehan’s heavier cavalry sword that had been lying by his hand. Randart’s blade flashed toward my head. The angle was too close for a power block. I dropped to one knee and flung up both hands, the tip resting on the flat of my palm, and took the blow on the flat of Jehan’s heavy blade.

  Shock rang through my bones, sparks flew. “You cheated,” I yelled. “You rotten, cowardly slime, you hit him from behind!”

  “Die.” Randart brought the sword round in a deadly side-arc that whooshed within an inch of my gut. I danced back, though that put me close to the edge of the cliff.

  Then something silver glittered in the air between Randart and me.

  Thunk.

  Randart lowered his sword, staring at the knife in his shoulder.

  The men, who had stood frozen, some of them gazing in horror at the king across the lake, others at Randart, obviously unsure what to do, all stepped back as Damedran scrambled over the rocks.

  “You broke your promise,” he yelled, his voice cracking on the last word. “You lied.” And he began to sob, the angry, honking sobs of a teen betrayed beyond endurance.

  Randart pressed his fingers over the horrible, spurting wound. “You always had…rotten aim,” he snarled.

  “I don’t,” came a voice from behind.

  Randart whipped round. There was Jehan, rising to his feet, crimson blood trickling in shocking contrast down through his white hair into his face, which was as bleak as I’d ever seen it. His hand gripped my dueling rapier.

  Randart shifted his blade to his left, swung at Jehan. Neatly, without fuss or flourish, Jehan blocked and, without a check, the rapier flashed straight through Randart’s heart.

  The warriors stirred, some starting toward me, some toward Damedran. Damedran’s fellow cadets swarmed over the rocks, ranging themselves in a row, blades raised.

  Everyone eyed one another, poised for action—but who was in charge? Jehan swiped blood out of his face, blinking in an effort to see.

  “Hold! Everyone, hold hard! Lay down your arms,” my father ordered in a voice of authority I had never heard him use.

  The older army men stared, aghast, astonished. In disbelief.

  “Math?”

  That was Mom.

  “Down with your weapons,” Dad said, his voice strong enough to echo back from the far stone walls. “Now. There will be no retribution for those who lay down weapons. But another strike, and you are forsworn.”

  Clang. Clank. Zhing.

  I think, looking back, many of them were relieved to get rid of the steel and the responsibility it implied. Too much had happened too fast. The pair of men holding Damedran stepped away, leaving him weeping quietly, disconsolately.

  Dad picked his way down to us, his hair wild, his feet absurdly bare. But he didn’t look ridiculous, he looked assured, cool, well, kingly.

  Jehan flung down his red-smeared blade.

  Dad gripped Jehan’s shoulders with both hands. “You have done well, my boy,” he said quietly.

  Jehan squinted into his face past the blood trickling from the blow Randart had given him, and his brow smoothed. Dad was not talking about the fight with Randart at all.

  I looked uncertainly from Dad to Jehan, unsure what to do now that the emergency was over.

  Dad let go of Jehan and stepped to me, giving me his funny smile as he murmured for my ears alone, “He told you the truth in everything that matters.”

  I know it’s about as trite as “true love”, but I really did feel as if a weight had lifted from my heart.

  Before I could cross those last few steps to Jehan, a figure hurtled between the warriors, shoving some of them aside, and then, crying as hard as she had in those early days when we first reached Earth—but this time for joy—was Mom.

  She flung herself into Dad’s arms, laughing, weeping, covering his face with kisses, stopping only when his arms locked around her as if they would never let her go.

  Chapter Thirty

  Jehan and I had only had a single private conversation between that terrible day in Ivory Mountain and our arrival in Vadnais. And it wasn’t much of one.

  Immediately after Randart’s death and Dad’s surprise appearance, Mom got everyone organized. She asked the women to help marshal Canardan’s men. By that I mean they went to the ones they knew, asking for help carrying things or help with horses or to talk—keeping them apart from Randart’s men so they wouldn’t get the bright idea of attacking their ex-army mates for some wholesale slaughter to relieve pent-up feelings.

  Dad remained with Randart’s men, forcing them to stay in military formation, that is under tight control. They were sworn to follow orders, and right now, Dad seemed to be the senior royal representative. At least no one tried to question his authority.

  For the rest of that horrible day, Jehan stayed with Damedran and the cadets.

  I kept out of their way as we trudged out of the cavern and began the long, dreary journey back to Vadnais. Jehan’s and Damedran’s faces wore twin expressions of shock; Damedran’s grief was terribly close to the surface, fueled by anger and even guilt. Though he kept repeating that his uncle got what he deserved, got what he deserved. No one argued. Damedran was his own judge and jury. Finally, surrounded protectively by his cadet pack, Damedran fell into an exhausted sleep near the campfire that first night.

  I eased my way through all the slumbering warriors and stable people, and sat down next to Jehan. He had been sitting alone with his back to a rock, staring into the distant fire, his hands loose on his knees.

  His head turned sharply, and he looked searchingly into my face. Though we did not really know one another yet, I suspected he was bracing against an expression of triumph or some other careless dismissal of his father because he’d heard plenty from me about Canardan. And I’d never had the chance to know the king as anything but a villain.

  But I’d witnessed that last exchange with my mother, during which I got a glimpse of the Canardan whom Jehan loved, the man Mom had regarded as more of a friend than as an enemy. Despite everything.

  So there was no sign in me of the reactions he dreaded. All the tension went out of him, and the look he gave me, the puckered brow of grief, whacked my heart with an echo of his sorrow.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and meant it. “Jehan, I’m so sorry.”

  His expression tightened. “If I’d been faster… I should have seen it coming—” He shook his head.

  “Can I get you anything?” I knew it was woefully inadequate, but what could I do? What could I say? No action of mine would bring his father back and set everything to rights. “They seem to have gotten supper going at the other end of camp. I don’t know about you, but I tend to eat least when I need it the most.”

  He half raised a hand in dismissal, then looked away, toward the boys, a couple of whom were also asleep, though most were awake. “I don’t think I ate today. Maybe I’d better.”

  “Right.” I got to my feet. “Let me bring it to you.”

  A quiet tone, practical words and sensible action eased his tension a little. He didn’t want soggy sympathy, nor did he want drama. We’d just lived through plenty of that.

  I went away to get in line where some of the army men and a few of the women had set up a cook tent and a kind of instant cafeteria line. I got a hunk of pan-fried cornbread, some sort of fish cooked in pressed olives and wine, sautéed carrots someone had gotten permission to pick from
a local truck garden.

  When I finally reached Jehan, I discovered that he’d fallen deeply and profoundly asleep, his cheek resting on the arm he’d crooked over the rock.

  I set the plate nearby and returned to get some food for myself. And then I went and sat with Damedran’s friends, who looked like a bunch of scared pups. Husky ones, to be sure, but pups all the same. I asked them easy questions—about homes, families, favorite activities. Things they could answer without reference to so-called Great Events.

  Why do bloody events get translated into Great Events in histories? Probably because they force summary change. But here was the real effect of sudden change—the wrenches in the lives of those who would never leave behind records, the people who lived and breathed and hated and loved, feared and fought, the everyday folk whom the balladeers inevitably overlooked. They might go home and tell the story, and perhaps the sword Ban Kender gripped would be handed down to a grandson, along with the story of this day. Maybe he would even figure as a hero. Well, if he did, it wasn’t like anyone would be hurt by it.

  The next day Jehan rode in the wagon with his father’s body. He didn’t ride with me partly because he needed time alone, but also because Damedran stuck to me like glue.

  From his occasional, uncharacteristically shy questions or comments, I finally realized Damedran was crushing on me, but it was a dazed crush, I think more gratitude than any real admiration for my great looks or stunning abilities. Making me into a kind of heroine probably felt better than the emotions of disgrace, defeat and attempted murder, no matter how justified everyone told him his action had been.

  So passed a few days.

  Before we reached Vadnais, we paused at a crossroad, and my father rode a little ways apart with Damedran and spoke to him alone. The boy separated off with a small guard leading the wagon that would be taken to his family castle, where they could have a private funeral. Dad was not having any sort of shame ceremony, too often held in the past. Those caused nothing but bad feelings.

  Jehan and I traveled together after that, for the few days remaining, but he almost never spoke. From time to time he looked ahead at Dad. It was pretty plain to me he was wondering what kind of disgrace lay ahead for him, but he didn’t say anything.

  Mom and Dad were nearly inseparable, and from the looks of things, they didn’t stop yakking except to eat when we camped. A few times they invited us to join them. Jehan refused politely; he seemed to regard himself if not as a prisoner, in isolation. So I divided my time between them, feeling like this could be over ANY time and no one would hear me complain. I mean, the bad guys were gone, where was my happy ending?

  Where was Jehan’s?

  We finally reached Vadnais in a kind of procession, Dad and Mom riding at the front, me behind them, an honor guard with Jehan accompanying Canardan laid out in the wagon. Along the trip some of the women had gone home (with their men) but everyone else trailed after, including some looky-loos who’d invited themselves along now that the danger was over.

  Dad had sent riders ahead. The entire city had gathered along the main street leading to the great square between the castle and the guild buildings. Whatever their private feelings, people united in throwing down white blossoms. Canardan was quite covered with a fragrant snowdrift of flowers when we reached the great square, where a quiet, orderly crowd had been waiting since morning.

  There, at a gesture from Dad, Jehan stepped up. He did not give a speech. No one made a sound as he passed a torch three times over his father’s still body. Magister Zhavic, with trembling hands, performed the Disappearance Spell.

  Then my father lifted his voice. “I, Mathias Zhavalieshin, claim the throne of Khanerenth. My first order is to appoint Prince Jehan Merindar as continuing commander of our guard, and he is also to take command as High Admiral of the navy.”

  Jehan’s face blanched nearly as white as his hair.

  “If he accepts these tasks, I further order him to ride immediately to Castle Cheslan to lead the army back to Ellir for winter quarters. There, he will preside over a smooth change of command as he sees fit.”

  I was astonished, but the relief in Jehan’s face made it plain to see that this was exactly the right thing to do. He bowed low to my father, setting off a group bow that rustled (with a few creaking and crackling of joints here and there) through the crowd.

  After that they sent up a huge cheer.

  Jehan said something to Dad. I couldn’t catch the words. He turned a twisted smile to me that was so much a mix of unhappiness and desire my throat ached. Then he strode away through the crowd, his white hair floating on the cold autumn breeze, and vanished in the direction of the stable.

  “I never got to talk to him,” I said, hardly aware of speaking.

  Mom squeezed my hand. “Let him get some space. Let people see him trusted by your father.”

  Space. Yes. I’d asked it of him when I left the yacht, though it had hurt me terribly. I had to give him the same chance. So I bowed my head and followed my mother toward the castle looming over us.

  Mom stopped in her tracks. “Where is everyone going to stay?” She stared up at those towers with (I suddenly realized) somewhat wrinkled Zhavalieshin firebird banners hanging down.

  Dad looked over at her, brows lifted mildly. “Oh. I didn’t think of that.”

  Mom gave a short nod. “I may as well go right back up to my rooms, and you come with me, dear. In about five minutes you and I are going to be in that bath. I can think of plenty of things to do.”

  Though I felt closer to tears, I laughed. “Mom. There are about thirty people earing in.”

  “I’d invite them to join us, but the fashion for hot tubs doesn’t seem to have reached this world yet. I’ll fix that.” She patted my hand and turned around. “Well! Since we have quite a crowd, why don’t we get those with nothing to do started on cleaning up this castle?”

  She began handing out jobs. Those who didn’t backpedal fast got assigned to broom and scrub squads. The surprising thing is, most of them actually went out and did the assigned jobs. A lot of them were castle servants hoping not to be fired, it turned out. Having work to do was a good thing, it helped establish a semblance or normality.

  Mom then turned on me. “And you, my dear, are going to have an appointment with the royal seamstress. You have to start dressing like a princess.”

  “Nooo,” I howled. “Not a big dress!”

  “If I can get used to it, you can.”

  Despite her determination to polish me up before Jehan returned, when he did arrive, I wasn’t in any of my new gowns. (Which I have to admit were stylish and easy to wear.) I was out in the court doing weapons practice with the guards, wearing my workout clothes, when one of Steward Eban’s nieces came to fetch me. “Prince Jehan is here!” she cried, grinning with excitement.

  I ran inside and straight to the side parlor that Dad and Mom had taken over as our central HQ. Dad had insisted that the servants not disturb Canardan’s rooms, and Mom couldn’t bear to go near them. They had agreed to let Jehan decide what to do about his father’s things.

  Jehan arrived just after I reached the parlor. He still wore his brown tunic uniform, now dusty from the road. He bowed to Dad and Mom, and turned to me. He no longer wore that look of pain that had so wrenched my heart on the long, awful ride. I grinned at him.

  He flashed a subdued version of his old smile before turning to Dad. “Sire, would you like my report?”

  Dad waved a hand. “Sit, Jehan. I sent for something to eat and drink.”

  Jehan dropped down next to me. Our shoulders touched; I held out my hand. His face relaxed, and his fingers gripped mine.

  “Did Orthan Randart assist you as I required?” Dad asked.

  “He did.” Jehan’s tone was grim.

  Servants came in, bringing hot food and drinks. The slanting rays of late autumn touched the table where we all kept our own stacks of to-do things, striking into gold the tea as it was poured into the fin
e blue porcelain cups.

  Kreki Eban had gone straight from the dungeon to the steward’s chambers. Mom and I had been trying to figure out how to help Kreki Eban reorganize the staff, for a lot of Canardan’s servants had quit. Some had vanished when the news of Canardan’s death reached the city, along with a sizable amount of silver, plate and other valuables. Chas no doubt at their head. But Kreki had unearthed a lot of the old servants, who were quite eager to have their old jobs back. Only the vacancies didn’t neatly match with what people wanted to do.

  When the servants were gone, Mom sighed, rubbing her temples. “Zhavic searched Randart’s office down in the garrison at Math’s request. He didn’t find any wards or anything.”

  Jehan dropped his biscuit onto his plate. “I searched his office at Ellir, as you required, sire. I didn’t expect to find anything like ‘Future King Plans’ but Orthan, who really seemed to want to cooperate, kept telling me his brother was fond of lists. Randart had had his own section of the academy archive room. We opened those chests and found the files scrupulously neat, arranged according to year, supplies, reports on personnel and exercises, for the entire army. He even noted down interrogations and the type of, um, coercion, let’s call it, that was most effective for that person.”

  “Yuk!” Mom and I said together.

  “I burned that one.” Jehan grimaced. “Research I’d as soon no one ever uses. For the rest, we had to go through it all, but in the end it was worthwhile. He kept two kinds of open lists, we finally figured out: immediate goals and long-term goals.”

  “Ah.” Mom leaned forward and pushed the biscuit back into Jehan’s free hand, for his other still held mine tightly. He obediently took a bite.

  Mom smiled fondly at him. “Let me guess. Long-term goals would get shifted to immediate and when accomplished, were filed as done.”

  “Exactly. The outstanding ones were mostly various contingency plans, but there was one single sheet, and from the looks of it quite old, on which he’d written hypotheticals. All of them expressed as ideas. But if you read them mentally prefacing each with If I were king, they changed in meaning. It looks, from that paper and some other hints, as if he’d first considered the idea of assassinating my father within the past two or three years, if he didn’t get rid of me. He was only waiting for Damedran to leave the academy and gain some sort of military triumph before acting.”