The following are opening chapters of the first five Cursed Princes books. Find out more about the series here. Content warnings here.
Jump to: The Rose Ball Rebels • As I Command • Sorrow for Thorns • The Virtues of Kings • Of Kings and Fairies
The Rose Ball Rebels
Eliott
I don’t care for dancing. Oh, I know, it’s a travesty. I am a Floral Realms prince; all my days are smart silk jackets and suede-soled shoes, with nothing to do but smile and look pretty for the court. To not like dancing is to spit at every blacksmith toiling over a forge, every farmer tilling the soil, and say my life is too hard.
My mother, Queen of Iris Realm, would marry me off to improve our relations with one of our neighbouring realms, which I suppose is her prerogative and my penance for being born a prince. So I am spending my sixteenth midwinter solstice at one of the noble houses of Viola Realm, and as it happens, the Queen of Viola is here, touring with her daughter.
A princess. How convenient.
I dance with Princess Elvire at the house’s masquerade ball. She’s fair enough, as adequate a dancer as I am – as every Floralise royal must be – and about as good at making conversation.
Which is to say we dance in silence and part with curt goodbyes uttered from behind our masks. It’s fine. We have a week to find a suitable incompatibility, some impossible fault that cannot be countenanced in a royal pairing.
Perhaps it isn’t the dancing I find objectionable, but what it is used to facilitate.
I spend the rest of the set dancing with a man who leads a sublime foxtrot. He’s much too good a dancer for me, and I’m much too royal a prick for him, but I smile at his casual flirtations and let my body relax in his confident embrace.
He kisses my fingers and escorts me off the floor before finding his next partner. I watch him go with some regret. Perhaps if he’s still here later, we might share the late dances, the ones where half the crowd (and every other royal) is gone, the musicians play their more experimental pieces, and the dancing is freer.
He leaves before the next set is halfway through. I’m hiding from Princess Elvire, taking refuge in a shadowed corner beside the musician’s stage and wondering if it would be too forward to wrangle myself into the band, when I feel eyes on me, which is the opposite of what I want.
I glance up, preparing my excuses for the Princess, but it’s not her. A tall woman gazes at me from the other side of the ballroom, her brows drawn down in a scowl.
Waving my signet ring to get backstage is looking good, but before I can move, she’s stalking towards me, dancers parting around her like water around a rock.
Gods. I detach myself from the wall and move out of the shadows so bystanders might possibly witness my imminent demise, and then she’s in front of me. Taller than me (I might still grow), muscular, with chestnut-brown hair falling to her ears. It is hard to tell with the mask covering half of her face, but she’s younger than I’d first imagined; maybe a few years my senior.
My knees wobble. Just a bit.
‘Dance with me?’ She extends her hand.
Anyone can ask a royal to dance, and a royal dances with all their subjects. Of course, I’m a visitor, so these aren’t my subjects, and it’s quite likely this woman has no idea who I am, any more than I do her. She could be the lost Princess of Lily for all I know.
But I place my hand in hers and follow her onto the floor.
We’re still dancing together for the final number, after everyone else is gone and even the band is trying to get us to leave, playing increasingly discordant solos.
I’m usually exhausted after a ball, but I pause at the door to the ballroom. ‘I think the bonfires are still lit if you’d like a turn about the gardens?’
She laughs, a deep, throaty chuckle. I can just see the glitter of her eyes behind her half-mask, and her lips are a full, rich red. ‘I think the sun is about to come up, but yes, why not?’
It’s the middle of winter; the sun is demonstrably not about to come up. We swap our ballroom shoes for boots and I pilfer a bottle of wine from the servery before leading my partner out into the cold night. The sky is heavy and starless with the promise of snow, and the frozen grass crunches under our boots.
‘Fuck, it’s freezing.’ I pull my cloak tighter around me, take a swig from the wine bottle and offer it to the woman.
‘I would invite you back to my room,’ she says, taking the wine, ‘but it seems presumptuous.’
‘Indeed.’ If I invite her to mine, a room in the royal suite, she’ll know who I am, and I’m not quite ready for this spell to end. There can be no future for us, not when I’m all but betrothed to a princess. ‘It will be warmer by the fires.’
It is, and there are still a few revellers dancing on the frozen dirt, laughing and singing solstice songs. A large basket full of folded blankets and rugs sits near one of the fires, and we wrap ourselves in woollen cocoons as we settle on the ground, close enough to catch the warmth from the flames but out of the way of the raucous singers.
‘Silly season,’ she says, passing the bottle back to me. ‘Summer solstice is much better. You can see the stars.’
‘Yes.’ I tilt my head up to the sky. ‘And you don’t have to be wrapped up in rugs.’
‘Mm. We wouldn’t have to go to my room at all.’
I glance at her just in time to catch her sly smile, trying not to choke on my wine. ‘I suppose that would depend on how vigorous you intend to be,’ I say lightly. ‘Midsummer can be brutally hot.’
‘Sweating is sexy,’ she says firmly. ‘Frostbite is not.’
‘No, I don’t imagine it is.’
‘I know it isn’t. I nearly lost a toe to frostbite.’
‘Oh?’ I pass the bottle back to her.
So we share the wine and talk, one masked stranger in the night to another. She tells me of a foolish midwinter escapade at fifteen, where she’d gotten lost in the snow after a dare had gone wrong. I tell her of sneaking to midwinter parties, leaving out the part where I’m a prince escaping a castle to get to them. We swap summer stories, share our favourite musical acts, our childhood tales of pets and sibling dramas and our preferred types of wine. We have the same taste in music and food. And while neither of us speak of our families in any way that could identify us, carefully skirting the void of our unshared names, I have the sense that we’re the same in that respect to: abandoned by love, burdened by duty, seeking freedom. It is freedom, in a way, to be so open with someone who doesn’t know my name. So few would ever dare. Talk to me, she says, and I do. I tell her of grief I’ve never shared with anyone.
The bonfires burn low, the reluctant sun shows pale on the horizon, and we concede defeat to the cold.
‘Will you be dancing tomorrow night?’ she asks as we enter the manor, her lips quirking with the edge of a smile.
My lips split into a ridiculous grin. ‘Sure.’
She nods, looks me up and down, then leans in and presses a chapped kiss to my jaw. If I’d not been so stunned, I’d have ripped my mask off and pulled her close, but instead, I freeze uselessly.
‘Until then,’ she says, and she is gone, disappearing down a hallway.
I linger for a moment, reliving the night, the laughter, the feel of her body moving with mine across the floor, wondering about how it might move with mine in other ways. I am, after all, sixteen.
And hungry. The gaslights are out, so I light a lantern and I detour to the kitchens, thinking the staff might be up to start the day’s baking, but instead I find Princess Elvire of Viola sitting at the table, a plate of cheese and fruit at her elbow and a book open before her.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
‘Reading.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘You haven’t been to bed yet, have you?’
I take this to mean she’s slept and risen.
‘It’s winter solstice.’ I lift my chin. ‘Someone has to see us through the long night.’
‘How virtuous of you,’ she says, and returns to her book.
From the depths of the house, someone screams. I whip around and Princess Elvire’s head snaps up as I realise it’s not a human scream – too loud, too metallic and sustained for too long a breath.
The manor begins to shake around us, the stone floor trembling beneath our feet. Cracks spider along the plastered wall around the door.
‘Under here, quick!’ The princess yanks me down by my sleeve and pulls me under the sturdy table.
There we cower as the wall opposite us crumbles and turns into dust. The plate of fruit slides off the table, grapes bouncing and scattering across the floor. One rolls away from us, tumbling over the edge of what was the other side of the kitchen and is now a gaping hole in the ground.
I have heard of earthquakes, how the ground can split in two and where before there was a field, now there is a gaping trench. But surely then the wall would fall, not vanish. We would be watching the building break apart and collapse into the earth.
Instead, it dissolves, leaving nothing but a fine cloud of dust that slowly settles into a vast chasm that has appeared before us. A hundred yards from our under-table refuge, the stables perch on the opposite rim of the hole, silhouetted against the greying sky. A horse bursts from the building, wild with panic, and careens over the edge, disappearing into the black pit with an eerie cry.
Princess Elvire sucks in a breath beside me, and I turn instinctively at the noise, then gasp myself. The chasm extends as far as I can see, towards the mountains that border Viola and Iris Realms. This has to be some sort of magic, but I’ve never heard of any such thing. I’d thought magic was meant to be smaller. Charms and petty curses.
Once the ground stops trembling and we’re fairly sure we’re not about to be turned to dust, Princess Elvire and I creep out from under the table. We crawl to the edge of the hole and peer down. If it has a bottom, it’s too deep to see in the pre-dawn light. I stare into a void.
‘They’re gone,’ I say inanely, realising suddenly that all that is left of the manor is half of the kitchens and a few rooms of the servants’ wing. The whole royal suite has vanished, taking the Queen of Viola and the house’s noble family with it. If I’d not stayed up all night with a strange and beautiful woman, I’d have vanished too.
And so has she, I realise with a sharp twist to my heart, picturing her walking down the corridor when we’d parted. I won’t be seeing her ever again.
‘Well,’ Princess Elvire says, backing away from the pit and brushing dust from her knees. ‘This will start a war.’
As I Command
Marguerite
I stand at the top of a spiralling staircase, gazing down at the grandest ball the Floral Realms have seen since before the war, wearing the most gorgeous golden gown money can buy, and all I want to do is shriek.
You can’t do this to me you can’t do this to me you can’t do this to me!
And of course he can’t. I’m doing this to myself. But I can still be bitter. It was his idea. I just couldn’t think of a better one.
With a single ceremonial vow, I will do more for Father’s company than I could achieve in a lifetime of boardroom meetings and corporate deals. So I agreed, and now I have the privilege of choosing my spouse from among the Floral Realms’ finest. Royalty, no less, all gathered here on the neutral territory of Adiantu Island.
The most beautiful ballroom on the Island is scented with vase upon vase of fresh spring flowers, bouquets in luscious pinks and purples, sunrise reds and yellows and oranges. Lengths of white silk drape the ceiling and the walls between wooden pillars. The Floral Realms attendees wear elaborate beaded gowns or brocaded jackets over breeches with embroidered waistcoats underneath. The well-to-do from Adiantu, men and women alike, wear light, flowing fabrics, swathed at the waist and draping over their bodies in bright splashes of bold colour or floral prints.
The crowd below falls silent as our host, Lord Sigaro of Adiantu, ascends the first few steps and opens his arms. At a flourish from the conductor, the fifty-piece orchestra stop with neat precision. My father beams as Lord Sigaro extends his hand up towards me, and announces, ‘Please welcome our guest of honour, Miss Marguerite Baccata!’
Polite applause fills the room. My smile is genuine; I like standing above this gathering of riches and royalty, all here for me, and my hand in marriage.
At my feet.
I should want a partnership. Father isn’t cruel; he knows of my ambition, of my desire to leave our home in Calya and see other places, other cultures. This is how he gives me the world: all the status and considerable riches he can muster. It’s a fairy tale where the happily ever after is just the beginning.
Except it feels like an ending. Marriage, whether to prince or pauper, is a cage I have avoided for all of my twenty-five years so far, and the closer this date came, the more I longed to sail right past Adiantu Island and its pretty promises.
But the contacts I will make as wife or consort to royalty will serve Baccata Industries better than anything I could do working for the family business at home. I’ll be the best ambassador we could hope for. The backing of a Floralise navy will stop the piracy that plagues our current exports. And living as royalty in the Floral Realms will likely be grander than the Calyan corporate hustle.
I have three days to choose my partner.
Tonight is the ball: royalty and the well-connected from all over the Floral Realms are here to vie for my favour. It’s not just my family fortune on offer: the Realms have been at war with each other for three years and counting, and whoever can secure the best contract with Baccata Industries will surely have the advantage: we are bringing gunpowder to a land of swords and crossbows.
Those I choose tonight will join us for a masked party in one of Adiantu’s famed pleasure gardens tomorrow evening. From them, I will select six to attend a private dinner at the palace. And at the end of the dinner, I will announce my choice.
Father is still talking, extolling my virtues, my skill for negotiation, my intention to be an ambassador not only for Baccata Industries, but for the Republic of Calya. Unofficial, for now, but we are petitioning the government about the need for overseas relations to further trade and cultural opportunities.
‘… wealth and investments in the military sector. And you can see for yourself her good looks!’
The crowd titters. The screaming under my skin grows louder.
My father had pulled me aside on our voyage here, some five days’ sailing in favourable winds. We stood at the stern, where our words would be whipped out to sea, away from prying ears.
He gazed down at me, brow pinched in frustration. Mine had been scrunched in quiet fury since we’d set sail. But I couldn’t see a way out of the plan, short of giving up everything I’d worked for. If I reneged now, I’d be the laughing stock of the office.
Father cleared his throat. ‘I know it is not … normal, in Calya, but they do things differently in the Realms.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘They are monarchies. I understand.’ Some are patrilineal, some matrilineal. Some monarchs choose their successor from among those who serve the crown. Some marry for life, some partner for predetermined periods, some take consorts at their will or never partner at all. A marriage is what my father seeks for me, which means the Daisy, Marigold and Lily realms will present the best matches long-term. But it also depends on the relative status of my suitors; a partnership with a prince next in line for the throne will be preferable to marrying someone unlikely to ever inherit.
‘I mean relations –’ Father’s skin darkened, and he coughed again while I cringed ‘– between people of the same sex are sometimes accepted. You might have female applicants.’
Applicants. As if marriage to me is a job interview, my life and future a business transaction. I stared at Father, open-mouthed, then snapped my jaw shut and looked away, out over the trail of whitewater we’d left in the otherwise calm ocean.
A heavy hand landed on my shoulder. ‘There. I knew you’d understand. I won’t think less of you.’
I would dratting hope not, I wanted to say. I wouldn’t mind if a woman propositioned me. Quite likely I’d be flattered, if uninterested. But that night, for the first time since I could remember, I cried myself to sleep.
And rose the next morning, the day we were due at Adiantu, the day before the ball, dry-eyed and determined.
Now the ball begins.
I didn’t get to be who I am by wasting the opportunities of the present. Maybe I will meet my one true love here. He will happen to be the Prince of Marigold and we shall prance into the sunset, making my father proud and Baccata Industries the most powerful weapons manufacturer in all the world. And if not, well, tonight is dancing and merriment. My gown sets off my dark skin gorgeously, my black hair glitters with yellow diamonds, and my feet are snug in suede-soled shoes. The wine supplied by Lord Sigaro is the best in the Realms, and the orchestra the finest we can gather in a time of such strife. After all, when it comes to the instruments of war, my father only ever provides the best. I stand upon another battlefield, this one a fight for resources with wine and wit as weapons.
Father concludes his speech, and I descend the stairs, spiralling down, my skirts swirling around my legs, giving the dazzled crowd my best haughty look. Tonight, I command them all.
Sorrow for Thorns
Mirabelle
It’s the middle of the night in the middle of a forest and I’m in the middle of a futile quest, being chased by wolves.
Don’t run, my mother would tell me. It’s what she always said when I was a little girl. Don’t run from anything. Not from sticky fingered boys throwing mud, not from a difficult spell that won’t hold, not from dogs or wolves. If you run, they will chase you. Or, in the case of a spell, failure will follow you around until you give up on witchcraft entirely.
Never let the fear take root.
My mother, though, is a fighter. I am sure that if she was surrounded by wolves, she’d beat them back with spectacular flying curses. Should curses fail, a handy stick. My magic goes to research and complex, delicate curse adjustments (small wonder my mother tried to marry me off).
I’ve failed plenty of spells. Even had mud thrown at me; such is the life of a witch on the road. And once, I was attacked by a small, scruffy dog. I never run.
But I’m thinking of running now. Weighing my chances, weighing my mother’s advice and finding it sorely lacking, because for all her talk, I don’t think she has actually been hunted by wolves while seeking the location of a cursed castle in the middle of the night.
The beasts surround me, close enough that I can hear their rumbling growls, not close enough to see through the moonlit trees. I’m standing half-crouched in a dark forest, without my pack, without my lantern, only my wand clutched in my sweat-slicked hand. Twigs snap under my boots as I turn, but I’m not running. Not yet.
The moon is full, alternately covered and revealed by the thick clouds tumbling in the sky, building to a storm. Cast into darkness, I stumble towards Blacklily Castle, surrounded by the thrash of wind-tossed trees and the blood-chilling howling of the wolves. All I have to do is make it to the castle. A curse, I can deal with. Wolves, not so much.
Light again, the thin, colourless wash of the moon, and I almost wish I’d been left in the dark. Giant silver-grey shapes launch at me through the trees, their snarling, slavering jaws glinting in the moonlight.
I summon what magic I can, gesturing with my wand and shouting an incantation as I cast a shield. A shield spell is designed to deflect magic, not teeth and claws and animal fury, but it should buy me time.
My wand is supposed to guide me towards the castle with a locating spell, but it’s too dark, and the storm is coming in too fast. I can’t go back. I’ve lost all sense of where my warded campsite is. This bothers me almost as much as the wolves; I don’t usually lose my sense of direction.
Stuff not running. I flee, making for the cursed castle I seek as fast as I can manage. My footsteps crash through the forest, the undergrowth snagging at my skirts. Wind and wolves and my own pounding pulse roar in my ears.
Much too soon, my shield falters, as if something in this blasted forest is draining my magic and turning me around in circles. Driving me away. Feeding me to the wolves.
The moon vanishes once more, leaving me running through the dark. My shoulder clips a tree, hard, and I yelp as pain jars my body. My wand flies from my hand, now just another stick in an endless litter of fallen branches and leaves. With it goes any sense of what direction the castle lies in.
Another pain flares, much deeper and hotter, as teeth sink into my leg. Then I’m face-down on the ground, my world reduced to dirt in my nose and claws rending my back. Someone is screaming.
Oh. That’s me.
A wail. At first I think it’s the wolves, but the sound is much sharper. More anguished.
The weight on my body lifts as the wolves scatter, the wind-raging woods now filled with whimpers and whines. Something else settles over my back – fabric, I think – and I’m rolled over. Gentle hands brush the dirt from my mouth. I blink, but it’s too dark to make out much of the unfamiliar face peering at me. A rescuer. Thank the fairies I’m estranged from my mother and she’ll never have to know.
‘Where is your camp?’ a male voice asks. He sounds hoarse. All that wailing, probably.
I try to shake my head, but any movement sets my back blazing. My leg is a ball of pain that seems to take up the entire limb and all the space around it. ‘Lost,’ I mutter. The world is going dark again, but I don’t think it’s the clouds this time. I can barely keep my eyes open.
‘Are you travelling with someone?’
It’s difficult to form words, as if speech is a spell I’m not suited to. ‘No … one.’
‘Fuck.’ A pause. Then he slides his arms under me, and I know he’s trying to help, that I’ll be torn to pieces if I stay here on the forest floor, but I can’t restrain another screech as his arms press against my ravaged back.
‘Shh. It’s going to be all right.’
But he doesn’t sound convinced.
***
The next thing I’m aware of is lying on my stomach in a soft, warm bed, my cheek pressed to a silken pillow. For a moment, the comfort registers as a luxury after so many nights on the road, then my body catches up and I’m suddenly aware of all my aches and pains. My shoulder, my back, cuts and scrapes on my palms and cheeks, and … my leg.
My leg might be on fire. I suck in a breath and roll onto my side.
Ouch. But my neck stops feeling like it wants to fall off.
Someone stirs across the room, and a thin man dressed in black trousers, shirt and coat unfolds from the chair by the fireplace. His dark hair hangs in tangles around his elegant face.
‘Mira?’ He kneels by my bedside, reaches as if to touch me, then clasps his long-fingered hands tightly on the quilt instead and regards me with concern, his dark brows drawn down and lips pressed into a worried line. He looks paler than he ought, his face sallow compared to the tan skin of his hands as if he’s not slept for days. Outside, the storm rages, drilling rain against the window pane.
‘How do you know my name?’
His eyes widen and he looks away as if embarrassed. ‘I – I found a letter in your coat.’
I frown. I don’t remember there being any letters in my coat, but it has been a long time since I cleaned the pockets out. Emptying pockets is always a bit of a risk. Last time I found a piece of string with only one end and a tiny purple frog.
The man drags in a breath and meets my eyes again. ‘It was a trespass. I apologise.’
He has lovely eyes. Deep brown, a rich, dark colour I’ve admired since – well, for a long time. Not overlarge like mine but beautifully shaped, and framed by long black lashes. I have always been partial to luxurious eyelashes.
My breath catches, and I can’t tell if it’s the intensity of his gaze or some memory stirring in my chest. I take a deeper breath – and remember as pain flares across my body that my back is cut to ribbons.
I groan.
The man clears his throat. ‘I hope you don’t mind. I put a salve on your wounds.’
Fairies help me. ‘What salve?’
He turns and fetches a large pot from the bedside table and holds it near my face. Pale gold. A good start. Cautiously, I sniff.
Frangipani and melissawood. I relax. Timely application of charmed melissawood balm accelerates healing and prevents infection. He has, annoyingly, saved me again. ‘Thank you.’
‘Your back will scar, but superficially, I think. Your leg …’ His eyebrows raise in a hopeful expression. ‘I don’t suppose you are a healer?’
The question dashes every hope I have. I close my eyes for a moment. ‘Tell me.’
‘The wolves tore a chunk out of your calf. I cleaned and dressed it, but …’
‘Not even melissawood can grow muscles back.’ I slump onto my pillow. I know some basic healing spells, mostly for easing minor burns and sprains. Nothing complex enough to restore deep tissue.
‘I’m sorry. The storm should pass in another day or so, then you can go.’
‘Go? I can’t walk.’
‘The salve will keep you from infection. Take it with you. I have some tinctures for pain, and we can find you some crutches. If I had a horse, I’d give it to you, but I –’
Pain makes my temper short. ‘What are you talking about? I couldn’t get through that forest with two whole legs and all my faculties. There’s no way I’m limping through it, then spending two weeks on the road to the nearest useful town.’
His expression falls. ‘I know. I’ll help you through the forest. And I’ll search the castle. There must be something that will help.’
‘Unless you have a healing witch hidden in a cupboard somewhere, I doubt it. I’m stuck here.’ I’ve half a mind to suggest he make the trek to find me a healer himself, but he’s done enough rescuing already. Blacklily Castle is large; there will be messenger birds or a servant who can carry word to the Witches’ Guild.
The man’s face turns grey. ‘You can’t stay.’
‘I can’t leave.’
‘Please, Mira. Take a few days to gather your strength if you must, but you have to leave.’ His eyes are fixed on me again, beseeching.
‘What did you rescue me for, if you were only going to throw me out again?’ I snap.
His expression falls. ‘You don’t understand. You can’t stay. I’d carry you out if I could –’
‘As if I’d let you.’
‘– but I can’t leave.’
I narrow my eyes. ‘What do you mean, you can’t leave?’
‘Just that. I can’t leave.’
‘Is this part of the curse? I’m not afraid of a curse.’
He blanches. ‘What do you know about the curse?’
So there is a curse. ‘That it discombobulated me and drove wolves to attack a witch. I was prepared for a night in a wild forest, but that is not a normal forest. I’m not a fool.’ Although my present situation suggests otherwise. How I hadn’t realised I was in a cursed forest sooner, I have no idea. My magical senses are usually much more perceptive.
The man relaxes slightly. ‘I … yes. The forest is unusual.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Tell you what?’
‘About the curse. You live here? Who are you?’ My mind is fuzzy with pain, but I need as much information as I can get.
He frowns. ‘I’m Lord of Blacklily Castle, I suppose.’
Rescued by a lord. Great. Imagine when he finds out – no, wait, he knows I’m a witch. Somehow. And he’s still here. Curious. ‘And the curse?’ I mutter, forcing the words out despite the increased throbbing in all my wounds.
‘You should rest.’ He pulls the blankets up, tucking me in, for fairies’ sake, and as he does so, his knuckle brushes my jaw.
I stiffen. Even in my delirium, I can sense the curse threads on his skin as he touches me. Blacklily Castle’s curse must have attached itself to him. It’s possible, of course. He probably doesn’t even know; non-witches can’t sense magic unless they witness it happening before their eyes.
It’s much too difficult for me to investigate now. Making sense of the curse would require prolonged skin contact, finding the seat of the spell somewhere in the castle, and all my faculties to make sense of it. ‘I’m going to sleep.’
He nods, but doesn’t move from his position crouched over my bedside.
‘Do not watch me sleep.’
‘No. Right.’ He stands, brushes his hands on his trousers and straightens the salve pot and pitcher of water on the bedside table. Steps back. Hesitates.
I clear my throat.
‘Sorry.’ Another pause, then a soft cough. ‘Sw—sweet dreams, Mira.’
The door clicks shut behind him.
Sweet dreams. No one has said that to me for ten years.
The Virtues of Kings
Gabriel
I wake screaming with blood on my hands, blood on my clothes, blood splattered on my face. A body pins me to the ground. My chest is too tight and getting tighter; I can’t draw breath. I thrash, trying desperately to throw the corpse off me before it crushes me completely.
‘Ow! What the heck are you doing?’
The corpse moves. For a horrifying instant, I imagine he’s not dead, he’s going to kill me after all, and not only have I stabbed someone – I stabbed someone – I’ve failed to protect myself in doing so.
‘Prince G. Oi. Gabriel!’
The weight lifts. Smell comes back first: instead of the mud and guts of the embattled hospital tent, it’s leather and fresh straw and horse. I take a shuddering breath and roll away, coming to sit on the edge of the bed, my head in my hands.
‘I think you broke my nose,’ Otto, the stable hand whose bed I’m in, says thickly.
A distant part of my mind says I should help him, but right now I can’t look at him. Can’t look at anything in case what I see is still a blood-spattered corpse lying in a ruined field.
It’s not real. Not any more. You’re safe. You’re safe.
Words Jules used to whisper to me when I woke like this. But then I slept in my own bed, where I couldn’t beat anyone bloody with my nightmares.
I drag my hands down and turn to look at Otto. He’s pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand and cupping his nostrils with the other. Blood drips between his fingers, glinting in the lantern light like falling rubies.
‘Here.’ I collect my jacket from the floor and fumble through it until I find a handkerchief. ‘Let me see.’
‘Don’t touch me, cur.’ He scowls at the verbal slip – or maybe he’s grimacing with pain – and snatches the square of linen from my fingers.
Cur. I’ve been called worse. And I can’t be offended by the truth, even if it makes my chest ache and my eyes burn. I peer at his face. ‘I don’t think it’s broken.’
‘Feels like it.’ He dabs at the blood, then glares at me balefully. ‘Unless you’re going to take my mind off it, I’d prefer to sleep alone, my prince.’
He says ‘my prince’ in the same tone he’d said ‘cur’. The sex wasn’t exactly fun, and I had intended a polite parting in the morning rather than a repeat experience. But I’d have known, then, if something like this could work. If I can share a bed and my body with another person. With a stranger. If I can fulfil my father’s latest edict.
Turns out I can’t. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sure you are.’
I glance at the small loft window, which glows softly with the sunrise. There will be people in the streets. People to spit at me, call me names – coward, craven, lily-livered, cur.
Deserter. ‘I am really sorry.’
Stop it, Gabriel, Jules would have said. You’re all right.
Otto shoves me off the bed. ‘Leave, you miserable recreant.’
My father’s voice echoes in my head: This is no fit way for a subject to speak to his prince. Earn his respect. But I lost all chance of that years ago. ‘Yes, of course.’ I scramble after my clothes and shove my leaden limbs into them as best I can. One of the legs of my breeches has twisted around so my foot won’t go through, and I hop on the spot, eventually crashing into the crate Otto uses for a nightstand and sending a cup, a hoof pick and a pile of papers cascading to the floor. ‘Sorry.’
‘Stop apologising and get out.’
‘Right. Sorry.’ I gather my shirt and jacket, stuff my feet into my shoes, slip down the stairs and out into the cold grey dawn.
***
I should return to the palace, make a dignified appearance at breakfast, begin ingratiating myself with the courtiers and royal council again. Peony Realm is built upon valour and manners, and if I never had the former, I do at least have two and a half decades of formal etiquette to fall back on.
Except I can’t bring myself to suffer the polite indifference and hushed murmurs of the court or the cold stares and open hostility of the council. I’ve been home for six months and no one is showing any signs of forgiveness.
Forgiveness is the same as respect, Father would say. It must be deserved.
I deserve their cold shoulders and contempt. I deserve every muttered ‘cur’, ‘craven’ and ‘coward’ that comes my way.
My feet take me along icy paths to the public hospital, a large building that backs onto the palace grounds and houses the Peony Royal College of Medicine. I’d completed my training here, spending many long hours in the adjacent wards and surgical theatre before the fighting started and I was required to join the army. If not for the war, I’d probably still work here, an honorary position that fit in with my court duties until I married or took up a council role.
Although if there was an honourable job available for dancing, I’d have taken that. I had, in my foolish youth, suggested I might lead a royal dance company. But princes can’t join the theatre, not even one sponsored by the crown. And I’ve always been more interested in ballroom dancing than the stage. There is a magic to healing – a literal one, however small my gift is – but nothing comes close to the magic of two people becoming one on the dance floor.
I sneak into the hospital via a service entrance and make my way down familiar halls. They are grubbier now – not unclean but unkempt, with scuff marks, stains, cracking paint and creaking floorboards. And busier; while the hospital had always been a bustling place with doctors and nurses calling orders and patients calling for help, now the hurrying staff have frantic expressions, and patients are spilling out of wards and waiting rooms, sitting in chairs in the hallway or lying on the floor.
No one notices me, too busy with their work or their pain. I pause at the door to the chief of medicine’s office. It used to be Ismerie Sault’s, but she’s taken a role as the royal physician and works at the palace, mostly seeing to the minor complaints of important courtiers. I’d knocked on her door a few weeks after my return, offering to help in her clinic. Based on her cold expression and colder dismissal, she’s adopted Father’s view on things: to be Peonian is to be honourable.
That was my first and last attempt to restore my position at court. Since then I’ve been hiding in my rooms, which was working until Father delivered his ultimatum: I am to marry or return to the army. I can’t do the latter, and after last night, I doubt I can manage the former either.
Being here is unlikely to help. ‘Work at the hospital’ is a fine hobby, but it is not on Father’s list of acceptable princely occupations. Still, it’s something, and if I can show him I’m making an effort, perhaps I can delay my other prospects.
The office is empty, and I step inside. A journal on pain management and anaesthetics lies open on the large walnut desk, and I pick it up, flicking through the pages. They’ve made advances with isolated herbal compounds, despite side effects increasing with concentration. I believe magic is the better solution, but while the court employs a witch, no one trusts magic, seeking it only out of desperation or when there’s no alternative. People are always looking for mundane solutions.
‘Excuse me,’ a small voice says, and I look up. A young girl, perhaps five or six, stands in the doorway. She’s wearing a hospital-issue nightgown, barefoot and dishevelled, her eyes red and her nose running. Her left arm is in a sling, and she cradles it with her other hand.
I drop the journal back on the desk. ‘Are you all right?’
She shakes her head. ‘It hurts. I told the nurse, but he was too busy.’
Kneeling, I hold out my hands. ‘Come. Let me see.’
She shuffles forward, and I help her onto one of the stiff wooden chairs in front of the desk. ‘Can you tell me your name?’
‘Olive,’ she says, sniffing.
I wipe her nose with my handkerchief, then inspect the sling. ‘Well, Olive, let’s have a look. What happened to your arm?’
‘I broke it.’
The cast on her arm is well-made, and I doubt there is much I can do to help her. I draw upon my magic – just enough to ease the pain and accelerate the healing, not enough that anyone will notice. There’s little more I can do even if I want to. I’ve never had the power to set bones or save a lost cause.
‘What is going on here?’ another voice says, this one loud and sharp.
Olive whips around and I steady her shoulder as a tall, grey-haired man in his fifties fills the doorway, arms akimbo. ‘I don’t care if there are no beds, we are not treating people in my –’ he stops, eyes widening in recognition. ‘You.’
I stand. ‘Olive was in pain, sir –’
The man – the chief of medicine, presumably – turns on his heel and leans out the door. ‘Nurse! Escort this child back to her bed and make sure she stays there.’
A nurse complies, muttering about more important things to do, while the chief strides behind his desk and glares at me. ‘My prince, I must ask you to leave.’
The words are polite enough. What can I do? Run to Father and say the man used a cruel tone? Pathetic. ‘Sir, I was only trying to help.’
‘Then you should have stayed at your post.’
I draw a deep breath. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. ‘I came to ask if I might take a position here.’
The chief sits and begins shuffling papers around his desk. ‘There are no vacancies. Good day, Prince Gabriel.’
No vacancies. The hospital is clearly understaffed, and I don’t need a wage. I suppose, as a prince, I could force myself upon them. Insist that I claim an office and see patients, if there are any over the age of ten who would come. But I don’t even want the job, not truly. I trained as a surgeon because the army requires field medics, not herbalists with a secret talent for magical healing. I studied herb lore more as a matter of personal interest than any desire to ever work in a hospital.
Perhaps I should have known. Perhaps I’ve always been a coward.
***
‘I can’t get married,’ I cry, throwing myself down on the chaise longue in the Fuchsia Drawing Room. Dramatic? Perhaps. But the situation warrants flailing. As if in sympathy, the velvet curtains billow out, despite the windows being closed against the winter cold. The Peony Realm palace has always been like that. Receptive, somehow to the moods and whims of its inhabitants.
My younger sibling, the Princex Celestin of Peony, looks up from their magazine. Celestin is, as ever, the picture of royal perfection: finery fit for a parade, golden hair smoothed back into a neat braid, tall and poised even when reclining in an armchair by the fire. A fine scar across their temple catches silver in the dancing flames. ‘Good afternoon to you too.’ They take a sip of tea. ‘I think you’ll find you can. Whether or not you want to is another matter.’
‘I don’t want … argh.’ I push my hands into my hair and tug hard.
Celestin turns a page. ‘You used to dream of a big royal wedding.’
‘Yes, well, that was before.’
‘Before you stopped being fun?’
Silence except for the crackling of the fire and the rustling of pages.
‘I’m still …’ Fun. But I’m not, am I? I’m not entirely sure I ever was Celestin’s idea of fun. I tagged along with them often enough, going to the city festivals or hosting endless spring and summer balls here in the palace. The only part I ever enjoyed was the dancing.
Celestin sighs and sets the magazine aside. The page is an advertisement from the Witches’ Guild for ‘glamours’ – expensive charms to adjust a person’s appearance. People will turn to magic for vanity long before they’ll consider it for their health. ‘Sorry, Gabriel. I didn’t mean to upset you. What’s this about a wedding?’
‘Father says if I don’t return to the army, I must marry.’ Somehow, my voice doesn’t break, but my chest feels like it’s been cracked open. ‘Daisy is threatening invasion, and we need more allies.’ And more leaders in the field, he’d said, but nothing I say will convey to him that I can’t be the military paragon he expects me to be.
‘Marriage won’t be so bad, will it? Pick someone the realm loves, and they’ll love you again by extension. We always knew we’d have to make political matches.’
It’s not about the match. I know I don’t fall in love easily. There’s only been one person I’ve loved in my twenty-six years so far; the chances of a pre-determined partner being a love match were always next to none. No, it’s about me, and how I’m not a good match for anyone.
Once, I might have been. Second in line to the Peony throne, surgeon and physician, army officer. A polite courtier, diplomat to my elder brother’s brash power. I used to dress much as Celestin does, all gold trim and lace ruffles. Long blond hair neatly braided.
I keep my hair shorter now, falling in disarray around my ears. The extent of my clothing is mere decency: woollen breeches, a loose shirt and jacket hanging open. Sheepskin slippers for traversing the chillier palace halls.
Celestin, along with the rest of the court, dresses for breakfast, luncheon and dinner. No wonder Father wants me tidied out of the way.
‘I want to help,’ I say, my voice too small. Because I do, but I don’t see how I can.
‘Then marry one of the Marigold boys. Prince Valery would be a fine match for you.’
‘The King of Marigold won’t allow a same-sex marriage. They don’t recognise adoptive heirs.’ I sigh. ‘Besides, those boys can’t dance.’ A petty concern. Or an excuse, even if the idea of not even my spouse dancing with me is too much to bear.
‘They don’t need to dance to bring soldiers and gunpowder.’
Gunpowder. As if this war wasn’t bloody enough, now we – or rather, Marigold Realm – have new weapons that can obliterate a platoon in a second. Father would be pleased if I could bring that might to our aid.
I slump, sliding down the chaise. Any further and I’ll be on the floor. Memories of Otto’s face, bloody and scornful, hover behind my eyelids whenever I blink. ‘I can’t marry. I can’t.’
‘Then it’s simple.’
‘It is?’
‘Delay it.’
‘I tried that. The hospital won’t have me.’
Celestin sighs. ‘Tell Father you wish to devise a test to determine the most suitable match. Wait until he’s soused and claim it’s a test of honour, he’ll go along with it. Then make the test impossible to pass.’
It might work. I’ll feel like a cur for deceiving him, but I am that already.
‘Gabriel?’
I look up to find Celestin peering at me over their glasses. ‘Yes?’
‘Come to the ball tonight. You know you’re grouchy when you leave it too long.’
My heart twists with the twin aches of missing dancing and knowing I can’t. I haven’t dared step foot in the ballroom since my ignominious return to the palace last summer. I’ve probably forgotten how to waltz. ‘What’s the point? No one will dance with me.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘I don’t want to find out.’ Coward that I am.
‘Suit yourself. But stop complaining to me about being unhappy if you won’t do anything to fix it.’ Celestin pushes their spectacles up their nose, crosses one leg over the other, and resumes reading with a pointed rustle of pages.
***
Celestin is right. I need to dance. It’s been my salve since I was old enough to walk. Dancing alone isn’t anything like the exhilaration of moving with a partner, but it’s better than moping around in my rooms, so the next morning I dust off my old suede-soled shoes and sneak down to the ballroom before the staff arrive to prepare for the evening’s festivities.
The solution comes to me when I’m practicing a double reverse spin overspin. Weak winter sunlight shines through the leadlight windows of the empty ballroom, and I revel in the feeling of flying across the floor, unimpeded by other people or propriety.
The ball of my foot lands on something hard, sending a bolt of pain up my leg. Gasping, I stop, clutch my toes for a moment, then stoop to inspect the floor.
I find a perfectly round cabochon the size of my little fingernail, deep polished green, presumably fallen from someone’s jewellery. The stone puts me in mind of a story Mother used to tell us when we were small children. I don’t recall the details, only that there was something about a pea and a dozen mattresses.
That night, I make my proposition to Father. He’s too wine-soaked and wreathed in analgesic smoke to disagree.
‘A test,’ he says, musing over his pipe. I have often suspected that the only reason he abides my presence is the fact that I keep him supplied with herbs to ease pain for his myriad war wounds. All sustained before I was skilled enough to heal him or while I was away, and I can’t do much about scars.
If I could, perhaps I’d still be hiding from the war in the south of Daisy Realm with Jules. Perhaps Jules wouldn’t have left. But some injuries are too grievous for my meagre magic.
‘Yes,’ Father says again, taking a long draught of wine. ‘A test. For valour! I like it.’
‘I was thinking something else. Commitment, perhaps?’ The original tale had focused on sensitivity, but Father already thinks I have more of that than any royal bloodline needs. Not that it matters. My ‘test’ will be an unsolvable riddle.
Father grunts, rubs his knee, then takes another draw on the pipe. I give him the best herbal blends I can, but it’s never quite enough. He’d be better off steeping and drinking them, of course, and laying off the wine. ‘Yes. Good plan. You could use some commitment.’
I don’t stick around to ask what he means.
***
Winter shifts to spring, turning the palace grounds into a riot of flowers and blossoming trees. Prince after princess after royal cousin visit, trying their luck at my test. They are nice enough over tea or brandy, but none meet my eyes when we exchange pointless pleasantries. It seems my reputation has spread across all the Floral Realms in my absence.
I came back six long months ago. Before that, I spent two years as a diplomatic hostage for an alliance – Father’s punishment for deserting my post.
I miss the days of the treaty, when I had brothers. Peers who did something other than read gossip columns and simper at courtiers over dinner or charge around the countryside for glory and Father’s approval. I love my siblings – Celestin has been kind enough to me since my return, and Renaud is a hero – but it’s not the same. Six people confined to a tower room as part of a treaty for over two years is, I suspect, the sort of experience that will make unforgettable bonds or bitter enemies. Of course, we didn’t stay in the tower. We became the Rebels, sneaking out to dance every evening, and it was, as far as being swept into a war went, as good as someone like me could expect.
And as a Rebel, if I wasn’t a hero, at least I wasn’t a coward. Not a lily-livered cur.
But then we’d been caught breaking the treaty, our brotherhood disintegrated, and I earned another badge of scorn. Deserter and alliance-breaker.
No one passes my test: find the stone hidden under the triple mattresses in the guest room. Three were as many mattresses as would fit before the bed became too absurd, but it’s clue enough. When Father asks me what the test is, I won’t have lied when I said it was to prove their interest in our realm: any suitor sufficiently versed in Peony folklore could, theoretically, have wondered at the additional bedding and thought of that story. Then they’d find the stone. If it’s a little obscure, well, I was only being thorough. In the meantime, perhaps the increased trade from the royal delegations and the bustle of court will be enough to help people forget my past misadventures.
It all comes to a crashing halt like dancers jammed in a corner when Princess Elvire of Viola arrives.
Of Kings and Fairies
Content warning
Suicide ideation (MC is drinking and considers jumping off a tower)
Hugo
One step, a hundred feet of air, then cold, hard stone.
Marigold Castle boasts the tallest towers in all the Floral Realms. Once, I’d been proud to say that. Once, I’d imagined myself standing up here, a crown nestled in my hair, a Marigold pin gleaming on my breast, gazing across the land as its king.
Now I stand on the parapet of the northern tower, the toes of my boots edging out over empty space, a whisky flask held loosely in my hand, staring at the sun-scorched ground. There are no guards up here; attack, should it occur, will come from Daisy Realm to the east. Such an event is unlikely. Daisy’s forces are amassed in the north, looking to invade Peony Realm. Which we, Marigold, are annexing so we can close in on Daisy from all sides. Our other foes, Lily Realm to the west, are busy taking over Viola Realm. Once we have Peony, Daisy, and likely Iris Realm too, Lily won’t stand a chance even with what’s left of Viola’s army.
We have new weapons, weapons with unthinkable power. We’ve already cleaned out most of the contested territory in what used to be Rose Realm. Lily Realm’s arrows and swords are no match for our guns.
My head aches with the numbers, the campaigns, the strategies.
My heart aches with the loss.
The northern tower wouldn’t be manned anyway; the new north-western wing has better lookouts. There is only one purpose for making the climb up here. I wonder if the stone a hundred feet below my toes will be as unforgiving as my current torment, standing on the edge of the parapet with all my mistakes swirling in my mind. If I’ll regret the ground rushing up to meet me as much as I regret everything else, if I’ll miss the cool autumn breeze against my skin before I lose that too.
‘Well,’ says a smooth, mocking voice behind me, ‘that would simplify things.’
I don’t turn around. There’s only one voice in the realm I despise more than that one, only one person I want to see less, and he’s busy sitting on a cold throne several sets of winding stairs below. ‘What do you want, Gage?’
‘Oh, I do like it when you growl.’
I close my eyes. The summer sun makes a red haze of my vision through my eyelids, but the wind strips most of the heat from the day.
One step. Not even that much – I could tilt forward. Fall.
‘Hard to believe the most powerful man in the seven realms hasn’t trimmed his beard in months and is about to hurl himself off a tower.’
Sylvaine Gage, my father’s right hand and the most incorrigible, unprincipled, ruthless person I know. I can picture her behind me, one shoulder leaning against the door jamb, arms crossed, lips twisted down in her usual frown, glaring at me as if I am a worm in her apple, and just as likely to bite me. But right now, the battle-witch is the least of my worries.
The world is burning and I have no means to put out the fire. Of course I haven’t trimmed my bloody beard. Before my father’s army dragged me home, there wasn’t time. Now, there isn’t any point.
‘The King would have your attendance.’ Gage’s tone shifts to impatience.
The King. My father. He can’t have my attendance if I’m dead. But short of death, I must accept the summons. I tut. ‘Running messages. You’ve stepped down in the world.’
‘I displeased him.’ Gage sounds irritated. Only Gage would earn the King of Marigold’s ire and have the audacity to be annoyed at the fact. ‘You know what he’s like.’
I do, and right now, I can’t bring myself to care what Gage has done. I’m fairly sure she is – or was, before Rose Realm fell – a Rosian spy. Our relationship had started with a fight over that accusation, deteriorated when she challenged me to a duel that she didn’t show up for, then disintegrated entirely when she committed a war crime on behalf of my father.
‘I’m not hanging around all day,’ she says. I imagine the smug look on her angular face, the wind ruffling her red-brown hair, which she keeps impractically: too short to tie back, too long to slick with wax. It constantly falls in her eyes. ‘If you want a push, say the word. I’m always happy to help a friend.’
At least there is one thing that hasn’t changed upon my return: Gage is as insufferable as ever. I hated her when she got her commission by lying, and I hate her now for being here.
I drain the rest of my whisky, then turn and step down to the battlement. My final fall is not something I want an audience for.
Gage lounges in the doorway, arms folded, hair blowing across her face, lips drawn in a thin line of disapproval. She wears a tailored frock coat with the collar turned up, breeches and knee-high riding boots. A single Marigold pin on her lapel is the only thing that identifies her as part of our military. I’m surprised the King hasn’t insisted she dress according to her station.
Then again, he probably has. He sent an officer’s wardrobe to my room when I returned two weeks ago, but I’m still wearing plain clothes and my travel-worn brown overcoat, still sporting my tangled, overgrown hair. Even looking at the crisp new jacket and pressed trousers feels like sacrilege, although I’m not sure what of – the uniform I used to wear with pride or the rebellious cause I’ve pursued for the past three years. Still, my refusal to wear military dress is based on principle. Gage simply does what she likes, regardless of the rules. ‘What does His Majesty want?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say.’
‘But you know.’
She gives me a supercilious smirk before turning back into the gloom of the stairwell behind her. ‘Of course I know.’
I follow her down the twisting stairs. Once, I was right-hand-man to the King, knowing all there was to know about the goings-on of Marigold Realm. Or so I’d thought. Now I’m not sure I know anything about this war at all. What good is a monarchy with a criminal and a tyrant on the throne?
At the bottom of the steps, I grasp Gage’s arm and drag her into a curtained alcove. Daylight streams through a small window and catches the crystal wand she has holstered at her hip. Bright light flashes in my eyes.
Gage rakes her gaze up and down my body and folds her arms. ‘If you want to ravish me, Braggart, you’ll have to do better than a corridor and a breath rank with whisky.’
I glare at her, the use of the old nickname somehow still smarting. ‘It’s Prince Hugo or Your Highness to you, Knave.’
‘You remember. How sweet.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Out with it. But if you touch me, I will punch you.’
‘What did you mean, calling me the most powerful man in the seven realms?’ Most likely, she was teasing, trying to provoke a reaction from me. But after years of running a vast network of informants, I’ve learned there’s often something behind throwaway comments. Noah and I never left a stone unturned, for all the good that did us in the end.
Gage’s lip curls in disdain. ‘Hard to believe, isn’t it? You’re a wreck. But the King’s mirror doesn’t lie.’
‘What mirror?’
‘I can’t tell you that.’
‘Gage!’
Her eyes flash. ‘Don’t raise your voice with me, Your Highness.’
‘Tell me what I need to know. Or I’ll tell the King you used to be commissioned by the Rose Realm.’
She pales, her nostrils flaring. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’
I fold my arms and look down my nose at her. She’s tall, but I’m taller. ‘Try me.’
For a long moment, her hazel eyes bore into mine, then she huffs, blowing her fringe off her face. ‘Fine. He has an enchanted mirror that tells him who holds the most power in the realm.’
I blink. ‘And that person is me?’
‘You heard me the first time.’ Gage sweeps the curtain aside. ‘Let’s go, Braggart, before it’s my fault you’re late.’
She strides out, letting the curtain fall in my face.
‘Knave,’ I mutter.
***
I’ve slept in tents in forests overrun with spies and enemy soldiers that are more welcoming than the Marigold throne room. To think, this place used to feel like home.
Nothing has changed about it: still the same grey stone walls devoid of hangings, the same flagged floor, the same sunlight angling in through high, narrow windows. Seeing the King is like seeing what I could have been if I were a better prince. Or a more obedient one. My father’s brown hair has gone to grey and his face is lined, but his green eyes still cut the room, able to pin a person and make them tremble as they draw near the throne, which is a stone chair in the centre of a foot-high dais – also made of stone.
My footsteps echo as I approach the dais, Gage’s boots an off-beat rhythm behind me. As a child, I would sneak in here after court concluded for the day and make grand speeches just to hear my voice reverberate around the space. No wonder my brothers had called me a prig.
‘Kneel,’ my father commands.
I lower slowly to my knees. Thirty-five is too old to be throwing myself on stone floors.
‘Rise.’
Suppressing a sigh at the pointless display of power, I rise and meet his gaze.
He regards me coolly. ‘I’ve thought of what to do with you. You will undertake the Gauntlet. We are overdue for a champion.’
I dare to raise my eyebrows. The Gauntlet is a maze containing an insurmountable set of tests, dating back to the first King of Marigold and the founding of the realm. It is said that Henri Tagget I won the Gauntlet with only his squire to aid him, and the fairies gifted him a crown.
No one has passed it since. Every ten years, a Tagget prince or son of such attempts the Gauntlet, knowing that if he wins, he takes the crown. It’s usually an honour to be chosen, and the possibility of claiming the throne ahead of other heirs or even the ruling king’s death is a tempting prospect. Supposedly, the failure of every aspirant is simply confirmation that the order of birth is correct, but I’ve always found that logic a little odd. It’s said the centre of the maze is a boneyard.
‘You sentence me to death, my king.’ At least stepping off the tower would have been quick.
‘Nonsense. You’re the Tagget heir. You’ll return victorious and inspire our expanded realm to a new era of greatness.’
My father is many things, but delusional isn’t one of them. Nor is optimistic. This is a banishment, and a creative one at that; when I fail, which is certain, he will be proven right in his dismissal of me. If he could simply disinherit me, I have no doubt he’d have done so the day I refused his order to attack a field hospital on the Peony border. Other realms have stripped royal heirs of titles, but the King of Marigold would never break the Tagget line in such a disgraceful manner. Instead, he traded me off to be held hostage in Iris Realm for two years as part of an alliance treaty against Rose Realm. Me and five other princes trapped in a tower.
I’d put those years to what I’d thought was good use: building up a network of spies and informants and undermining the war on as many fronts as I could manage. When the treaty fell apart and the realms descended into chaos, I continued the work, moving from one unsafe place to another in the now-contested Rose territory. But it all came to nothing, and now I’m home, here, standing before a king who has wanted me out of his line of succession for years.
My gaze slides to Gage, standing to the side of the dais. Not on it; no one is permitted that level of equity with His Majesty. The court battle-witch always escorts aspirants to the Gauntlet. No doubt she will enjoy rubbing my face in my demise.
As if drawn by my thoughts, Gage meets my eyes and shrugs lazily. Always insolent, always disrespectful. The king turns to face her, and she straightens, her shoulders tensing.
‘The candidate ought to have an attendant. You will go with him, Gage.’
‘I will escort him as is my duty, Your Majesty.’ How she gets away with that tone, I have no idea.
‘I mean as Prince Hugo’s squire.’
I can see Gage swallow from here, and the smugness falls away from her voice. ‘I have other duties concerning the Gauntlet.’
The King waves a hand. ‘You will manage.’
‘I am not a trained squire, Your Majesty.’
‘Are you arguing with me, witch?’ The King’s tone is chillier than the stone floor I’d knelt upon.
Gage opens her mouth, which she should know by now is only going to make things worse for both of us, but before she can speak, there’s a commotion at the end of the hall.
A page hurries up to the dais, bows, and says, ‘Prince Patrice of Marigold and Master Donatien Roche, Your Majesty.’
The King sighs. ‘Gods save me from wayward sons. Approach and kneel.’
My youngest brother, who’d run away from the castle shortly before the war broke out for reasons I never understood, saunters across the hall, then kneels. Somehow, he oozes insouciance even when prostrating himself on the floor. Roche, his bodyguard, follows with the deference expected of a soldier. They are dressed in shabby finery, looking more like middling merchants than royalty and bodyguard, and neither have shaved for weeks, which works better for Roche than my brother. But then I looked worse when I was dragged through the castle gates, and I’ve done little to improve my countenance in the two weeks since.
‘So you’ve returned,’ the King says sourly.
Patrice lifts his head, catches our father’s expression, which matches the stone walls around him, and addresses the floor. ‘We – I – yes, my king.’
‘I heard you nearly married a Lily prince.’
‘A lucky escape, my king.’
Beside Patrice, Roche turns a snort into a cough. Some of his professional polish has clearly worn off during his absence from court.
‘And now you think you can come back here after five years neglecting your royal duties and win my good grace?’
‘This is my home,’ Patrice mutters. He has always been too petulant, too expectant, too unwilling to play the games of power in this room.
Gage clears her throat. ‘If I may make a suggestion, Your Highness?’
The king strokes his chin. ‘Go ahead.’
‘Prince Patrice would make a fair attendant for Prince Hugo.’
The king levels a long look at Patrice. ‘Perhaps. The Lily prince situation is not the only unfortunate rumour I’ve heard about him.’ His eyes slide to Roche, then back to Patrice. ‘The Gauntlet will do him good.’
Roche’s spine stiffens. Patrice splutters. ‘The Gauntlet?’ He shoots a horrified look at me, eyes widening. ‘Hello, Hugo. I’d say well met, but you can’t be serious?’
‘I’m not. Father is.’
‘I am. But neither of you can be trusted. You will take the Gauntlet, Hugo, and you will take this sorry disaster with you. Gage will accompany you to make sure you both comply. Gods willing, I will never see either of you disgracing this hall again.’
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