The Wrong Prince (5 page)

LUCIE’S TEETH CHATTERED. THE WEATHER was fair, but she’d been walking a wooded road in a soaked gown all day. To her surprise, she felt a woolen garment drape over her shoulders, warming her. Geo had wrapped her in a cape from his bag. He said not a word as he hitched the bag over his shoulder and marched ahead with a purposeful pace far swifter than she could manage in her slippers.

Lucie tried to keep up. “Thank you!” She reached to fasten the cape around her neck, but something felt unusual. She ran a hand along her throat, grasping the bare skin at her chest, and her breath stopped short. The amethyst!

She swiveled around to see where it might’ve fallen, but saw nothing apart from grass and undergrowth. “Wait,” she cried.

Geo turned.

“My necklace is gone!”

“Hazards of travel.” He shrugged. “I told you to stow it in my bag.”

She pressed her hands to her temples, trying not to fret. The prince clearly thought it just another piece of jewelry, but to Lucie, it was much more. The stone had belonged to her late mother, who’d died in childbirth with her. Lucie was ten years old when her grandmother permitted her to keep it. It served as a daily reminder of the sacrifice the baroness had made to give her daughter life—a sacrifice Lucie could never repay.

But perhaps she could pay it forward. Rescuing the Crown Prince—and keeping Geo safe—appeared to be her opportunity. For if she preserved both Tybirian Princes from harm, then maybe her mother wouldn’t have died in vain.

“I cannot go on without it,” she declared. “I must retrace my steps.”

The prince did not hide his dismay. “Don’t be ridiculous. Your fiancé was carried away by an enemy army, and you’re worried about a rock?” She expected as much of a reaction. The man was kinesthetic, a doer. He seldom had patience for sentimentality.

A devastating thought occurred to her. “Oh no,” she whispered. “What if I lost it in the river?”

“You didn’t,” replied Geo. “I saw it on you when…” he coughed, “when we reached the other side.”

It took Lucie a moment to guess why his face had turned scarlet, until she recalled where the pendant typically sat. She smirked. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d ogled her. At any rate, she was relieved it hadn’t fallen off in the water, but they’d been walking for miles since. How far back could she have lost it? And how had she failed to notice?

She was startled when a pale shape swooped down from a branch. “What was that?”

No sooner had she asked the question, Geo’s bow was plucked clean from its strap. He reached over his shoulder. “What the—?”

Leaves rustled, and Lucie’s eyes connected with the earth-smeared face of what appeared to be an adolescent boy. “You!” She pointed.

The thief was gone at once. Geo had seen him, too. The prince sprung forward, darting into the brush, Lucie quick behind. A small hand reached down from the treetops and tousled her hair, toying with her, and Lucie’s chin shot up. More children were in the trees.

They stopped in the forest. One by one, youthful figures jumped down from the branches, crawled out from behind shrubbery, or else materialized between the oaks from the forest’s depths. Slowly, they encircled Geo and Lucie, their expressions curious, mischievous and also, Lucie noticed, a bit menacing. Although shorter and scrawnier than their cornered captives, the rogue boys far outnumbered her and the prince.

Lucie swallowed.

“Gentlemen,” Geo spoke carefully, “how may we help you?”

The tallest one licked crackled lips. “‘He’s got a sword. A nice ‘un.” He cocked his greasy head toward those nearest to Geo. “Get it.”

Geo thrust away as a dozen needy hands reached for the sword at his belt. He gripped the hilt defensively. “Back off,” he warned. “I do not wish to use this against you.”

The youths turned to their ringleader, uncertain. But the tall boy gave an insolent smile and snapped his fingers. Once more, his minions launched at Geo.

“Children!” Lucie’s cry was not one of fear, but a reprimand. They gawked at her, as though thoroughly unfamiliar with the sound of a woman’s voice. “Surely you know that stealing is wrong?”

They shifted uneasily. “Easy for you to say,” one mumbled. “If we don’ steal, we don’ eat.”

“So, you’re hungry?” Thinking fast, she tugged at Geo’s bag and pulled it open. Lucie removed cases of soldiers’ rations—dried fruits, nuts and other foods that had been ground into powder with mortar and pestle, for their nutrients. “Why not eat this instead of stealing for it, eh?” Troublemakers though they were, she couldn’t bring herself to speak harshly to them; instead, her voice was a gentle coax.

They glanced between each other, looking tempted.

“Uh-uh,” piped the leader, lighting a cigar. Lucie raised an eyebrow as he took a drag.

“Sorry, miss,” one of his cohorts swallowed, “but Fengani wants us to collect the valuables.”

Lucie’s hands found her hips. “And must you do everything Fengani says?”

“He takes care of us.” They shrugged.

“Oh?” She indicated their filthy faces, grubby hands and ragged clothing. “Fine job he’s doing.”

In the time it had taken her to speak, however, someone plucked a set of arrows from Geo’s quiver. Geo caught the crook by the wrist. “That’s it.” His nostrils flared as he looked round at them. “Do you urchins have any idea who you’re dealing with?”

“Doubt it matters,” drawled the ringleader behind a puff of smoke.

Geo straightened into his most imposing stance yet. “I am Georome Straussen, Prince of Tybiria.”

The boys’ laughter echoed between the trees, disjointed and coarse. “Sure,” sneered the leader. “And I’m the Emperor of Jordinia.”

Lucie squinted, noticing a flash of purple bulging from his vest pocket. “My necklace,” she breathed. Her eyes flashed at him. “Give it back.”

The boy only grinned, folding his patchy jacket over his vest.

“I assure you, I’m the prince,” Geo insisted. He indicated the child with his arrows, whose wrist he still clutched. “Whose crest is on those?”

The boys glanced down.

“And whose initials?” demanded Geo. “Well?”

Lucie nudged him. “Geo, I don’t think they can—”

“Read it, Boggs,” barked the ringleader. A new youngster stepped forth to examine the arrows, and his face blanched. He turned to his boss, whispering.

The lad lowered the cigar. After a moment, he nodded and blotted it against a tree trunk. “C’mon.” He beckoned his cronies. “You too,” he added to Lucie and Geo. “If you are who you say, then you will prove it to Fengani.”

Lucie frowned. “I thought you were Fengani.”

“Me?” He snorted. “Nah. I’m Keats.”

More names were tossed their way, as the others took Keats’s lead and introduced themselves, apparently hedging on the side of courtesy, just in case their captives happened to be every bit as royal as promised. Lucie and the prince could do nothing but follow them deeper into the forest, where they seemed far too at-home. With effortless familiarity, the youths wove around trees and streams, guiding them for over an hour until Lucie officially lost all sense of direction. Were she on her own, she would never make it out of those woods.

They finally approached a clearing. Lucie stepped out from between the last of the trees to behold an unexpected sight. A makeshift village of forts and tents constructed entirely of lumber, sticks and sod occupied the grassy knolls, with still more hooligans running among them.

“Oy, Dodgy! Hemlock,” Keats saluted his friends. “Warner. Where’s Fengani?”

A shirtless boy looked up from his whittling. “In the big house. Why?”

Keats strode on without answering, leaving the other children staring curiously after him.

The big house, apparently, was a crude one-room cabin with no glass in the windows. With deliberation, Keats stepped up to the door and knocked, although they could plainly see the figure reclining inside.

The door creaked open, revealing a gangly old man who wore a long coat and cap. He surveyed them through bloodshot eyes. “Keats?” he muttered warningly.

The boy’s insolent demeanor instantly shifted to one of respect. “Afternoon, Fengani. Sorry t’ bother you, but….”

“What did I tell you about bringing strangers here?” the old man hissed.

“I know, but—”

“Get in, do your job, get out,” he growled in a voice as gnarled as the trees. “You ain’t to be seen or caught.”

“But this bloke here claims he’s the Prince of Tybiria!” Lucie took in the round eyes and beseeching gaze, and for the first time, Keats resembled the little boy he was.

Fengani stopped short. He scanned Geo—his hair, clothing, face—and removed his cap, revealing matted gray hair. “Your Highness,” he croaked. At once, he swatted Keats with his cap
. “Miserable dimwit!
Ain’t you ever seen a news bulletin? This man is Prince Georome Straussen!”

Keats dodged out of the way, escaping more wallops of the cap. Lucie was glad he moved; she was going to ask Fengani to stop.

Looking panicked, the man returned his gaze to Geo. He bowed once, twice. “Please forgive me boys, sir.” He fumbled with his cap. “You can understand, it ain’t every day someone of—of your standing wanders into our neck o’ the woods….”

“We didn’t ‘wander’ here,” Geo interrupted, and the old man swallowed. “My sister and I were robbed by your little henchmen on the road.”

They were drawing a crowd. Dozens of sooty faces collected to watch the spectacle. Fengani smoothed the whiskers at his chin, a hint of suspicion in his eyes. “Sister? Forgive me, but I didn’t think the Princes of Tybiria had any sister.”

“In-law,” Geo clarified. “This lady is to wed my brother.”

Lucie glanced down. It may have been true, but he didn’t need to keep repeating it. It was as though he felt the need to constantly remind her…or himself.

“And speaking of my brother,” Geo continued, the volume of his voice lifting, “would any of you have some idea where your king’s taken him? I know not how far the knowledge has spread, but Ira has abducted our Crown Prince.”

To Lucie’s surprise, the audience spat onto the ground at the king’s name. Two boys tugged at Fengani’s sleeve, while others cast knowing looks his way.

Fengani gave his gang a slight nod. “All right,” he muttered to them. “They share our enemy; that makes them allies. Boys, return to the good prince what you’ve taken.”

A set of small hands held out four arrows, and Geo snatched them back. He slid them into his quiver. Keats made to slip away, but Lucie snapped her fingers. “Not so fast.”

With a sigh, he turned back. Lucie held out a hand. He didn’t need telling again as he plunked the amethyst into her palm. She gave Fengani a cool glare, gripping the stone and chain with clenched fingers. “And how, may I ask, do you justify yourself, Mr. Fengani? You hoard children in the deep forest and force them to steal. You should be imprisoned.”

The old man held up a hand to the boys who appeared inclined to attack her, while Geo tensed and angled himself to shield her. Lucie was unafraid.

“It’s all right,” Fengani soothed the children. He looked between the prince and Lucie, his crooked grin rueful. “Stay with us this evenin’, and I’ll explain.”

THE PULSING IN DMITRI’S HEAD had diminished, but wasn’t entirely gone. Presently, he rode near the front of the line, just behind the king, the horses trotting ever the way north. Only when the night’s chill bit at his flesh, regardless of the season, did Dmitri begin to understand where they must be going. His dreaded suspicions were confirmed once the stallions made their slow ascent into the stony mountains.

After a number of days trekking through the wintry heights, the prince discerned the formidable outline against the horizon’s shoreline: the impenetrable fortress with its high tower, looming wickedly over the turbulent tides of the icy Ekianic Ocean.

Wintersea.

Dmitri’s skin rippled with chills.
No, no, no.
He didn’t want to die, especially not there. He’d read all about the infamous place, its inhabitable tower from which most prisoners voluntarily plummeted to their deaths before long, and the cruel, sadistic devices of torture in the bowels of its dungeons.

Once they emerged from the mountains, they wove through village after dull village, the roofs and doorframes of every structure hardened with salt and rust, cool air heavy with moisture. The villagers cleared out of the way, keeping their heads down as the soldiers passed.

Although he probably wasn’t supposed to, Dmitri stared after them. The citizens of Llewes appeared downtrodden, worn. They hardly acknowledged their king; and Ira did not even seem to notice their lack of reverence.

One evening, they rode up a dirt path amidst the settling fog, and Dmitri heard waves crashing against the crags, could smell the bitter ocean down the cliffs. Already, he was clammy beneath his garments. Wintersea’s shadow shrouded the soldiers as they marched up to an impressive trench, guarded by a team of armored sentinels.

The king steered his horse to the forefront. The guards’ features remained as stony as the structure behind them. At Ira’s command, they signaled the gatemen, who lowered a drawbridge over the moat. The process was loud and laborious as the bridge stretched down at a snail’s pace and howled like a prairie wind, as though out of use for years.

Dmitri’s heartbeat accelerated. The sun had set, leaving only the moon to illuminate the fog as they crossed the drawbridge. On the lawn, they dismounted. Dmitri was dragged unceremoniously from his horse and, with soldiers gripping each of his elbows, forced to enter the dark and forbidding fortress.

His breaths were frayed. He tried to take in his surroundings—unpolished stone floors, torches sizzling on the walls—but the men moved too fast. Up staircase after winding staircase he was led, if not pushed, until the masons who’d built the place centuries prior seemed to have run out of stone, and the remaining stairs were constructed instead of rickety, rotting wood.

He winced behind his spectacles, eyes adjusting to the darkness. When at last his tired legs reached the top, he was pulled into a great circular room. It was larger than he’d expected, and appeared as though the Llewesian royals had perhaps once used it as personal space before converting it to a prison. What appeared to be an ancient desk, looking hundreds of years old, sat decaying in a corner, covered in cobwebs and stacks of illegible parchments.

There was a filthy, albeit roomy, cell at the edge of the room, featuring the luxury of a tiny barred window overlooking the angry Ekianic, and a crude hole in the far corner for a commode (emptying into the moat below).

Dmitri hardly had time to survey his dour new lodgings before he was unceremoniously thrown in. He gasped, parting his limp blond hair from his eyes to watch the king lock the cell with a silver key on a gold chain.

Ira hung the chain around his neck and tucked the key beneath his ruff. “Dmitri Demarcus von Straussen,” he rumbled, a deranged gleam in his black eyes, “I hereby sentence thee to life, and death, at Wintersea.”

“P-please, Your Majesty,” Dmitri shivered, his voice weak behind chapped lips, “have mercy.”

“Had you any mercy when you slew my son?” The king looked murderous. “A grown man who would strike down a child half his age does not deserve mercy. You would take my son from me? Well, now I have taken Tybiria’s son.

“Justice,”
he hissed, and the men behind him cheered, though their savage cries were devoid of mirth. He tossed his satin cape behind his shoulders and stormed away, pushing through the crowd who turned to follow him.

“You’re leaving me to die?” Dmitri exclaimed at their backs. “All of you?”

The Llewesians ignored him, filing out of the circular room. The last man to leave slipped a tiny, hardened crust of bread between the bars of the cell. “Eat up, sir,” he whispered, without malice. “It’ll likely be your last.”

Dmitri took the crust between shaking fingers, and watched as the soldier, his one last ray of hope, disappeared through the door. It closed behind him, and all went dark.