by RJ Metcalf
“There you are.”
Slate jerked his head up at the unexpected male voice. Who would be here—one of the nicer eateries in the entirety of Doldra—looking for him? He glanced to the side of the booth, where other patrons sat around their own respective tables, but none of them even so much as glanced in his direction. That could be due to the warrior blocking their view.
“Zane?” Slate blinked up at the Monomi, who both fit in with the posh surroundings due to his dark, nearly all-black outfit, and who also stood out like a dactyl at a royal ball due to his double swords, belt of vials, and all the other weapons. Slate furrowed his brow. “What are you doing here?”
Zane’s gaze darted to Charlene then back to Slate. “Official business. We need you at the palace.” His tone remained neutral, but Zane’s fingers impatiently tapped a pattern on his sword hilt.
“Right. Uh—” Slate turned to Charlene, torn between regret at not ending the date properly, walking her to her door, and continuing his personal code of “treat the lady right,” and relief that they wouldn’t have to have the awkward dance of “we would never work out,” he gave her his most regretful frown. “I’m sorry, my lady, but duty calls.”
She nodded, her expression a portrait of grace and understanding—and not a hint of dismay. “Of course.” She hesitated, then gave him a small smile. “I don’t think I’ll be available tomorrow after all.”
Slate rose from the table and bowed to her. “I understand. Thank you for your time this day.” He counted out enough lut to cover their bill and then some, then didn’t look back as he followed Zane into the comparatively brighter spring sunshine outside the restaurant.
Zane shot Slate a side glance. “Sorry about interrupting that.”
Slate allowed himself a grimace as he stretched. “It wouldn’t have worked past a second date, anyway.” Disappointment at another failed date this week threatened to engulf him. “What’s happening at the palace?” Realization struck him like lightning. “Is it Sapphire?”
“She’s in labor.” Zane said it as casually as if he was describing the lightly clouded sky. His eyes held a somber tint, as if aware of every fear and dread that coursed through Slate’s veins at his announcement. Zane nodded toward the palace. “She’s in the medical wing. You can use my horse. I’m going to find Garnet to let her know.”
“Try our mother’s shipping yards,” Slate replied, his attention already drifting from their conversation. He should have been there from the very beginning. What if she—he cut off the thought. She wouldn’t die in labor. She was a different woman than Rose. She was strong.
But Rose had been just as strong. And she still died.
Slate ignored the thoughts tumbling in his mind, focusing solely on racing Zane’s horse through the busy streets, up toward the palace. He had to get there in time. Sapphire needed her family. Brandon needed his support. Slate couldn’t—wouldn’t—leave them to face this alone.
The travel from his date to the palace medical wing seemed to pass like an eternity and also like a tick of the clock. Slate rushed down the warmly colored hall, focused on the gilded sitting room door that two royal guards stood abreast. They nodded in recognition and opened it to let him in.
Slate paused mid-step, surprised by the drastic difference between the warm, bright lighting of the hallway and the dimly glowing crystal sconces in the waiting room. Brandon sat on a slim, dark wood chair, resting his chin on his intertwined fingers, his brow creased as he stared into the crackling fireplace. Prince Richard perched uneasily on the edge of his seat next to Brandon, shoulders hunched and jaw set. Richard’s aide stood alongside Brandon’s aide, Andre, along the wall adjacent to the delivery room. Andre’s composure radiated calm, despite the line of tension creasing his forehead. He held a sheathed sword in his hands. Slate squinted and could barely make out the insignia of House Benning. Clara must be inside with Sapphire. Good.
Slate met Andre’s eyes when it was clear that neither princes were even aware of his coming in. Andre shook his head slightly, and Slate sank into a seat across from his brother-in-law, dread filling his stomach with bitter acid. How long had Sapphire been in labor? When had the news reached Zane, and how long had it taken him to find Slate? How long had Rose been in labor before she’d bled out? Slate ran his thumbnail against the seam of his pants, unable to keep as still as Richard or Brandon. He’d barely sat down, but he just couldn’t stay. He popped up and walked down the center of a thick rug that led behind the row of seats that the brothers occupied. He needed to move, but he could still be respectful while he paced.
Seconds bled into minutes, minutes into what had to be hours.
Every now and then, muffled sounds could be heard from the delivery room doorway, but no one came out. And no one went in. Eventually, Slate returned to his seat and watched Brandon breathe shallowly, his knuckles white as he gripped his hands together. Sweat beaded on Richard’s forehead, his gaze glued to the burgundy rug.
If Slate remembered correctly, Rose had been in labor for only a couple hours before everything went wrong. What if something happened again? They’d come get Brandon, surely. Slate checked his pocket watch. Three hours had ticked past. He slipped the watch back into its pocket and leaned forward, pressing his forehead into his hands. She would be fine. Women gave birth. It was natural. Sapphire was strong. She would survive this. Slate coughed to clear his throat of the emotions thickening his vocal cords. He would not bury his baby sister.
The tension of not knowing, of being left to his own worries, was going to drive Slate crazy.
A shriek rent through the silence, and the air froze in his lungs. He looked up at Brandon, seeing the same terror he felt in his brother-in-law’s eyes. Was she—a muted cry broke the unearthly quiet of the waiting room, and every fiber in Slate’s being wanted to melt into a puddle of relief at the clear sound of a squalling baby.
But his sister. How had she fared?
Richard stood abruptly, his lips and skin nearly bloodless. He touched Brandon’s shoulder. “I can’t stay.”
Brandon’s nod was barely visible, his expression wavering between delight and trepidation. “I understand.”
Richard’s aide opened the door for Richard, who passed Slate without a word, and Slate turned his head, giving Richard the gift of privacy for his grief. The door shut ominously behind them, leaving Slate alone with Brandon and Andre.
When would someone come to tell them?
The delivery room door opened, revealing equally dim lighting beyond as Sapphire’s handmaiden, Clara, stepped into their room. She let the door close behind her, and she swiped a wilted curl behind her ear as she curtsied, stumbling ever so slightly. Andre was by her side in an instant, steadying her. She smiled her thanks over her shoulder without looking away from Brandon. “Your Highness, you have a healthy, lovely daughter.” Joy rang on every syllable as she spoke. “And your wife is healthy and recovering.”
It was as if every muscle in his body had been slashed, and Slate sagged in the chair. They were family, or close enough, and all were caught up in their own private moment of mind-numbing relief.
Brandon buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. Andre moved to Brandon’s side and rested his hand on Brandon’s back, compassion easing the lines of earlier stress. Brandon sucked in a breath and scrubbed at his eyes with the palms of his hands. “Adeline Grace.”
Clara beamed. “Indeed. The first princess. Would you like to come in and see them both?”
Brandon sniffed and scrubbed the back of his hand against his eyes. “Yes, please.”
Clara smiled softly at Slate and Andre. “You’ll have to visit a bit later.”
Slate grimaced, unsurprised. “I’ll wait here.” He glanced at the door. Now that he had a moment to think, was Zane still looking for Garnet? Their mother would be returning from her business trip within the day, most likely. Garnet would be sorely vexed to have missed all the waiting, and his mother would be overjoyed to k
now that she had a healthy granddaughter. And the news would be told to the king and queen within the hour, and––Slate’s mind stopped there. He watched Brandon stand, testing his likely numb legs from sitting after so long.
“My crown prince.” Slate hadn’t meant for the words to be audible, but they slipped out regardless.
Brandon stiffened, and turned ever so slightly, not fully looking at Slate. “All I want is my family. I don’t care about the rest of it. I don’t need it.” He strode past Clara and pulled open the door for himself, disappearing into the room. Clara hustled in after him, leaving Slate with Andre. Slate crossed his arms, his mind whirling.
Brandon had an heir before Richard. Now Brandon was eligible for the throne of Doldra, while Richard’s heir and wife had both died in childbirth.
This changed everything.
Chapter Three
Slate
The scent of roasted sausages wafted by Slate, and his mouth watered as the vendor called out for customers to take a sample. The traveling caravan had arrived in town barely a week ago, and they had completely taken over the City Circle. Towering buildings edged the brick-worked circle, and long shadows fell over the colorful carts as the sun continued to sink beyond the horizon. Voices of all ages melded into a melodious din of happy chaos as folks bartered, argued, laughed, and swapped stories.
Through it all, Slate wandered aimlessly as his thoughts churned.
It hadn’t mattered to him before, if it was Richard or Brandon on the throne, because both had their pros and cons as ruler. But after Richard lost Rose and their baby, he’d grown unstable. Enough so that he was likely going to do something rash, thanks to his quick-to-act and slow-to-think temperament. Brandon was idealistic, yes, but at least his temper didn’t get the better of him as often as it did for his elder brother.
Perhaps Brandon being crown prince would be what the kingdom needed during these troubled times with the Reformers. Maybe he could be the level head that their people needed.
A baritone laugh rang throughout the Circle, reverberating in Slate’s head, bringing warm childhood memories to the forefront of his mind and interrupting his introspection. He whirled on his boot heel and stretched to see over the heads around him, looking for the owner of the voice.
An older man stood by a booth selling ornamental glass rocks. His back was to Slate, but the broad shoulders, leather holster of vials, baggy healer’s vest, and salt-and-pepper hair were familiar enough for Slate. He jogged over and tapped the man on the shoulder. “Finn?”
Finn turned, and his eyes flicked over Slate before he tugged Slate’s hand, pulling him into a hug and pounding on his back with an eye-watering greeting. “Slate! How are you?”
Slate blinked away the unexpected moisture in his eyes and grinned at his longtime friend. “Doing well. Just had to get out, clear my head. And if Zane hasn’t found her yet, find Garnet. Don’t suppose you’ve seen her randomly in the last few hours?”
Finn shook his head and then nodded slowly. “Actually, yes. I think I saw her earlier, by the Crimson Hawk, but that was this morning. Something happen, son? What news of your family?” Finn stepped back to look him over, and his gaze caught on the star on Slate’s uniform. “Did you get promoted?”
A laugh broke out of Slate. “Oh, that’s old news! Yes, a few months back. You’re looking at a second lieutenant of the royal guard.” Slate posed, hands on hips, chin jutting in the air. “But that’s not the big news.” Slate lowered his voice, aware that he shouldn’t say anything before the royal announcement, but the excitement and relief couldn’t be contained. “Sapphire had her baby today. A girl!”
“Really? Congratulations, uncle.” Finn’s face creased with his smile. “A promotion within your job, and a promotion within the ranks of family! I assume all went well with the birth?” He raised an eyebrow as his eyes narrowed. “Is this news official?”
Slate bobbed his head from shoulder to shoulder and shot Finn a sheepish grin. “You didn’t hear it from me.” Finn guffawed and Slate rocked up on his toes to see over the people in the Circle. “Anyways, she’s doing well, praise the Author. It took longer than I expected, but they’re both healthy and safe, and I’m just glad it’s over.” Slate pushed a hand through his hair, then smoothed the ruffled strands back into place. “A friend was going to find Garnet and let her know, but I don’t know if he actually succeeded, so I’m going to check the Hawk. Walk with me?”
Finn hefted a small, leather satchel over his shoulder and nodded. “Of course.”
“Excellent.” Slate slipped through a tight group of folks gawking at a display of dragon claws and waited for Finn to follow him. “I’m already looking forward to when Adeline is older and I can encourage her to have all the fun that everyone will be saying a princess shouldn’t get into.”
Mirth lit Finn’s eyes. “Oh, I doubt she’ll need you to encourage or teach her anything mischievous. Connor was what, six years old when he met some neighborhood boy and became an even more impetuous handful than before. No one needed to teach either of them how to get into trouble!” He shot Slate a reproving look that proved how little things had changed since Slate and Finn’s son were kids.
“We weren’t all that bad, were we?” Finn guffawed and Slate backtracked. “Aside from the time we accidentally let the pigs out!”
Finn merely raised a gray eyebrow and smirked.
“Or the time we forgot to tell you that we were going on an overnight adventure—”
“And no one knew where you were. Mmhmm. Your mother was one minute away from a fit.” Finn shook his head, his shoulders shaking. He gracefully sidestepped a child darting through the crowd, then shot Slate a look. “Or the time you boys ate the poisonous lepiota mushrooms and I had to watch over you two all night. Or the time that you boys rearranged all my medicinal herbs by size and color, and it took me hours to put them back in order. Or when you boys were playing with dandelions in the washbin and dyed all our family’s underthings bright yellow. Or—”
“Alright! Alright!” Slate raised his hands in surrender and tossed his head back with a helpless laugh. “Maybe we were a bit much. How is Connor? And Maria? Are they doing well?”
“They are, yes.” Finn stopped to let a family meander in front of him, and he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Still living in Deckett. No kids yet, but I know they’ve talked about adopting. I’ve been waiting for their next post, but it’s overdue, and I expect it’s related to the rebel issues there.”
Slate rubbed his forehead with his hand and dragged it down his cheek, groaning. Sapphire had argued vehemently for the peaceful negotiations that failed and had nearly taken her husband’s life, and the continued skirmishes only salted the injured compassion she nursed. He shook his head. “We really need to do something about the rebels—one way or another—and soon. Richard hasn’t been the same since Rose, and I think he’s starting to blame the Reformers for her death.”
Finn’s face darkened. “Why would he blame them? I thought the princess died in premature childbirth.”
Slate slowed his steps and pursed his lips, tapping his finger against his sword hilt. “She did. That’s the thing. I think he blames the Reformers for restarting the upheaval. Did you know that Brandon was out there, trying to parlay with the elders when the Reformers attacked? Brandon was injured and Doctor Jaxton was dispatched to help. Within just hours of his leaving, Rose started bleeding, and nothing Doctor Fitz-Williams did helped her.” Slate swallowed back the bitter taste that coated his tongue. “Sapphire had wanted to go along for those negotiations. She’d wanted so badly for them to work.”
A chill breeze worked through Slate’s uniform jacket, and he crossed his arms as he shook his head, as if he could shake away the horror of that day. The fear from earlier was still fresh in his mind. “Rose bled to death not even a day later, and Richard shut down. Brandon came back with Doctor Jaxton, alive but barely. Doctor Fitz-Williams was fired, and Jaxton replaced him as head phys
ician. And while everyone was mourning Rose, Sapphire had to announce that she was pregnant too.” He sighed heavily and rubbed at his temples, keeping one arm snug against his body. “I’m glad she survived and had a healthy baby. I think this was the scariest day of my life.”
Finn clapped him on the back, sympathy softening the wrinkles around his eyes. “She’s a fighter, your sister. Both of them actually.” He smiled, then let his smile slip. “This must be a hard time for Price Richard.”
“It’s only the beginning for his difficulties.” Slate stopped walking and lowered his voice, looking around the bustling marketplace, cautious about being overheard. Rumors would get out soon enough—they always did—but these wouldn’t start with him. Finn leaned in to hear Slate’s soft-spoken words. “The king and queen want him to remarry soon.”
Finn rocked back on his heels, eyes wide. “I take it they want him to remain crown prince, and not Prince Brandon.” He shook his head. “But the timing? Awful.”
Slate hummed his agreement. “Palace rumor has it they were waiting to see if Sapphire and Adeline would make it before they talked to him.” He spun in a slow circle, searching for Garnet as he talked. If she wasn’t at any of her haunts in the city proper, did that mean Zane had found her? It’d be just Slate’s luck if they’d passed each other somewhere between here and the palace.
“Time to grieve is a needed thing. I’m glad they gave as much time as they have.” Finn’s voice was distant with pain and memory.
Slate didn't say anything. He’d never met Finn’s wife and Connor’s mother. Apparently she’d died in some sort of horrific accident when Connor was a baby—one bad enough to cause Finn to move with Connor clear across country—and Finn always grew uncomfortably quiet and broody when Julia was brought up in conversation. It would be good to change the subject.
