by Mirren Hogan
“Please.” I raise my voice, holding up a stalling hand. “Please think of me as though I am just a simple vassal.”
He raises a brow, but waves a hand, indulging me. “By all means.”
My fingers tremble for a moment before I get a hold of myself, fisting them and holding them at my side. “I bring before Your Majesty a proposal on the matter of Elemental Adepts.”
Father’s good mood vanishes. “Think quite carefully before you continue, Prince Caden.”
“I have thought, Your Majesty. Very carefully indeed.” I swallow— imperceptibly, I hope.
“The conscription of Elemental Adepts is an old and respected tradition within Egria,” I say. “Old, respected— and outdated. The country was at war when the practice was established. We needed every advantage then.”
“Do you mean to say that we can spare such advantages now?”
“Is there a war on that I am unaware of?” I shoot back, then ease a breath out between my teeth in an effort to regain myself. Easy. Don’t overstep. Keep your calm.
“The people are ill at ease, Your Majesty. Even at court, I hear the whispers of nobles with children approaching seventeen. They are fearful. Some go so far as to pay for asinine ‘tests,’ endangering those they fear for, exposing them to the worst of the elements and seeing which fail to harm them.
“Imagine the loyalty they would feel for a monarch who puts an end to that fear. Who saves their children. Who sends their wives, fathers, and siblings home. Without a large army to constantly feed and provide supplies for, we could lower taxes substantially. And more agriculturally-inclined Adepts may band together to revolutionize crops, as the farmer we saw a couple of days ago did. It could improve our economy, our trade with other nations… the benefits are too numerous to properly count.”
“This is a very heartfelt speech, Prince Caden, but if you have a point, I suggest that you state it outright.”
“I humbly propose that Your Majesty end the draft,” I say in a rush. “At least until such time as Egria finds itself at war again. And, perhaps, think on the release of those who hid their abilities and were discovered. Those who now face imprisonment or execution for a victimless crime. For breaking an outdated law.”
He nods, index finger at his cheek as he considers. For a moment, I am hopeful, but then— “No.”
“But surely—”
“No.” He rises and descends the steps from his throne to circle me like a hawk. “You want to be treated like a vassal. I owe my vassals no explanations. Were you my son, I might tell you that empires are not built on peace. I may enumerate the many ways that sending the Adepts home would leave us vulnerable to attack or remind you that the Nereids have Water Throwers and that we sit on the ocean’s cliffs with none. I could say that fear can prove equally useful in engendering loyalty.”
“Father—”
“Oh, are you my son again?” He draws close and hisses into my ear. “Then start acting like it.”
I clench my jaw and close my eyes in defeat as he leaves the throne room without another word.
I have never openly defied my father before. Debated a point of state? Certainly. Parried a sword thrust? Of course. But outright defiance? Working against him? No.
However, after our meeting and his outright refusal even to entertain the notion of revising the law, I don’t see that I have a choice. Not one that my conscience will permit at any rate.
And if this endeavor goes as I hope it will, no one will say that I’ve done any differently than obey him.
I ask to be served in my quarters tonight, but Aleta will attend dinner so as not to raise talk of the two of us missing at once. She appears at my doorway prior to the meal, bearing a ruby cuff draped over her fingers. I balk, understanding immediately what she intends.
“I’m not wearing that.” We both know what red means. It’s the mark of a murderer. If I am to play at honor and justice, I won’t sully myself with the connotation.
“Wear it,” she says, her tone brooking no arguments. “Say nothing about it, but let it make its implication silently. Suggestion and imagination are powerful tools at your disposal. Use them.”
I wear the cuff.
After my food is delivered, I wait just a moment before slipping away. My chamber guards think nothing of it; they’ve been with me for some time and are used to my unusual comings and goings. Walking often helps me think. I am counting on the fact that they are too used to my wanderings to take note of this one.
I use a tunnel to sneak into a visiting Elemental Adept’s room while he attends the dinner I am missing. The Fire Torcher whose rooms I visit is a high-ranking colonel in my father’s army and his status affords him a stay in a hall largely populated by lower nobles. I have no trouble locating his wardrobe and fetching the black, hooded robe I require to disguise myself as an Elemental Adept.
My face is wreathed in shadows as I approach the guard station outside the prison. It’s a bit closer to the palace than the dungeon we use to house high criminals and I make good time. They’ll be preoccupied at dinner for some time yet.
I try not to breathe an audible sigh of relief upon noticing that none of the guards wear a robe that matches mine. I’d feared encountering a Fire Torcher, one who could easy lift a palm, flames alight, to have an unobstructed view of my face. As it is, I keep my face turned toward the ground. It would spoil all of my efforts if I were recognized.
I clutch a sheaf of paper in my own handwriting, bearing my own seal. Its wrinkles are creased with my sweat as I pass it over. “I’m to escort some Shaker for a hearing,” I say gruffly.
The guards cracks the seal with a suspicious hand. “Bit late, isn’t it? Besides, truant Elementals are s’posed to await trial here.”
I shrug. “Not for us to question the royals, is it?”
He doesn’t look convinced. Damn. I’ll have to use Aleta’s method after all. Nonchalantly, I adjust my sleeve so that the ruby cuff peeks out. The move has the desired effect: the guard recoils when it glints up at him like a bloody star in the darkness.
“Fetch the newest truant,” he barks.
The farmer—Walden, I seem to remember Father calling him— looks bewildered when he’s dragged out. The guard thrusts his shackles and the keys that will free him into my hands. It’s been mere days but already he looks worse for the wear. A bruise blooms on his cheek and black circles rest beneath his eyes.
“Where are we going?”
“Never you mind,” I grunt, releasing his shackles and shoving him ahead of me. I prod him forward. “Walk, truant.”
We can’t move quickly. Walden’s footsteps are shuffles, his ankles shackled just enough to let him walk, but not easily. I have to wait until I’m sure we won’t run into any well meaning guards before I undo his restraints.
I’d headed toward the castle at first in order to throw off any suspicion from the prison guards, but now I loop us back around the stables. The head hostler and a few select stable hands sleep above the horses, but the others will have gone home by now.
Walden tries to look back at me, but I tilt my head lower, ensuring that the hood obscures my features. The unfortunate result of such a move is that I can see only my feet and Walden’s on the ground before me. Thankfully, I know this route well. I’ve set us on the path toward a vacant pasture and to my hunting grounds, lush and green and untamed; much of the growth that my father’s Shakers pulled from the Leeched Desert that surrounds our city lives there. What’s more: it’s—
Walden’s shackled feet hop in place and a jagged stone hurls itself up from the ground toward me.
I leap backward before I’m impaled on the rock. Walden takes off for the hunting grounds as fast as he can, shackles rattling. He throws a terrified look back at me as I maneuver around the new unexpected obstacle.
The fool. I grit my teeth, trying not to lose my temper. He’d best thank the Makers that I took him this way. It’s unguarded. If he’d tried this foolishness along any
other paths, the palace’s soldiers would be on us instantly and he’d have assured his own execution. As it is, however…
When he sees me coming for him, he desperately slices his cuffed hands across his body and I’m walloped in the back of the head by a tree branch.
The hood drops to my neck. I blink for a moment to clear the stars from my vision. Gingerly touching the rising lump on my skull, I’m relieved to find it free of blood. I’ll be able to keep the bruise hidden under my hair until it heals.
My mouth solidifies in a determined line. Enough of this farce. Walden hasn’t been able to get far, shuffling as he is. I manage to get close enough and launch myself at the man, tackling him to the ground. We land loudly, the path protesting such an affront.
“You damned idiot,” I mutter, scrabbling for the keys I’d looped onto my belt. I unfasten Walden’s wrists and he blinks.
“What are you—”
“Go.” I concentrate now on freeing his feet, the key fumbling in its lock. He stumbles as he stands and steps from the shackles’ grip.
“How did you manage—who—”
He pales when he sees my face, free of its hood. Recognition dawns in his eyes as he places me in his memory. “Your Highness?
I rise, holding Walden’s gaze. I should be more dismayed over the fact that he knows the identity of his savior, but I can’t bring myself to feel that way. It feels good. To know that I’ve helped someone and to have them know it too. Good to know that at least one of my subjects will believe someone in the royal family understands that we should be loyal to our people if we expect their fealty.
It’s a start.
“Go,” I say again.
“Prince Caden,” he says, reiterating my identity. I nod. “Why, though? Why free me?”
I meet his eyes. “Do you feel like you’ve done something wrong?”
“I broke the law,” he says.
“That doesn’t make it wrong.”
He waits for more, but it’s the only answer I have to give.
It would seem he’s not a man given to pressing his good fortune. Walden bows low. “I am— eternally grateful,” he says. He stands again, looking at me searchingly. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
“I wish you good luck,” I say. And then he’s gone.
I don’t know where he’ll go as he scrambles off into the darkness, withdrawing into the shelter of the forest-like grounds. If he makes it back to his family, they will have to run.
I truly hope he makes it.
But this is all I can do for now. I listen to the crunching of leaves swallowing his retreating footsteps. It’s not long before the trees and creatures that fill the hunting grounds gobble up those sounds too.
Later, I will protest that the note extrapolating Walden from his cell was forged. A search will reveal that my seal is missing. Stolen. I will demand that the Adept who dared to misrepresent the crown in order to free a truant Elemental be found and brought to justice for his crimes.
They will never find him.
Justice has many definitions. True justice—a justice that is righteous and fair—is a rare thing. But my father isn’t wrong. Justice is defined by those who hold the power.
And perhaps it’s time he held a little less.
If you liked this story from Jennifer Ellision, you can read more from her in Rogue Skies. Preorder for 99c.
The story continues in Jennifer Ellision’s Threats of Sky and Sea…
About the Author
Bestselling and award-winning author Jennifer Ellision writes about daring young women in magical worlds. She survives on a steady diet of books, podcasts, and her favorite magical tropes. Jennifer frequently wakes up early to work before she has to “people” and can often be found squirreled away in her office, getting some writing done–or in her local library, agonizing over revisions.
If all else fails, look under the covers. She’s probably hiding out with a good young adult fantasy series.
Leave our world and escape into one of hers. Get the free novelette that introduces Jennifer’s Threats of Sky and Sea trilogy when you sign up for Jennifer’s newsletter.
Copyright © 2019 by Cecilia Dominic
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Into the Fire
Cecilia Dominic
Prequel Story to The Art of Piracy
Luc de Moncel, Marquis de Monceau, watched violinist Johann Bledsoe leave, his violin case in one hand, and a bottle of the Marquis’ best brandy in the other. Luc had already lost his home, and now a friend, so what did a bottle of very expensive liquor matter? He’d found the past year to be one of letting go. Unfortunately, that left room for other attachments to find him. And right now, two in particular troubled him.
“Is he gone?” Daphne Cinsault, recently widowed, entered the room. She’d been upstairs, no doubt waiting to see the violinist depart. Luc wished she'd waited to appear. He wanted to ponder the revelations of his and Johann's conversation – that they'd been seeking the Eros Element, had found something unexpected, and it somehow involved the neo-Pythagrean cult and the murders of Daphne's husband and butler. Was it any wonder he flinched at the merest shadow?
"Luc?" Right, she still stood there.
“Yes, he just left.” The woman grew more demanding and thus less attractive by the minute, particularly as it became apparent that she’d used her ability to draw men to her to ensnare him. And his friends. He didn’t like the peevish tone he’d adopted, so he cleared his throat. “And these are no affairs of yours.”
“My butler was involved in some sort of esoteric cult. I need to know more.” Her eyes lit with a hunger Luc had seen on the faces of other women. They always pursued the same thing – eternal youth and beauty. Not that he blamed them. He’d used his own dashing good looks to his advantage often enough. And if his grandfather and father were any indication, he’d keep them well into old age. Old, old age. Yes, he understood the power of attractiveness. But this time it had bit him soundly in the arse, involving him with Daphne.
But she had the airship connections, and he needed to get a certain painting out of Paris before the Prussians besieged the city into submission.
“Ah, Luc,” she said and came to him, putting her hands on his chest. This close, he could see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, the indentations at the sides of her mouth. And the sorrow she’d experienced. Although her husband had been much older, and intimacy rare, they had been fond of each other. So fond, in fact, that he’d allowed her to have lovers to give her what he couldn’t, presuming the affairs were conducted discreetly. Hence how she and Luc had come together.
“Daphne,” he murmured, tracing her lips with the tip of his finger. Why could he not resist her? The only time he’d been so attracted to a woman was when he’d met a duchess who could conceivably be in line for the throne. Something in him understood how beauty faded, but power – that lasted, assuming one could hold on to it. So why did this merchant’s wife hold so much of it? As far as he knew, she only had the security of wealth, not the intoxicating power of position.
“The airship leaves tonight,” she told him. “I received word from my contact while you were speaking with your friend.”
Could that be it? She had the ability to get him what he needed the most right now, to get him out of Paris with his family’s painting, the key to their legacy. That in and of itself was power. Or would be. The key to unlocking the power of the Monceau Legacy had been hidden in a painting, but the knowledge had been lost other than mention in family legend. Luc had only been able to grab one picture from his collection before fleeing the chateau ahead of the Prussian army.
“How did you hear from them?" he asked. "No one came or went. And no one is supposed to know you’re here.�
��
“Messenger raven. And I only told my maid.”
Luc tore himself from her embrace and ran to the window. The townhouse, in a fashionable part of Paris, sat back from the street with a small front garden. Only a few people walked about, but were they the same as usual? He’d spent so much time at his chateau outside the city that he didn’t know his in-town neighbors well, and definitely not their servants on sight.
He pulled the curtains closed. “How could you risk us like that? You know your butler betrayed us, likely murdered your husband.”
She shrugged as only a Frenchwoman could. “I needed my maid. And you need me. And we both need to be able to coordinate our departure with the airship.”
Luc knew he was being unreasonable. But every time he closed his eyes, he saw that damn statue at his chateau turn its head to stare at him with its blank expression. If he could only sleep, he knew he’d be better. If he could only return home…
But that wasn’t possible. The Prussian army surrounded the city.
“Come, my love,” she cooed, and the pressure of her hand on his shoulder brought him back to the present. “I’ll help to erase those memories.” And then, quietly, “I need you, too.”
He bowed his head, the weight of her against him heavier than it should feel, both an anchor and a lodestone. But he wouldn’t complain. He’d only allow her to ground him in the moment. And then tonight, they’d escape.
The nightmares chased him into the exhausted collapse that claimed him after their lovemaking. He was in the chateau's library surrounded by the statues his father and grandfather had collected. They all looked at him, expectantly. The large painting of Psyche and Eros loomed over the mantle, over him, but he wouldn’t look at it. His father had told him it was only a distraction to turn visitors’ attention away from the smaller painting, the true treasure of the chateau. He held that piece in both hands and looked at it, squeezing the frame and willing it to become small enough to tuck into his waistcoat.