“That’s going to have to wait, brother,” Callum said, chewing his lip thoughtfully. “If you’ve found your Bonded, it could put us at an enormous advantage over the war. We’d be fools to not use it.”
That was the answer Renne expected, and his younger siblings reached the same conclusion. He knew why they were all here, though. They wanted to see the Bonded for themselves. They probably imagined her to be some great witch-woman. But according to Yvonne, no powers had manifested as of yet.
The door opened. The elder interviewing Maya stepped out. Artur. His leathery face was so full of wrinkles that it resembled a swathe of cobwebs. As the oldest person in their army, he demanded respect by virtue of the knowledge tucked in his mind. A man who had served three kings. He beckoned for Renne to come in, and refused the others when they clamored.
“We’re waiting outside,” Tara said, folding her arms and shooting Yvonne a filthy look. “I want to see my brother’s Bonded. I want to see how it works. Who knows when I’ll get one?”
“I’m sure you will,” Yvonne said, wetting her bottom lip. “If you just… open yourself up a little. Let people into your life.”
Tara gaped at Yvonne who retained an expression of mild innocence. Renne left them to whatever brewing argument threatened to stir and followed Artur through the door. Inside the room, Maya was slumped on the interview table, a glass of water next to her elbow. Her face was puffy and red from apparent tears. She looked like an absolute mess. Damnation, Renne thought. If only she was from this realm. At least they’d have some common ground. At least she no longer wore those outlandish clothes.
“She is… taking it hard, Highness,” Artur said, rubbing his hard, liver-spotted hands together. His long brown robes rustled with the motion. “She will need more time to adjust. Don’t forget she’s only been spat into our world mere hours ago. Acclimatization can take months.”
“We don’t have months,” Renne hissed, out of earshot of the puffy-faced human. “The sooner we leverage this advantage, the better.”
“Give her time,” Artur repeated, his eyes now icy blue chips. He also lowered his voice. Maya seemed neither to care nor to focus on anything they said. “And treat her kindly. I know you’re not exactly known for your… subtlety, but I can confirm that this is a true Bond. The last time I saw it was during your great grandfather’s reign. And he helped forge the very Albalon you see today. If you don’t want to scare her away, you need to turn on your charm full blast. Do everything in your power to make her like you.”
“You’re serious?” Renne imagined himself kneeling in front of the woman, holding flowers, facing a stony expression, as flames licked around them, begging for her to share her strength as the dragons continued to destroy everything that mattered. I can’t charm. I’ve never even tried!
“Deadly. It doesn’t have to be love. But there has to be something there. After all, you will be dependent on one another in battle. But since she’s from another realm – we can’t know her loyalties, if they train warriors over there, or if they’re pacifists. So for now… be nice.”
Artur gave Renne a friendly pat on the back before announcing in a loud, reedy voice, “Prince Renne will escort you to the royal chambers now. He’ll make sure you get the care you need.”
Rubbing her eyes, Maya said with a wet, tear-choked voice, “I’m not… I’m not going to be Yvonne’s servant?” A pause. “You won’t be getting me a… waystone home?”
“We can assign Yvonne to you if you wish to have someone friendly and familiar with you,” Artur said, causing Renne to nearly snort with laughter. “Go and get some rest, little one. You are in dire need of it.”
“O-okay.” Maya’s chair scraped as she stood up. She was quiet and subdued as he led her to the section of the camp where the royals slept. A small collection of mansions – and he was in the one that had a few holes in the roof, and a collapsed terrace and sideroom. Three floors in total made it smaller than the ones his siblings occupied, but honestly, he wouldn’t have minded a simple cave. General Witslaw and Beatrice and all the others kept insisting on separating the royals, making them aloof and mysterious to the population.
Renne and Maya exchanged precisely zero words between them as he showed her to the spare rooms before saying that she could pick from whatever empty ones were there.
“Is this your mansion?” she asked, her attention on the extravagant carpet in front, the curling banister to their side, and the unlit chandelier which hung above them, the candles long since melted down into white pools of wax. A slash of night sky could be seen through a hole in the roof. “Because it looks like it’s in some need of repairs.”
“Not really,” Renne said, while Artur’s words kept floating in his head. Be nice to her. Charm her. Be kind. He clammed up instead of saying anything reassuring or witty. “These are just temporary accommodations.” While we prepare for the assault on Bastion which you won’t know anything about.
“Oh,” she said. Ending the empty conversation. “I guess… I’ll just… go.”
He watched her shuffle off, hunched into herself, giving off a lonely, small aura. Maybe he should try and say something to comfort her, but really, he didn’t want to be in this situation.
Neither does she. She closed the door behind her about two rooms ahead, and didn’t emerge again. Probably crying on the bedding or something. He stared at the door for a few moments longer, not really thinking anything, just feeling a kind of numbness creeping inside. Then he turned, getting himself ready for bed.
He didn’t do much of an adequate job developing any camaraderie between them for the next few days as well. Always something extra to do. Meanwhile the knowledge spread all over the five warcamps that one of their resident four unicirim had finally obtained a Bonded. People already began sidling up, asking for a sighting of the two of them together, no doubt wanting to see the fireworks and power the stories wrote about.
I’m just giving her time to adjust to her new place, Renne told himself. Besides, there’s a lot of things I need to do. Like have general Witslaw yell at him for not taking advantage of a weapon they now have in their arsenal. Or Beatrice, Witslaw’s wife, glare at him disapprovingly, like she always did. She’d always preferred his siblings to him. His Zorin blood, after all, showed up in every aspect of his features.
He took the time now, free from the trappings of the compounds, to shift into his unicirim form. He felt more powerful in it, more assured of himself. He rubbed his black coat against rough treebark on the mountain nearby his warcamp. It didn’t take long to fly up here. He stretched his wings once he finished rubbing out that itch, straining the muscles in a pleasurable way, before shifting each one in turn so that he could pluck at any nuisance feathers with his teeth. He tried imagining a rider on his back with that special unicirim saddle that kept the rider strapped to him. It didn’t seem right, somehow. An extra burden to carry through the air. Someone like that woman, that stranger from another realm, supposedly the one destined for him.
Ripping out a loose feather, he blew it out of his mouth, letting it drift onto the hard ground. The dawn sun above painted the scenery around him a mellow pink. Birdsong echoed, filling the air around with chirrups and twitters.
Dawn on a kingdom lost to his people decades before. Those in the warcamps with him now were all young when the attacks happened but all people who had been displaced one way or another by the dragons. They found allies in the nearby kingdoms, people who feared the dragons expanding their influence. But so far, the dragons had seemed quite content with Albalon and their kingdom across the sea. Folding his black wings back, Renne pawed the ground with his hoof and flicked his tail.
If they ever took back River’s End, he’d find a way to persuade Witslaw to drive the fight to the dragon’s homelands themselves and make sure they never did such a thing again. He and his siblings should have been living in a grand castle. Instead they lived in safehouse after safehouse, Witslaw constantly shifting them f
or their safety.
Truthfully, it felt easier to dream about taking back River’s End. It was another thing altogether to finally participate in the assault and realize he’d need to consider the mantle of king, if they liberated the place. Of course, Callum might still take the throne ahead of him.
He’d deal with that when it came. He didn’t think Callum was the kind to stick a dagger in the back, but power did strange things to men and women.
A speck appeared in the horizon, roughly where they knew Bastion to be. The warcamp shouldn’t be so easily visible from the forests, but still…
If the dragons were coming to aid Bastion and the werewolves that defended it, then that did provide a small problem. Dragons notoriously cared little for other species, even if those species should technically be allied with them.
I better report this. He cantered forward before taking a huge leap, his wings beating hard to generate lift, and he soared through the early morning air, rapidly descending back to the compound.
He wasn’t completely irresponsible after all.
When he arrived back in camp, he shifted into human form and informed Witslaw of the dragon sighting, who immediately set some of the air witches on watch duty to make sure the dragon didn’t approach.
“You know,” Witslaw grunted, taking a moment to shave off some of the gray fuzz on his chin as he glanced into a small mirror, “We would let you fight on the front lines if you go ahead and Bond some more with that woman since you might actually be able to survive direct conflict. You’re always complaining about that.”
“It’s annoying that we go through all this training, but we’re not actually allowed to use it.”
“Sorry, son. My whole life’s been about protecting royalty. I’m not about to slip up now. It’s essential you learn to defend yourselves but that doesn’t mean I’m going to throw you on the front lines. Unless it’s too much of an advantage to ignore.”
Of course it didn’t. And now everyone and their mother expected Renne to connect with that woman from the realm of America who said bizarre phrases like shitting on people and always glazed over when he began talking about basic Albalon things. He’d tried to get her to eat breakfast with him once, but that ended up awkward. Where was the soul mate connection they all talked about? Why hadn’t they just instantly fallen for one another or whatever it was soul mates did?
“Don’t tell me you’re actually scared of talking to her,” Witslaw said then, dabbing his face with a little cloth and straightening from the mirror. “She’s not going to bite.”
“We have nothing in common,” Renne said. “I have no idea what to even say to her. And we are essentially keeping her captive, so I doubt she’s going to warm up to the idea of helping me in a war anytime soon.”
“You weren’t the most social of boys, I suppose,” Witslaw said, one eyebrow raised as he regarded Renne. “But you don’t need to be social. Just handsome. And dominant. Women like a dominant man.”
Great. Be kind, be charming, be dominant. Should have given this chore to Callum. He’s much better at it. “Fine,” Renne said. “I’ll try again. I’ll stand there, handsome and dominant. Maybe crack a walnut open with my biceps or something.”
“Shift into unicirim form,” Witslaw suggested. “Ladies love a flying horse.” He patted Renne fondly on the shoulder. “We move in two days. Two more days of disrupted food caravans should cause the werewolves in Bastion to be desperate. Once we take Bastion, we’ll be well placed to continue the war effort. It’s a good, solid city with connections to many trade routes and good to defend.”
Renne smiled though he didn’t feel it, bade Witslaw farewell, and headed over to his huge yet empty mansion. Be strong. Dominant. And all the other things people expected him to be. He didn’t like it, the way people constantly projected expectations of him. He didn’t feel like any of the personalities they wanted and he felt trapped by his heritage. He’d much rather be an ordinary soldier, fighting for a prince. Not the prince himself. And definitely not a magical shapeshifting one.
Taking a deep breath, he nodded at the two guards stationed outside his mansion and pushed open the double doors, before heading towards the kitchens.
Maya
The nightmare didn’t end. Maya never got to wake up and find out everything was a crazy dream. She never heard Danielle or Charlotte laughing with her or got a phone call from her parents. Somehow her phone had survived the drowning part, but she had no signal in Albalon, and had eventually resorted to turning it off and booting it up every now and then to see if somehow, she’d gotten any messages. She sat now upon a dilapidated old armchair that overlooked the curling staircase down to the ground floor, her cold phone clasped in her hands.
Guards watched her when she left the mansion and followed if she risked heading out of their sight. They didn’t want her escaping. Not now that she was supposed to be Bonded. People in the camp treated her with both fear and reverence, something else she found confusing. Soldiers decked in metal armor saluted her when she passed, and people like Yvonne, with strange makeup or tattoos on their faces, came to approach her, just to… look. Like she was some prized pedigree at a show or something.
What disturbed her most was what that old man had said. Artur had effectively told her that to the people of Albalon, she was now deemed too valuable to be allowed to return to her realm, all because of the white scarring on her palm. Shaking hands with the person who had saved her life had effectively condemned her.
Which made her simmer with both anger and fear. Anger of having a potential way out denied to her. Fear of what these people would do if she denied them what they wanted.
As for what she understood of the whole sorry business she’d landed into – her knowledge still felt basic. There was one huge army, split into five, surrounding some sort of city that belonged to some allies of dragons. Because yes, they had dragons and werewolves, apparently. Renne and his siblings were displaced royals, on a campaign to take back their homeland from said dragons. Renne and the other royals could transform into something called “unicirim” which didn’t sound like a creature belonging in earth’s mythological encyclopedia.
She glared at her blank-screened phone, wishing with all her heart to be able to contact her parents and her friends, wishing she’d chosen to stay safe at home, rather than agreeing to come along to a party. Wishing she hadn’t found out Brandon lied to her – preferring to play with his friends rather than admit to her he just didn’t want to come. Would that have been so hard? Really?
The wishing did nothing. Her world consisted of a strange new reality with different rules. Absently, she put the phone away and arranged her clothes neater, fingers running over the thick gray furs of some unknown animal. Probably one of the werewolves. No wonder they kept raiding. The furs extended in robe like fashion over her body, and she wore loose brown leathers underneath as well. Nothing fancy or fashionable. Something practical that could be stitched out of the skins of animals. Her mother might have a thing or two to say about that, since her mother campaigned vigorously against cruelty to animals.
A wave of desperate longing hit her, along with a lump in her throat, thinking of home. I didn’t speak to her nearly as often as I should. I treated her calls like they bothered me when she wanted to check if I was alright. She could almost picture it now – posters of a missing girl stuck to posts and trees, her friends enduring interviews from the police, maybe Danielle crying about how she shouldn’t have left her friend alone, making a big drama about it. Oh, Charlotte certainly would. She’d be practically begging for that sympathy online about the trauma of losing a friend. If only Maya could log online and send a post from beyond the grave...
The front doors opened, pushed inward, and a lone figure strode in, with furs dyed black, and what looked like sheep wool huddled over his shoulders. Something lurched uneasily inside her at the sight of prince Renne, and she watched him stride off towards the kitchens, without a single glance up to the
first floor where she sat in her armchair, with a polished wooden barrier in front.
She felt quite certain that the prince had been ordered to try and talk to her over the last few days, and his stilted awkwardness showed up in almost every word he spoke. He didn’t want to speak to her. Didn’t want anything to do with her, really. But the pattern on their hands meant he had to. Warm, baked yeast smells drifted from the kitchen not so long afterwards, and Renne strode out again, reaching the bottom of the stairs, looking up – before freezing, his dark eyes settled on her form.
He was going to wake me up, she thought. Instead of the servants. Maybe invite her down to breakfast and fail some more at conversation. No, that’s unfair. He was trying, before. I wasn’t giving anything in return.
“Do you usually get up this early?” he said, making his way up the stairs with sharp thunks.
“I sleep in, if I can. Had a lot on my mind,” she replied, though she was at first tempted to make her answer reticent. Now he stood next to her, attempting a smile, though it resembled more of a grimace.
“I know the feeling. It’s hard to get sleep when there’s worries pressing down.” He pursed his lips. “I preferred being younger. Half the trouble, none of the responsibility.”
Her lips twitched upward slightly. “Yeah, I get that. Suppose it must be hard being you. With your… princyness. People looking up to you and sh-crap.” She remembered too late how confused he got when she swore, but it was hard to bite down on a habit of a lifetime.
His eyebrows did wrinkle slightly at crap, though, so she probably hadn’t improved much in that area. “I wouldn’t say people look up to me. They look more up to my younger brother, Callum. He’s the one you see with the floppy blonde hair, the charming smile. They like him better than me, but I’m the one who’s meant to inherit the throne. If we take it back, of course.”
The Last Unicirim’s Bride Page 4
