The Hidden King

by E G Radcliff

  Ronan blinked, his brilliant eyes confused, as if Áed could be talking about someone else. “Me?”

  “Yeah.” Áed crossed his legs as the boy slid off his lap. Ronan looked healthier; his cheeks were fuller and there was color to his face, but that wasn’t necessarily an indication of what lurked beneath the surface. “I mean…” Áed exhaled through his nose, gathering himself. “Ninian died. And then we ran off to the White City, where we were arrested, and everything else happened.” He shrugged gingerly, his back still smarting where Ronan’s arms had rested. “You’ve been really strong, but I want to make sure you’re hanging in there.”

  The younger boy sighed. “I’m okay.”

  “Really?” Áed wheedled. He sensed reluctance behind Ronan’s words.

  Ronan huffed quietly, resting his elbows down on his knees. “Well, I will be.”

  That brought a hint of smile to Áed’s lips, and he put a hand on Ronan’s shoulder. “Come on, ceann beag. It’s late.”

  Áed eased himself carefully into bed as Ronan wriggled between the sheets and curled into a ball. Áed turned and blew out the candle, releasing a wisp of sweet-smelling smoke into the room before he settled in.

  The quiet lasted about seven seconds before Ronan spoke.

  “Hey Áed?”

  “Hmm?”

  There was a pause, and the smaller boy shifted in the dark. “Do you really have to be the king?”

  Áed groaned and rolled over. “Please, I don’t want to talk about that.”

  “No, no…” Ronan hurried to amend what he was saying, his little voice fluttering around in the dark.

  Áed pulled the blankets over his head, savoring the close warmth against his body, which seemed to have been imbued with cold. “It’s been a long day, mate. We can talk tomorrow, okay?”

  “I know, I know, but please just listen for a moment.”

  “Later. Seriously.”

  Ronan knew that tone. He had to know it, just as Áed knew it as soon as it left his mouth more sharply than he’d intended. That was the tone that meant for Ronan to cut it out. To stop whatever he was doing, and stop it yesterday.

  Ronan ignored it.

  The boy sat up in bed, pulling the quilt with him and robbing Áed of its warmth. “No, Áed. I mean it.”

  Áed sat up too, feeling his fuse burning down with the spines of pain over his skin. He didn’t feel irritated, not really, but he was heavy and weary and wanted nothing but sleep. “I’m being serious, Ronan. Stop.”

  “Áed—”

  “I am going to sleep now. Please just do the same.”

  “Áed!”

  “I don’t want to talk about it!” He knew that his voice was louder than he’d meant, but he couldn’t take it back. In the darkness, he could tell that Ronan’s lips were pressed together. “Oh, don’t give me that look,” he grumbled, and carefully lay back down. “Goodnight, Ronan.”

  Ronan did not lie down. “Come on, Áed,” the younger boy said softly to the dark. “Just listen. Please?”

  Áed resorted to pleading. “I’m trying to sleep, ceann beag. I’m sorry, mate, I just can’t do this right now.”

  Ronan was quiet for a moment, and for a split second Áed relished it, breathing in the quiet. Then Ronan spoke. “I don’t want you to be king,” the boy whispered.

  Áed didn’t speak. The words were taking longer than usual to sink in given his exhausted state, and Ronan seemed to draw confidence from the pause.

  “You don’t want to, do you?”

  “I don’t know.” In truth, whether or not he wanted the throne had not crossed his mind.

  “Wouldn’t it be better if we just found someplace to stay where it was quiet? I’d like that so much. You’ve seen such awful things, and we came to be safe. Not for this.”

  “Seen awful things, mate?” He was actually glad he was facing away from Ronan and the light that shone in his eyes. Áed gestured exhaustedly to his body. “This is an awful thing.” He let his hand drop onto the pillow. “Ronan, I need time. I’m sorry, ceann beag, I can’t think about this right now.”

  Ronan was finally quiet, defeated, and Áed realized how much emotion was wrapped in the boy’s tense, whispered words. The Áed from before all of this would have felt something, anything, in response.

  But he hadn’t.

  It was in that moment that Áed thought the person he used to be was gone.

  Surely that Áed died on a cold table as knives pierced his flesh and poison filled his wounds. That Áed had died alone in a cell of pure darkness, buried like a skeleton fathoms below the ground.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  He awoke before the lights turned on, bathed in cold sweat. The remnants of a nightmare lingered in his vision, silhouetted brightly against the dim room even when he opened his eyes, and he snatched at the memories before they could float away. He couldn’t catch them.

  He sat up, unnerved, and quietly headed into the kitchen. The darkness felt too close, as if it was holding itself to him like a second skin.

  Ronan’s words from the night before circled in his head, nibbling at his conscience. Whatever his own desires might prove to be, once he was sure of them, what business did he, Áed of the Maze, illiterate, broken and tired, bastard son of a madman, have being the leader of anything?

  At the same time, it was an opportunity. How many times had he prayed to change things for the better? He’d settled on raising Ronan kindly, on bringing goodness to just one more person, but if he could do more…

  He jumped at footsteps behind him, and whirled around too fast. He caught himself on the edge of a chair and gritted his teeth as Ronan held up his hands defensively. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Ah,” Áed groaned, straightening with some effort. “I’m alright.”

  “I heard you get up.”

  “Nightmare, is all. You can go back to bed.”

  “I think it’s almost morning.”

  Áed sank into the chair, hissing. “Ow.”

  “Are you sure you’re alright?” Ronan perched himself on the arm of the overstuffed chair, which creaked under the imbalance. “Maybe I can find some of Boudicca’s medicine for you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Ronan sighed quietly. “About last night…” He shook his head, and crazy sprays of his hair stuck up every which way.

  “I’m sorry I snapped at you. It’s not what I intended.” Áed leaned his head back into the soft cushion of the chair and closed his eyes. Sleep had done nothing, and he was completely exhausted.

  Ronan took a deep breath, and for a moment, no one spoke. Ronan’s presence lifted the weight of the darkness and made Áed less lonely. “What was it like in the dungeon?” Ronan asked after a while.

  “Dark. Cold.”

  A long, companionable silence settled in as Ronan thought this over, and the sun began to tinge the very edge of the sky with mournful indigo. Áed had never thought of a sunrise as sad before, but it really was; the colors were dark and muted, as deep as the night they followed. Even when the sky began warming, with colors like the insides of seashells, it was melancholy that light replaced the stars. He should have been glad of the light after so long in darkness. He should have been grateful for the faint warmth that the spring day would bring. Instead, he almost felt that, though the darkness was awful, the difference between it and the light wasn’t significant enough to matter at all.

  There came a groan from the couch as Cynwrig, who had stayed the night as promised, sat up, and both Áed and Ronan looked over. The General yawned, stretched, and then slouched over to rest his elbows on his knees. “Morning,” he grunted thickly.

  Áed nodded in reply. “Another day.”

  A little later, Boudicca emerged from her room, and she smiled at him, her eyes concealing her thoughts. “It’s early yet. How are you feeling?”

  He glossed over the question. “I’ve been better. What’s the plan for today?”

  Boudicca’s face
turned startled. “Beyond staying here and resting?” she asked, obviously confused.

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.” He couldn’t think. “I can’t do nothing.”

  “You aren’t doing nothing,” Boudicca hastened to assure him. “You’re healing.”

  Well, perhaps his body was. His mind felt on edge, not quite at rest, not quite moving. All that was familiar had been overturned, and there were pieces to pick up. His hands, ever broken, couldn’t stay still.

  Ronan could sense his agitation. Áed knew this because the boy abandoned his spot on the armchair and took a few steps nearer, and Áed welcomed him under his arm. That, at least, would never change.

  Boudicca, he noticed, was still looking at him the way she had the night before, as if she didn’t quite know who he was. He supposed that was fair. But her expression unnerved him, the way her eyebrows knitted just slightly and the inner corners of her eyes pulled in so that she seemed guarded to him. There was something she didn’t understand, something about Áed she was puzzling over, but she didn’t ask, and Áed didn’t answer.

  The day opened up, and Cynwrig left to order a guard to the flat. There was nothing to do but think, but since Áed didn’t want to think, he sat by the window and watched people pass who were happy and whole. His mind was circling without his conscious guidance, like a waterwheel that dipped into the recesses of his memory and splashed what it gathered over his view of the sunny street. If he chose it, he was to be the king of that street, those people, and all the streets and people he’d seen before.

  When that thought arose, he let out a little breath.

  There would be good to come from taking the throne. He, most certainly unlike any of Cynwrig’s ‘more qualified’ contenders, wouldn’t neglect the Maze any longer. He’d seen all too clearly the effects of that negligence accumulating like dust over the centuries, and the Maze, hateful though it was, had played its part to shape him. He would care for it if he could.

  Of course, he couldn’t be entirely objective, not with Ronan’s plea in his head. Áed had already taken away Ronan’s lifelong home, and before that, they both had lost Ninian. With the fear of losing Áed still too fresh in the boy’s eyes, it seemed barbaric to ignore him.

  Áed shook his head. Boudicca was right, there was no haste.

  The street slowly emptied as the light became leaner and the White City’s citizens slipped indoors. Footsteps from behind told Áed of another presence, and he carefully turned to see Boudicca pulling up a seat next to him. “So,” she said.

  “So.”

  She pursed her lips, her face as inscrutable to Áed as an open book. Even so, he easily felt her discomfort pouring off of her. “You’ve been here a while.”

  “Yeah.” He shrugged gingerly. “It’s a nice view.”

  Her nod was an afterthought. “Listen, Áed,” she said, smoothing her skirt nervously over her knees. “We should talk.”

  “Sure.” He shifted so that he faced her with more attention. “What about?”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it, clearly nervous to continue. “Well—”

  The door-handle turned, and Boudicca jumped up. Áed frowned at the mixture of disappointment and relief that shifted over her face. “Boudicca,” he asked, “are you alright?”

  She nodded quickly. “Cynwrig’s back. We’ll talk later.”

  The General came in, and Áed pushed himself, wincing, out of his chair. Cynwrig slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette and a match. “There’s a guard outside, and there will be one until you move into the palace.” He fixed Áed with a curious stare. “Assuming, of course, that you accept the responsibility.”

  “I haven’t been able to think about it,” Áed lied.

  Cynwrig shrugged and lit his cigarette, drawing a frown from Boudicca. His features weren’t spiteful when he cast his cold eyes on Áed, but his face held a look of lingering disappointment. “What would quicken your decision?”

  Áed didn’t know. To accept his heritage was to betray Ronan’s trust for what felt like the hundredth time since Áed dragged him from the Maze, but it also represented the chance to do right. What was more, to take the throne was to reclaim some control over his life. He needed that. “I need to know more,” he confessed.

  Slowly, the General nodded. “Yes,” he mused. “You do.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Four and a half days had passed since Áed had collapsed back in Boudicca’s flat, and the mood of the marketplace through which he and Boudicca now walked was uneasy. The open revelry of the Festival of Fire had passed, and along the street, the August Guard maintained well-starched stiffness while their sharp eyes combed through the crowds.

  Cynwrig had encouraged this outing in response to Áed’s need for information. What better way, he’d explained, to learn the city than to act as one of its people? Áed had harbored no opposition to the suggestion, not as the days dragged on and Boudicca’s comfortable flat grew slowly more stifling.

  Boudicca had initially refused to let him leave. Insisting he still needed rest (which he did), she ordered him to sleep if he could (he couldn’t), and provided him with ample food. On the fourth day, however, he’d convinced her that house arrest was unnecessary. She’d changed his bandages again, reported that his wounds were healing well, and reluctantly agreed that she would accompany him into the city.

  The market, though subdued by the August Guard’s supervision, still sparked with life. No vendors shouted their wares—nobody wanted to draw attention to themselves—but people flowed around the stalls like water, touching, haggling, smiling, arguing. A few children darted through the crowds, little hands snatching at unguarded wares only to be shooed off by peddlers, and they giggled and tripped and chased each other so that they stood out from the wary adults.

  Boudicca paused, and Áed stopped with her as she turned to a nearby stall. She had been pausing periodically, and together they stepped apart from the quickly-moving crowd. To blend in, they had to keep up with the flow, but Áed wanted to drink in the details. As Boudicca pored over skeins of colorful yarn and ran her fingers over spools of thread, Áed paused nearby as if waiting for her and cast his eyes over everything: a sign that hung askew over the entrance of a building, a window-box trailing violet flowers with tiny green leaves, a window whose glass shaped a gnarled tree. Farther down the street, an upended carriage split the swiftly-flowing foot traffic, and its broken wheels turned slowly in the wind.

  Thanking the vendor, Boudicca tucked a new skein of poppy-bright yarn into her handbag. Unlike the rest of the crowd, Boudicca moved with her head held straight, looking forward confidently with her chestnut hair spilling free and glossy down her back. At first, Áed had thought that was risky, but as he observed the gazes of people who passed, he realized that her beautiful, unhooded face drew attention away from her nondescript companion. Besides, a guard trailed the two of them like a shadow, keeping watch for danger.

  “Boudicca!”

  The call came from behind them, and they turned to find a man of about Boudicca’s age jogging toward them. Boudicca broke into a friendly smile. “Finnan! How are you?”

  “Well enough, well enough! And yourself?”

  Boudicca chuckled and rolled her eyes. “What with everything going on, I suppose that I’ve been a bit anxious.”

  The man called Finnan nodded understandingly. “You can always come by if you need anything.”

  Boudicca smiled. “You’re a good man.” She looked down the street. “How’s business? I haven’t seen many people stop by the tavern.”

  Finnan shook his head. “It’s rather poor. But with things as they are, I’m not surprised.” He shrugged. “The Council of the King isn’t used to keeping more than the city’s usual order, and given that nothing is usual about this, I’d guess they’re struggling a bit. Nobody even feels safe enough to get a drink, I suppose.” He gave the two a conspiratorial smile and leaned a little closer, rubbing his ungloved han
ds together against the chill. “If I may ask: you never did admire Seisyll much, did you?”

  With a wary glance around, Boudicca shook her head.

  Finnan’s eyes, the deep blue of a morning sky, brightened. “So then I can ask what you think of all the current goings-on. The heir and all.”

  Áed felt himself redden, certain for a moment that the man saw through him, but Boudicca only flashed Finnan an easy smile. “You always were a gossip,” she teased.

  Finnan rubbed his hands together. “I’ve got gossip. You know how the heir’s supposed to be dead? You’ll never believe what I heard. Torin, the butcher, heard from Cian, who heard from Treasa—she owns that brewery on the corner by the palace—that she saw some cab-driver pick up a fare out of an alley of the palace.” He paused to take a breath, and his eyebrows rose as he gained energy. “Said she’d been there all day, and she never saw the boy go into the alley, only come out, and when she went into the alley to look, there was this door, which I suppose leads to the dungeon. And it was all burned out, like he’d set it on fire to escape.” Finnan held up a finger, coughed once into his fist, and plowed on. “Said the fellow was in real bad shape, too, beat to hell. Said he looked just like a boy who got dragged into the palace a week or so ago, and she’d heard from Caoimhe, whose wife’s in the August Guard, that that boy was there because he was from Smudge. And the heir’s supposed to be from Smudge, so…” He stopped for air, looking at Áed and Boudicca expectantly. “So she thinks maybe he never got killed.” He grinned as Áed swallowed hard. “How about that?” He winked to Boudicca. “And as for my being a gossip, I’m hardly the only one talking about it. In fact, it’s all anyone can talk about.”

  “What if it’s true?” Áed asked. He hadn’t intended to sound interested, but a bit of a sparkle came to Finnan’s eyes. It was clear he fancied the speculation. “I mean, what if Seisyll’s son actually took the throne?”

  “Well,” Finnan replied. He folded his hands behind him and leaned backward, and his face was ripe with intrigue. “I suspect that if that day comes, Suibhne won’t be quite the same again, will it?”