The Prince's Wing

by Amber R. Duell

  Copyright © 2021 Amber R. Duell

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by: Kat Mellon Writing & Design

  www.amberrduell.com

  For everyone who helped my family after the fire

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Books By This Author

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Chapter One

  Some risks were worth taking.

  Escorting Crown Prince Bastian of Eradrist through the capital without an entourage wasn’t one of them, however. The citizens hated the royal family more than… well, everything. Not that I could blame them. After murdering the beloved King Jonty and stealing the crown, Bastian’s father drove the country into the ground. The people were hungry. They were tired. And they were furious. So, no. The risk was too high.

  But what did I know?

  I was only the Prince’s Wing—raised alongside the prince for the sole purpose of guarding him. While the prince studied politics, I learned to fight. To kill. But, at the end of the day, when lessons were done, Bastian and I had only ever had each other.

  “Smile, Saer,” Bastian mumbled from the corner of his mouth.

  I narrowed my eyes, never daring to stop scanning the cobbled streets for danger. Ora Et was relatively quiet this early, but the sun was barely over the sloping roofs. Any number of would-be assassins could be lying in wait. An archer pressed behind a chimney. A swordsman lurking in an alley. Hell, the baker currently loading his vendor stand could’ve hidden a crossbow beneath his loaves. His ruddy cheeks grew a deeper shade of red as our horses clopped by.

  Probably wishes he had hidden a weapon. Nothing would turn him into a martyr faster than murdering King Edric‘s only heir.

  “Saer,” the prince whispered.

  “There’s nothing to smile about,” I snapped.

  Bastian shifted in his saddle. “There could be less to smile about if you don’t try.”

  I exhaled sharply. No amount of false cheer would soften the people to our presence. “You know what would put a smile on my face? Heading back to the palace.”

  “I told you—”

  “I know what you told me, Your Highness.” It was the late queen’s death day and, as religious custom dictated, Bastian had to offer a gift to the temple on her behalf. It was an obvious scheme by the priests and no one could convince me otherwise. The priests had no sway over the quality of a person’s afterlife; that was between them and the gods. Bastian shared the sentiment, but not publicly. Why give the citizens another reason to call him a heathen?

  “Oooh,” Bastian said light-heartedly. “I love it when you sound official.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, My Prince.” If anyone happened to hear me use Bastian’s given name, some sort of shit-storm would follow. King Edric wasn’t a forgiving man, and there were eyes and ears everywhere. Some reported to the palace. Others to the rebel group—the Red Asters. The private royal temple closing for renovations only yesterday screamed Aster plot to draw the prince out. The fact that Bastian refused extra protection when we left the palace was infuriating. He claimed he didn’t want to draw attention, which I understood, but being murdered in the streets was bound to draw a crowd. “I’m only one person, you know. If the people decide to riot, I’m one person.”

  “What are you trying to say about my swordsmanship? We are very clearly two people.”

  I whipped my head toward him. “Take this seriously.”

  Bastian’s blue eyes lacked the humor his voice held. Slowly, his gaze locked onto mine and he repeated, “Smile.”

  Fucking politics.

  I forced the corners of my mouth up into my best attempt at complying. I was sure it did absolutely nothing to make me look more pleasant—in fact, it likely had the opposite effect. Regardless, the people gawking at us from their windows wouldn’t care how approachable we looked when their bellies were hollow. A fact that haunted me every time I sat down to a full meal.

  A single thread from the gold embroidery on Bastian’s jacket would feed a family for a month. Longer if they spent it wisely. The royal horses below us would feed them, too. As would the massive ruby on the hilt of his sword and the silver circlet braided tightly beneath his auburn hair. Or, if I really wanted to embrace my pessimism, a prince’s ransom. A prince’s head, delivered to the right people.

  “If you die, I die,” I reminded him. There was no scenario where I returned to the palace without him in which I got to keep my head. If I failed to protect the prince, I’d be sentenced to death for failing my duty.

  “No one is dying, Saer.” Bastian motioned to the end of the street where the Temple of Igeris stood, foreboding. “Almost there.”

  I glared at the once-white exterior, now blackened from mildew, with its twisting spires and open bell tower. Inside, the most judgmental men in all of Eradrist waited. And, personally knowing both the king and the Red Asters, that was saying something. “Great.”

  Our horses’ hooves clopped as we passed through the iron gate surrounding the temple. After a quick visual sweep, I slid from my horse and urged Bastian up a short staircase in the fenced courtyard. The thick wooden doors were wide open, a permanent invitation to anyone to enter.

  Inside, rich cherry wood lined the walls with scenes from the Book of Gods carved by expert craftsmen. Matching pews ran in two rows along the main aisle and an altar stood at the front of the temple. A large cauldron for offerings sat right beside it. White velvet circled all of the pillars that held the thirty-foot ceiling up and, where they met the rafters, the fabric swooped down, tying together at the massive iron chandelier in the center. With fresh white roses stuffed in every nook, the priests had clearly given the prince a proper welcome, but… where were the priests?

  “I thought they were expecting us.” My whisper echoed through the room.

  “They are,” Bastian said. The smile finally fell from his face as he called out, “Hello?”

  We were met with silence. Motherfucker. Aster plot or rebellious citizens? One held significantly more danger than the other.

  I pulled the sword from my hip and angled my body in front of the prince. “Stay behind me.”

  Trusting Bastian to do as instructed, I eased down the center aisle, eyes scanning back and forth for the inevitable attack. The breeze coming from the open doors rustled the bouquets. Made the velvet swa
y. My senses ramped into high gear, making the cloying scent of roses too overpowering. Even the air felt heavy against my exposed skin. My clothes were suddenly too constricting. My bracers too tight.

  Where are you?

  I caught a glimpse of red as we neared the altar. Blood. Another step revealed a bald priest in white robes sprawled across the polished floor. Throat slashed. Dead.

  With an aster flower sitting on his chest.

  “Asters,” I breathed and felt Bastian tense behind me.

  No. It couldn’t be.

  But it was. There was no denying the red flower on the priest’s chest. So why hadn’t Faramond warned me? The leader of the Red Asters always told me of planned attacks so I could be prepared. Extra assurance that I wouldn’t fail—though I didn’t need it. I was the best. Between the Asters and the royal training, there was no option but to excel. My life was chosen for me. No questions allowed. No deviations tolerated.

  I was a fucking pawn, forced to betray the one person I cared for… The only person who cared about me. My only solace was that the Asters still wanted Bastian alive so they could use false assassination attempts to fuck with King Edric’s head.

  The soft hush of moving fabric snapped my attention to the ceiling. The velvet swayed. A shadow leapt from beam to beam. Then everything went still. My heartbeat settled into a steady rhythm, my body using it to remain calm and clear-headed.

  A scratch of metal on metal. The shadow moved again. Dropped. Landed behind Bastian. I shoved the prince aside, and he stumbled into the pews, safe. He knew how to fight well enough, but that wasn’t his job. It was mine.

  The attacker rose from her crouch. Black, textured material covered her from the neck down, a diagonal smudge of red paint across her left cheek, marking her as an official assassin for the rebels.

  She spun—her long, black braid whirling around her—and struck out with dual swords. I met them with my longer one, and swept out with my leg at the same time. She fell backward, rolling into the motion, and sprung back up, swinging.

  Each stab, every swipe, I met them. There were three chances to end her life in the first two minutes of the fight, but was I meant to? Perhaps the message informing me of the attack was lost. If I killed an Aster assassin, Faramond would be furious. But I couldn’t keep this up. Not when Bastian knew the way I fought and, undoubtedly saw the same three openings I had.

  Fuck.

  The assassin let out a furious cry. Brought both blades over her head. Swung down.

  I spun, ducked, sliced.

  A squelch replaced the scream and, seconds later, a new wail filled the temple. One of pain. Of death. I raised my sword. Finished the job. The assassin collapsed, intestines spilling from her abdomen to the floor, my sword buried deep in her chest.

  “Are you hurt?” I asked Bastian between heavy breaths.

  He stood between the pews where I had shoved him, sword out, and shook his head. “Are you?”

  “No.” I stepped over the dead assassin and slammed the temple doors shut. “Stand against the wall. We don’t need you to be attacked from behind again while I check for more Asters.”

  Bastian listened, keeping his sword at the ready, as I worked my way through the temple. I hated stepping into the vestibules and priests’ quarters, leaving the prince completely alone. But I had to be sure there weren’t more. Attempts on the prince’s life weren’t uncommon, but they were mostly for show. A threat to the king, a reminder that the Asters were still there, a distraction from their true plans. Plans that included me being inside the palace. Close to the crown. Among other spies, but none of us knew the others. It kept everyone safe—unable to turn on each other—and stopped us from betraying the cause. No one was trustworthy.

  Least of all me.

  Because I would die for Bastian. We’d grown up together, sharing every up and down, every mistake and achievement. He was the prince I was meant to hate but, in truth, there was no me without him anymore. We were too intwined.

  And the rebels would kill me for it.

  The people of Eradrist deserved better and the Asters claimed they wanted to give them that. Bastian was better though. He wasn’t his father. The old royals were dead—there was no going back—and the country would prosper once the prince sat on the throne. A familiar pang of regret and guilt hammered inside me as I returned to his side. I was lying to my best friend. My only friend. In the worst possible way.

  “All clear,” I said in a weary voice. The assassin had been skilled—too skilled. They were usually puppets posing as professional killers. Criminals headed to a noose anyway. Something was wrong, but protecting Bastian was all I could do right now. “The priests are all dead, but there’s no one else.”

  Bastian let out a breath and slid down the wall. Blood sprayed his white tunic and jacket, his face paler than usual. He stretched his long legs out in front of him. “I suppose we should head back to the palace.”

  I sighed and sat down beside the prince, resting my elbows on my knees. My head thunked against the wooden wall. “We should.”

  But neither of us moved to leave. We had time to catch our breaths first.

  “Want some?” Bastian asked.

  I looked over to see a small pouch of dried fruit in his hand. “Why do you have that?”

  “In case I got hungry,” he said as if it were obvious.

  “You’re a prince, not a squirrel.” I pushed his proffered snack away with my forearm, my hands coated in wet blood.

  “Suit yourself.” Bastian plopped a piece in his mouth and chewed slowly. Then, after he swallowed, dragged a hand down his face. “It’s not the best time, but I have some news.”

  “It’s definitely not the best time,” I agreed.

  “I spoke with Father this morning before we left.”

  I was aware—I’d walked him to the Main Palace for the meeting. “What is it this time? Another tax hike? A decree to sacrifice the first-born children to the fire god?”

  “I almost wish.” He let out a humorless chuckle. “I’m getting married.”

  “Your…” My jaw dropped. “Sorry, what?”

  Bastian swallowed. “Getting married. To King Jonty’s daughter.”

  King Jonty—the king that Bastian’s father had murdered—didn’t have a daughter. Not a legitimate one anyway. The blood drained from my face. “His bastard?” I barked. “With Countess Odelia?”

  “The one and only.” He gave a stiff smile.

  The countess was known for her many affairs. There was no telling if the child was truly the old king’s daughter, and that wasn’t to mention how dangerous the woman was. Her vile nature was even more infamous than her numerous bed mates. It was rumored that she’d poisoned any woman that caught the king’s eye, including her own sister, had servants killed for the slightest offense, and snapped the neck of the queen’s beloved bird out of spite.

  “What is your father thinking?” I asked.

  Bastian shrugged. “That I’m twenty-two and far past marriageable age? As the only heir to the throne, he wants to secure the line with many grandchildren.”

  “You could marry anyone.”

  Bastian rolled his head to the side and looked at me with resignation. “But only one bride will help ease tension with the Red Asters.”

  Because King Jonty’s bastard daughter was of the old royal blood. Therefore, Bastian’s children would be true heirs. Unless the girl killed him on their wedding night so the Asters could place the crown on her head.

  Ah, fuck.

  Chapter Two

  Heavy clouds hid the waxing moon as I navigated the streets of Ora Et for the second time that day. This time I had no horse, no uniform, and no prince to protect. Bastian was safely in his residence with two dozen guards outside, so no one would miss me until morning. It was my time to sleep, to rest, so I could properly protect the prince once he woke.

  If the king wasn’t so paranoid that Bastian would stage a coup, he would’ve allowed his son two Wings, p
er tradition, so one of us could’ve been with Bastian at all times. No bird could fly with one wing, just as no prince could usurp the crown. It made sneaking from the palace less trouble, though. Needing to hide Aster missions from another Wing would’ve been nearly impossible.

  Hidden beneath a natural, rough-spun cloak, I turned right. Boisterous laughter drifted from a tavern in the center of the street. Through the large window, men and women drowned their sorrows with money they didn’t have. But they were happy for the moment—something no one could begrudge them. I quickened my steps before jealousy over their freedom caught hold of me. What wouldn’t I give for a night of smiles and laughter without an undercurrent of guilt and fear?

  I’d give too much.

  I shook the thought from my mind and darted down a dark alley that smelled like piss. Rats scurried along the uneven brick wall to my left and disappeared through a hole near the cobbled footpath. Above, a low, slate roof covered a doorway. I leapt and gripped the edge, swinging onto it. From there, I scaled the bricks and threw myself onto the second story roof. A small attic window arched from between pieces of slate with a handful of candles burning inside. I held my breath as I rapped a gloved knuckle against the warped glass and waited to be acknowledged, lest he throw a knife at me.

  Faramond’s head snapped up from where he sat behind his desk. Stubble grew along the Aster leader’s thin face, and his salt-and-pepper hair fell from his usual-slicked back style. Even from outside, I could tell his clothes were wrinkled with days of wear.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” he growled, gray eyes narrowing.

  I opened the window and slid, feet first, into the warm office before anyone on the street noticed me. “Hello, Faramond.”

  He threw his quill down and scowled. “This better be good.”

  “Would I take the risk otherwise?” I shifted toward the small fireplace to get rid of the late-night chill and gave a small, belated bow. Faramond was a lord, after all. But so was I. A fact Faramond seemed to forget. Lord Saer Tufaro. I was born to the title, but Faramond was the only reason I kept it after my late parents supported King Jonty during the rebellion. He suggested to the right people that I train as Bastian’s Wing. Sometimes I resented it. Resented what he made me—a liar and a spy. Growing up in an orphanage couldn’t have been worse than this and then, after, whatever life I carved out would’ve been honest.