The Prince of Ravens

by Hal Emerson

  Chapter Eighteen: Decision

  As this realization sank in, the Prince slowly turned back around and stared blankly at the fire before him. His brother was coming. Somehow, the Prince knew, his brother was coming straight for him and would not be stopped. He opened his mouth to say something to Tomaz, to warn him, to have them raise an alarm and ready a defense … but no words came out. And after a moment or two of him sitting there, jaw hanging loose, he closed his mouth again, and remained silent.

  He went through the rest of that night in a strange kind of twilight, not giving any particular thought to what he was doing, or where he was going. He remembered vaguely Tomaz telling him more about Rangers, who scouted the mountain border and made their way up and down the Empire lending help to anyone who found themselves on the wrong side of the law, offering them a new life in the free land of the Kindred.

  Through it all he nodded, he smiled, and kept silent.

  Soon after the stew was finished, they both turned in to sleep. Tomaz went to his corner room and the enormous bed contained therein, while the Prince made do with the couch, and the large animal-skin blankets there.

  He did not sleep that night. He didn’t even doze. He lay there, feeling the glow of life, twenty, thirty times what a single man should give off, coming from his brother, far off but drawing closer, even in the night. And as the light grew, so did his anger and his resentment.

  Anger at who? He wasn’t sure. The boiling, sickly feeling that had formed in the pit of his stomach like a seed slowly sprouting was directionless. His resentment though, was reserved for the Kindred. Why should he warn them? He held no loyalty to them. They had successfully defended themselves from over a thousand years of attacks, safe here behind their enchantments. If they were so great, then let them defend themselves.

  And truly, he knew that Davydd would give him up. He knew that Leah and Tomaz, no matter their choice now, would give him up in the end. He was too valuable to let go - the Kindred needed the information he had about the Fortress, they needed what he knew in order to continue and possibly turn the tide of their ongoing war. And they would get it, no matter the cost. He knew they would … people who would risk the starvation of common citizens in order to prevent the growth of an army would care little about his single, unimportant life. And so he felt no guilt about letting them face this threat alone.

  As for his brother, let him come. If he tried to take the Prince back to Lucia, back to the capital city and to his Mother, then maybe he would go. Having delivered her the Seventh Principality by infiltrating it as no other member of the Empire had been able to do since the beginning of the war … perhaps that would earn him his freedom and his life. That was certainly something she couldn’t ignore.

  But he didn’t want that either, he realized. Not truly. It would be, perhaps, the easiest option. He could solidify it by seeking out the Elders and killing them. It would take very little effort, considering he had the Raven Talisman to help him. As Leah said, now that he was here, now that he knew where to go, he could destroy everything. And if he did, he had no doubt that he would be welcomed back into the arms of the Empress, the brave, conquering Prince of Ravens. Whatever crime he had committed would be washed away by such a deed. Such a deed that had not, in a thousand years, been achieved by a single man, woman, or Child.

  As the night wore on, his mind continued down this path. And what he saw there was red and bloody.

  Dawn came on the heel of these thoughts, and he realized he had come to no conclusion. He didn’t know to where or what he was attached, or to who he owed his loyalty. If he owed loyalty to anyone. Tomaz and Leah had needed a night to think over what they’d felt about whether or not to force him before the Council of Elders and reveal himself. Even they put their cause above him.

  He felt alone, so glaringly obviously alone, even as he knew the fate of two nations hung upon what he did in the next few hours. But his anger and his resentment had begun to deepen into hatred; hatred of what or who he could not say, perhaps of the world, hatred at the world for making him choose, for constantly demanding that he choose what he wanted and who he wanted to be, right here, right now. And that hatred fed his anger, and his anger turned around and fed the hatred, until in the end he was lost in spirals of hopeless, unending pain.

  Let it happen, he thought savagely. I have no duty to anyone anymore. There is no one here I care about, no one in the world who truly cares about me. I am the Prince of Ravens. I feed off death. Let death come, even if it comes for me.

  So when Tomaz awoke and set the leftover stew over the fire, he asked if the big man would like to spar.

  “Certainly,” Tomaz said, looking surprised but also excited. “I didn’t know you liked to get beaten so often. Would wound my pride if it happened to me.”

  The Prince smiled at the big man’s joke, feeling a true touch of affection for him. It would be good to spar with Tomaz one last time. So, after breakfast, Tomaz led him down the mountainside, and into the city of Vale itself.

  The city, as the Prince had seen when they’d entered the valley the day before, was a huge, sprawling thing, and as he walked through it, the chimneys of the bakeries slowly taking their first smoky breaths and the shop windows rubbing sleep from their eyes and opening themselves to customers, he knew that if there was a good place to spend his last day, it was here.

  Children ran in the streets, herded along by various haggard-looking mothers, and the Prince wondered vaguely where they were going. It was a surprise to him, as it had been in Banelyn, that they were allowed out of the houses, and allowed to be seen before they’d reached puberty, but this was Vale and the Kindred were certainly strange people. And the Prince was numb to surprise now - he was just existing. He would make no choices, he would feel nothing. Let the choice come to him this time; let the world decide without him.

  The sparring arena was on the east side of the city, and as they made their way down the broad main street that cut through the center of it all, they passed large buildings that slowly grew in size until they resembled the houses of the Most High, though here they were simply out in the open for anyone to see and approach. The largest of them, at the end of a long artificial pond, was made of white marble painted with green and gold columns and sculptures of what must have been important Kindred. The large domed roof had a single spear-like flagpole at its top, though no flag was raised there today.

  When they finally reached the sparring arena, the Prince saw that it was located amid a huge barracks and training ground. The arena itself was a large stone building, capped by a dome that was painted with various murals of Kindred fighters. One of them was a huge bull of a man that looked vaguely like his brother Ramael, but with pure white hair. The Prince of Ravens reached out again and felt the still-growing point of light in the back of his head. It was growing larger, still approaching, and the Prince knew that somehow the Prince of Oxen had found a way around the enchantments that had held him at bay for so long. He wondered idly how, but then let the thought go. It didn’t matter … let the Kindred sense him. He would take no sides, and see what happened.

  They entered the arena and found that it was separated into five large sections, one main, central area, which was a platform with raised stone seats immediately surrounding it, and four smaller areas situated outside that perimeter.

  “Practice arenas,” Tomaz said, nodding to the four smaller areas. “Each is for a different art. Back corner is archery, back left is axes, hammers, and larger weapons, the one on our right is the unarmed ring, and the one on our left is the sword and dagger arena.”

  “Sword and dagger?” the Prince suggested.

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way,” the big man said with a grin.

  Together they moved forward, and as they did the Prince felt an icy chill settle inside him, and felt his mind clear of all thoughts. He felt oddly at peace.

  Tomaz pulled out his greatsword, which he’d brought, slung across his back, from
the cabin, and then selected and attached a thick leather edge-guard that would prevent the blade from slicing. Even guarded though, the weapon was still a formidable thing, and the Prince realized this would be a much better example of actual combat between the two of them.

  The Prince approached the rack of spare practice swords on the side of the sparring platform and looked through them. He’d always fought best with a single-sided long blade, but most of these looked like the typical double-edged broadsword. There were one or two falchions, a handful of long hand-and-a-half swords, a slew of thin rapiers, a row of daggers of all shapes and sizes, and at the end …

  The Prince reached out and grasped the copper-wired hilt of a long, slightly curved, single-sided sword made of creamy white metal. It was thinner than a broadsword, and slightly longer. The blade was oddly bright, almost shining as it took in the smallest hint of light, amplified it, and threw it back. From different angles it looked alternately like a creamy, ceramic antique, and a razor-sharp surgical implement. It was an elegant weapon, that much was certain, and it carried with it a haughty, proud air, as if the sword itself knew its value, knew its deadly power.

  “Valerium?” the Prince asked, turning to Tomaz. He held the sword out for the big man to see, and as he did he felt the extra weight that Leah had spoken of – the sword was a good few pounds heavier than a typical broadsword.

  “I thought this was rather valuable?”

  Tomaz was looking at the sword curiously too.

  “It is. The store of Valerium metal is well guarded, but then again, if you’re going to use one in real life, then you need to use one in practice, so there’s always one or two floating around. Most of the time it’s only for Ranger or Rogue training, but it looks like they found a spare since I‘ve been gone. If it’s here, you might as well use it. I’ve never much liked it - the weight feels wrong to me. I’m like the girl - steel’s always been good enough for me, and I suspect it always will be.”

  The Prince peered closely and saw the blade was sharp - not a practice sword at all. He pointed this out to Tomaz and said as much, and the big man just smiled.

  “You can’t dull Valerium once it’s been sharpened, at least not down to the point where it’s safe to hit someone with it in the sparring ring. It’ll get less sharp, but it will never be dull. No matter how much you use it, it will always be sharp. Maybe not always sharp enough to kill, but certainly sharp enough to leave a nasty cut. Just throw an edge guard on it and let’s get going.”

  “Will it work?” the Prince asked dubiously, eyeing the razor sharp edge and remembering what Leah had told him about the metal.

  “The guard’s lined with a thin bit of metal,” Tomaz said, tossing him one made for single-edged swords. “It’s light enough so you don’t truly feel it, and it’s good to train with a bit of extra weight anyway. The leather’s just on the outside, so when I smack you upside the head you get a bit of cushioning from the blow.”

  Tomaz grinned evilly, and settled himself into a ready stance. The Prince slid the guard onto the blade, and hefted the sword in one hand.

  Strange, now that he was in a ready stance it didn’t feel all that heavy. Heavier than a normal sword perhaps, but in the Prince’s opinion most swords were too light anyway.

  A few people who had also come to the arena first thing in the morning were gathering around the slightly raised platform, some of them squatting down to watch while they waited their turn.

  The Prince settled into the opening stance of Tiger Stalks the Deer, the sword held loosely by his side, his right leg forward, but his weight back on his left. Tomaz, seeing this, shifted to Bear Defends the Hill, and began to circle off to the right. The Prince felt a momentary glow of satisfaction knowing that they were both using Imperial sword forms: if one had to fight, it might as well be in a civilized manner.

  The Prince began to move as well, circling away from the big man, trying to keep an even distance between them. His mind, unlike in the past when they sparred in the woods, was blank and controlled. There was no anger, no emotion at all. He was simply reacting.

  Tomaz changed directions and rushed forward, sword swinging in from the side in the brutal form only known as The Reaping. The Prince saw it, and instead of countering, took a single step back, felt the blade pass in front of his chest, and then spun around and moved past Tomaz.

  The big man turned before the Prince could get in a hit, and the greatsword swung once more, upward from the floor, and the Prince, unable to dodge, brought down the Valerium sword, and met the blade, parried it, and spun away again.

  The white metal sword felt good in his hands.

  The big man turned, but before he could approach, the Prince closed the distance and sliced for Tomaz’s right shoulder. The greatsword parried it easily, but the Prince used the energy from the deflected hit to strike for Tomaz’s left side, then his head, and then his legs.

  The white metal sword felt very good.

  Tomaz counterattacked, bull-rushing the Prince and using his size to push him off balance. The Prince dashed away, using his greater agility to avoid the giant sword as it hissed through the air behind him.

  He feinted left, then dodged right and came at Tomaz again.

  Surprise crossed the big man’s face - he was used to the Prince keeping his distance. But the surprise was gone in an instant, and Tomaz adjusted to this new tactic, using smaller, defter movements to counter the Prince so that the smaller man couldn’t close distance and get inside the big man’s swing.

  Clawing Eagle met Rushing River, and the Prince’s sword glanced off the greatsword yet again, forcing him back. Tomaz followed quickly, sweat glistening on his face, and the Prince quickly began to parry, only able to turn aside the greatsword’s weight, not stop it outright.

  But the denser white metal, curved as it was, was a blade made for the dexterous fighter: graceful enough to maneuver well, yet heavy enough to defend against a larger opponent. And as time wore on, it became slowly but shockingly clear that the Prince was holding his own against the giant, strength met with finesse.

  The fight continued, and soon they were both absolutely drenched in sweat. Neither made a mistake, neither gave ground without turning around and taking it back. But then Tomaz slipped, just a fraction, as he came forward for another rush, and the Prince was on him in an instant.

  For a moment, Tomaz continued to parry him, turning aside the Valerium blade easily, and the Prince knew a lesser man would have been overcome much more quickly, and that if he made a mistake as well, the fight would continue and the advantage would be lost.

  But he didn’t make a mistake - his hands firmly gripping the wire hilt of his sword, he began making cuts and slashes that were slightly too fast for Tomaz to parry, and the Prince continued to press him, not allowing him a single instant to recover.

  Finally, the Valerium blade slipped under the greatsword’s guard, and struck the big man in the thigh. Tomaz grunted, but continued to strike back, to parry, to fight. The Prince pressed back just as hard, and then felt his body start to fail. He was exhausted, and the big man, with his enormous strength, could keep going for hours. He needed to end this fight now.

  So he took a gamble, and used the sword form aptly named Slicing Hands, and locked his sword with Tomaz’s. For an instant, Tomaz looked confused, and then he understood. But it was too late - the Prince let go of his sword, and used both hands to strike Tomaz’s wrists.

  The strike numbed the giant’s hands, and his sword clattered to the ground. The Prince, hands also numb - the giant’s bones felt harder than rocks - dodged as the big man swung his arms around to grab him. The Prince reached down and grasped his sword, just before Tomaz managed to wrap a hand around his own, and with a final flourish, the Prince struck the pressure points in Tomaz’s forearm, shoulder, and bicep with the flat of the blade. The enormous greatsword fell once more from a hand now devoid of feeling, and the leather guard of the Prince’s white metal sword came to rest aga
inst the big man’s throat. For a moment the two of them remained stationary, and then the Prince lowered his sword.

  Applause came from the area surrounding the practice arena and the Prince turned to see that a crowd had gathered to watch, many of them wearing green-and-gold or green-and-silver uniforms. The Prince assumed these were the colors of the Vale infantry.

  “Well done,” Tomaz said, respect coloring his voice. “That is the first time I’ve been disarmed since I completed the Training.”

  In spite of his wishes, the Prince felt a surge of pride at the praise.

  “Must be getting old,” he said to the big man with a reluctant smile. Tomaz let out a loud roar of a laugh and picked up his greatsword.

  “Again?” the Prince asked.

  “How about a real fight?”

  The Prince turned to see Leah standing just outside of the practice ring, fingering the hilt of one of her long daggers.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be at home?” the Prince asked.

  “Aren’t you not supposed to care?” she retorted, coming forward into the ring. Tomaz took a step back, a smile on his face.

  “I don’t care,” the Prince said sullenly, “I was just commenting.”

  “You tend to do that a lot lately,” she continued. She was idly paring her nails with one of her daggers.

  “You never let me spar with you before,” he said, “why the change of heart?”

  “I think you might finally be good enough for me,” she said nonchalantly.

  ‘I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. He turned and began to walk away, when a snort as loud as an avalanche issued from Tomaz. The Prince turned and saw the big man openly smirking at him.

  “How’s the arm?” the Prince said angrily, “you have any feeling back yet?”

  “What’s the matter princeling?” Leah asked. “Scared of a girl?”

  “Girl? I don’t see any girls here, just you.”

  The Prince had turned around, and though he didn’t remember raising the sword, he was holding it in both hands in front of him. He watched as her eyes flashed away from her nails and looked up at him in mild surprise.

  “Interesting. Little princeling’s angry.”

  The crowd that had begun to dissipate was gathering once more around the arena.

  “Say that again,” the Prince said.

  She drew both of her daggers, which gleamed cruelly in the bright light of the training arena skylight.

  “Make me,” she responded. She slipped two small guards onto her blades.

  “I hoped you would say that,” he said. “Call it Tomaz.”

  “Go!” Tomaz rumbled immediately.

  The Prince launched himself across the floor, sword flashing. She met him halfway, and in a slightly muffled ring of metal, daggers met sword.

  They separated and circled each other, both of them moving to their right. The Prince no longer felt the icy coldness he’d felt with Tomaz. This girl always seemed able to provoke him, no matter what he did. Well this would shut her up, once and for all.

  He rushed forward, sword flashing from side to side, the weight of the Valerium perfect for his fighting style. The girl dodged away, daggers flashing, constantly moving, catching the light like birds flitting through a ray of sun.

  He spun to follow her, and this time managed to force her into a corner, forcing her to engage him. He swung for her head, a brutal blow that would have decapitated her in actual battle, but she ducked just enough that the sword sailed over her head, stepped forward, and thrust her daggers at his stomach and chest.

  Using his momentum he twisted away, and the daggers passed within inches of his chest.

  The crowd that had gathered to watch gave out a yell, half full of cheers half of disappointed groans, but the Prince quickly tuned them out. He retreated back across the arena and studied the girl, who was now holding both daggers down by her sides. She was too fast for him - he wouldn’t be able to beat her the way he’d beaten Tomaz. She was quicker and more agile. What she lacked was his reach and the weight of his blade.

  He shifted his weight and moved into the Warrior sword style, sword held high, directly over his head, and stepped into the center of the practice arena, and watched her circle him.

  She feinted left, then charged him, but before she could close the distance, he brought the sword down with sickening speed, and she only barely dodged to the side. But then she was there, in his face, and all thought of tactics disappeared as he simply strove to meet her twin daggers with his sword.

  He didn‘t know how long they fought, for it seemed to be something suspended in time. Their bodies spun and their weapons clashed, striking out again and again, neither able to land a blow. They were both panting now, gasping heavily, but still moving, unable to stop, caught up in the deadly dance, pushing each other and being pushed in return.

  And then out of the corner of the Prince’s eye he saw Lorna and Davydd come up next to Tomaz, and a thought passed through his head.

  It hit him like a lightning bolt, and suddenly everything was clear to him. He knew what the Prince of Oxen was doing, and he knew how he was getting so close to Vale. In his shock, he fumbled a simple parry and found Leah, breathing in gasping pants, with her dagger at his throat, her face an inch away from his.

  There was a loud burst of sound, as the large crowd of gathered soldiers cheered Leah’s win. A number of Rogue and Ranger pairs swarmed the arena. One stopped to grasp the Prince’s hand; something was said to the Prince, but he didn’t hear it. He was looking from Davydd to Lorna to Tomaz to Leah, back again to Davydd.

  A tracking spell. It was a Bloodmage trick, weaved into the making of Daemons. It was rare because it was only activated upon the Daemon’s destruction … and it required the sacrificial death of a Bloodmage to create the bond. But Bloodmages who had been moving through the mountain ranges of Roarke must have known that there was a way for Exiles to destroy Daemons … and if the Prince knew his brother Ramael, he didn’t doubt that the Prince of Oxen had forced a Bloodmage to submit to the torturous sacrifice on the off chance the Daemon would be fought and destroyed. If the group that the spell latched on to remained in close proximity, then the spell would allow the Bloodmages to track them from one edge of the world to the other … or through centuries-old enchantments, leading an invading army and a Prince of the Realm straight toward the city of Vale.

  At that instant the crowd parted and there was Leah, beaming at the praise from those around her. She lifted her head and her eyes met his, and the Prince realized again just how stunning she was when she smiled. It was as if the hard stony exterior she so often assumed was pulled away, leaving behind just a girl. A girl asking him to smile back at her.

  A rebel! the voice shouted in the back of his skull.

  And the Prince of Oxen was coming to kill them all. To kill her.

  At this thought a crack appeared in the hard, bitter hate that had formed in him the night before. The crack spread, splintering and spiraling outward, and when it reached the edges of his mind it shattered, leaving him alone. Just that easily, the icy stillness that had given him clarity and helped him harden his heart, melted, and ran, and blood began to pump through his veins, and his breath came faster.

  He spun on his heel and began moving through the crowd that was still cheering Leah’s victory. A victory that would be short lived indeed if his brother arrived with no warning. He would come in here and she would be smiling no more, she would only be –

  A rebel!

  He neared the edge of the large domed building, turned a corner and sank to the ground, finding himself alone in the stone-lined hallway. His brother was coming; he could feel the energy from the Ox Talisman shining like a bright white beacon in his mind. This was his chance at redemption if he wanted it. He could claim credit for the tracking spell, claim he knew that it was in place, that he did nothing, and in doing so helped his brother to overthrow the Exiled Kindred, to reclaim the final piece of the Empire.


  But what if that isn’t good enough?

  “It will be!” he hissed out loud. The spitting, hateful noise echoed up and down the corridor. He clutched his head in his hands.

  Aren’t you a rebel too? asked a traitorous voice.

  Nearly two decades of training under the hands of the Empress, the Children, and the Imperial Scholars crashed down on him, blanking out his mind and trying to wipe such a terrible thought out as if it were an ink blot spreading quickly over a clean white piece of parchment. But he couldn’t do it this time, his mind kept working.

  He was sitting in the very heart of the enemy’s capital city, welcomed as a friend, welcomed by a people who should have hated him, and had every reason to kill him on sight if they knew him for who he was.

  His brother was approaching, coming closer with every minute – every breath the Prince of Ravens took was a breath wasted if he wished to warn the Kindred. But if he remained silent, if he allowed his brother to attack the Exiled Kindred, it would be the end. There would be no more Kindred, there would be no more resistance. The Empire’s power would be complete. The Prince of Oxen was not the leader that Rikard Prince of Lions was, but this job required no finesse. He was a club, and the city of Vale little more than an overripe fruit. He was ruthless, heartless, concerned only with physical power – conquering, destruction, annihilation of the Empire’s enemies. If the Prince of Oxen found this place, marched on it with his army, he would crush them all. This valley, while well hidden, was not defensible against the likes of him.

  And if I help him, the Prince thought, I’ll be allowed to come home. They’ll HAVE to take me back then. If I open the gates to let the army in, or sabotage the defense with false information or … or take out the Council of Elders.

  Chills ran down his back at this final thought. Yes. He’d entertained the thought wildly last night, but suddenly the reality of it crashed in on him, and he knew he truly could do it. Strike off the head of the snake, and that would be it. The Prince of Oxen would arrive to find no resistance, and the Prince of Ravens would be hailed as the greatest servant of the Empress the Empire had ever seen. He’d be known as the one who made the attack possible, who infiltrated what could not be infiltrated – he would be given power over all of his siblings.

  But could he betray the Kin? Did they deserve it?

  Of course they do! he roared at himself, they’re lawfully opposing the rule of the Empress; they deserve whatever fate is in store for them.

  The assassination attempt on his seventeenth name day flickered across his vision. His mind’s eye flashed back to the slave markets in Banelyn, saw again the torture devices used to extract information in the dungeon of the Seeker that Tomaz and Leah had rescued him from.

  And the scars crisscrossing the body of Leah Goldwyn, Daughter of the Kindred, Spellblade, Eshendai, traitor, rebel, criminal, outlaw, wanted for conspiracy to overthrow the Empire, the crime for which was death, death so gruesome that –

  No! a tiny voice sobbed, forcing the litany to stop. His face remained stoically calm, a trick he had learned years ago from the constant scrutiny of Symanta, of the Seekers, his Mother. Emotions were weakness. But try as he might, a single tear traced a line from the corner of his eye, down his cheek, and along the line of his jaw. Slowly, it fell, and by the time it had reached the ground, the Prince was on his feet and moving. Now was no time for emotions. Now was the time for action.

  He had made up his mind, once and for all.

  A quick surge of energy and he was moving down the corridor, purpose lending the strength and speed of determination to his movements. As he made his way back toward the arena, his mind was working ceaselessly, counting cracks in the wall, noticing tiny defects, anything to keep from thinking too deeply about what he was about to do.

  He rounded the corner and saw the crowd gathered around Leah had mostly died down, though there were some who were asking her questions about her technique. Davydd and Lorna had disappeared. Good – they would only get in the way.

  The Prince began to move toward Leah but stopped, catching sight of a looming figure off to the side, sitting in the shadows honing an enormous great sword with an equally large whetstone. The Prince changed course and made for Tomaz.

  “Well, princeling,” the big man said to him, “what did you think of …?”

  The mountainous man trailed off into silence as he met the Prince’s gaze. Surprise and wariness combined with the barest hint of fear crossed the large bearded face.

  “Where are the Elders meeting?” the Prince asked without preamble.

  Tomaz’s eyebrows rose.

  “Why would you need to know that?”

  “There’s no time to explain, Tomaz,” the Prince said, stepping forward and pitching his voice low so that people couldn’t overhear them.

  “You need to trust me.”

  The Prince was surprised at how controlled and emotionless his voice came out, considering the turmoil going on inside him. He would deal with his feelings later – right now he needed to get to the Elders before anyone else did.

  “Council cannot be interrupted,” Tomaz rumbled slowly, confusion drawing his eyebrows down and close together as he looked at the Prince as if seeing another person. The Prince allowed a small hint of the inner turmoil to show through.

  “I don’t have time for that, Tomaz – I need to see them now!”

  A few of the other Kindred turned to look at the two of them, wondering what was happening. Leah excused herself and began to approach.

  “Why?” Tomaz asked.

  “Tomaz,” he said, “you need to trust me.”

  For the longest moment, the Prince waited for the ex-Blade Master to respond. The big man was quite clearly thrown off balance. Trust and loyalty warred with a sudden suspicion, and the Prince could see that he needed one more nudge. Banking on the big man’s over-reliance on loyalty to make the decision for him, the Prince played his final card.

  “You once told me I didn’t have to be one of the Children if I didn’t want to,” the Prince said. “Do you still believe that?”

  Tomaz’s expression froze, and his eyes stared holes in the Prince.

  “Take me to them, Tomaz. They need to see me – now.”

  The two of them stared at each other, locked in tableau for a long moment. And then the big man nodded, stood, and moved quickly off toward the arena door, the Prince following close behind him. As he passed the rack of practice swords he pulled out the Valerium sword’s sheath, quickly slid the blade inside, and tied it to his belt.

  “Tomaz? Raven?” they heard Leah ask in confusion.

  The two of them, Tomaz in front, burst out of the double doors onto the brightly lit street, sun shining down in cracks through the tall trees that grew on either side of the long, broad boulevard.

  “Follow,” was all Tomaz said. The Prince complied.

  They took off down the main street through the center of the sprawling valley city. Tomaz was moving so quickly, his large strides nearly three of the Prince’s, that the Prince was hard-pressed to keep up without running. They passed between various men, women, and children, who all gave them a brief, curious glance and then continued walking when they recognized Tomaz. Their expressions clearly showed what they were thinking: he was an Ashandel – that kind was always moving somewhere quickly.

  They approached the large building the Prince had seen when they had first come through the town, made of white marble painted with green and gold columns and beautiful sculptures of heroic men and women. The large domed roof with a single spear-like flagpole reared across the sky. Tomaz turned toward it, and the Prince followed him quickly, passing large, cultivated trees, and a small fountain made of a man spouting water from an upward reaching hand.

  Quickly, they made their way past the silver-and-green liveried guards at the doors, who stepped aside with a nod to Tomaz, though they eyed both his greatsword and the sword sheathed by the Prince’s side with suspicion. Ins
ide were three huge staircases, two going up and branching off to the right and left, and one equally grand but descending straight down through the floor into the living rock of the valley. It was down this third flight of stairs that they made their way, moving past various groups of men and women who looked to be going about rather important, official business.

  The stairway curved twice, all the while descending, going so far down that the Prince soon realized they were quite possibly farther underground than most buildings were above. Finally, they came to a long hallway, at the end of which could be seen a large door carved with majestic beasts and meditating men and women. There was a green-and-gold embroidered black carpet running the length of the hall, and burning torches had been lit and placed in brackets on the walls every few yards; at the end of the corridor stood eight Kindred in formal uniforms of green-and-gold over tight fitting black cloth that covered their arms, legs, and neck: four had the insignia of a white sword sewn into their high collar and four the insignia of a white dagger.

  “Brothers and sisters,” Tomaz called out as they neared, “stand down!”

  The eight guards, what the Prince suddenly realized were four Rogue or perhaps Ranger pairs, spread across the corridor and seemed not at all inclined to do as Tomaz suggested.

  “Who comes to the Council?” a wiry man with a shock of white hair asked. He had stepped forward and unsheathed a pair of remarkably thin swords, which nonetheless had razor sharp edges that gleamed dangerously in the light from the burning torches. There was a dagger on his high collar … what did that mean?

  “One who brings urgent news, Eshendai,” Tomaz said, stopping with the Prince a few yards away. The Prince shifted closer to the big man’s left side and put a hand behind his back, under his shirt, resting it on the hilt of his hidden dagger; his other hand kept a firm grip on the Valerium sword, sheathed by his side.

  There was a sudden noise from outside the room in the antechamber back where the staircase ended; it was the sound of steel on steel. Immediately, two of the pairs loped past Tomaz, drawing their various weapons and heading for the door. Tomaz and the Prince exchanged a glance. The Prince nodded toward the door back to the staircase, his message clear - draw them off. Tomaz stared at him in shock, truly realizing for the first time that the Prince didn’t mean to gain admission, but instead to force it. The Prince watched as disapproval and confusion warred with trust. And then the giant gave the barest hint of a nod.

  “You two – with me,” he said, motioning to the third pair. He turned and ran for the door, not waiting to hear their response. For a moment they stared stupidly at each other, and then rushed off down the corridor. Once they reached the door, they ran through and it closed with a resounding boom! behind them.

  As soon as the door closed, the Prince was in motion, dashing forward as the dagger came out from beneath his shirt, blade flashing in the torchlight. The Eshendai fell first, not even knowing what had hit him. The Ashandel spun around, only to see the dagger fly through the air and strike him squarely between the eyes. The sword fell from his fingers and hit the ground with a clatter, followed closely by the loud thump of his body.

  The Prince retrieved the dagger and replaced it, instead unsheathing the Valerium sword. It felt suddenly heavier than it had in the arena, and the Prince knew it had nothing to do with the actual weight.

  He spun toward the door. There were two keyholes and no visible door handle. One keyhole was made of gold, the other of silver, both large but simple in design. A glimmer of light caught the Prince’s eye and he turned to see a large golden key hanging around the neck of the Eshendai, having come out of the man’s tunic when he fell. The Prince ripped it off and then quickly found the matching key on the body of the Ashandel. He rammed the keys into their holes and turned them simultaneously, arms stretched wide to either side.

  The wide double doors cracked open, producing a rush of air that sputtered the torches in the hallway behind him. He pushed, and they opened inward on oiled hinges.

  On the other side of the door was a large circular room made from the living rock of a subterranean cave, high-roofed as well as wide. An enormous round table of polished oak was set in the center, around which sat twelve men and women, each equidistant from the next, with a single empty chair to the side. All of them turned to look at who had disturbed their conclave, as the doors crashed closed behind the Prince.

  He stepped forward, the Valerium blade hanging heavily from his clenched fist.