Kydona Page 2

  Chapter 1

  For the briefest of instants the sun caught the blade, turning it to a length of white fire. It was mesmerizing, almost. Then in the same instant, Marcus realized that the blade was hurtling toward his head. He ducked on instinct, forced so low that he nearly lost his balance. He staggered back, cursing, free arm waving frantically, then was right again.

  “Easy!” But the only reply was another wicked slash. He deflected it and charged, boots scuffing on marble tile, a growl pulling at his lip. To hell with easy. He’d told her too many times and suffered too many bruises for it. His practice blade clashed against hers, jarring his grip so badly that his hand went numb. Luckily some disadvantages work both ways, and Kaelyn finally gave Marcus some breathing room.

  “How many times do I have to tell you?” he said between his teeth.

  Kaelyn glared at him, and it was quite a sight. She was at just that age when a man could want her without feeling badly about it—in a word, eighteen. Not that any man wouldn’t want her at any age. She was the product of generations of meticulous breeding, and that breeding made her exceedingly attractive. It had given her hair the unlikely color crimson, a figure worth killing for and blue-green eyes that made her look twice as furious at Marcus for spoiling her fun.

  God help him if he put a mark on any of it—crown prince or not. “Why am I doing this?” he muttered.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said you ought to take up archery instead like a proper heroine, since your bladework is rubbish and all—”

  She came in again with a very unfeminine snarl. The first swipe wasn’t even close. The second was. Marcus leaped back to avoid it, parried her next, decided he’d had quite enough and launched an attack of his own. Suddenly, Kaelyn was on the defensive. It was not her strong suit. Her balance was off, her footing imprecise, her blocks clumsy. She wasted energy by trying to stop his blows rather than deflect them, and she fell for more than one feint.

  Barely even a passable swordsman—swordswoman?—but then, Marcus was very good. None better. And Kaelyn was a courtesan. Her realm was one of politics, intrigue, and for a not-so-modest fee…

  Well, she was going to lose, and that was that.

  She was tiring, and Marcus had only just begun. He was dancing to the rhythm of clashing steel, and Kaelyn could only follow his lead. He steadily pushed her back to the edge of the chamber, whittling away at her, slashing, chopping, thrusting. At least once, he ignored an opening in her guard. Later he would tell her he was being polite, but really he was just playing with her, and the flush of her cheeks said she knew it. There was little she could do now. A few more steps and her back would be to a wall.

  Marcus allowed himself a smirk, just to piss her off.

  She smiled right back as she swiped his next cut aside. Not good, he thought, raising his sword to block her reverse cut. Only she didn’t reverse—just kicked him right below the knee, hard. He stumbled. Still smiling, she raised her sword for a killing blow. The dulled blade wouldn’t kill him, of course, only shatter his collarbone or skull, whichever.

  No choice, then. Marcus stood with a growl and caught her sword against his. Most other opponents would have pulled back and defended, at that point. But Kaelyn was the most dangerous kind of swordsman: an amateur. She did precisely the opposite. She pushed, and Marcus was forced to push back. There they stood locked together by their hilts, legs braced, arms straining, faces just inches apart.

  She really was gorgeous. Marcus would have taken some time to appreciate that, if not for that look in her eyes which he knew to be utter fury, and for the unspeakable hurt that awaited him should he weaken his grip.

  She was starting to tremble with the effort. This wasn’t a fight she could win. Marcus saw her realize it, saw her make a decision, rearing her head back—and slamming it into his face.

  “Agh!” he squawked, staggering back.

  “Shit!” she gasped, clutching her forehead.

  A problem quickly solved, and with a distinct lack of grace to boot. Marcus’s face was numb but he could feel the blood dripping down his upper lip. He licked at it, tasted copper. He felt at it, saw the red smeared on his fingers.

  “Oh come on!” His voice was a bit nasally.

  “You asked for it,” Kaelyn snapped, still pressing her forehead.

  “Your highness, are you alright?” called one of the guards. Marcus didn’t much appreciate the amusement in his tone. He waved the man off grudgingly.

  He glared at Kaelyn. “What the hell was that?” he demanded.

  She returned the look from under her hand, still clasped to her forehead. “Well that’s what arrogance gets you, isn’t it?”

  “A bloody nose? By God, Kaelyn, I’m trying to teach you swordplay, not boxing!”

  “Excuse me, your highness, but are you trying to impress fair play on a courtesan?”

  He opened his mouth to reply, then shut it, fuming to himself. There would be no winning this one. “You’re amazing. Simply amazing.”

  Bickering considered, one could have thought the two were brother and sister.

  Marcus—the crown prince—was the heir to the throne. His blood was the purest in the realm, the result of an alliance between Elessia’s two eldest families: one dying, one flourishing. So it was only natural that he be raised as the king-to-be by his mother, the queen. Aside, he was tutored by the foremost scholars that could be found—philosophy, history, warfare, and of course, politics. Court.

  But he was not nearly as proficient in the latter as Kaelyn. Her mother was the King’s consort—concubine, as she would be called in other nations—which made her salon the finest and richest in the whole kingdom. She’d instructed her daughter quite thoroughly in her art. It showed in the sensuous way Kaelyn dressed; the way she wagged her hips sinuously as she walked; the ease with which she lied. Or in this case, cheated.

  Well, there was no use telling her, then. She was already leaving, sword held carelessly under her armpit, inspecting her nails. Marcus followed. They passed between a pair of columns and into the outer chamber, confronted now by the white marble wall encircling the entire affair.

  Kaelyn made for the exit—an open arch, doors flung open to reveal the wide halls of the palace within—but Marcus broke away and approached a semicircular fountain built into the wall beside it. He wanted to get the taste of blood out of his mouth as best he could.

  He examined his pale reflection in the clear water, feeling gingerly at his nose. It hurt, but it was straight as ever. The lower half of his face was pink with fresh blood, and his dark hair was tousled. More than likely, the brown eyes his mother had given him would be ringed with light bruises tomorrow morning. He would have to get by without his good looks for a week or so.

  “Still beautiful, Marcus?”

  “Not so much as you,” he muttered as he scrubbed at his chin.

  “So charming,” she sighed. “Hurry up, I’m starving.”

  Marcus was in no mood to rush. He dunked his head into the water. It was pleasantly cool. He savored it for a moment before pulling his head back out. Through his water-blurred vision, he spied Kaelyn shaking her head at him from the doorway. She looked ready to chastise him for the second time today—but he was saved by a patter of feet from the hallway behind her.

  Shortly thereafter, a young woman flew into the chamber, knocking shoulders with Kaelyn in her haste. The girl seemed entirely unaware that she had just pushed the daughter of the king’s consort aside, and Marcus, momentarily forgetting their argument, opened his mouth to rebuke her.

  “Your highness!” she cried, distraught. Her hair was all askew, her eyes wild, and she appeared to have lost a slipper. She skidded to a halt in front of him, panting so heavily that she was having trouble speaking. “Your… mother…” she managed to get out between gulps of air.

  He had recognized her by now—one of his mother’s chambermaids whose name escaped him. “Catch your breath. It can wait.” But the fright in
the woman’s eyes said quite the opposite. Marcus felt his gut sinking with the first vestiges of horror. “The babe is here?” He prayed that was all—that the maid was just overexcited.

  “There’s no time, your highness! She…” Her voice faltered. “You must come.”

  He didn’t hesitate. By the time he’d reached the hall, he was at a dead run with his hapless female companions hurrying to catch up.

  The palace had been Marcus’s home his entire life. He’d walked its halls so many times that he could have navigated it in his sleep. He knew its every aspect—the Atrium, the royal suites, the gardens, even the kitchens.

  Right now, the white palace was too damned big. Every hall seemed longer by a bowshot. The air seemed thin and dry; every breath scorched Marcus’s throat. His leg—the one Kaelyn had kicked—throbbed painfully every time it hit the hard floor.

  His mind was racing just as fast. A problem in childbirth? But what kind of problem? Could be anything—maybe the babe wouldn’t come, or had come out feet first, or was stillborn, or…

  Oh God, she was too old, he had known it all along. The chirurgeons had known it, they had warned her again and again. They had tried to give her the Lover’s Succor. She would have been bed-ridden for a few days, feverish and bleeding between her thighs, and she would have lost the babe, but she would have her life at least. Marcus damned her in his head for her foolishness, then just as quickly took it back and hoped desperately that she was alright.

  He wasn’t desperate enough for prayer, not yet.

  He sprinted through nearly half a mile of marble corridors, bursting through groups of surprised servants and nobles. Behind him, he heard the jingling of mail; his trio of guards was keeping pace with him, stoic and uncomplaining. Kaelyn and the maid were surely not far behind but their footsteps were drowned out by the clatter of armored footsteps.

  It didn’t matter. He rounded a corner, nearly ran headlong into someone—servant or noble, he didn’t notice or care which—then shoved him aside and kept on going.

  They were nearing the royal suites. Here, the hall was wider, the decoration more ornate. The walls were of the same pale marble as the rest of the palace. Scores of niches were carved into the walls at intervals, each housing a life-size statue of a long-dead Elessian ruler. They all leered at Marcus with blank, pupil-less eyes and expressionless faces. It was difficult, he remembered being told, to capture the niceties of a smile or frown in stone.

  Finally, Marcus arrived in the hall that housed Geneva’s bedchambers—and immediately froze mid-step, aghast. There was blood, and in quantity. Women were hastening in and out of the chamber. Those emerging were carrying crimson-stained cloths, some still dripping. His mother’s dreadnaughts stood watch over the hall, stony faced in their helplessness.

  A thin-haired old man stepped from the obscured room, his face grim and pale. His deep red robes marked him out as a chirurgeon. He was wiping his bloody hands on the cloth, and all of a sudden its color seemed pragmatic, indeed. Marcus’s mouth was dry and his legs moved of their own volition, carrying him toward the man.

  “How is she?” His voice was working on its own, as well, thick with despair. He knew the answer before the chirurgeon even gave it.

  Slowly, sorrowfully, the man shook his head. His gaze was rooted to the tiles. “Alive.” Not for long, said the slump of his shoulders. “There’s naught to be done.”

  “How long?” Marcus’s voice asked, though his mind hadn’t yet registered the facts. He felt detached, dazed, as if a rock had been hurled against the back of his head. Surely Kaelyn had knocked him out during the fight. Surely this was just an awful dream, the worst of his life.

  But he wasn’t dreaming. Just through that door, his mother was dying.

  “Not long, my lord prince,” the chirurgeon was saying. “I’ve done my best to slow the bleeding but… she won’t be awake much longer.” He rubbed at his eyes tiredly, looking thoroughly miserable. His fault or not, the queen would be dead under his watch. A long, illustrious career stamped out.

  The pit in Marcus’ belly had widened—a deep, yawning hole. He could feel himself dropping into it, just as he felt himself patting the man’s shoulder. He paused with one hand on the door, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.

  It was a large room, even by royal standards, with a lofty ceiling and tall glass windows. There were burgundy drapes embroidered with the crown-and-laurel of House Demo. The furniture was artisan-crafted mahogany, elaborate but functional. The wide bed against the far wall had been stripped of its hangings. The queen was lying under the covers, her head propped up by pillows, dressed in a white nightgown—almost as if she was just bedridden ill.

  Geneva was awake, smiling weakly. Her eyes were strikingly dark, the same color as her hair. She was a handsome woman, but her skin was pallid with blood loss, and it stole away much of her beauty.

  “Marcus,” she whispered. The smile lingered for a moment longer before exhaustion hauled it from her face. Geneva stirred beneath the sheets, as if to rise to hold him.

  He went to her. “Mother,” he said. It amazed him to realize how steady his voice was. He sat beside the bed on a thoughtfully-placed chair. Her fingers twitched. He took her hand in both of his. He was shocked at how cold it already was.

  She saw his face and smiled again, all too briefly. “My God, your nose,” she said with a frail chuckle.

  Marcus’s smile lasted little longer. “We were sparring. Kaelyn and I. She has no sense of fair play.”

  “That girl,” his mother whispered. “Such a waste, what her mother makes her do…”

  There was silence for a moment. Then, in a choked voice, Marcus asked, “Does it hurt?”

  “Not much, now.” No smile was forthcoming this time.

  “Don’t go,” he pleaded quietly. “Stay with me a little longer.” He grasped her hand tighter.

  “I will,” murmured Geneva.

  Marcus was forcing himself not to look at her blood as it soaked through the sheets and spread across her thighs. He couldn’t cry, then—he wanted to, but something blocked it. A solid wall of disbelieving anguish. He managed to kiss his mother’s hand, wanting so badly to say something to her—to tell her how much he loved her. How he wasn’t ready for this.

  “Do you…” Geneva stirred restlessly. “Do you remember that day at Demarre? At the docks?”

  Marcus nodded. “When I slipped off the pier. And the sailor with one eye—he saved me from drowning.”

  “Yes. But I… I could only stand and watch. I wanted to jump in myself. But I couldn’t, I was so terrified.” Even now, years later, the pain and shame of that moment was clear in her eyes.

  Marcus was quick to reply. His mother didn’t need thoughts like this—not in her last moments. “It was years ago. I don’t even remember what you did. I just remember you afterward, hugging me. You wouldn’t stop crying.”

  “That was my shame,” she whispered. “Imagine if you had drowned, if that sailor had not saved you… I am sure I would have taken my life. I couldn’t have borne the grief.” The woman gave a little sob. She smiled through fresh tears. “You made my life worth living. You did.”

  Marcus didn’t know what to say. He smiled back as best he could and gently squeezed his mother’s hand.

  “I couldn’t protect you that day, but—but I’ve protected you from other things. Things not so obvious to you, even now.” Her voice was growing weaker, so that Marcus had to lean in to hear. “I cannot anymore.”

  A sense of urgency gripped him. There was not much time left. “What things?”

  “Secrets. About the war… your grandfather… your father… everything. It is farce, Marcus, all of it.” She took a shallow breath. “You will see yourself… soon.”

  Marcus grasped her hand harder. “What will I see?”

  “You must see it for yourself. Watch everyone. The common. The nobles. Your father.” Her voice was barely audible now. “A last lesson, my son. When the great sin, i
t is the small who pay. You will be great, Marcus.” A tear trailed down his mother’s cheek. “I only wish I could be here to see…” She paused, took a deep breath, let it go in a long sigh.

  The moment stretched on. It took him a long time to realize she was gone. Her eyes were still on him, half-closed, as if pondering her next words. But they were dark and empty—her pupils wide, sightless. Her hand was heavy in both of his. The air was utterly still.

  Marcus put her hand down and slumped back in his chair, hand on his mouth. Was this how it was supposed to feel, losing a parent? No wave of quiet tears, no quaking shoulders… nothing. Just emptiness, as if someone had blown out a candle and left him alone in a pitch dark room. All he could do was sit there, silent. He didn’t know what to do.

  For the longest time, he sat and waited. For anything.

  The first thing he felt was unease. His mother was still staring at him. Gently, he reached out and closed the woman’s eyes. A strange custom, he thought. It spoke volumes of man’s nature—his primal fear of the unknown. Of death. The unwillingness to look into the vacant eyes of one who’d succumbed to its touch.

  The next thing he felt was guilt. Is this how selfish I am? My mother is dead and all I can feel is discomfort?

  He placed Geneva’s hand across her belly. With her eyes closed, her repose was a tranquil one. Marcus had heard people say things like this many times—that the dead look like they’re sleeping, and the like. He wished that was a comforting thought.

  He rose, leaned and kissed his mother’s head. Truthfully, he wasn’t even sure why he did it. It had seemed an obligation. Pondering that, trying his best to feel something, he drifted from the room. He opened the door slowly and walked out into the hallway, carefully shutting the door behind him.

  It was dead quiet in the corridor—an enormous achievement, considering the way these halls amplified the smallest of sounds. No one seemed to be breathing—not the blood-sodden midwife, the chambermaids, the dreadnaughts… not Kaelyn, the only one he looked at.

  She asked the question no one else dared to. “Is she…?” Even Kaelyn Beauvais couldn’t finish a question like that.

  Marcus nodded. The guards seemed to shrink a little. One of the maids burst into tears.

  To her credit, Kaelyn didn’t hesitate a moment. She closed the distance between the two of them and wrapped her arms around him. Marcus felt the dull haze of unawareness beginning to thin with her nearby. He found himself returning the embrace. Her body was reassuringly warm. She’d buried her face in his neck.

  He wasn’t sure if she was crying. But she hadn’t truly known his mother. She had no reason to weep. She was just being kind. He appreciated it more than words could express.

  A thought occurred to him. He looked up at the midwife—a stout woman with firm look to her. There was a dent in that firmness now, made evident by the glaze of her eyes. “The child?” he asked simply. He knew the answer already. If he hadn’t figured it out before, the way Kaelyn’s arms tightened around him would have given the truth away.

  The midwife shook her head.

  Marcus nodded again. His eyes felt moist, but the tears resolutely refused to come. All he could think about was the futility of it all. His mother gone, and the babe with her. Brother, sister, did it really matter? It hadn’t even had a name.

  Kaelyn had remained still, and Marcus pulled away from her at last. “I… ah…” He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. They were still dry, but they wouldn’t be for long. He didn’t want anyone to see. “I’d like some time alone.”

  The girl nodded, took his hand, and led him away. Marcus followed like a lame horse on a lead. His chambers were close. He would have his solitude, but his mother’s body would still be cooling just a stone’s throw away.

  They paused at the arched door. Kaelyn turned and regarded him; her face was solemn. “Marcus…” Her voice was low and heartfelt; it had none of its usual crispness.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “I could stay with you for a while,” she suggested, smiling fleetingly. “We could lie down and just… talk. Like we used to.” When they were children, she would sometimes sneak from her room and make her way across the palace wing to Marcus’s. She would climb into his bed, pull the covers over herself, and the two of them would talk quietly about meaningless things until sleep arrived. They hadn’t done that in years.

  Like as not, they never would again. “I need to be alone,” he said as firmly as he could. He blinked and scrubbed at his eye again.

  Kaelyn drew close and hugged him once more. She whispered into his ear, “It takes strength to grieve.” She stepped backward. “Be strong, Marcus.” Then she turned away, and Marcus fumbled at the door’s handle.

  He shut the door behind himself. Alone at last. Here he could grieve—sink to his knees and let his tears flow.

  Only he didn’t. The tears wouldn’t come.

  My mother is dead. My mother is dead. Over and over he thought it—just trying to feel what he already knew. Trying to cry.

  Failing.

  †††

  The ceremony took place a week later. It was a practical arrangement; it gave the embalmers time to prepare the queen’s corpse, and the nobles time to travel to Ancellon for her interment, and the heralds time to spread word to the masses.

  For them, Geneva’s death was as nearly as devastating as for Marcus. Elessia’s nobility had always kept its distance from the common people; Geneva had tried to close that distance. She had been a beloved figure even before her ascension to the throne beside Marcus’s father, Audric. With her own coin, she had bought bread and doled it out to Ancellon’s poor. Often she wandered the streets with no goal but to speak to the people, and hear them in turn. Many a time she had taken their grievances to Parliament—though more often than not, they had paid her no ear. But the people loved her, because she loved them.

  Now their only friend was gone, and their sorrow was unmistakable. Men and boys clambered atop the statues in Heroes’ Square to fasten black blindfolds around their heads, so that their champions could not see their misery. Black drapes hung from every window, and ash was smeared across the houses’ white walls. Children were spanked into silence, chased from the streets where they played. There was no music to be heard in the taverns and inns, no carousal or laughter.

  The city was in mourning before the heralds’ words died. Soon, Marcus knew, the rest of Elessia would follow.

  None of it made that week any easier. He watched it all from his chamber window high above the streets, detached. Grief was a terrible feeling. It sucked away his willpower, so that all he could do was sit and stare at the outside world—a vague feeling of envy his only company. Those people out there shared his grief, but he felt utterly alone. Reading was no distraction. The trays of food the servants brought in sat untouched until they were taken away again.

  Twice, Kaelyn came by. Her first visit, Marcus didn’t even answer the door. The second, he sat and stared out the window while she talked, unhearing and uncaring, until she gave up and let herself out.

  He was thinking about his mother. What an ungrateful son he had been. Grief alone had not moved him to tears, but guilt was a powerful thing. He remembered having dinner with her all those times, wolfing down his food and finding an excuse to leave. Back then, anything had seemed better than talking with his mother at length. There were other times—like one, when she had asked him if he wanted to picnic with her last summer, and he had agreed, only to cancel so he could go drink and chase girls with Vernon. “Go ahead,” she had said cheerily. “I’ll find something to do. Don’t feel badly,” though he hadn’t felt badly, not really.

  What an ass I am.

  Was it possible that the only thoughtful thing he ever did for his mother was to be there at her deathbed? That thought was the profoundest of all—and when the tears finally came, they were born of bitterness rather than grief.

  When the ceremony finally came, the entire city turned out for the
ceremony, and much of the countryside as well. People clogged Ancel’s Square and flooded the streets for a mile in every direction. A sea of black. Their collective murmur filled Marcus’s ears as he stood at the head of the square atop the palace’s steps.

  Beside him, on an austere granite slab, lay his mother. She was the only figure wearing white in the whole place. Otherwise, she was unadorned. Her golden crown and her family crest lay beside her. The embalmers had been careful with her; they had dressed her hair into a long braid that lay neatly across her chest, and had added some color to her cheeks. One could have sworn she was merely sleeping, if not for her unnatural stillness.

  People were moving by in a slow file, close enough to touch the bier. Some reached out to brush it with their fingers. Most just touched their hearts reverently and moved on. They were common people—common looks, common attire. Their dark clothes were ripped, carefully patched. Their skin was a raw pink from a recent and infrequent scrubbing. When they spoke, it was in an uncultured drawl. Marcus watched them all, just as his dying mother had told him, wondering what she had wanted him to see.

  He picked out the smiths from their burned arms, the leatherworkers from their brown-stained hands, the chevaliers from the restrained dash that marked every soldier. He heard their quiet prayers, asking Ancel to guide his mother’s soul to heaven, and Elessa to welcome her there. He saw their tears, and of those there were many. Among the mourners was a face he recognized—a stooped old beggar with milky eyes; a blind man, hobbling along, tapping the ground with his cane.

  “Old bastard is still alive,” Marcus muttered wonderingly.

  “You recognize that man?” Kaelyn asked as the blind man went by, groping for the bier.

  “He’s the one all that fuss was over, a few years back. The one who touched her.”

  Kaelyn stared after him as a kindly stranger guided the beggar’s hand to the bier. He was weeping. “It was a kind thing, what she did.” Odd words, coming from her.

  But she was right: it had been a kind thing—however much the nobility had despised it. Geneva had been riding through the city when she saw that beggar on the corner, calling out for spare coin. She knew how easily a merchant could cheat a blind man out of his money, so she had bought him a loaf of bread and given it to him herself. She didn’t say who she was, but he knew a noble’s accent when he heard one and asked her name. His amazement at her identity was only matched only by his gratitude. He had asked one more favor: to touch her face, so he could know it in the only way a blind man could. Geneva gave thought to neither the stir it would cause at court, nor the dirt caking the man’s hands. It was a legendary image now—Queen Geneva de Pilars kneeling before a beggar as he ran his hands over her beautiful face.

  For the common, it had made their queen a saint. The story was different among the nobility. Marcus remembered the uproar in court when the word got around. People hadn’t stopped talking about it for weeks. They had justified their endless gossip by saying, “He may have had a knife on him! You know how dangerous the streets are!” Then there were those lofty moralists who argued that there must be a clear line between rulers and their subjects—that their own queen was overstepping her bounds.

  As for Marcus, he had done his best to overlook the whole episode, slightly embarrassed by it all.

  The other nobles were noticing the beggar by now. They were starting to mutter. Marcus glanced around, saw the women and girls whispering behind their hands at each other, the old men glowering and scowling, the younger men curling their lips. One or two even fingered their sword hilts, nursing a long-simmered fantasy.

  An elderly noble muttered sullenly, “Damned peasant.”

  “Not even a peasant. A beggar,” the man’s wife added.

  Thankfully, the blind man walked on heedless, wiping tears from his eyes as he went.

  “They’re wrong,” Marcus said. The need to vent was too great to resist.

  “What? Who?” asked Kaelyn, confused.

  “The nobles. Looking down on these people the way that they do.” It was probably a mistake, but he had spoken just loudly enough for a few nearby nobles to hear. Heads turned.

  This was not lost on Kaelyn. She leaned in. “This may not be the time, Marcus.”

  He snorted. “Well that’s my mother lying right there, and that’s what she thought.”

  “Leave the anger alone, it’ll be there for later. Right now you should honor your mother. That’s why everyone came here.” Her grip on his hand tightened in alarm; she had seen the flash in his eyes. She knew what was coming. “Marcus, don’t do this. Please.”

  His snort became a loud laugh. Time to let it all out, and damn the consequences. “Please what? You think these people behind us honor her?” He wheeled around and fixed the noble behind him with a dangerous glare. Bushy grey brows shot up in amazement; a mouth parted, revealing a set of yellowed old teeth. “You’re here to honor my mother, Jimeq de Morent? That was a pretty speech that you gave earlier. A dumber man would think your sorrow true, but not me, my good lord, my memory is longer than that. Tell me the last time you said a kind word to your queen. What, nothing to say now? So what of you, good lady?”

  The old lord’s astonishment turned to anger. “Now see here—” But he shut up straight away at the look Marcus gave him.

  His wife had her eyes lowered; no fight to be found there. So Marcus turned to the rest of the nobles. Right now he despised everything about them—how they wore the black of mourning, yet still displayed their wealth with leather, velvet, jewels. How quickly their false remorse had faded and been replaced by dark frowns and upturned noses. The God-damned whispering.

  “You think yourselves any different? I look at all of you and I see a few, just a few select faces, whom my mother counted as friends.” His anger had built on itself and turned to fury. It was too late to turn back now, even if he had wanted to. Kaelyn knew the futility. She was not gripping his arm anymore. “These people,” he gestured sweepingly at the now-silent crowd behind him, “were my mother’s friends. They were the ones she loved. And while she gave to them, like Elessa herself would have, you just gossiped. How many of you in Parliament barred her efforts with your votes? I count many of you with but a glance! And you hindered her why? Just so you could fill your coffers an inch higher! Your queen despised your greed as much as you despised her lack of it. So.” He jutted his chin. “You may leave. Those she loved, you know who you are. You may remain. The rest of you needn’t trouble yourselves any further.”

  The murmuring was angry now. No one would dare to say anything against the crown prince—not to his face, anyway—even when his father was off on campaign. But no one was leaving either, whether out of defiance or plain confusion.

  “Leave. Now.” He didn’t point, he didn’t shout—but he indicated with his tone that very shortly he would, and no one wanted a scene. They began to leave, in ones and twos, shooting hot looks at their prince over their shoulders.

  He ignored them and turned back to the bier. The commoners were openly gaping. Perhaps they hadn’t heard everything, but they had seen enough to guess. A large man in the procession by the bier—a soldier, by his scars—cleared his throat loudly and turned to his son, whom he gently nudged forward. The crowd began to move again. The man gave Marcus a small, respectful nod that marked him as a soldier. Marcus smiled dryly back, though the soldier had already looked away. The other commoners still stared at him in awe.

  “Idiot!” hissed Kaelyn. She and only a handful of nobles remained. Fortunately her mother had opted not to be here, or Kaelyn would be gone with her. “God above, Marcus, what were you thinking?”

  “I felt like making some enemies,” he shrugged.

  “Well done, then. You likely cost your meal taster his life. And your father won’t have to worry about the Glats killing him anymore, the stress will do just fine.”

  “What do I care? He isn’t welcome here either.”

  She sighed mightily. “Welcome
or not, he’ll have a lot to say to you when he returns.”

  Marcus’s smile had not faded. He felt good—as close as he had felt to it in a week, at least. What had he gained? The animosity of nearly every noble family—and grudges did not die easily in Elessia’s court. Perhaps the people’s respect. How to harness that, he would have to see. The mob was a fickle crowd and their fancies were everything but consistent.

  “You never did look before leaping.”

  “Not really, no.”

  “It’ll see you dead one day. With a dagger stuck in your spine, likely.”

  He didn’t see fit to reply.

  His vigil lasted until dusk. When the sun finally touched the horizon, the dreadnaughts barred the way to the palace steps, and the square at last began to empty. The few nobles said their final goodbyes to Geneva; they took their time. It was fine by Marcus, tired as he was from standing all day. He shook their hands as they left, thanked them for coming.

  The last to leave was the Gauthier family. Ronold de Gauthier was the elder, and the only member of the High Council that his mother had trusted. He had once been one of the court’s great heartbreakers, older people often said. Now his girth nearly matched his height and though he had grown a mustache to draw attention from his ugliness, his baldness killed any chance of success. “Well, my lord prince,” he said, his smooth voice the only trace of youth left in him, “You’re quite the volatile mix, I must say.”

  Marcus took the proffered grip, held it. “I’ve been told.”

  “Aye, you are. You have your mother’s sense of justice and your father’s quick temper.” He smiled. “I hope you don’t lose either with age. It’s lethally entertaining.”

  Chuckling, Marcus released the man’s hand and turned to Ronold’s wife, whose silvered hair made her look all the more severe. She had certainly been a beauty once, though it was difficult to picture her without that perpetual frown of hers, as if everything around was a disappointment. “Lady Jessil. I thank you for being here today. I hope I didn’t harm your sensibilities.”

  “I don’t share my husband’s enthusiasm,” she with an indignant sniff. “You did a foolish thing today. Your mother would be aghast.”

  “Jessil…” Ronold cautioned.

  Marcus held up a hand to him. “No, she’s right. It was foolish, and yes, my mother would not approve. I’m not insulted.”

  “Hmm.” The Lady Gauthier turned and strode off, nose in the air, having said all she deemed necessary.

  Ronold apologized and followed after her.

  That left only Vernon, their second son. He was a handsome young man with a constant smirk on his face that had earned him many a beating, and blond hair combed back and held in place with perfumed lard. He was a cocky bastard, and Marcus’s best mate.

  “Ass,” Marcus said, smiling truly for the first time today.

  “Cock,” laughed Vernon. They clasped hands and exchanged a one-armed hug. Usually he would have followed with a crude joke, but tonight no words were forthcoming. Marcus could not have recalled an awkward moment between them if he tried.

  This was one.

  “Well. Thanks for coming.”

  His friend grinned, though there was something forced behind it. “It’s alright, mate, no trouble.” The grin fell. “You are alright?”

  Marcus thought. “No. But I’ll get there.” He tried to come up with something he would usually say. “You just get out of here, mate. I’ll… I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow!” cried Vernon, thrusting a finger into the air. “There’re countless ladies out there waiting to be taken! Just waiting, imagine it, mate! And they won’t be waiting much longer! Aye! Tomorrow!” With a whoop and a theatrical spin, he ran off after his parents, leaving Marcus laughing behind him.

  Kaelyn shook her head. “He’s such an ass.”

  “Don’t tell him that yourself, it’ll break his heart.”

  “You’re an ass too.” The two of them watched Vernon hop into his family’s carriage. The driver cracked his whip, wheels creaked and rattled on pavestone, and the carriage slowly retreated into the darkening city. Marcus was left alone with Kaelyn, their only company the silent dreadnaughts lining the base of the steps, and the priest of the Elessa’s Way hovering discreetly to one side of the landing.

  The courtesan offered her hand, which Marcus took, and guided him to his mother. She looked precisely as she had all through the day, unaware of what a fool her son had been. He knew it. Tomorrow there would be apologies to be made.

  The two of them looked at Marcus’s dead mother for a little while. “Jessil is a mother. I thought she would know better than to say what she did…”

  “But it is Jessil.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “I think she knew she was wrong. Your mother was always proud of you, Marcus.” She was smiling. She let her kiss linger on his cheek before departing.

  He listened to her light footsteps fade, thinking what a nice girl she was—when she allowed herself to be. How different her life could be if she was not a courtesan.

  “It’s a wasteful world you left, mother,” he whispered. He knelt and took her hand. He thought about a saying a prayer but decided against it. Prayer had never held much appeal for him. It felt like asking for help, only no one ever answered.

  Strange that he was talking to a corpse then.

  All of a sudden, he felt terribly alone. He knew his mother couldn’t hear him. He only spoke because it seemed wrong not to. “It was strange leaving my chambers today. I walked past your room. I almost stopped to wait for you. I was going to be your escort to your own funeral.” A hopeless laugh died in his throat. “I don’t know what sins you wanted me to see. Was it their arrogance? Is it something worse? I wish you’d just told me. I would have believed you.” He wiped his eyes. “God, this is hard.” No more words were coming to him. For the longest time he knelt there with his head bowed, searching for the words to say goodbye. Wondering what he could tell her now that he had failed to before, when he had the chance. But there was nothing.

  Geneva’s ring lay at her side. Marcus took it, studying it in the last of the sun’s dying light. It was elaborate, unusually so for her tastes—a square-cut emerald, the size of a fingernail, overlaid by gold filigree that took the form of the Demo emblem. The crown and laurel. “Rule in peace,” he murmured. “I’ll try, mother.” Pocketing the ring, he stood, then stooped to lay a last kiss on his mother’s forehead. “I love you.”

  As he made for the palace’s great doors, he passed the priest, who bowed low. A simple string necklace dangled from his hooded brown robes. Elessa’s Wings glinted there.

  Marcus touched his heart out of instinct more than reverence. “Pray for me too, father,” he said without stopping.