Last Petal on the Rose and Other Stories

by Stephanie Rabig

  Finally, he got to his feet, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and stumbled out to the middle of the room.

  "Hello?" he called. "I...I would speak with you. If that's all right."

  He waited, watching the stairs and the third-level landing. After a moment, the prisoner walked down the stairs, his eyes on him rather than the steps, and Janos wanted to tell him to be careful of where he was putting his feet, but couldn't seem to make his voice work.

  "That...um. That's close enough, I think," he managed, when the prisoner reached the bottom of the stairs. Which was a ridiculous thing to say, he knew that as soon as the words were out of his mouth. If he wanted to hurt him or threaten him to get information, he'd certainly had ample time to do that earlier today; but he'd realized as the man drew closer that if he stood directly in front of him any coherency he'd managed to gather would scatter to the four winds.

  He stopped, and Janos cleared his throat. "Um. Thank you," he said, pulling the blanket a little tighter around himself.

  When he didn't say anything else, the man smiled, the expression crinkling up his eyes and making him look about ten years younger. "Is that all?" he asked.

  "No," Janos said, but there were too many questions rattling around in his mind for him to settle on just one. The thick, leathery fabric the prisoner had draped around his legs was clean. It had been bloody and filthy when he'd been carried through the village. He must have taken it off in order to clean it, Janos thought, surprised at how visceral his reaction to that was. Finally, he gathered his concentration enough to ask, "What's your name?"

  "Roland."

  Janos blinked. "Really?" He'd been expecting a completely unfamiliar name, something he'd have trouble pronouncing. Their own King five rulers back had been named Roland.

  "And you're Janos," he said. "The King's son."

  "Yes," he admitted.

  "You never answered my question. Why did you keep bringing gifts?"

  "To be fair, you did scare me out of my mind."

  "Sorry. I didn't intend to."

  "You didn't intend...so you jumped out of the dark?"

  "Fair enough. It had been a long day."

  "I imagine so," Janos said quietly. "I just—I suppose I didn't like the idea. Of you being trapped in here all by yourself."

  "You weren't afraid I was going to drink your blood?" he asked, smiling briefly.

  "No. Well, not very, anyway," he admitted, handing him the blanket back. Roland's hand brushed against his, and Janos found himself wishing for another excuse to touch him. "I've come to believe that a good deal of the things written in my father's papers about your people are blatantly false."

  "Dare I ask what you've read?"

  "Things about human sacrifice," he murmured. "You clearly already know about the 'drinking the blood of your enemies' rumor. The papers do seem to be right about a general lack of shirts, however," he said.

  "I do wear shirts, actually. Mine was just too bloodstained to keep."

  "...oh."

  "Now the people a much further distance to the west, they don't tend to wear shirts. Perhaps the notetaker got confused."

  "There are people further to—but all the books say..." Janos trailed off, realizing exactly how much he didn't know. "Are you truly a Prince?" he asked. "Or was that another lie my father told, to make your capture seem more important?"

  "I am a Prince," Roland said. "My mother was elected Queen twenty-three years ago."

  "Elected?"

  Roland nodded. "Our people chose her to rule."

  "Oh. Here the gods decide," he said quietly. "Our family has ruled for nine generations. Why is your name Roland? That's...well, that's a name that we use."

  "Because my great-grandfather was originally from your lands. Kings and Queens here exile their 'undesirables', and much of the time we find them."

  "So my father sends people to you? We went to war against you and you...you're us?"

  "We don't believe he knows about it," Roland said. "When did the practice of exiling start?"

  "Over three hundred years ago," Janos said, still feeling dazed.

  Roland nodded. "The first man we found in the forest...it didn't end well. One of our hunters just saw a mass of brown moving, and thought it was a bushling. He'd slung a rock at it for a killing blow before he realized. After that, we kept a close eye on the forests surrounding our home. Much of the time, there would be no one. But on some days... Gradually, we learned to communicate with each other. Interbred. I fully believe if your father knew people were reaching sanctuary rather than simply wandering around until they starved, he would stop the practice of exiling immediately." He looked him over. "Why did he throw you in here?"

  "Because I helped his mistress leave the castle," Janos said, feeling an old instinct to defend his father rise in response to the plain loathing in Roland's voice. "I knew I would get in trouble even as I took the action. Father knew I'd explored this castle for hours upon hours as a child. He knew I could hide. He never intended for me to get truly hurt. He was simply trying to scare me, that's all."

  "Was he?" Roland said, his voice shifting from its former conversational tone to a low rumble. "Because your soldiers starved me for days. They taunted me with food, and sliced at me with their knives when they grew bored on their march home. And when your father and his lapdogs came to visit me here, they talked endlessly about what they would do to the rest of the people in my village, especially my mother. Given the mood that would put any man in," he said, "tell me. Would you assume he isn't violent? Would you trust your family with him?"

  "But you're not..."

  "No, I am not. But it wasn't for the King's lack of trying."

  *~*~*

  He'd never slept so close to anyone before.

  Well, save for when he'd bundled up under a multitude of blankets with one of the nurses after an incident involving a frozen lake and a weak board on the dock, but that was so far removed from this situation that Janos didn't think it really counted. About the only similarity was that on both occasions, he was trying to stay warm.

  It was a little strange to get used to—he couldn't stretch as fully as he normally would—but it was...it was nice. And he was most certainly warm, between the blanket they shared and Roland's considerable body heat.

  Did the other man want him this close? After all, it was quite a large blanket, and he'd only edged nearer after he was certain the other man was asleep.

  They were on perfectly friendly terms now that everything had been sorted out between them several days ago, but it wasn't as if Roland had invited him to his bed before tonight. He'd just offered to share the blanket after the temperature plummeted.

  He would still be perfectly warm if he scooted away a bit. Janos started to do so, nearly yelping in surprise when Roland just hauled him in close again like a child with a favorite stuffed toy.

  Well.

  *~*~*

  He hadn't intended to fall asleep. Most certainly hadn't intended to wake up sprawled out across Roland's chest like some sort of awkward living blanket.

  It was odd, to see Roland asleep. When he wasn't snarling at the guards from the shadows at mealtime, then he was explaining some custom or another or listening intently to Janos talk. Always so vital, Janos thought. It was strange to see him still.

  Janos rolled to the side, intending to apologize should Roland wake up, but fortunately that wasn't necessary. He sighed with relief and started to get to his feet, then paused when he caught sight of something on Roland's skin.

  They weren't precisely tattoos—he'd seen the colored ink that some of the soldiers got in honor of a particular battle or a fallen comrade. They were more like scars. One was reddish-white, fairly recent, while the others were simply raised bumps, fading back into Roland's skin tone. They were symbols of some type, clearly meant something, but he didn't understand the language.

  Despite himself, he reached out, started to trace one with his fingertip. Then he felt e
yes on him and his hand froze, and he looked up very, very slowly. "Sorry. Um. I..."

  He started to scoot back, but Roland took hold of his hand, curling it against his chest.

  "What do they mean?" Janos asked softly.

  "This one," Roland said, gently touching three small curved scars that rested above his heart, "was given to me because I reached my tenth birthday."

  Janos nodded in understanding. Queen Valeria had given birth to two other children, but one had died a few days after birth and another had been taken by disease at not quite a year old. Some of the peasantry, he'd heard, didn't even name their children until after their third birthday.

  "This one is for passing the combat trials," he said, pointing to a triangle with a small dot inside it on his left shoulder. "Queen and King's children can specialize in strategy or fighting, but we're all expected to defend our land. And this," he said, hesitation in his voice now as he motioned to the most recent scar—four lines that slanted to the left. "This is to mark my first kill in battle." He cleared his throat. "There are marks for other things, of course. Ones given on a wedding day, or to celebrate the birth of a child. There's also a mark for exceptional bravery. Maybe one day I'll give that one to you. After all, it was brave of you to come back, after the scare I gave you."

  "Sounds like a fine idea," Janos said, though some of his instinctive terror at the thought—what did they use to cut the skin open? A knife? A sharp rock?—must have shown through on his face, because Roland laughed.

  Janos laughed as well. The palace doctors had fussed over him since the day he was born; the idea of him intentionally getting a scar was nothing but laughable. Still, a part of him couldn't help but wish that he could treat it as cavalierly as Roland did.

  "It's snowing."

  Janos rolled over to look out the window, smiling at the sight of the flakes tumbling down from the sky. "Come on," he said. "It'll look beautiful from downstairs."

  They left the bedroom and walked down the stairs, staring up at the snow swirling in through the holes in the roof, dots of white against a midnight sky. It was a heavy snowfall, and before long soft piles of it were gathering in patches on the floor and coating the large table.

  The snow wasn't the dry, powdery stuff that they'd had the past two winters, but the thick, wet snow that had once been perfect for building snowmen and having snowball fights when he'd been a boy. Granted, he'd never been able to stay out on a snowy day for nearly as long as his brothers, so most of his fond memories of snow days were of looking out his window and watching his brothers tussle in the snow as he himself built tiny snowmen out of the snow that had drifted onto his windowsill.

  Janos had to admit, the snow that was drifting down now did look awfully tempting...

  Hoping it seemed like he was just going to take a closer look, he inched closer to the table, and its waiting pile.

  "Isn't it odd," Roland said, "how a day can be going perfectly well, and suddenly someone gets a death wish?"

  Perhaps he hadn't been as inconspicuous as he'd thought. He could admit his ill-thought out scheme and slink back over to Roland. Or...

  He scooped up a handful of snow, giving it a hard throw before he ran.

  Janos didn't get far—he hadn't expected to—but he did rather wish it was because Roland caught hold of him fair and square instead of him stumbling to a halt when his left knee gave out.

  Fortunately, Roland apparently thought it was a ploy to duck out of the way rather than recognizing it for the embarrassing physical weakness it was. He caught him around the waist, also dropping to his knees, and Janos forced a smile onto his face as he waited for the pain to fade.

  "Okay, so I know I deserve snow down the back of my shirt for that, but if I could just—"

  The snow was soaking into the fabric of his leggings and his knee ached and he was breathless from the cold, but when he looked up and saw the expression on Roland's face, suddenly none of that mattered.

  There was affection there, and want, and he wasn't just imagining it, wasn't just hoping so hard for it that he was seeing what wasn't there. It was shining on Roland's face as bright and clear as the snow.

  He had time to acknowledge the expression but not how to respond to it before Roland leaned forward and kissed him.

  And if simply lying close to him had sent a thrill right down to his toes, this was on an entirely new level; it was all he could do not to let out a thoroughly ill-timed laugh and scramble up into his lap.

  That was when Roland dropped a handful of snow down the back of his shirt.

  Janos yelped and fell back, sitting down hard, and then he was laughing and Roland was laughing, too, scooting forward to wrap the blanket around their shoulders again.

  "Well, we had this whole speech prepared about how if you hurt our brother we'd torture you to death, but looks like we don't need to give it."

  Janos looked up, his mouth falling open in shock at the sight of his brothers. Beside him, Roland had already gained his feet, and now offered him a hand up, wariness thrumming through every line of his body.

  "Pity, too," Ambrus said.

  "Yeah, it was a good speech," Abel said, nodding in agreement with his twin. "Full of glowering."

  "What are you doing here?" Janos asked, embarrassment warring with surprise.

  "Told the guards we were paying a visit," Abel said, still looking between the two of them. "So," he said, gaze finally settling on his brother. "This is who you were courting?"

  "Um," Janos began. Interesting, he thought. Until this moment, he hadn't realized a person's entire body could blush.

  "Come on," Ambrus said. "We're going to get you out. Both of you, I suppose, now."

  Janos closed his eyes as grief swept to the forefront of his emotions again. "Thank you. Really, thank you so much, but no. I can't let you risk something like that. What...what he did to Mariska—" They just stared at him, clearly baffled, and he felt his heart sink. "He didn't even tell you? He intercepted her ship. She was..."

  "Janos, no," Ambrus said, moving forward to pull him into a bone-crushing hug. "No. He's been stomping about for the past week, grumbling about how she got away. She's all right. She got out."

  He sagged against his older brother, the rush of relief so great that for a few seconds he was afraid he might actually start crying. "You're certain?"

  "Yes. We're sorry," Abel said. "If we'd known he'd been telling you such things we would've tried to get out here sooner."

  "It's not the only time he's lied," Janos said. "The lands to the west...they're us. At least partly. People that Kings and Queens for generations have found 'undesirable' have made their way there. And I can't believe that father hasn't been made aware of that. Some of the fighters must have spoken our language, same as Roland can, someone must have wondered, must have reported back."

  "You're sure about this?"

  "His name is Roland," Janos said, taking his hand. "We share a language and names; we share customs. He knows how to play the piano."

  Abel had turned away. Ambrus was staring at him, looking ill. "All this time," Ambrus said. "All that fighting and it was...it was our own people?"

  "Yes."

  "It's about to get worse," Abel said quietly. "Father told me last night that the rest of Roland's people were still too combative. He's considering sending in all the rest of our troops, wiping them out once and for all when we're still under a ceasefire."

  "We have to go," Roland said.

  "We can't," Janos said. "I mean, I know a passage out of the First Castle but not off the grounds, not any more, I..." His voice dropped in shame. "I told Father."

  "Come now, little brother," Ambrus said, giving him a smile. "You don't think you're the only one who knows ways to sneak out?"

  *~*~*

  "And you're quite sure?" Janos asked, searching Abel's face for any sign of hesitation.

  "For the hundredth time, yes," Abel said. "Someone has to stay behind to throw father off the trail." Aft
er the rest of them had a few hours' head start, Abel planned to run to the King in a panic, telling him that Ambrus had gone to let Janos go, and that the two of them planned to seek shelter in the forest to the east.

  "He'll send most of the soldiers here out to that forest, searching," Ambrus said. "But when he discovers Roland's gone..."

  "I'll volunteer to ride for the western lands. Demand their unequivocal surrender in light of their Prince's actions," Abel said with a grin.

  "Will father let you ride alone?" Janos asked. Immediately, his face reddened. Of course the King would. Abel had never shown any hint that he couldn't handle himself in a dangerous situation. But to Janos's surprise, Abel seemed to give the question serious thought, instead of simply teasing him for asking it.

  "I think so," Abel said. "If he seems hesitant, I'll stoke up his anger until he's no longer thinking clearly. Now, you'd best go," he said. "And remember, once you reach the fiftieth step, take great pains to be quiet. You'll no longer be behind empty rooms or bustling hallways, but behind private quarters. Someone could hear you then and send up an alarm."

  "You speak from experience?" Janos asked, trying to smile normally and camouflage his quickly-rising panic.

  "I've always been perfectly quiet in the passage," Abel said. "It's this one who's an oaf." He gave Ambrus a firm slap on the back, which his twin countered with a punch to the shoulder. The two of them grinned at each other and then embraced briefly.

  "Let's hurry on, now," Ambrus said, motioning for Janos and Roland to follow him. Then he pushed in a seemingly-solid section of the wall, revealing a narrow passageway behind it.

  Janos ducked inside, taking one last glance back at the room in which they'd been conversing. His mother had decorated the castle with painting upon painting of bright flowers and spring fields. His father preferred portraits of the Royal families, past and present. When Queen Valeria had been alive, each of their favorite subjects had taken up equal space. Now, years after her passing, the paintings she'd so loved were strewn about this room, gathering dust.