“I thought this second prince would have been harder to defeat. At least you thought to escape when I came for you and your twin. Bresan T’ahnya’s royalty was clever in that respect,” Shadow gave into a wicked grin. “Nevaharday’s prince came straight to me and died on his own floor.”
Patchi grunted as his body slapped brutally against one of the marble columns.
“The horse folk today disgust me,” Shadow continued, reveling in Patchi’s pain. “They have become weak and stupid, forgetting the power that dwells within them. Fear not, old friend. I will rebuild this city as my own.
“I will become the mightiest illusionist the realm has ever known. It’s a shame you won’t be around to see it.”
Shadow knelt to seize the former prince of Bresan T’ahnya, and just as his fingers curled around the gypsy’s collar, Patchi rolled and swung the blade across the illusionist’s eyes. Roaring in pain, Shadow retreated and the gypsy didn’t waste any more time. With Lumiere in hand, he rose to his feet and ran stumbling through the throne room doors.
Siabra broke off from a fight to canter up beside him and the gypsy used a side table to springboard onto her back. Clinging to her mane, he called in the old tongue for the horses to retreat, but the illusionist’s words echoed after him.
“This isn’t over, Thunderhoof!” Shadow shrieked. “Mark my words! The horse folk will suffer under my hand, and they will spend their days knowing their pain was born from the cowardice of two princes!”
Patchi leaned into Siabra’s gallop, urging her to ride the stampede out of the castle and through the barracks. Ahead, the narrow doors of the western gate were broken, their escape temporarily open. He ducked low across Siabra’s back as the mare squeezed through the doorway.
Inside his heart, he agreed with part of Shadow’s claim. This battle wasn’t over. Not yet.
Under his breath, he whispered a prayer to Tennakawa.
“Spare the Connor Prince. Give us another chance.”
* * * * *
Miles from the castle, in the village barely visible from the city’s gates, Levee collapsed into the arms of an old friend. She had seen it all through the eyes of the horses. Patchi’s charge, Diego’s hornless face, the fallen heir of Nevaharday...
Her prince, her mate… slain? It couldn’t be. Levee had done what she could to help him. The thought of Jaycent being lost to her sapped what was left of the gypsy’s strength, and the visions of her equine conduits faded with her consciousness.
“Levee!” Milo cradled her in his arms, patting her cheek. “C’mon, don’t do this to me!”
Rab hurried over, Danna’s reigns in hand as he took Levee from the Sarrokian’s arms. “No time for that. We gotta go. The sun is cresting the eastern rise. If we don’t leave now, the guards on the wall will see us!”
Danna kneeled so Milo could slide onto his back, and Rab helped saddle the unconscious gypsy in front of the Sarrokian’s seat. “Hold tight and ride hard. We’ll treat her as soon as it’s safe to stop.”
Milo glanced down at his beloved, so still against his chest. Swallowing hard, he looked out at the city one more time, his right arm holding her against his frame. He didn’t know what she had done, but he could hear the screams echoing into the sky above.
Something had shaken the illusionist’s tyranny, if only for a night.
“Milo, c’mon!” Rab urged, snapping the Sarrokian back into the present.
Melee sidled up beside him, her nose brushing Levee’s thigh with a reassuring snort. He couldn’t hear her voice, but he saw it in the pony’s eyes. Levee would be alright so long as they left now.
“Hyah!” the Sarrokian kicked Danna into motion. The villagers filed behind him, eager to be on their way. No one looked back upon the place they called home.
Too scarred by the war that tore it all away, they let nature bury the tragic landscape beneath a heavy drift of falling snow.
A ROGUE IS BORN
“Prince… Connor Prince…” The words yanked Jaycent’s bedraggled soul back into the realm of the living. Alive. How was he still… alive? Jaycent sat up with a jolt straight into a flash of agony that had him growling curses. His eyebrows knitted together over clenched eyes as pain shot through his right pectoral muscles.
“Careful,” it was Patchi’s voice. There was no mistaking the gypsy’s soft, sage tone. “A cut from a unicorn’s horn is harsh enough. The piercing you took should have slain you.”
Jaycent gradually opened his eyes, accepting the light’s sting in small, tolerable doses. Thankfully, the room was dim, its walls barely visible under the meager light of a single candle. He sucked in a breath only to be seized by a fit of coughs, his throat dry as parchment.
“I am glad to see you wake,” Patchi confessed. The creak of a chair was followed by the sound of boots against a wood floor as the gypsy approached.
Jaycent’s fingers curled over his chest and he gritted against waves of agony. Along with his wound came the memories of his cousin’s murder.
How many other lives were stolen that dreadful night? Faces he cherished and those he never knew. Grief rolled over the prince with the pull of a tide he hoped would drown him back into oblivion.
No matter how hard he tried, Jaycent could never retrieve what Shadow had stolen from them. Their lives had been snuffed out. Extinguished. A shiver took hold of Jaycent’s body as the blood of the innocent sank so deep into his heart, it threatened to stain his conscience forever.
A hand fell upon Jaycent’s shoulder as Patchi kneeled beside his cot and tugged a blanket over his shoulders. “You have been given a second chance. Do not throw it away to your guilt.”
Something sinister flared in Jaycent’s eyes. It lasted only a split second, but Patchi didn’t miss the seeds of hate within their depths. Their existence were a bright flag to the old re’shahna; a warning that not all of Jaycent had returned from his brush with death. The gypsy frowned when the prince replied, “What makes you think I want a second chance?”
The edges of Patchi’s eyebrows joined over his nose in a knot of disappointment. “You shame the dead with those words, Connor Prince.”
“And what would you know of the dead?”
Patchi’s nostrils flared in an angry sigh. He stood and turned his back to the wounded prince. Crossing his arms, he stared out the broken window toward the speck that was Nevaharday’s silhouette. It was midnight, six days after he had rescued Jaycent from the clutches of their enemy.
Now unholy pyres dotted the hillocks, their smoky clouds rising like pillars into the sky as Shadow’s Abysmal hands disposed of the corpses frozen beneath the snow. It was a sign that the chaos they had created in Nevaharday’s streets had finally been tamed. The reign of Connor’s line had ended, and a new, dark tyranny began.
Could Nevaharday’s prince perceive it?
“I do not claim to understand death any more than yourself,” the gypsy replied in a composed voice that annoyed Jaycent immensely. “However, what your experiences have wrought you is grief, not wisdom. Do not be so impetuous as to mistake the two.”
The prince sat quietly on his cot, his thumb brushing across the bandages over his chest. Perhaps there was some insight in Patchi’s words, but Jaycent had a difficult time wrapping his mind around anything beyond the thorns of loss digging into his soul.
Patchi turned to face the prince and his silence. The clouds in Jaycent’s eyes hinted toward despair. The gypsy’s hands slid from their angry fold and he moved to the table, pouring a glass of water which he offered to his morose companion.
Jaycent stared at it for many moments before necessity forced him to accept the offer. He lifted the glass to his cracked lips, a question slipping quietly over his cup. “Where is my sword, Patchi?”
The gypsy sat with his arm perched on his knee while he studied the prince. “You mean Connor’s sword?”
Jaycent’s temper bristled. “I did not pass through the halls of the dead and endure Lumiere’s test to ‘bo
rrow’ Connor’s sword. The blade belongs to me, and I to it.”
Patchi nodded in approval and reached an arm beneath Jaycent’s cot. “Then it is where it belongs.”
He handed the sword to its rightful owner, its blade covered by a hilt the gypsy had pilfered from the ruins somewhere. “And this as well,” he pulled a second item from beneath Jaycent’s feet and held it out before him.
Jaycent slowly lowered his glass to the floor and accepted Diego’s horn with a reverent hand. Patchi watched Jaycent roll the piece over in his palm, glad some glimmer of emotion was showing through his hard expression.
“Do you know what became of him?” the prince asked.
Patchi’s ears perked from beneath his flaxen hair. “Diego is well. He stands watch outside as we speak.”
The prince started to rise, eager to see his companion, but the gypsy restrained him. “You will see the stallion soon enough, brother. First, there is much you and I need to discuss.”
Jaycent settled back in his seat, one arm cradling his wounded chest. “What more could you possibly want from me?”
“Nothing more than you have already promised,” Patchi assured. “You made an agreement when you accepted Connor’s blade. So long as you wield that weapon, you are expected to fulfill it.”
The prince shook his head with a grim chuckle. “I find it ironic you think you can lecture me on promises.”
“Is that so?”
“I met with the re’shahna and retrieved Lumiere,” the prince grumbled. “It is you who failed to keep his word.”
Patchi raised a doubtful brow. “Oh?”
“Your re’shahna promised to help rescue Nevaharday.”
The gypsy leaned against the edge of the wooden table, his elbow perched in one hand and his chin in the other. “Aye, so we did.”
When the gypsy said nothing more, Jaycent held out his hands expectantly. “Are you daft? Do you call this a success? My kingdom smolders like the coals of a campfire!”
Patchi pushed away from the table. “We promised to rescue your people, Connor Prince, not your city. T’was a promise being fulfilled when you intervened.”
“You blame me for this?” Jaycent rose to his feet, towering over the diminutive re’shahna in a challenge that shook Patchi not at all.
He stared up at him, incredulous of the prince’s density. “I merely state the truth. Have you yet to comprehend your significance? None may wield the magic within Connor’s blade except for one of his kin,” Patchi waved his hand in Jaycent’s direction. “That is you.
“Because of this, I had no choice. My people held one opportunity to steal the attention of Shadow’s army and gain a brief window of time to lead your refugees to freedom.
“Instead, that window was used to save your life.” Patchi gave into a great sigh. “Why do you think I requested you stay by Tobiano’s side?”
Jaycent was no longer listening. The weight of his actions pressed him back into a wretched tear of guilt. He was responsible for it all.
Over two-thirds of his people were lost or subjected to Shadow’s tyranny because of his actions. The prince’s arms trembled, his hands balled with shame.
In a wave of fury, he turned and slammed one fist against the wall, his nails digging into his palm as he braced himself against the sting of his wounds and the burn in his heart.
“Connor Prince!” the gypsy scolded.
“Stop,” the prince growled, slamming his fist again, “stop calling me that.”
“Jaycent…”
“I am not worthy of that name.”
“Brother, I understand your pain.”
Jaycent rested his head against the solid wall, swallowing back his anguish. “How could you possibly understand my torment?”
“How could I not?” the gypsy replied. “T’was I who made the decision to save your life in their stead. I too carry the weight of our people’s fate.”
“You said yourself you had no choice,” the prince snapped.
“And you thought you did?” Patchi reminded him. “I see now that Tobiano and I were too subtle with you. For that I bear the responsibility for your return, and thus the failure of my mission.”
“I am their prince, Patchi. Nothing you could have said to me would have prevented my return.”
Patchi chuckled. “We are not so different, you and I. My people look to me for answers and guidance. Every night I feel the weight of their need, the weight of their trust. Diego is your companion, Nevaharday your city, and I fathom what that means to you.
“Few princes would leave those responsibilities in another’s hands. And those who do…” Jaycent lifted his eyes in time to catch Patchi’s weak shrug. “Well, let us just say they spend the rest of their lives trying to amend their disgrace.”
The prince of Nevaharday turned and rested his back upon the wall, allowing his head to thud against the surface. “I never chose to be a prince.”
Patchi nodded. “None ever do.”
“And to say I had always walked the right path would be a lie.”
The gypsy pulled up a stool next to the table, his expression lacking any form of judgment. “Aye, but there is wisdom to be found in wandering. A kind that eludes those whose feet have never strayed.”
Patchi’s words didn’t ease the guilt in Jaycent’s heart. Nothing would. What he had experienced scarred him so deeply, he feared there wasn’t enough forgiveness left in the world to thaw his soul.
“What do we do now, Patchi?”
Guiding the prince to the plain wooden table, the gypsy pulled a stack of ragged parchment from a drawer and dropped it onto the wooden surface.
“What is this?” Jaycent asked as he gingerly took a seat.
“The beginnings of your memoir.”
The prince scoffed. “You want me to do this now?”
“Write it down while it is still fresh in your mind,” the gypsy slid a quill before him along with a small jar of ink. Jaycent steeled his pale blue gaze against the bleak page, his grim expression the only outward sign of the darkness swelling inside.
“Connor Prince,” Patchi urged.
“Why should I bother?” His Highness demanded. “What purpose will this serve?”
Patiently, the gypsy picked up the quill and placed it in the royal’s palm. “Nevaharday fell because it forgot the fate of its ancestors in Bresan T’ahnya too quickly. We cannot let future generations make the same mistake.”
The prince slumped into a defeated slouch. “I have given up everything I was; everything that mattered. Was that not enough?”
“Shadow’s hand will extend. As his power grows, others will need answers. They will not understand if you do not write it down.” When the prince still failed to move, the gypsy put a hand on his shoulder. “Do it for your people.”
Jaycent sighed and tucked his chair under the table, hovering over the blank parchment with dismay. What words could encompass the horrors of this tragedy?
“Try starting at the beginning,” the gypsy coaxed. “Start with who you are, what you are, where you come from. Trust in what I tell you! T’will get easier as you go along.”
Lifting the quill, the prince began to write. Balls of paper littered the floor as he fought to uncover the right words until he eventually found his rhythm.
The gypsy perched himself on a wooden stool and watched as the prince feverishly wrote his memoir, his forehead glued to his palm.
It was morning when he finished, and by then his voice was husky with exhaustion. “What now?”
“Many things, my friend,” the gypsy replied. “Years will pass before we can create a force great enough to withstand the power of the illusionist.”
“Then I must find my mate—”
“No,” Patchi stood, gathering the pages Jaycent had scrawled upon and tucking them into a worn leather binder. “You and I are now Shadow’s most hated enemies. His eyes will be ever-searching for us in the form of powerful accomplices. Will you endanger her now that
we have his attention?”
Jaycent didn’t answer.
“Shadow hungers for vengeance,” the gypsy warned. “The illusionist will search for any form of weakness in your heart if it brings him closer to destroying you. If you want to protect Levee, I suggest you let her go.”
Jaycent planted his fingers across his brow and clenched his eyes as he thought of Levee. The softness of her skin, the nectar of her laugh, and the way her eyes, so green, saw through his every flaw and warmed his cold heart.
His jaw quivered as he considered Patchi’s advice. “You ask too much of me.”
“Then those who died did so in vain.”
Jaycent could no longer handle the gypsy’s cold rationale. He stood and grabbed his tunic from the floor, grunting through the pain as he tugged it over his head. Tying his cloak over his shoulders, he tucked Lumiere and Diego’s horn into his belt and stumbled out the door.
“Where are you going?” Patchi called after him.
Crisp winter air tore the breath from Jaycent’s lungs and made the sensitive nerves in his wounded chest sear like fire. He fought through the blinding pangs, trying to force himself onward. But for once his will was not stronger than his body, and the world rushed past him faster than his consciousness could follow.
“Jaycent!” Patchi darted out the door and caught the prince as his knees buckled beneath him. But his weight nearly doubled the gypsy’s, and Patchi had to brace himself just to keep them both from falling into a heap in the snow.
“Diego, come hither,” the gypsy begged.
Jaycent’s struggled to regain his footing, his head swirling in circles, when he heard a stallion snort. The familiar warmth of a velvet muzzle brushed his face and the prince pushed the gypsy aside as he fell to his knees.
Diego knelt beside his companion, curling his neck around Jaycent’s weakened body. The prince buried his hands into the stallion’s mane, his head rested against the unicorn’s smooth, hornless crest.
The Rogue Trilogy Page 44
