“You, I can understand, but me? I mean, if we hadn’t happened to be walking together, and if we were practicing in separate groups, far from each other, would I also be expected to return to the castle?”
“I think so, yes. I was told you have a unique perspective and a way of asking questions that prompts discussion of lines of thought that had been either missed or dismissed prematurely. You are on the advisory council, so yes, even though you’ll need to get back up to speed on intelligence around the four realms, your opinion is valued.”
Marcelo’s chest expanded, and he couldn’t help a silly grin. “I have to get used to the idea that my questions are anything but uninformed and…stupid.”
“No.” Efren shook his head. “At this early stage, you’re still uninformed, but never stupid.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“I imagine the wheels are turning behind your beautiful eyes right now. Name a question that’s running through your mind.”
Marcelo groaned. He had so many questions, but most were firmly in the uninformed column. He needed more information about the characters and personalities of members of Proye’s royal family.
“Hmm, give me a minute.”
He thought about it as they passed through a set of security gates separating the castle grounds from the practice fields. They both nodded to the guards, and the practice fields got closer and closer.
“All right,” Marcelo finally said. “Uh…can you tell me if Prince Bertram’s manner of death might be pertinent to anything?”
“Well…” Efren’s’ brow scrunched. “According to Palmer, the prince’s body arrived at the castle five days ago; he was told the prince had recently taken ill at their southern border and died from the fever. The casket remained unopened, and was swiftly buried upon arrival at the castle.”
So nothing of importance. Not beyond the effect that loss would have had on the surviving family members.
“Hmm,” Efren said with a tilt of his head. “He’s right.”
“Who?”
“Father. About you.”
Warm comfort swirled through Marcelo’s veins. The king’s approval was appreciated, of course, but it was the considering look on Efren’s face as he once again stared appraisingly into Marcelo’s eyes.
“How so?” Marcelo asked. “You’ve thought of something significant about Prince Bertram’s death?”
“I hadn’t thought about it beyond taking what we’d been told at face value, but most of what we ‘know’ is what Palmer was told by Proye, not what he observed firsthand.”
Marcelo cocked his head. “Are you suggesting that maybe he didn’t die of a fever?”
“Not only that.” Efren stopped in his tracks and turned fully to Marcelo. “We only know as a fact observed by Palmer that Prince Bertram left the castle more than two moons ago supposedly to tour their borders checking security.”
Marcelo was silent, his back ramrod straight as the “wheels” Efren had mentioned did indeed turn. Was the fact that Bertram could possibly have died that long ago significant?
Marcelo shivered. Was it possible? Possible that he’d—
Efren took his hands and asked, “My darling, have you ever met either Prince Bertram or Prince Artemis?”
“No.” Marcelo bit his lip and shook his head. Clearly, Efren was thinking the same thing. “I took ill and remained in my rooms the one time they visited Sheburat.”
They stood silently except for the sound of their breathing. The shrill whooping, chirping of a pigeon rapidly flapping its wings as it took off from the castle and headed south toward Sheburat broke through the background clamor from the practice fields.
Marcelo drew in a shaky breath. “Does the description I gave of that first man I killed fit Prince Bertram’s appearance?”
“From what little I’ve been told so far—that he was fairly nondescript—it doesn’t eliminate him.”
“If…” Marcelo shuddered, reluctant to give voice to the thought. “If I did kill Prince Bertram, that would be motive for specifically choosing Forget-Me-Not and for targeting me as the recipient.”
“Absolutely. But if this is true, will they consider the case closed, giving up on their original motivation—which still needs to be better examined—hoping that this relatively harmless attack will either be considered unrelated or otherwise not be pursued with the same vigor as the more violent attacks that they’ve deflected toward Gagel thus far? Or were they only buying time?”
Marcelo tittered nervously. “I’m afraid I know nothing of their characters or personalities.”
“Of course. Sorry.” Then as if thinking aloud, Efren added, “The twins were close. Very close. Prince Bertram was levelheaded and was the better strategist of the two. Prince Artemis is skilled and is no fool, but he has always been hot-headed and is harder to predict. He’s been known to speak and act without thinking through the consequences.”
“How concerning is this possibility in light of the information we just received from Palmer?”
“Probably not very?” Efren shrugged and heaved a sigh. “Their disappearance is still likely tied to Olstin, and the lack of a stronger motive remains a good argument against this—admittedly compelling—new theory.” He looked longingly at the nearby fields full of men practicing. Archery, running, battling with blunted swords…“Even if this new theory is true, I can think of no sensible reason for them to immediately attack after successfully dosing you…us with Forget-Me-Not. But still, Father needs to—”
The background noise from the practice fields didn’t quite overpower the clatter of horses’ hooves rounding a bend in the road. Marcelo glanced casually, unconcernedly, at the group of riders. Security postings farther up the roads leading to the castle would have already given preliminary clearance to those approaching.
Marcelo turned back to Efren, expecting him to continue his sentence. Expecting the two of them to turn around, yet again, because he could infer what Efren had been about to say.
But Efren’s body went stiff as he stared at the approaching riders. They stood still as the group got closer.
Marcelo didn’t recognize the individuals upon the horses, but he could identify some of the markings and cultural details on their clothing. The visitors hailed from Proye and were doing nothing to disguise that fact.
Or—Marcelo’s brain whirled with thoughts of the drama from recent weeks—or they could be people who wanted them to think they were from Proye.
But the riders had been cleared by the outer security post, so they were likely known, possibly regular visitors. A noble at the front, judging by the clothing, surrounded by his security detail. Traveling lightly, without a carriage, unless they’d left that farther back down the road. Marcelo’s shoulders relaxed again.
The rider at the front smiled and nodded. Friendly. Someone who knew them, or at least knew Efren.
Efren returned the man’s nod, accompanied by a somewhat strained smile. Under his breath, he muttered, “That’s Prince Artemis at the front. King Ulric is not among them.”
Marcelo’s eyes widened, and he went rigid. Was this man the mirror image of one he’d faced in a frightening and grisly scene that had probably haunted his dreams? Was he the identical twin of the man who’d led a group of warriors attacking their camp under cover of darkness? The man who’d breathed his last shocked breath after Marcelo had—he shuddered, and he drew in several quick rattling breaths—rammed a tent stake up under his ribs, into his heart?
“Stay calm,” Efren said. And Marcelo strove to push down the imagined echo from his past.
Prince Artemis was either excellent at disguising his feelings, was in fact innocent of the wrongdoing they’d just discussed, or was guilty but thought he had pulled the wool over their eyes. In which case, Efren was absolutely correct. It would be best for him to continue to believe so, at least until he and Efren were less vulnerably situated.
Easier said than done. He pressed a hand to his chest
and tried to slow his heightened rate of breathing, but the involuntary act couldn’t be fought. His body made increasingly frantic efforts to gasp for each breath.
Efren gently rubbed his back and whispered in a calm, soothing tone, “All will be well, my darling. All will be well.”
But all wasn’t well. Marcelo’s eyes widened in horror as Prince Artemis’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth curled into a sneer.
The tilt of Prince Artemis’s brows turned inward, and his complexion reddened. The sneer turned into an angry thin line.
Efren’s words from just a few moment’s ago echoed in Marcelo’s mind. “He has always been hot-headed…he’s been known to speak and act without thinking through the consequences.”
Perhaps Efren was thinking of that, too, since he turned, cupped his hands around his mouth, and yelled something indistinguishable in the direction of the training fields. He kept his head cocked like he was listening behind him, lest the riders approach them, but remained facing the fields, watching for a reaction.
The rider closest to the prince wore a concerned expression and said something to him, but the prince shook his head angrily.
“He has always been hot-headed.”
And Marcelo had always been an uninformed superfluous member of a matriarchal royal family, but he set his jaw and shook his head. He wasn’t that pampered, weak man anymore. He was physically stronger. He’d faced danger and overcome it.
He cupped his hands over his mouth until his breathing came under control. Whatever was about to happen here and now, he would overcome it, too. Or at least he wouldn’t go down like a sniveling coward.
He didn’t have the slightest idea how to wield the sword hanging from his scabbard, but if he needed to draw it, he would do his best to fight for his and Efren’s lives. Think, and use his speed and agility rather than try to out-power anyone.
“The twins were close. Very close.”
The prince turned impossibly redder. Was he trying to reason himself down from an overpowering anger? Anger at the sight of Marcelo, the man who’d killed his brother?
Marcelo…who appeared a weak coward. Was that what was fanning the flames of the prince’s ire? That the strong, brave, battle-experienced warrior had fallen at the hands of an unworthy weakling?
Marcelo stood straighter and stared into the prince’s eyes. His chin came up. Let him see that Marcelo wasn’t any more afraid of him than he’d been of his brother.
Efren yelled again to the men in the field.
Lightning fast, Prince Artemis pulled his horse back a single step, drew a knife from his side, and threw it. Not at Marcelo, but at Efren’s back.
In the split second Marcelo had to process his response, he noticed the knife was spinning, remembered a random tidbit he’d overheard stable boys say about knife throwing, and realized he could never live with himself if Efren came to harm because Marcelo’s initial panicked reaction had provoked Prince Artemis.
Maybe the prince wanted Marcelo to suffer the loss of a loved one like he had. Maybe he just wanted to remove the bigger threat first, intending to follow through swiftly with finishing off Marcelo. Whatever Prince Artemis’s warped reasoning, the good people of Zioneven did not deserve to lose their crown prince.
So Marcelo leapt to the side, blocking Efren, and took the blow from the knife in the middle of his chest.
Chapter 17: Fallout and Motive
Marcelo, the next day
The blow knocked all the air out of Marcelo’s lungs and propelled him backward into Efren, causing them both to stumble. Sharp pain radiated from the center of his chest.
Marcelo sensed Efren turning, putting strong arms around him, swinging him in a half-circle, putting himself between Marcelo and further danger from the riders.
But it wasn’t necessary.
Reaction from the training field was swift and sure. As if watching in slow motion as he spun in Efren’s arms, Marcelo sagged into that safe embrace as Prince Artemis dropped from his perch atop his horse with no less than three arrows in his chest and one through his neck.
The riders who’d been with him turned, and their horses kicked up dust as they galloped away. Whatever their purpose in coming here, it hadn’t been that. They were vastly outnumbered, their leader had fallen, and they didn’t stand a chance if they held their ground.
Marcelo’s chest burned, but a calm warmth overcame him, despite the pain, despite the clamor of Zioneven riders giving chase, and others swarming the two of them.
Efren rocked him, murmuring something soothing into his hair, and Marcelo let his eyes drift closed. Efren was alive and uninjured.
All would be well, just as Efren had said.
* * * *
When Marcelo next opened his eyes, he lay atop his and Efren’s bed. He still wore his leggings, but his tunic was off, and Doctor Brookse was softly pressing various spots on his chest.
“Ouch.” Marcelo winced.
“I don’t doubt it,” Doctor Brookse said matter-of-factly. “The hilt of that heavy knife hit you hard. Knocked the wind out of you and left what I’m sure will be a very tender contusion. Doesn’t feel like any ribs were broken, though they’re likely bruised, so that’s better than it could have been.”
Just being alive was good.
He turned his head when a soft noise alerted him to another in the room. Efren walked to his side and lifted one of Marcelo’s hands to his lips.
“My darling,” he whispered, and wiped an unshed tear before it could fall. “I almost lost you before having a chance to fully know you.” He swallowed. “I owe my life to you. You put your own life at risk to save mine.”
“It was my fault.” It had been the least Marcelo could do to make things right.
Although he hadn’t known the precise incremental distance it typically takes a knife to rotate through each spin, he’d been relatively sure that he’d been close enough to Efren that he’d been unlikely to be hit directly blade-point on.
But true, his own safety hadn’t been a one-hundred-percent guarantee. Marcelo could have been wrong about the approximate distance it took a knife to complete a full spin. And if Artemis hadn’t been the expert Marcelo had assumed, properly able to gauge the distance he needed to be from his target, Marcelo might have been stepping into the blade’s point whereas Efren would have merely taken a hit from the hilt.
“Never think that.” Efren shook his head vigorously. “Every bit of the fault lies on Artemis’s shoulders.” Just as every bit of the intensity in Efren’s eyes backed up his belief in that statement.
“I understand your point.” Marcelo blushed remembering the scene. Still, it was true that his initial reaction had provoked the prince. Angering him that a man such as Marcelo had bested his brother. Efren would realize that, too. “I don’t think he came here planning to attack us.”
“I don’t think so either. The prince’s short temper got the better of him.”
“Is he…” Marcelo gulped.
“Dead? Yes.”
“I guess his reaction confirms the theory we’d been discussing?”
A corner of Efren’s mouth quirked up. “I think so, yes, though I’m still trying to work out their full motive.”
“Princess Udine,” Marcelo murmured as a random memory crossed his mind.
“Udine?”
“Possibly? I never met the twins, but I did meet her. Years ago, shortly after they’d visited Zioneven. She spoke dreamily of both you and Rolland.” Marcelo snorted. “I suppose if I were a typical man, I should have felt insulted that she was sitting next to me speaking thus of other men, but that thought never occurred to me at the time.”
“Hmm. Yes, I recall King Ulric once expressed regret to my father about the marriage agreement in our peace treaty with Sheburat. My father commiserated, but…” Efren gazed at Marcelo as the explanation coalesced. He shook his head. “Father laughed when he told me about it, because he knew that agreement was the only reason I would marry a woman.”
>
“But they didn’t realize that. King Ulric had had his lover for longer than he’d been married. He would assume you’d prefer the same. A marriage that would bring you legitimate heirs, keeping your true love on the side.”
That had been the primary motive for the first and second attacks. Not directly for financial gain by either Gagel or Proye, but rather to free up Efren to marry Princess Udine.
“Seems like we should have considered that.” Efren ran splayed fingers through his already well-ruffled hair. “Other than that one offhand comment years ago, the subject never came up. But you’re absolutely right. That would have been an advantageous marriage for her and for all of Proye.” Efren shook his head again. “Cultural differences can be blinding. I doubt they intended anything more after the Forget-Me-Not to cover up their failed attempts. As I said, Artemis’s temper got away from him.”
“Excuse me, sirs.” Doctor Brookse approached the bed, carrying a load of folded cloth.
Marcelo’s brows rose.
“A cold compress to minimize the bruising,” Doctor Brookse said. He laid the chilly layers on Marcelo’s sore chest, and Marcelo shivered. To Efren, the doctor said, “I’d like him to rest and minimize activity for most of the rest of today. He can emerge and join the family for supper tonight. Then nothing strenuous for a few days.”
“I’ll see to it.” Efren gave Marcelo a look, indicating that Marcelo would be wasting his time if he tried to do more.
No worries. The only thing Marcelo wanted right then was a warm blanket and a blazing fire.
* * * *
A nap, additional cold compresses and ministrations from Doctor Brookse, a few bites from a tray of food, another nap, and eventually a luxurious bath with a fair bit of pampering later, and Marcelo was able to walk around the room without experiencing excessive pain. Not unless the tender red and purple area of his chest was pressed.
Doctor Brookse gave a final nod of approval and released Marcelo into Efren’s hands to be escorted to supper.
“Feeling better, my darling?” Efren presented his arm.
“Hungry, but yes. I will be fine.”
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