Ruins Falling Page 8

  Daireth’s bitter laugh escaped his lips, and Prince Essair gave him a sharp look. “Forgive me. I just doubt there’s anything my uncle detests in this world more than me.”

  The Prince paused for a few moments. “Maybe we should keep this between us, for both our sakes, then.” Daireth didn’t look at him, but nodded. Partly, he felt disgusted—that the man feared his uncle too, that his uncle had so much sinister power over other men. But could he really complain for help? The man may be cowardly, but here he was…helping. He thought longingly of Graedin, his bold courage as he strode into the healer’s room, his authority as he commanded the medicines to be delivered into his hands, unafraid of anyone, Prince or otherwise.

  Prince Essair was already rummaging around for some teas in the cabinets to the left. Daireth hobbled toward the salve cabinet. Glancing over to the counter, he saw the jar he’d brought in with Airaine’s medicine. At least, he thought it was the same, but it was full now. He leaned over and smelled it. Yes, it was the same medicine! Eagerly, Daireth picked up the jar. He clutched to his cane in one hand, but had difficulty opening the bag with the jar in his hand as well. And, to his horror, the jar slipped from his hand. With a sharp tinkling, the jar broke in pieces on the stone, and salve spattered across the floor. “Whoops!” the Prince uttered, chuckling.

  Daireth’s eyes pricked fiercely. He didn’t have time for this! The healers could be back any minute! He looked wildly around, found some towels, and knelt down to wipe up the mess. Luckily, the glass was thick, and only broke in a couple of pieces. When he was done, he shoved the towel with the broken jar in his bag. “You’re keeping that?” the Prince asked.

  “I just want to dispose of it properly, sire,” Daireth lied immediately, struggling up, his eyes on the cabinet. “So the healers don’t have to.” Or find evidence of theft. But he didn’t say so.

  “Oh. Well, that’s thoughtful, I suppose.” Daireth didn’t contradict him, focusing only on the cabinet. As long as he could get his hands on those medicines—even if he were discovered later—he cared about nothing else. It was foolish, he knew it. Reckless, to stop caring about the anger of the healers. To ignore the Prince standing behind him in the room. To risk his uncle’s wrath yet again. But he didn’t care. None of it mattered more than getting his hands on those salves.

  Daireth wrapped his hand around the cabinet door and pulled. It clunked against a lock, and he almost shrieked in fury. He glanced back, but Prince Essair was looking at various medicines and labels. Daireth turned back, tried again, but the door was indeed locked. He glanced at the keyhole, suddenly remembering the key in his pocket. He pulled the key out of his pocket, his hands clumsy for being so stiff and cold. It looked to be about the right size. He placed the small key in the keyhole, slightly sticky, and with his fingers shaking, he twisted the key.

  With a tiny snip, the cabinet opened.

  Maybe it was stupid, reckless again, but he felt a grin spread across his cheeks. Daireth used the smell of the salve on his hands to identify the same kind of salve in the cabinet, and stole six of the eighteen jars, locking the cabinet behind him but pocketing the key once more. He’d made sure to pull all of the small jars forward, to make it look like the cabinet was still fully stocked. Thankfully, the Prince didn’t pay much attention until Daireth said he was finished. As they walked out, he felt energy suddenly, excitement coursing through him as he hobbled along, pleased that he was keeping up fairly well with the Prince’s strides. He allowed himself a grin. And, reckless again, he cheerfully asked, “Sire, should I ever need assistance again—”

  “—I’d prefer you asked your uncle,” he said. Daireth whipped his face to the side, looking back into Prince Essair’s now stern face. “I’d prefer not to upset him. I’m sure you can understand, as you seem to be hiding the fact that you weren’t supposed to be in there.” The Prince looked away him. Daireth grit his teeth. “What were you really after? What are in those jars?”

  “Medicinal salves,” Daireth answered, forcing his tone to be as calm as possible. “Nothing that any reasonable person would consider suspicious or wrong…my lord.”

  Prince Essair frowning in a troubled sort of way. “I hope so.” Then he turned abruptly and walked away down a nearby corridor. Daireth stumbled to a stop, confused as he watched, until he realized that he’d been following just a little behind the Prince the whole time. Maybe Prince Essair hadn’t intended to walk together. Or for him to follow so close.

  Daireth’s stomach growled as he hobbled the rest of the way to his destination, slower now. By the time he made it to the kitchens, he knew they would be closed. With a frustrated sigh, he kept his eyes down, avoiding the stares and glares of passersby, gritting his teeth at the names the youth his age called him as they passed by, laughing at him. If the whole castle crumbled down, he’d sing at its demise. They deserved it. All of them. All but Airaine and Graedin.

  When he finally got to his bedroom, he was about to reach for the doorknob when it opened. He looked up to see Airaine’s smile as she gestured him inside. He hobbled in and she followed, chattering about her day and funny little things that happened, beaming at the jars he presented her. “You got yourself some medicine, didn’t you?” she asked. He paused, a little startled. “Didn’t you need that chest salve? Or were you stocked up?”

  “Uh, yeah,” he lied again.

  “Oh—that’s good. Well, thank you again. These will last me a good two months!” she exclaimed, opening the jars and breathing in the unpleasant smell as if it were rose water.

  He stared at her, his chest smoldering more than ever. Two months? All those jars—only two months? Captain Graedin wouldn’t be back for five months. Five at the least.

  Unwillingly, he swallowed. “Airaine.” She looked at him, and Daireth dreaded the moment he would see the starlight masked by storm clouds again. “I need to tell you something.”

  High Prince

  The midwinter light was startling. Bairen threw up his hands over his eyes as he stepped out from an inner room into a hall in the fortress of Ariel. He could just see the light blazing down over the frozen gardens below, covered in ice. Yet it was so cold that the snow stayed frozen, and ice clung to the window glass on the inside. He put his hand up over his eyes and pulled his cloak close. The stone hall echoed from the hard rapping of his boots as he strode swiftly away.

  In darker halls, he passed by servants that bowed with hesitant smiles. He stopped briefly to return the bow, and try to return their smiles. Guards stopped to salute, one hand on their heart, one hand on their sword hilt. Most smiled. For all of the military men, Bairen stopped, returned the salute, and again tried to smile. The few who didn’t smile, he noticed, were bodyguards for various Princes. He saluted them as he walked past, not bothering to look them in the eye.

  Two of the Knights of the Realm approached him down another hall. They were two of twenty-four first class captains, the highest military leaders of the realm. “Good morning, High Prince,” they greeted, smiling and saluting. “May the Twelve Princes find wisdom and brotherhood in their council, and together, bring peace and prosperity to the realm of Ye’shurun.”

  Bairen inclined his head politely, forcing himself to smile. That pat little blessing sometimes surfaced in his dreams. In theory, the Twelve Thrones Council was an event every other month where the Princes were supposed to propose laws, sign them, or amend them, in order to prosper the realm. In reality, it usually ended up being a bunch of pointless arguing, unless it meant stealing more resources from the people. And though he was theoretically first among the twelve, Bairen couldn’t stop most of it. The most power he had was his two votes. With an even number of Princes, any law they fought over could potentially become a tie. As High Prince, he was given two votes to break it, since he was “the voice of the King, in his majesty’s absence.”

  The voice of a supposedly magical King that didn’t exist.

  “Thank you,” he replied, forcing politeness also. Th
e Knights kept smiling, even though he had stopped. “Any word from Captain Kairathed yet?”

  “Not yet, sire. But I’m sure he’s fine,” one of them said. “He’s a busy man.”

  Bairen narrowed his eyes at them. Captain Graedin Kairathed was the First Knight of the Realm, highest commander of the military. He had held the position for thirty-three years thus far. He actively fought for the people’s well-being when he had opportunity and wasn’t shy about confronting the Twelve Princes for them, especially over the highly imbalanced distribution of wealth. The people adored him for it. But so far, Graedin had been absent on a military-related trip three months longer than scheduled—with no word.

  After an awkward pause under his stare, the Knights saluted again. “We have extra men guarding the council room, as you requested. The Princes will be well protected, sire.”

  “I would certainly hope so.” Bairen smiled and casually placed his hands on his belt. “Since obeying and protecting your Princes is the entirety of your job.” Their smiles faltered. Bairen strode forward, and they parted before him. Once he passed, he ground his teeth, and drew his hands away from the hilts of his sword and knife.

  Finally, Bairen entered an elegant, cavernous stone room with tapestries, paintings, high ceilings, and high windows, where light streamed in again. He walked over, shielding his eyes, and closed the curtains of the three central windows. The two at the ends of the room he left open, but still, more than enough light filled the room. “Sire?” He turned around. A young maid he didn’t recognize curtsied in the doorway. “May I enter, to set up tea and refreshments?”

  “Go ahead,” he replied, bowing to her.

  She curtsied again. “Thank you, sire.” She left and quickly returned, pushing in a wooden hand cart filled with plates of beautiful foods. It was always the same. The daintiest of pastries, perfect little poached eggs, fruit in tureens, elegant tea pots, cups with saucers, aromatic teas, fine silverware and plates. None but the very best for the Twelve Princes of Ye’shurun.

  He frowned. Campfire-toasted fish, sun-ripened blackberries, and the solitude of the woods were what he really craved. But he hadn’t had such luxuries in years.

  After a few moments, the door creaked again, and he looked up to see several men walking in. “You’re here early,” one commented. Prince Quer was generally agreed to be handsome by the women in the castle. He had blonde hair, a blond-red beard, and had a stocky, muscular build. He was average in height. But what Bairen paid most attention to was the Prince’s ears and cheeks, and their varying shades of pink and red. “Run down here at the crack of dawn?”

  “Nope,” Bairen replied coolly. “Crawled through the window.”

  The man’s cheeks and ears grew a little darker, but he smiled. He opened his mouth to say something, but then, his eyes suddenly drifted to watch the maid. Bairen turned and took a harder look at her. Her brown hair was neatly combed into a bun, and her skin was a pale, creamy color with light rose cheeks. Her slender body was bent slightly as she reached over the table. Her loose dress revealed her cleavage. She stood and stepped to the next platter, then looked up. Quer smiled at her, but it held no warmth. She curtsied, but then walked stiffly past Bairen toward her cart. “I see now,” he stated. “If I’d known, I’d have arrived earlier myself.”

  “Tough luck, Quer. Keep your hands off,” Bairen answered. “That almond pastry is mine.”

  The girl paused, then turned toward him with a confused expression and a heavy blush, offering him the plate of pastries. He caught a confused look from Quer, too. He took a pastry sprinkled with bits of chocolate and chopped almond off of it. “Once you finish setting the table, finish your other duties.” He spoke low, but not low enough that the other men couldn’t hear him. “I expect you at six o’clock in my room with my dinner. Also—” He looked directly into her eyes. “—That green dress you wore last night didn’t suit you. Wear red this time. And make it silk.”

  The woman’s pretty rose cheeks darkened further. She stared at him, her body very still, her eyes wide. The plate of pastries trembled with her hands. Forcing himself to keep his face neutral, he dismissed her with a deliberately haughty wave. He caught a glimpse of Quer’s deep red ears and cheeks as he looked toward the other men. This time, he had to push down a smile. “When has the Twelve Thrones Council ever begun at an hour other than eight o’clock?” he drawled instead, in his most bored tone. “Where is everyone?”

  “It’s only a quarter to eight now,” one of the other men answered. “They’ll come.”

  They did, but several were late. Quer went over to the other side of the table and laughed with the men down there as they ate. Bairen overheard a couple of men complain that their settings looked sloppy, and noticed the maid’s shaking hands as she tried to set them better, especially where Quer sat. Bairen watched as he whispered something to her, and she nearly dropped the silverware. She walked swiftly away, tears in her eyes. Then, seeing someone else walk in, he looked up. “Ah, good morning, Orthel.” A heavyset man with a balding patch in his shoulder-length gray hair sat down toward the middle of the table. “How are you today?”

  Orthel glanced at Bairen, and then looked quickly away. “Fine, thank you.” His eyes darted toward Bairen and back to his plate again, selecting pastries and fruit, and dabbing away sweat on his shaved, loose jowls. Bairen looked away, again forcing his expression to remain neutral. Orthel was an acquaintance, not exactly a friend, but had never acted so uncomfortable around him.

  By ten, they had finished eating. The maid was gone, and two older, far less attractive male servants were waiting on them instead. Bairen stood up and raised his voice. “Gentlemen, what issues need to be discussed in this council? Do you have laws to propose, or propose to change?”

  Each law proposal was voted on at its first draft. If it was approved, there was a second vote once the final draft was complete. The High Prince was granted two votes, which were customarily split. But if the vote was close, he could choose to dedicate both votes to one side. Bairen had rarely done this, and usually over matters that weren’t that serious. This preliminary voting process saved time and hassle for writing laws that might not be approved, but did not save him from the outrageously boring debates he had to sit through. Sometimes twice.

  So yet again, he tried unsuccessfully to focus. He kept getting distracted by the way some of the men dipped pastries in their tea and munched on them. He got distracted by their elegant clothes, and the rings glittering on their hands. And the smells. They all wore a variety of oils on their skin or hair. Each individual alone was usually bearable. Altogether, they reeked.

  Ironically, the delicate circlets on their heads were the simplest, yet most extravagantly beautiful thing the Princes wore. The silver looked like twisting vines with an occasional leaf. The few diamonds in the crowns looked like dewdrops. His own crown had three interweaving vines. The Princes had discussed updating them into something fancier and no doubt uglier, but hadn’t done it yet. Perhaps it was, in part, the pressure of tradition from the people. The crowns were hundreds of years old. Regardless, Bairen knew he’d refuse to give up his own crown. He loved its beauty, but cared more for its legacy, for those who’d worn it before him.

  He sighed to himself. No, that wasn’t quite right, if he was honest with himself. The only man’s legacy he cared about, and the only reason he wanted to keep this exact crown on his head, was the previous High Prince, from whose hands he’d unwilling accepted it.

  “It will be a very profitable venture,” he heard someone saying. “Instead of wasting resources fighting it, why not just tax the whorehouses and make some money off it instead?”

  Bairen blinked. For the first time in almost an hour, he sat up straight in his seat and focused down the table at the speaker. “Repeat your proposal, please. I haven’t slept well.”

  The man down the table narrowed his dark eyes. His graying hair was short, with a meticulously trimmed goatee and moustache. His glos
sy green robes only slightly masked how thin he was. Even the structure of his jaw and head was narrow, as if he’d been shaped by being born and raised in tight places. “I was saying,” he repeated, drawing his breath in with a slight hiss, “I’ve been musing over the fact that much of this realm’s gold toward the sheriffs, for fighting against the whorehouses that keep popping up all over the country. I want to propose that we stop fighting a losing battle, and start using them to our advantage instead. I propose that we legalize prostitution and start taxing it.”

  It took a moment for the words to sink in. When they did, Bairen made a casually interested face as he leaned back in his chair, and underneath the table, clenched the arms of his chair.

  “What would you propose to prevent the slave trade from growing, then?” He turned to look at the next speaker, and was surprised to see one of the younger Princes. He was in the prime of life still, no gray in his red hair or beard, he still had a trim physique under his fine cream and green robes. He wore plenty several shining rings, chains and pendants. His expression and bright eyes were always shifting around, as if he were constantly judging the effect of his words on everyone around him. “The leaders of Khared legalized prostitution fifteen years ago, and they’ve had the numbers of violent crimes and kidnappings rise substantially.”

  “They had a problem with the slave trade before that.” Zesset’s eyes narrowed further. “I’m surprised you seem against this, as much as you enjoy making money, Essair.”

  “But I don’t want to support any financial endeavors that could promote slavery.” The young man frowned in silence a moment as Zesset stared at him. Then he murmured, “I’m not wholly against the idea. I just don’t want to see the slave trade grow here.”