Prince Adranan was two years younger. He was also dark, but was built like a wine cask, tall with broad shoulders and a gut that betrayed his fondness for ale and rich foods. Despite his bulk, he was a formidable fighter, an excellent shot, and an even more expert swordsman. His good-natured smile was gap-toothed; he’d had two of his front teeth knocked out in a brawl during one of his incognito tavern crawls in Minoma, and refused to wear his false ivory teeth except during state occasions.
Nineteen-year-old Eregard was a full head shorter than his brothers. He had impeccable taste and always dressed in the latest fashion, but his elegant clothing did little to improve his unprepossessing exterior. Pale, freckled skin, lank, mouse-brown hair, and eyes that were an indeterminate shade between blue and gray made him easy to overlook.
The spectacles he wore for reading either dangled on a ribbon around his neck or were pushed up onto the top of his head. He was as heavy as Adranan, but without the underly-ing muscle. His belly bulged over his fine, tooled belt.
Salesin stared intently into his youngest brother’s eyes, then suddenly laughed. “Oh, you should see yourself, baby brother. If looks were weapons, I’d be choking on my own
lifeblood right now. Watch yourself, Eregard. You just …
watch yourself.”
Rage bubbled in Eregard, and he couldn’t disguise his anger. He longed to draw his sword and bury the point in Salesin’s throat. Or … there was always the rampart. Up and over, yes …
But there was no point in trying. Salesin was much stronger, an experienced fighter. The Crown Prince was a master swordsman, while he was barely beyond the basics.
Besides, Adranan wouldn’t let him do it, even supposing he could somehow get the best of the heir in a physical tussle.
Eregard drew a slow, deep breath.
Control. You must learn control. Salesin will be King, remember. Already he wields almost
as much power as Father. Kill him and you commit treason.
Aloud, he said, “You go too far, brother. But for Adranan’s sake, I’ll say no more.”
The second-in-waiting for the throne of Pela clapped him on the back. “There’s the lad! Salesin, what say you? Peace between you?”
The Crown Prince did not reply, but he shrugged, and Eregard knew that was the only concession he would get. Anger stirred in him again, but he repressed it.
“Just wait until I’m King,” Salesin said. “There’ll be no more buy-offs or ceding of land to avoid trouble. Any country that dares look askance at Pela will face war, all-out war.
Father used to be a force to reckon with, but in his old age he’s grown as spineless as a jellyfish.”
Eregard bit his lip until it stung fiercely, but he did not rise to Salesin’s bait, knowing that’s what his brother wanted.
Luckily for Eregard, a distraction was approaching at a brisk pace. A group of ladies-in-waiting out for their daily constitutional were almost upon them, so the three Princes fell silent. As each lady drew even with them, she sank down in a rustle of satin brocade and Severian lace, curtsying deeply.
Eregard gave each of them a nod and a polite smile. Adranan had a grin, a guffaw, and something personal to say to each, sending many scuttling away, blushing and giggling.
Salesin gave each lady a brief, cool stare—even those whom Eregard knew he’d bedded.
Following behind the ladies-in-waiting came a gaggle of barefoot serving boys and girls, carrying palm fans, shawls, pomander balls, boxes of sweets, parasols, and squirming lapdogs.
Eregard regarded the colorful display, wishing for a moment that he could be one of those boys, with no care in the world except to carry his lady’s lapdog or parasol.
If I were a
servant, she would be so far above me that I would not even
dare to think of her,
he thought.
I could have followed her all
the day long, listened to her voice, and been happy in her
presence. I would have been spared the torture of hope.
The Prince turned away from the crowd to gaze back over the ramparts at Minoma. The Sun had gone behind a cloud; the sea no longer sparkled. Directly below him he could see the dark green treelined paths of the King’s menagerie.
Commoner and noble alike strolled along the paths, gazing at the rare animals in their spacious cages. Faintly, he heard a cry from one of the wild desert cats, a snarl that deepened into a full-throated roar.
Adranan poked him with an elbow and pointed. “Look,” he said. “King’s messengers, two of them. Odds are they’ve come straight up from the port, with news from the mainland.”
Eregard watched as the two riders approached, seeing they were urging their horses onward with whip and spur.
Their mounts clattered up the cobblestoned street, running all-out. Passersby scattered to get out of their way as they recognized the official scarlet tunics banded with black.
As though the Sun’s disappearance were a signal, the wind picked up, reminding them this was autumn, and winter was scant weeks away. A chill gust made Eregard shiver as it buffeted him.
Salesin swore as his cloak snapped out behind him. “Thrice-damned wind!” he muttered. “I’m going in before I catch my death. Besides, I need to see what message they brought.”
Good riddance,
Eregard thought. Despite the cold, he waited, shivering, until his brother was long gone. Adranan
stood beside him. Only when Eregard bade his brother farewell did the middle Prince speak.
“Listen, Eregard,” he said, his normally jovial features twisted with concern. “Don’t let Salesin bait you. He’s …
he can be … cruel.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Eregard said.
“He has spies everywhere. Plot against him—or even
think
about plotting against him—and you’ll find yourself exiled. Father may well abdicate in his favor.”
“And would that be good for Pela?”
Adranan smiled ruefully. “Depends on your point of view.
It would fill up the dungeons with political prisoners, thus providing jobs for many additional gaolers. And on the mainland, those outspoken Katan grumblers would learn to guard their tongues and watch what they print. No more outrageous political cartoons or broadsides. Salesin would make short work out of suppressing any hint of rebellion.”
“True,” Eregard agreed dourly.
“I care about you, little brother,” Adranan said. “Heed my warning. Don’t cross him.”
Sound advice,
Eregard thought. He managed to smile at his brother. “Adranan the Peacemaker. Why couldn’t you have been firstborn?”
Adranan smiled. “Being heir is not my idea of a good life.
I’m content to be the King’s arm. I’m not good at intrigue.”
“Unfortunately, Salesin excels at it,” Eregard observed bitterly.
“Yes he does. And I don’t want to lose my favorite brother,” Adranan said. “So control your temper, Eregard.
There are eyes and ears everywhere.”
“Sound advice, brother,” Eregard agreed. “I thank you for it.”
“I’m going down to the Golden Sail for a pint,” Adranan said. “Join me?”
Eregard shook his head. “No, thanks. I should be getting back. I was going to visit Mother before supper.”
Adranan nodded, then headed out to meet his personal guard where they stood waiting patiently.
Moments later, Eregard, clutching his cloak around him, hurried down the stairs. A small contingent of soldiers, his personal guard, awaited him on the landing.
Eregard nodded brusquely at the sergeant, then started down the next flight of weathered, oft-mended steps. When he reached the street level, the Prince headed back toward the royal palace. Flanked by his guard, Eregard walked down the oft-repaired streets, automatically avoiding the slimy gutters running down the middle. Smells warred with each other: the stench from the gutters, a pungent reek from an outhouse, the warm scent of bread and ale, the sharp yeasty stink of horse piss, the sweet fragrance from a flower-seller’s cart, and the mouth-watering fragrance of gamebird pie.
Minoma’s Old Town was old indeed, far older than the royal palace. It was at least as old as the massive wall. The houses were bluestone and weathered wood, with occasional newer structures of half-timbering and whitewashed stucco.
Shops lined the streets, interspersed with residences. A goldsmith’s shop, with a beautifully kept exterior, perched uncomfortably next to an old, low-ceilinged tavern, rowdy and full of sailors even at this early hour. A wool-merchant’s shop presented splashes of color from the dyed hanks of yarn, and a sail-mender’s shop was doing a brisk business.
Eregard strode along, head down, and the sergeant of the guard forged ahead, making sure his path was clear and that no knife or gun-wielding assassins lurked in the alleys. The Prince’s thoughts were as bleak and cold as the autumn clouds that continued to block the Sun.
If Father abdicates in favor of Salesin, what will happen
to me? I’ll be here, stuck at court, having to watch the two of
them together. I’ll have to watch him treat her badly, for
Salesin treats none of his women well, and to him a highborn
lady has the same furnishings down below as a tavern
wench—
The thought was so distressing that he forced himself into
considering something else, a subject he normally detested—politics.
What if he decides that the Chonao Redai … what’s his
name?—Kerezau, that’s it—what if he decides that Kerezau
is too powerful for Pela to fight? What if he tries for an alliance with that barbarian instead?
Bleakly, Eregard wondered if Kerezau had any daughters.
If he did, that was bad. Adranan was a formidable fighter. He could lead troops. Adranan was valuable. Whilst he, Eregard, was useful only as a potential pawn in a ruler’s marriage game.
Scowling, Eregard kicked a loose cobblestone on the edge of a dank pothole, sending it skittering into a narrow, greasy little alleyway. He glanced over at the sergeant. “Notify the street warden to fix that spot.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
The Prince lengthened his stride, pulling his cloak tight around him as a chill gust whipped down the streets.
A touch
of winter’s breath
, he thought. The wind suited his mood, matched the cold desolation growing within his heart.
Soon I
won’t even be able to think of her without committing treason.
His dark thoughts accompanied him the rest of the way home, dogging his steps like a relentless beggar. The walk from the old fortress wall to the royal palace was not long, but it was all uphill, and Eregard was not in the best of shape. The Prince was panting by the time he reached the gates and was bowed through them.
Dismissing his personal guard, he started up the raked gravel toward the entrance. The palace consisted of one large square central building with three smaller wings on each side and at the rear. It was built solidly of pale gray stone, with red tiles on its roofs lending a touch of cheery color against the leaden skies.
Soldiers drilled in the courtyard as Eregard walked by.
Absently, the Prince returned the Captain of the Guard’s salute. Reaching the broad, sweeping staircase that led up to the palace, the Prince plodded up the wide steps.
He was halfway up when some sixth sense made him look up—and then he saw her. She was evidently just back from her own constitutional, and, as he watched, Lady Ulandra’s slender form stepped through the palace entrance and vanished.
Eregard’s steps lengthened until he was taking the steps two and three at a time. Part of his mind shouted at him to slow down, as befitted royal dignity, but he redoubled his efforts.
The Prince burst through the doors and was rewarded by the sight of the Lady Ulandra, carrying her small dog, just ahead of him in the entrance hall with its black and white marble pavement. Her maid, laden with shawls and a cushion, was just disappearing through the door toward the east wing of the palace.
She’s alone!
Eregard realized. At the sound of his rapid footsteps, she turned, startled, her hand raised to remove her small, stylish hat.
The Prince halted his undignified rush, then just stood there, staring at her, at a loss for something to say. Color washed the lady’s pale cheeks, and she hastily dropped into a deep curtsy. “Your Highness!”
“Lady Ulandra,” the Prince said. He walked over to her and held out his hand to help her rise. He felt a thrill throughout his entire body as her fingers met his; he had never touched her before.
Lady Ulandra q’Jinasii was small and slender, with pale, delicate features and thick, flaxen hair that glimmered pale as crystal in the dimness of the hall. Her brows and lashes were light, too, something Eregard had never noticed before.
Suddenly he realized that for formal occasions she must use cosmetics to darken them, and rouge to color her cheeks.
Her eyes were light blue, as clear as a winter sky, and often as distant.
But today, as she stood looking up at Eregard, there was nothing distant about them. She was smiling, her small, even teeth echoing her modest pearl necklace.
Her walking dress was a color that Eregard had seen her wear before, the dusky hue of a blue rose.
Eregard forced himself to relinquish her hand, then, realizing that she was waiting for him to speak, he cast about for something—anything!—to say.
“It’s turning cooler, my lady. I am afraid winter is just around the corner.”
She nodded. “Yes, Your Highness. When I left this morning it was very pleasant, but now it almost seems that a storm is brewing.”
“That’s what Salesin said,” Eregard said, hating himself for stooping to bring his brother’s name into the conversation. But he wanted to watch her features when she heard her betrothed’s name.
Does she love him?
An expression flicked across her features, then was gone.
Wariness, apprehension, even. Certainly not warmth.
Eregard’s heart beat fast.
Stop it. It’s impossible, and you know it.
She dropped her gaze. “The Crown Prince is, as always, perceptive,” Ulandra said. “The weatherwatchers are predicting snows in the mountains, and rain in Minoma by midnight, Your Highness.”