But Ra-khir said nothing. Like a statue, he maintained his respectful attitude, performing no action to enhance or dispel the fiery hush filling the room.
Leondis broke first, as he must. Tone still tinged with rage, he managed a reasonably civil, “You’re dismissed, Ra-khir.”
Ra-khir rose with an appropriate, if not fervent, bow, turned, and replaced his hat. Walking to the door, he tripped the latch. As he exited, Tae caught sight of milling guards, several surreptitiously attempting to glance through the crack. After Kevral’s wild departure, they surely worried for the fate of their prince. Then, the door snapped closed. Leondis heaved an enormous sigh, collapsing his upper body to the table.
Tae stepped out from the shadows. For several moments, he watched the prince run tense hands through the dark curls at the back of his hair. The regal shoulders slumped, and his face lay hidden against the wood. Tae weighed his options as he stood behind the prince. He had to speak first; to allow the prince to discover him might well lead to the accusation of intended assassination. He had left his weapons in his room, including his utility dagger; but that precaution would prove little use if prince or guards slaughtered him before he had a chance to assert his innocent intentions.
Sudden regret for his actions assailed Tae. He had come from curiosity, wondering what event of significance caused Béarn to summon Kevral and Ra-khir immediately from the task. Once Tae had slipped past the inspection of Pudar’s guards, wedged behind the bookshelf, he had lost any chance of avoiding the transaction. The room’s lack of a window made him claustrophobic, and he had wished himself anywhere else more than once until the discussion had started. Then, the proceedings had kept him enthralled until this moment. Certain things required saying, and no one other than Tae would speak them. Clinging to the description Kevral had given—she had once described the crown prince of Pudar as reasonable and charming—he finally gathered the courage to speak. “Joining the quest for the Pica shards would not be a good idea.”
Leondis rose and whirled with a speed that startled Tae into a wary back-step. Only one trained to war could move so swiftly.
Swallowing his terror, Tae continued. “Yesterday, Kevral faced the choice of staying on another world or returning. As you can see, she came back. Had you been there to demand it, she would have stayed. And the baby with her.”
Deep blue eyes studied Tae like prey. Leondis pursed his lips. “Who are you? How did you get past my guards?”
Tae thought it best to avoid both questions. “I’m only trying to help.” He finally remembered to add, “Your Majesty. The more you pressure Kevral, the more she will rebel. It becomes a challenge, and I’ve never seen a Renshai back down from a challenge.”
Leondis continued his scrutiny. Tae recognized the muscles bunched onto an otherwise slender frame. The prince’s expression had glided from surprised to confused. Now, a taint of pink drifted from the edges of his lips toward eyes that narrowed slightly. “Tae Kahn.”
Tae did not deny the identification. “Sire—”
The prince’s color deepened to scarlet, spreading to his forehead. “You killed my brother.” He jabbed a finger at Tae, even as his other hand clasped the hilt of his sword. “You murdered Severin.”
Tae barely stopped himself from losing control of his bladder. Terror lurched through him, driving him to flee. Like a caged animal, he retreated toward the back wall, lowering his center of gravity. “I didn’t kill Prince Severin.” His voice emerged steady despite his fear. “Did you not receive the confession—”
“—coerced from some innocent by your father.” Leondis advanced as slowly and resolutely as Tae withdrew. “My father would have done the same for . . .” He paused long enough for Tae to mentally fill in “me” before finishing with, “Severin.” He stopped moving when Tae’s heel touched the wall. “I’ve also managed to uncover some interesting details: Your father is a base and heinous criminal who won over the Eastern populace with lies and masterminded the blockade to Western travel that caused many small towns to literally starve to death.”
Tae mustered his courage, without bothering to correct trivia. The prince had struck close enough to truth. “This isn’t about my ancestors.” He had not anticipated this reaction from Leondis and vowed to teach Kevral the meaning of “reasonable and charming” if he survived this encounter. “I’m trying to help you.”
“Like you ‘helped’ Severin?”
“The same enemies of my father who are feeding you information killed your brother and set me up to take the blame.” Anger fueled Tae’s boldness. “I didn’t kill Prince Severin.”
“Prove it.”
Tae heaved a sigh, cut short by the realization that the prince had resumed his forward movement. “Interesting suggestion. You try proving you didn’t do something.”
Abruptly drawn, a knife chinged against Leondis’ belt buckle. The blade glimmered silver in dim light.
Tae’s heart hammered in his ears. He tried to keep his voice calm, soothing. “I’m not armed.”
“Good. That should make it easy.” Nevertheless, Leondis did not attack. The maneuver seemed clearly designed to intimidate, not kill. “And you will address me as proper for a prince.”
Tae noted, with alarm, it had its intended effect. His tone contained an unexpected squeak, “I could demand the same.”
“Never.” Leondis stepped to within weapon’s range, then stopped, stance offensive. He lowered his head, teeth in perfect repair, breath minty and sweet. Tae could smell the perfumed oils in his hair. “The blood of a hundred kings runs through my veins, and that of my unborn child. You’re thieving scum, bastard-born to blackguards, whores, and filth. The only difference between you and feces: I wouldn’t trouble myself to step on the shit.”
The words struck Tae like a sledgehammer in the belly. The need to attack evaded his control, but he maintained enough self-preservation instinct to choose words instead of actions. “At least I don’t have to rape women to get them to sleep with me.”
The fire in Prince Leondis’ cheeks fled, and he stared into Tae’s dark face. “What do you know?” he demanded.
“All of it.” Tae chose this time to add snidely, “Your Majesty. I know that your father kept Kevral prisoner and that you forced yourself upon her. I know that the baby you claim has the blood of a hundred kings might not contain any at all.” His own words fueled his anger. “And the only blood known for certain is that of a Renshai you dismissed as untrustworthy.”
Leondis’ fist tightened around his knife, and he raised it threateningly. “Who broke their solemn vow?” He amended to the actual question, “Who told you this?”
Tae smiled. Earlier that day, his promise to Matrinka would have held him silent, but circumstances had changed. “You did, Sire.”
Leondis’ eyes widened as he apparently considered the incriminating words Tae had overheard. Panic flashed through the blue orbs, but only for an instant. The prince’s gaze turned intense, and Tae could not help believing the young heir truly felt sorry about what had to follow. Situations and pressures had battered the rationality from a prince forced to a crown that rightly belonged to his brother. “Tae, if you were anyone but the murderer of my brother, I could never bring myself to do this.” The knife jerked.
Tae dove and rolled, spinning back to face Leondis. Only then, he realized the attack was not against him. The satin at the prince’s right shoulder blade gaped, and blood spilled through the opening. Tossed from Leondis’ hand, the unadorned knife spun across the floor, slammed the wall, and bounced to the ground, splashing drops of scarlet. The prince heaved his chair over, bellowing in pain and anger as he did so.
The door crashed open as Leondis lurched toward Tae, and guards streamed inside. Several hustled Leondis to a safe corner. The others rushed Tae, who dropped to a desperate crouch. He dodged the first set of hands, scrambling between two guards to emerge into a swarm. Fingers grabbed at his tunic. He evaded them with a spinning maneuver that carri
ed him past the bulk of them. Then, a hand snagged his tunic, wrenching him backward with a suddenness that jabbed his collar against his throat. Breath disappeared. He sucked raggedly for air, his struggle becoming frantically undirected. Cloth tore, momentum throwing him, shirtless, into a sea of Pudarian and Béarnian guardsmen. Only then, logic penetrated. Don’t fight, you fool. Makes you look guilty. He stilled, allowing a Pudarian to wrench his arms behind his back so hard he worried for the bones of his wrists.
“Careful,” a heavily-accented Béarnian voice declared over the hubbub. “That’s a prince you’re manhandling.”
“Whoever he is, he stabbed me in the back.” Leondis spoke in pained grunts Tae doubted he had to feign. Though worried for his own situation, he marveled at Leondis’ ability not only to tolerate, but to self-inflict, such a wound. “Lock him in his room and let Béarn deal with him.”
The Pudarian who held Tae’s arms clamped tighter, gouging his fingers painfully into the Easterner’s flesh. Another pinioned his shoulders from the front. When that guard believed no Béarnide could see, he rammed his knee into Tae’s groin. Agony shot through his gut, and he went limp. Only the guards’ support kept him standing, but he found himself wholly incapable of speech. The man’s words hissed hotly into Tae’s ear. “Give me any excuse to kill you. Please.”
Tae had no intention of doing so. He allowed the guards to half-brace, half-drag him through Béarn’s hallways. Servants, courtiers, and sentries stepped aside to let the contingent pass, watching Tae with looks that ranged from startled to patronizing to wise understanding. He listened as a captain delegated a group in the courtyard to “kill anything that comes out of his window.” And he gained a series of “accidental” bruises and abrasions during the walk any of which, he felt certain, they could explain away as his uncooperativeness.
They passed Mior in a fourth floor corridor, the cat pausing to watch the procession, then running ahead of it in bursts. As the guards stopped in front of Tae’s door to trip the latch, the cat drew up as if to sniff the prisoner. He mouthed the words, “Get Matrinka,” and hoped the animal was smart enough to read lips. In truth, it surely did not matter. The queen would know of the event soon enough, albeit with details skewed. As he watched the calico scamper off, Tae had too much on his mind to wonder why the guards did not struggle with his lock. A moment later, the panel swung open, and three massive Pudarians launched him inside. The slam of the closing door cut off a Béarnide’s protest.
Unable to maneuver in midair, Tae slammed headfirst against his bed. He collapsed on the floor, his roll awkward and far too late. Pain hammered through his head, ached across his abdomen, and screamed from myriad bruises. He staggered to his feet, only to discover a surprised Rascal crouched by the chest that held his personal belongings.
The sight proved too much for Tae. Seizing his sword, he smashed the blade down on the chest’s wooden lid. Rascal skittered aside, loosing a high-pitched scream. Wood shattered beneath the blow, and an arc of splinters trailed Tae’s follow-through. He struck the chest again, then a third time, until the contents lay fully exposed and remnants of the chest littered his floor. Only then, he threw the sword. It skidded across the floorboards to snarl in a woven carpet. Tae glared at Rascal.
The girl crouched in a far corner, attempting to look as fierce. When it became clear Tae had no intention of hurting her, she finally demanded, “Why ya done that?”
“You were going to do it anyway.” Tae found himself surprisingly near tears. I brought this all upon myself. The prince’s use of the word “whore” to describe his mother struck particularly hard. “I figured I’d save you the trouble.”
“S’not what I uz gonna done.” Rascal edged toward the broken chest, like she worried the shards might attack her.
Tae did not believe the denial. “What were you going to do?”
“This.” Eyes glued to Tae, Rascal opened a drawer in a wardrobe beside the chest and hauled out one of the neatly tailored shirts Matrinka had given him that he had never worn. “An’ this.” Carefully displaying her utility knife, she dragged a hole into the fabric.
Tae did not have the strength to stop her. “Oh,” he managed.
Rascal dropped the shirt. “What happen ta ya?”
Tae shook his head, not wanting to explain. He looked at his dirt-rimed, callused hands and hated himself for attempting to help. They were the hands of street scum.
When Tae did not answer, Rascal shrugged. “Guess I hain’t goin’ out there.” She jerked a thumb toward the door.
“Guess you hain’t,” Tae confirmed.
Rascal drifted toward the window.
For a brief, cruel moment, Tae considered letting her go. “I wouldn’t do that either, if I were you.”
Rascal turned her head toward him, measuring him. For the first time, Tae realized she had difficulty reading expressions and understanding meanings beneath words, not because she was stupid but because she lacked empathy.
Tae helped her. “It’s not a challenge. The guards have orders to kill anything that leaves.”
Rascal sat sullenly. “Hain’t done nothin’ wrong.”
Tae sighed, seeing no reason not to share. Emotional discussions had broken the walls between himself and Ra-khir, turning hatred to friendship. Perhaps it would work for Rascal as well. “The Prince of Pudar called me ‘thieving scum bastard-born to blackguards, whores, and filth.’”
Rascal mulled the words for several moments before returning, “Royal-types hain’t never knowin’ how ta swear. Where I comed from, that’d be a complimint.”
“Where you come from,” Tae corrected, “I come from. Our beginnings aren’t as different as you believe.”
“Ya beginnins letted ya becomed a prince.” Rascal’s look remained defiant. “Hain’t never gonna happint ta me.”
“You’re right.” Tae rose, inciting a riot of aches. He had not realized how hard the journey had been on him until that moment. “But it has nothing to do with origins. It has to do with attitude.” Tae could not help seeing the irony. “Of course, attitude is what got me here, too. They’re going to lock me up for attacking a prince, and I didn’t even do it.”
“They’d a kilt the likes o’ me.”
Tae stiffened at the realization Rascal’s comment raised. “If I’m tried in Pudar, they’ll do worse than that.” Memories flooded back, of his days in the lifer’s cell watching the most hardened of Pudar’s criminals scrapping over food and water. Only the knowledge that more prisoners meant more sustenance kept them from slaughtering one another. He had heard the pronouncement of his punishment: only a slow and public drawing and quartering could appease King Cymion then. Now, he doubted even that torture would suffice.
Rascal jarred Tae back to reality. “Hain’t never gonna happint ta no prins.”
Griff and Matrinka would never turn me over to Pudar. The thought soothed only momentarily as another came to replace it. They’re turning over Kevral’s baby. Tae would never have expected such a thing from them either. The strange honor and conventions of nobility confused him, and he had little basis on which to surmise. Tae could think of no better answer for Rascal. “I’m afraid I actually hope you’re right.”
“Ya hain’t one o’ us,” Rascal said firmly.
Tae knew she was as right about that as Prince Leondis. He felt an odd kinship with the Pica stone, his pieces scattered to many different worlds. And he truly belonged to none of them.
CHAPTER 18
When Honors Clash
When a man believes he lives only once, he becomes obligated to make that one life virtuous.
—Knight-Captain Kedrin
A breeze thick with damp and hinting of spring fluttered the curtains of Prince Leondis’ window. The gauzy fabric swirled around him, alternately covering and revealing the bandage on his right shoulder. His loyal steward, Boshkin, sat politely at a desk chair, attentive to the prince’s silence. Guards filled the hallway outside his door, the occasional clan
k of metal reminding him of their presences and of his own status. Though he stared over Béarn’s tended gardens that lay poised for the new growth of vegetables and flowers, his thoughts remained with his own country, the one to which he had eternally pledged his loyalty.
The loosely woven curtain fluttered across Leondis’ cheek, like a woman’s gentle touch. He imagined his new, young wife, Princess Alenna of Corpa Bickat, the dewy blush of youth still tinting her cheeks. Though not classically pretty, the castle’s best women worked her hair, cosmetics, and dresses into a finery all Western women envied. Her innocent naïveté in the bedroom pleased him, cheerful contrast to the usual moon-eyed lovers clamoring for the ministrations of a prince. He had worried that a princess might prove giddy and spoiled, so her strength of character and intelligence first surprised, and later pleased, him. Severin’s death had forced Leondis to give up his wanton ways for the responsibilities befitting the heir, but he would have done so anyway out of respect for his wife. Aside from the newly-delivered mothers and the girls maturing into their womanhood who consented to share his bed for the kingdom’s need, he had slept with no one but his wife in the months since their marriage. He had come to hate even those necessary dalliances, desperately relishing the time when he could commit himself fully to his wife.
Leondis turned to face his steward. “I hate this, Bosh. All of it.”
Boshkin immediately sprang to attention. He lowered and raised his balding head before allowing his brown eyes to meet his charge’s face. “It’ll be over soon, Sire.”
“No. It won’t.” Leondis smoothed back his dark locks, anticipating a tearing agony through his injured shoulder that did not come. The elves had healed the wound so that it seemed several days old, aching only minimally. Rage had caused him to sink the blade deeper than necessary; Leondis suspected it would scar. That thought brought the image of Tae’s bared torso to his mind. Scars had riddled the small, taut muscles, brown against his swarthy skin. An unmistakable knife wound marred Tae’s ribs, directly over his heart.
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