SanClare Black (The Prince of Sorrows)

by Jenna Waterford

  “Harly sent me to get you. You know how Pol is about horses.”

  Head still shaking, Michael took a fading step back and started to close the door. Daren stepped forward, his foot keeping the door from shutting him out.

  “Michael,” he whispered. “We all know what he means. We all know you can help.”

  “No!” Michael’s breathing sped up, and his head wouldn’t stop shaking back and forth, denying everything. “Stop it, please! What do you want from me?”

  “I won’t let anything happen to you,” Daren promised. “But if you can help... You know Pol won’t ever get over it if they all die.”

  A long moment passed while Michael’s brain struggled against this argument. Then he shouted, “Why can’t Pol ever do anything by himself?” He stomped back into the room, letting the robe drop as he snatched his shirt from where it lay across a chair and pulled it on.

  “What’s going on?” His patron sat up, clutching the bedclothes. He stared, horrified, at Daren and then at Michael. “You’re leaving?”

  “There’s a fire. Everyone’s needed to help.” Daren kept his eyes averted. “I’m sorry, sirra.”

  “But I’ve paid already! We’ve barely started!”

  Michael, in the middle of arranging his boot cuffs up over his knickers, stopped, reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a handful of coins which he slammed onto the bedside table. “Now we’re done.”

  As the man sputtered, Michael gave his hair tie a final, vengeful yank, snatched up his coat, and stormed out of the room with Daren at his heels.

  “Was that wise?” Daren asked, his voice neutral.

  “He wasn’t worth my time anyway,” Michael growled. “The door hardly closed before he started talking about us going away to his summer cottage.”

  Daren snorted. “I doubt very much that Sirra Thorpe has a summer cottage.”

  “He doesn’t,” Michael agreed. “He had to sell his grandfather’s watch to pay this time. He’s too much trouble.” Just another nikking Royalist, and I’m sick of them. Vail, I could use a smoke right now.

  “The things men do,” Daren muttered.

  Michael said nothing, seething over the entire mess. The things you do, you mean, he thought, instead. It seemed to Michael that Daren was willing to ask anything of him if he thought other people would be helped by it. After that first time, Michael didn’t mind healing—he liked being able to do something that really helped people—but it did hurt and was so exhausting. More than that, though, he resented Daren making the decisions for him and then dragging him along to do the work.

  Michael’s brooding vanished when he reached the bottom of the main staircase and could see the reflection of the flames glowing across all the Red Boar’s front windows. “Shize,” he breathed. “It’s bad.”

  For a moment his mind went back to the single public execution he’d witnessed, a vision of the poor man’s face and a memory of his agony flashing through his mind. He swallowed hard, the memory almost making him sick, and he stumbled a step.

  “You all right?” Daren slowed, ready to catch him.

  “Fine.” Michael nodded and plastered on a fake smile. The man grunted but accepted this and pressed on through the crowd, shoving a path for him through the chaos.

  By the time they reached Pol and his uncle, it was clear that, in spite of the bucket-lines Harly had organized, not only the Midnight Star but also its stable and the theater on its other side were lost. Michael could hear the horses’ squeals sounding above the noise and human screams. The collective fear beat against his senses so hard, he wasn’t sure he could stand it.

  “Michael!” Pol’s voice sounded above the fray, and suddenly he was there, pulling on Michael’s arm, trying to drag him farther into the chaos.

  “Why did you do this to me, Pol?” Michael choked. “Do you know what you’re asking me to do?”

  Tears filled Pol’s eyes. “The people are all out, but the horses are trapped—they’ll die if you don’t help.”

  Michael pulled free of his friend’s desperate grasp, nearly crying himself.

  .:You can do this:. the Voice assured him.

  “Shut up.” He wished he could silence both the unwelcome Voice and Pol’s pleading, but he did as he was asked.

  He walked into the stable, wincing at the heat and squinting through the smoke. He could just make out a horse rearing and squealing in its panic, and Michael approached its stall carefully, thinking calming thoughts and trying to aim them at the animal. Almost at once, he could see the beast quiet, and by the time he came within reach of its bridle, it was as docile as if he’d just fed it a treat.

  Bits of fiery straw swirled all around, making even the air seem to be aflame. The tortured wood that made up the stable’s structure creaked and groaned and snapped deafeningly, and Michael wondered if there was enough time for him to get back out of the stable unhurt himself, let alone lead the horses out with him. The noise was terrible and the heat was almost more than Michael could bear. He hoped the horses could stand more than he could.

  These lives over mine, Michael thought. That’s what Pol chose. All these lives over mine. But he supposed his life belonged to Pol as much as it belonged to anyone. He’d saved it, after all. If he chose to end it here in order to save his beloved horses, Michael couldn’t deny he had some sort of right to do so.

  Somehow, he remained unharmed. Maybe it’s the magic. That was what he was doing here and now, he acknowledged. Magic to heal people. Magic to save horses. Magic that could get him burned to death as surely as staying too long in this stable would. He shook himself and refocused on the task at hand.

  He reached out to all the other horses in the stable, sensing seven more. He called to them with his thoughts—something he did on a very small scale when visiting the Red Boars’ stables and, from time to time, with Cyra, but which he’d never imagined attempting across such a distance and with so many minds. He felt them try to answer.

  He sensed fear and some pain, but in spite of that, all but one seemed to move closer at once, and after a loud shattering noise sounded, the seventh moved closer, too. Someone must have opened the stall doors. They missed one. He wondered if it had been Pol, going from stall to stall, trying to save even one more horse before the smoke and heat drove him back outside.

  Michael told the horses where to go, and they believed him and trusted him and followed. He led the horse whose bridle he held out through the stable door and into the open air and found that the other seven had caught up and were straggling along after him like sheep.

  Someone shouted, “Look!” and several men hurried up to claim their animals. Four remained unclaimed, including the one Michael held. The effort he’d made to save the animals had exhausted him, and he leaned against the horse’s side, breathing in the cool, night air.

  “You did it.” Pol captured him in an embrace. Michael struggled free and staggered away from his friend, fixing him with a deadly glare.

  “Get off of me,” he growled. “Don’t you touch me.”

  Pol looked abashed. “Michael,” he began, his hurt plain in his voice.

  Harly interrupted, taking control of the horses as he had all the rest. He directed various people milling around to lead the horses to the Red Boar’s stables until their owners could be found, then he turned on Pol, his face reflecting his fury.

  “Don’t be a fool, boy,” he growled, too low for anyone else to hear. “You got what you wanted from him, now get him out of here.”

  Pol stared in open-mouthed surprise at his uncle and didn’t move. Harly’s hand flew out and struck his nephew across the face, causing both boys to gasp in shock. “Go! Every tic you waste, you’re risking his life. No one must know.”

  Pol eyes widened in sudden comprehension and, nodding once, he grabbed Michael’s arm and dragged him to the Red Boar. Michael found himself being pulled through the stable door and then shoved at the ladder to the hayloft. He started to climb only because he was t
oo surprised by Harly’s and Pol’s actions to think what else to do. By the time Pol had pulled himself up after Michael, both of them had recovered enough from their shock to speak.

  “I can’t believe he hit you!” Michael collapsed back against the nearest bale of hay.

  Pol shook his head as he followed Michael’s example. “I deserved it. I can’t believe he didn’t do it sooner. I didn’t think—”

  “I know you didn’t,” Michael said.

  “Let me finish.” Pol’s voice shook. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Michael. I didn’t think about what it meant. I didn’t think of what could happen. I can’t believe I was so stupid.”

  Michael tried again. “Look, I understand—”

  “You shouldn’t have to understand!” Pol exclaimed, then seemed to think he was making too much noise, though Michael couldn’t see that hiding in the hayloft was really necessary.

  In a near-whisper, Pol continued, “I should have thought. I should have realized. If anything had happened. If anything happens...”

  Michael broke the long silence that followed. “I’m too tired to move.”

  Pol stood up and brushed the hay from his trousers. “You can rest here. I’m going to go back down and help,” he said. “I’ll come get you later.”

  “That’s fine,” Michael said. “And Pol...”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you. For saying you’re sorry. No one ever does that.”

  # # #

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The Blood Emperor had proven to be as good as his word, a fact which still shocked Jarlyth moons later as the ship Savoni had arranged for him finally had Reinra in its sights. Savoni had been kind, too, providing him with a ship which sailed from a neutral port and would not, by his very presence on it, condemn him to a traitor’s death.

  No, Jarlyth thought. There’s so much more I’ve done that will put my head in that noose.

  But—auspiciously, he thought—the ship had stopped briefly at Feniss before heading due west for Reinra. It felt right for him to leave for the other side of the Breach from Feniss, just as the Exiles had done so very long ago.

  Feniss’s Gate, he thought, the name evocative of tales told around comfortable firesides. The final magic the Exiles had agreed to endure, just so they could escape all magic that much faster. How much easier it would have been if he, too, could have gone through a Crossing and traveled hundreds of posts across the world, taking but a single step to reach the other side of the Breach. But Feniss’s Gate was an ancient creation, its magical connection with the Exiles’ lands having long since dwindled away to nothing. Only the great, weather-worn stone arch remained, standing on the shore of Feniss to remind everyone that the story was true. I always loved those Exile stories. Nylan always seemed to be worried by them...and, if Savoni’s right, he’s been there all this time. And now I’m going there. Vail, help me.

  He’d been provided with plenty of money, too, or things that could be turned into money no matter where he ended up—jewels and gold. Savoni had been very generous, and Jarlyth knew if Serathon ever found out what he’d done, he would be hanged whether he succeeded in rescuing Nylan or not. It has to be success. I can’t even entertain the idea of failure.

  The sea was even more treacherous here than it had been around Voya, and it took days for the ship to navigate to a safe landfall. Jarlyth had adapted somewhat to the voyage but had still spent much of the time trying not to be sick at inappropriate moments. He kept to his quarters which were tiny but blessedly private. Since he was a Sensitive, albeit one of the weakest ones in existence, he needed at least some privacy to counterbalance the close quarters of the ship.

  After the moons-long journey to reach Reinra, crossing its landmass to get from one of its few safe eastern ports to the Breach-facing western shore took nearly two more moons. Jarlyth then spent another half-moon to find a ship willing to help him cross the Breach and make his way to the magic-hating kingdoms on its other side.

  Most Reinra he met tried to talk him out of his plan, but once they realized who he was and what he therefore must be seeking, they subsided. A lost SanClare prince would be a valuable commodity if found by someone unscrupulous, but no one sane risked doing harm to a Voyavel.

  Jarlyth wished there were some way to conceal his true purpose—he was certain that Savoni wanted something more than he’d admitted to—but the stories of his quest were far too well-known for him to believe he could go incognito.

  Getting to the Breach from Reinra, however, took less time than it had for the ship to leave harbor. The Breach—rising up like an eternal wall of shattered glass cutting the world in two—ripped across the edge of the island and out into the ocean, disappearing into the distance. It was hard to believe such a beautiful thing could be so lethal.

  It seemed they’d barely begun the trip when the captain informed him they were ready to cross. “You’d better go below and strap in. I’ll send someone down to let you know when we’re safely through it.”

  Yes, please, dear Vail. Once through the Breach, he would finally be in the same world as Nylan again. It has to be true. This has to be the answer.

  As he often did, he wondered what Nylan believed had happened. Did he think he’d been abandoned? Did he think Jarlyth had given up? Did he believe no one was even trying to find him?

  I’ll never stop searching. No matter what. If it’s the death of me, I will find Nylan and see him safely home.

  #

  When, a few moons after the fire, Michael awoke one clear, bright day—while it was still early enough to be called morning—he realized spring had finally dawned. With a sigh, he also remembered hoping he’d have enough money to make his escape by then, but he still needed more to ensure he could afford the bribes.

  Maybe summer. Not too much longer, at least. He swallowed disappointment. George’s ship is in port right this moment.

  Determined to turn his mind away from these depressing thoughts, he opened the window to assess the day. “It’s beautiful,” he breathed, and he turned back into the room, scrambling to dress. He’d only had a few hours sleep, but he’d learned not to waste days like this.

  His old boots were having new heels put on, so even though he wore his more everyday clothes, he wore his tall boots. He didn’t think it looked too odd, but he added his coat just to be certain. He pulled his hair back into a more severe braid than usual to keep it out of his way while he drew, then dashed down the stairs and out the scullery door into the beautiful day.

  A quick stop to buy chalk and he was running for the bridge to Carillon Park. It seemed years and not moons since he’d last been, and he hoped he might see some of his artist acquaintances. He thought he might even grant Jon a day of modeling if asked, just to have a bit of a break from things.

  And this is why you aren’t ready to take ship yet, he scolded himself. You aren’t working hard enough! And now I sound like the Voice. Even though it would never tell him to be more of a whore than he already was, no matter what the reason.

  He saw Jon and Dann again that day, and they both made sketches of him while he worked on his own drawings, and they talked about art and books with him as if nothing were more natural in the world. Before they left to get ready for some party or other, they gave him a donation for his own work which made them feel generous and made Michael feel flattered that they had thought of it, so wrapped up in their work as they usually were.

  The weather held for most of the day, and Michael stayed in the park for as long as he could, making a nice bit of money though it was nothing at all compared to what he usually made in a night at the Red Boar. Nothing compared to what I make from one patron.

  He was thinking of just that fact when he reached the bridge back over the river to Fensgate. He was trying to decide if he would go to the Red Boar or if he wanted to let this day be untouched by that part of his life by going straight back to his room and maybe even reading for a little while. Pol had given him a book—a s
illy, popular romance—which had been left behind and unclaimed in one of the carriages, and Michael was reading it as slowly as he could, a few pages at a time, in order to make it last. Though he’d been tempted to, especially by books, he never spent his money on anything frivolous, and so he read whatever came to hand. Silly romance or not, he enjoyed escaping into someone else’s story.

  Michael was halfway back to either the Red Boar or his room -- he had not yet made up his mind which it would be – when a man’s voice barked at him.

  “You that SanClare Black? From the Red Boar?”

  Michael turned around, arching a disdainful eyebrow, then he raised both eyebrows in surprise at the elegance of the man’s carriage. Such a carriage rated a polite answer in spite of the rude manner in which the question had been presented.

  “I am.” Michael bowed, hoping his clothes weren’t too chalk-stained. “How may I be of service, sirra?”

  “Been looking all over for you.” The man’s tone suggested Michael should have known and made sure he was easier to find. “I’m to give you this.” He climbed out of the carriage gracelessly and unassisted. Michael noted that the driver wore no livery that might identify the household. This made Michael suspect it to be one whose spotless reputation was held in higher regard than that of most of his patrons.

  The man stomped over and waved the message in Michael’s face. “My master said you’d be able to read it.”

  This last was said with a breathtaking condescension, especially considering how ill-dressed the man was. He seemed some sort of low-level clerk, judging by his clothing and speech. Michael arched a scornful eyebrow but accepted the folded piece of paper without comment.

  From the feel of the paper alone, he knew before he’d unfolded it what it was. He’d spent moons responding to summonses written on such paper.

  “Shize.” He felt his strength drain away like water as he read the carefully-engraved words, the writing as familiar as the paper. “What does he want now?”