Ruins Falling Read online

  Bairen looked down, relieved, and scratched out his answer on the paper. “You may leave if you wish,” Bairen stated in his most bored, uninterested voice, trying to mask his relief.

  “I’ll be fine in a moment,” Orthel answered. “Just needed air.”

  Bairen turned away, and looked to the next man. “Yes,” the Prince stated, though he glanced down the table toward Quer.

  The next man looked sweaty, and didn’t look at anyone. But he stated, “No.”

  Again, Bairen scratched out the word and the vote. He looked up and all around briefly to try and see reactions. Sunnen and Quer seemed neutral still, but Zesset’s lips were thinner. “Yes,” Sunnen stated, and was brazen enough to turn and smirk at his two friends.

  “Yes,” Zesset stated. He had more control of himself, and managed to simply look sternly business-like. But his lips were their normal size now.

  “Yes,” Quer stated. His cheeks looked pale, pleased pink.

  Bairen wrote his answer. “Yes,” stated the next man. He saw the man glance at Sunnen and Quer, a flicker of smile on his face. Bairen wrote down his answer, again forcing himself to look neutral. Six in favor. If there was even one more in favor, then the law would be written.

  Bairen then looked into Essair’s face. He hoped that Essair was more than he appeared to be—a greedy, pampered, somewhat fearful man who had a soft spot for his children. He hoped he was of more substance. He hoped, almost fearfully, that this Prince would be courageous enough to do the right thing. He knew, for certain, that if Essair did not join him, then the last two men with less courage would probably be swayed in fear as well. The vote would be lost.

  Essair inhaled, and paused. Then he turned and looked straight into Bairen’s eyes. His expression, facing away from Quer, Sunnen and Zesset, looked like a mixture between anger and dread. Bairen waited, staring back, waiting. And finally, Essair stated, “No.”

  Bairen almost lost his self-control as he exhaled. He scratched down the answer. As quickly as he could, he moved his eyes up without moving his head. Quer’s cheeks were darker now. Zesset’s lips were thinner. He didn’t catch a glimpse of Sunnen.

  He looked to the next man. This one glanced briefly at Orthel and Essair. “No,” he said.

  Bairen wrote down his answer. And then, looking up at the last man, he hardly had to wait. The last man spoke quietly, but stared at him, not bothering to look around. “No.”

  Bairen finished writing down the last man’s answer, and then stared, the results blurring in his vision. The only way the proposal to legalize prostitution would be denied was if he voted both of his votes as no. But if he did that, he would be openly against the other Princes. Suddenly, he remembered the words he’d snarled at Orthel. And he realized now that he’d lied to both Orthel and himself. He realized now that, despite how he used to long for it, he was afraid. Afraid of being hunted down—again. He’d been targeted once, but then, he hadn’t known for sure. But this time, he knew, he could very well be killed. He was afraid to die.

  But surely he was just worked up over nothing! He scoffed inwardly at himself. Would he become an old man with trembling jowls like Orthel someday? Blocking prostitution from becoming law would be a petty reason for Sunnen, Quer or Zesset to assassinate him. They would want to wait until another law came along that somehow gave them more power. There were other ways to get money out of their taxpayers. Just…perhaps…with less earning potential. But surely, this was a petty reason to try to start a coup. They wouldn’t make that much more money.

  Unless, that was, if they also had other reasons to start a coup against him.

  Was that why was he suddenly so afraid?

  “Would you shut that window, Orthel?!” someone snapped. Bairen glanced up. Orthel didn’t answer. He just closed the window and latched it once again. As he returned to his seat, his sweat was gone and his ears, nose and jowls were tinged with pink. He still looked awful.

  Bairen looked down at the paper again. Whether he was as ruthless as Orthel claimed or not, he did what he could to help his people. Who would defend them, who would stand up for them, if he were killed? Who would keep this country from falling into ruins, if not him? No other Prince, except maybe cowardly Orthel, remembered that there were people living, suffering or flourishing, and then dying, by the laws they created. And was this all there really was to his life? Bickering with selfish, greedy men over laws, and grieving the past? As much as Bairen had longed for death in the past, now that its potential was before him, he realized he was not ready. For all that was unknown. For all that there was no return from.

  Therathaine’s face came back to his memory, stronger than ever, as if it were a gift offered for only the most bitter and familiar of moments. The High Prince’s silver crown rested in his thick black hair. His brows were furrowed, his storm-gray eyes alight like lightning as he thundered at eleven other men, calling them to serve their people instead of use them for profit and pleasures, knowing he was risking his life to do it, knowingly risking his family’s lives, yet not knowing how brief the time he had left was. Had Thaine felt this same fear as he held on so tight, trying to keep the realm from collapsing from within? Or only fire and thunder?

  Inhaling a breath, Bairen clenched his jaw briefly. Then he stated, forcing himself to sound far more bold than he felt, “As High Prince, foremost of the Twelve Princes who rule Ye’shurun, I cast both of my votes as no. The proposal to legalize prostitution in Ye’shurun is denied.”

  There was silence. Three men frowned at him. Three were glaring. Five stared with mixtures of concern and fear on their faces. After a long silence, he heard, “Ever the underdog’s Prince, aren’t you, Bairen?” He glanced down the table, directly across from him, into Zesset’s slit eyes. “You do realize that a lot of people could benefit from this law?”

  “As many as would suffer from it,” he stated, glaring back. “Or less.”

  The Twelve Princes were quieter leaving than entering. There was less chattering and far less fake warmth. He saw Orthel and Essair look away awkwardly from Quer’s scarlet face.

  Long past curfew that night, Bairen managed to convince Orthel to let him enter his room. He brought along the maid from that morning—who’d shown up in his room at six o’clock with a meal, and a low-cut, red silk dress that matched her eyes—and asked him to let the girl flee with his family. The old Prince agreed with a scowl, but just as Bairen opened his mouth, Orthel added quickly, “No, don’t bother yourself—I’m sure I speak for her too when I say we’ve had enough of your help.” Despite knowing it was coming, Bairen flinched as the door slammed in his face.

  The rest of that week, he kept his head high and his posture tall, casually putting his thumbs over his belt, while watching everyone around him in his peripheral vision and listening to their footsteps, no matter who it was. He noticed certain Princes smile coldly at him. Others continued treating him with their usual careful respect—but with no smiles. Orthel often scowled as he passed. Essair avoided him. So Bairen stopped drinking wine if he hadn’t opened a bottle himself. He also brought a dog to his room, feeding the dog off his own plate before he would eat himself, giving it his wine just in case, and jumping up with a sword in hand if the dog barked in the night.

  A fortnight passed when Orthel finally told Bairen, grudgingly, that his family was safely hidden. The other Princes had left them both alone. He finally relaxed enough to sit down with a book in his room. The dog lay beside his chair, dozing. He’d made a fire in his fireplace, enjoying the warmth while able to see stars twinkling in the frigid sky out the window. But starlight made reading too difficult, so he turned his back to the window, stoking the fire occasionally.

  Suddenly, his dog began to bark. It jumped up and ran to the door. Bairen began to close his book, waiting. Someone began pounding on his door. “It’s Essair!” he heard. “Let me in!” Bairen put aside his book, and checked his knife and sword. He opened the door, and flung it back, stepping back with hi
s hand on his sword hilt. Essair paused briefly. He was alone, with a sword and knife on his belt. He strode in, shut and locked the door, and whirled around. “Orthel is dead.”

  Bairen stared for a moment. Then he inhaled, grit his teeth, and asked, “When?”

  “At least an hour ago. After dinner. I just found out.” Bairen had never seen Essair glower so furiously. “The healer said natural causes. Thinks his heart had a fit.”

  Bairen hesitated. Then he asked, “Has anyone heard from Captain Graedin yet?”

  “What—planning on threatening him, too? Force him to become a Prince, when you know he’s out of favor with the rest of them? Let him get poisoned, like you know Orthel was?!” Bairen saw his fists trembling at his sides. “Orthel’s blood is on your hands, Bairen. And if that’s how you treat your friends, then stay away from my family, or I swear, I will find a way to kill you.” Then he whirled around, wrenched open the door, and slammed it shut so hard the frame shook.

  Bairen sat back down slowly. The dog stopped barking, though it growled as it sat beside him. He reached down to stroke the dog’s head, putting his chin in his hand, thinking.

  If Graedin was alive, he had to convince him somehow to accept the position as Prince. Graedin had always rejected it before, but if he saw the desperate need, maybe he’d join this time. Graedin could be the thread that kept the realm together at this point. He didn’t want to threaten his only remaining ally, if he could help it. But if Graedin was dead…well, maybe Sunnen, Quer and Zesset had the right idea after all. Maybe twelve was too many Princes.

  He inhaled, clenching his jaw.

  Maybe there should only be one.

  For Any Word

  “…Aye, he said everything was fine, till Captain Kairathed came. He didn’t say how many died, though.”

  Airaine whipped around, searching for the voice, turning all around in the servant’s hall until she found who it belonged to. She had just passed them by. A pair of guards were leaning over their breakfast in the corner of the hall. One was younger, perhaps his late twenties, but the speaker was in his thirties or so, with a thick red beard and brooding brows. They were part of the Night Watch—they had dark uniforms of black and gray cloth and heavy, fur-lined black cloaks. The older one must have felt her stare, because he turned and looked at her. He straightened up and pushed his plate away with a hint of a scowl when she approached them. “Can I get you more drinks?” she asked, taking their half-full mugs.

  “We aren’t done,” the younger one protested, looking up. He stared at her a moment, his eyes flicking back and forth from her neck to her hair to her ear.

  “I’ll just top them off, then. Make sure they’re hot,” she offered, forcing her voice to sound cheery. She pulled her hair forward though, covering her neck and ear.

  The two men exchanged a wary look. The older man shook his head. “We said no.”

  Airaine glanced around quickly. “Please, tell me about Captain Kairathed.” She turned back to him. “You mentioned something earlier…”

  The man didn’t hide his scowl this time. “I didn’t realize that when they say that Citadel Ariel has prying ears and eyes, they meant the servant girls.”

  She felt her cheeks begin to burn. “He’s my guardian. I only have prying ears and eyes when it concerns him.” The two men frowned at her, and then at one another. Again, she glanced around, and added, “He’s a month late returning, and he stopped writing me months ago. Please.”

  “I can’t just spread military information around. I don’t know enough about you or the captain to confirm your story anyway.”

  “Look at her ear,” the younger one replied. “That’s enough to confirm her story.”

  Airaine grit her teeth against the instant stinging in her eyes. She was ready to tell the guard exactly what she thought about him when she glanced up. She hesitated, looked down with bitter resentment, and began to wipe the table with the rag in her hand. Across the hall, one of the servant men was watching her. She cursed him inwardly. Of course, it would be the second cook. He had to be one of the nosiest servants in the entire castle, and naturally, he hated her. He seemed to always be watching her, ready to whisper accusations into the first cook’s ears about her if he could. As if she weren’t already under his thumb, required to do whatever he demanded in the kitchens. “All I want to know is if he’s alive and safe! You need not tell me anything else!” She pulled their plates and forks to herself, bumping their cups and sloshing tea onto the table.

  Neither one said anything at first. She cast her most neutral look at him, afraid of the second cook catching her with a glare at someone above her station. The man flicked a glance upward at her. She saw his eyes dart around, though his head never turned. “If this comes back to me…”

  “I don’t need your name!” she snapped, pulling a rag from a pocket and wiping up the tea. She glanced up at the second cook again. He was walking away from the window of the kitchen toward the back. Airaine turned back to the warrior and hissed, “Just tell me—please!”

  “Even if I told you all I know, it’s not much.” She grit her teeth and held his glare. After a moment, the man sighed, glanced around once more, and leaned closer to his friend across the table. He kept his eyes off of her. “I know a guard at Citadel Rassira. He said that everything was normal at the fortress till Captain Kairathed arrived to inspect it.” Airaine turned back to the spilled tea, mopping it up but listening closely. “Then there was an attack. A few died—I don’t know how many. Afterward, Captain Kairathed fled. Nobody knows where he went.”

  Airaine gave him the filthiest look she could muster. “Graedin is no coward.”

  He didn’t look at her. “Hold your tongue. You misunderstand me. My friend said it was a small band, not an army, and they had a target. They attacked a tall, older scout with long gray hair.” He turned and stared at her, tilting his head and lifting his eyebrows.

  Her heart stopped pounding. “But you—you said—Graedin fled!”

  He nodded. “Aye. That he did.” His eyes flickered around the hall. Then he leaned back from his tea and stated in a normal volume, “No, I don’t want more tea.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked automatically, though taken aback.

  “We need to be going. It was bitter today anyway,” the other warrior replied in a bored drawl, pushing his own mug away. It sloshed a little more.

  She realized they were acting, and forced herself not to look around as she wiped up the tea with a rag, and wished them a stiff “Good morning.” As she turned to the kitchens, Airaine tried to take another subtle glance around. Sure enough, the second cook was glaring at her again from the kitchen, ignoring the men filling their plates in front of him in the buffet line.

  But he never said anything to her. She wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or worried about that. But that was a lesser concern than what she’d heard the night watch speak about. As she washed dishes, scrubbed floors, and avoided all other servants as much as possible, her dread continued to build. She tried not to wonder where Graedin was. If he was going to write soon. When he’d come home. If he was even…

  She shuddered at the thought, nearly dropping the mop she was using in the hall. No, she couldn’t afford to think like that. Graedin was fine. He had to be fine…

  The whole day lasted far too long. No matter how hot the servants kept the fires, it was cold all throughout the castle. She was soaked through from dish and mop water by day’s end. Shivering, she rushed through the passages of the citadel of Ariel toward the kitchens and pantries. In the servant’s quarters, there was another fire with a cauldron of boiling water. She drew a couple of steaming buckets just as several maids walked in. “Left your duties early, did you?” they accused. Airaine kept her eyes down and walked out as swiftly as she could, biting back bitter comebacks and accusations of hypocrisy. She’d only done this twice before. The kitchen maids regularly got away with it because they were pretty and buttered up the cooks. For her, getting
an early bath wasn’t worth the risk of getting in trouble…on a normal night, anyway.

  She took a quick sponge bath in her room, chilled other than where she pressed the cloth against her skin. Thankfully, the winter darkness was deep. She winced as she blindly rubbed the hot washing cloth over vulnerable, thin-skinned places, stifling a gasp when she rubbed the cloth over her neck. She didn’t dare touch her ear. And though she was certain she could use a thorough hair-washing, it was too cold. And she didn’t feel like having her scalp burn all night, keeping her awake as she tried to find a position less tender than the previous one.

  The warning bell rang as she rubbed medicinal lotions over her skin, wincing at their stinging. We’re not wasting our resources on lost causes…the words whispered in her ears, and she grit her teeth as hard as she could, yanking on ugly but clean gray robes. Then she ran out of her room, slamming the door behind her, and raced up a spiral staircase nearby. Paintings and tapestries flashed past on each landing her as she raced upward. On the third story, she found a nearby cleaning closet door and pounded on it, glancing around, and she wanted to get inside before she was questioned by guards or passersby. With only an hour to curfew, she would probably be scolded, though she wasn’t breaking any rule. There was no answer at the door. With a groan, she began to pace, scanning for anyone nearby, Graedin’s weathered face filling the eyes of her thoughts.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She whirled around. Normally, she would’ve heard the tapping of a walking stick, and turned with a smile. But not today. A pale, frail, and skeletal boy hobbled toward her around a corner. His dark eyes, angular eyebrows, and clenched jaw looked like an old veteran preparing to defend himself from an onslaught of the worst.

  “Daireth,” she burst out. His brows lifting and furrowed. “We need to talk.”