SanClare Black (The Prince of Sorrows)

by Jenna Waterford

  They exited the building and stood on the steps, looking out across the destruction all around—though none of it even touched the Red Boar.

  The carriage had already been torn apart, and two young men, still half-dressed in their One-Eyed Sailor costumes, were dragging the frame away.

  “What are they doing?” Jarlyth asked, baffled.

  “For the barricades. They’ll be setting them up all around the parish. We can’t hold the entire city, so teams are going out, sabotaging key targets, and coming back to Fensgate. If necessary, we’ll blow the bridges. We hold the harbor, though. That’s key.”

  Jarlyth nodded, wanting to ask more questions, but he held himself back. He couldn’t get involved here. He had to think of Nylan and in the midst of a revolution, just how in all the hells he was going to get them both safely out of Camarat.

  Something brushed by his foot and slipped between the men guarding the door. Harly turned to see what it was, too, and barked a laugh. “That cat of his—never seen anything like it.”

  “Cat?”

  “Michael’s cat. She’s loyal as a hound, follows him around, shows up when he’s in trouble...it’s uncanny.”

  It was uncanny, come to that, though it was likely best not to mention it even to these broad-minded lowborns. Nylan’s bond with cats appeared to be unaltered in spite of all the other changes he’d undergone.

  Harly looked up at him at last, radiating nervousness. Odd after all he’s done already this night.

  “None of this would be happening without your boy.” He looked even more uncomfortable. “He’s always been...different. Everyone knew he was special. He’s used his powers to save...I don’t know how many people. Good people who had no hope. It was like watching the Hand of Vail at work. We all knew he wasn’t meant for this life—”

  “Pol explained the laws.” Jarlyth tried to be understanding, though he could not understand how a kingdom could justify treating any child the way Nylan was treated, not to mention so many of the others he’d seen even just on this street. “I know there wasn’t much that could be done to help him.”

  Harly’s eyes dropped to his hands which were fidgeting with a small, worn notebook. “I’d like to ask you, sirra...who is he?”

  Heavy footsteps stomped toward them, and Jarlyth turned to see Daren approaching, Captain Sonya beside him. Three more of her officers stood a few lengths back, hats held respectfully in their hands. George was nowhere to be seen, Jarlyth noted.

  Daren answered Harly’s question. “He’s Prince Nylan SanClare of Serathon.” The man looked deathly, his face drained of color, and the captain’s eyes moved from face to face warily, paying the most attention to Harly whose face she watched as carefully as a hunting cat.

  Shock struck Jarlyth in the chest, shaking him to his bones. Are we betrayed? She had to have told him—what does she mean by exposing us like this?

  “The Prince of Sorrows,” Harly breathed, horror dawning.

  The captain shot a grim look at her crew, seeming satisfied and as if this won her some sort of wager. She turned to Jarlyth who was trying to decide if he should fly at her or away to snatch up Nylan and try to make some sort of escape.

  “I thought Daren knew, Lord Denara,” she apologized. “I asked him a simple question as to when he thought you’d be ready to make sail, and he...” Daren stumbled away as she said this and leaned against the wall. “But you see,” the captain explained hastily. “This proves they’re still under the laws of the One Kingdom.”

  “Still under the laws...?” Jarlyth began, but then he understood what she meant. It was beyond unlikely that any of these people knew even the names of the various kings and queens from the other side of the Breach. If Harly and Daren knew Nylan’s prince-name just by hearing his true name, it could only mean that Camarat’s connection to its ancient homeland remained intact. “But that means—”

  “He’s the SanClare come to judge us unawares.” Harly backed away from Jarlyth as if afraid he might run him through.

  Daren straightened with difficulty, still pale with horror. “It means that if we tell who he is, we’ll be set to turn this revolution into a rout. Everyone will fight to avenge the true SanClare!”

  “We can’t get involved!” Jarlyth let his anger take over. “We have to get back! He has to get back! This place is killing him.”

  But it was too late—with Daren following at his heels, Harly ran back into the Red Boar, shouting, “The SanClare’s come! Just like the tales all said! It’s a sign from Vail Herself!”

  All the revolutionaries believed as soon as Harly told them who their Michael truly was—and their prior, un-ironic fury at the highborns for what they had done to the boy redoubled as soon as they realized all those same things and more had been done to the fabled Prince of Sorrows.

  The news seemed to spread like water flooding out from the Red Boar and through the streets of Fensgate. It was like magic—Or unstoppable disaster.

  By the time the Third Prayer bells sounded just before sunrise, Jarlyth was convinced everyone in Queen’s City knew.

  After a few more whispered words with Captain Sonya, he’d rushed back to the room where Nylan had been taken, and he remained there, standing outside the door with sword drawn, the blade resting on his shoulder, his expression as cold and deadly as it had ever been.

  The healer, Pol, and Risa were the only people he allowed to enter Nylan’s rooms, and one look at Jarlyth’s face seemed to be enough to scare everyone else away, at least for a little while.

  Yes, let’s all let him sleep for awhile, unaware that everyone knows. Vail Over Us, why did everyone have to know?

  Captain Sonya at least understood and had returned to the Etesian to prepare to sail at a moment’s notice.

  As soon as he’s rested, we’ll go. If I have to cut a thousand people in half to reach the docks, we will leave this place far behind us.

  # # #

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  It was dark though it was just past Seventh Prayer, and Michael felt he’d been asleep for a moon, though it hadn’t been quite a full day. He felt stronger and his wounds seemed to be healing much faster than he’d become used to. Just like before Terac. I used to heal so fast.

  It made him wonder if the waerlok had been bleeding off his power all the time and not just during the experiments. He’d been so tired for so long. The tattoo. It had worked to control him even when Terac was far away. It makes sense. I’ll have to ask Jary.

  His sleep had been interrupted a few times, with his caretakers waking him to check his wounds, change his bandages, apply salves, and feed him. Jarlyth had always hovered in the background, watching. Glowering at poor Risa and the healer.

  He’d only just been left alone after another such visit, and he’d feigned sleep to get them to leave. After waiting to make sure no one was going to duck back in to retrieve a forgotten tray or something, he slipped from the bed and limped to the windows. He’d been put up in one of the guestrooms rather than in his usual suite, and its windows overlooked the street.

  “I wasn’t dreaming it,” he whispered as Cyra rubbed against his ankle. “Fensgate was on fire.” Burnt-out carcasses of things no longer identifiable lay strewn all around the Red Boar, charred remains of the still-ongoing revolution that had arisen around...

  Me? Or was it Terac’s death that really made everyone go mad with hope?

  They knew he was a prince, now, too. Or the SanClare Unawares. He’d heard his prince-name shouted in the streets that morning by people telling each other the news. At one point it had reached a near-chant outside the windows, though no one seemed aware he might be able to hear them. It had been like a memory come to life, so reminiscent of that jarring moment so many years before when his name had first been revealed.

  I don’t like this. I wish they didn’t know.

  He did not like what else was going on, either—the fighting and confusion and destruction were too chaotic and out of control for him t
o trust. If they aren’t careful, it could all go so very wrong.

  Most of all, he didn’t like the way his thoughts were winding. Everything was coming together in his head, creating a picture he found more disturbing as each piece fell into place. When it at last became perfectly clear, he leaned back against the windowsill for support.

  “They set me up.” He could feel himself trembling. “I trusted them, and they used me.”

  How he wished the Voice were there to help him through this horrible cascade of understanding. He couldn’t tell Jary—he’d kill them all.

  When did it start? Was it before or after Harly bullied me into becoming a whore? He saw the why of it, though. He’d long understood what they’d hoped he could do for their cause. I just didn’t understand how far they’d gone to make it possible for me to do it.

  “They needed someone who could get close to the duke. And even if I didn’t know it, Harly or Daren probably did...probably knew he’d already shown an interest in me.”

  Or had they known about Robyn’s real connection to Terac Nalas and not just the public one of master and apprentice. Probably. They know so much.

  Michael blinked tears away. “Leovar, too. So that Terac would hear about me.” Cyra miaowed, demanding attention, and he knelt, careful of his injuries, to sit on the floor beside her, rubbing her ears as she slithered into his lap and began kneading his thigh.

  He’d seen in Terac’s mind that there had been others like Robyn, young artists who showed promise. I hope he didn’t kill them all.

  The magic rumors made him take notice of me, though. “Like the horses. Shize...”

  Michael shook his head, wishing it were that easy to negate this horrible truth. “That’s why Daren was so set on me healing Irini...”

  That’s unfair. He didn’t want her to die. He cares at least that much...but I bet he put the idea in Pol’s head to have me save the horses. Damn him to the Fires.

  By that time, he remembered, the rumors of his healings had spread far and wide. His flagrant use of his heretical powers had been one of the worst-kept secrets in Fensgate.

  And Terac was watching me, looking for more proof than just my golden eyes that I was worthy of his particular attention. I didn’t do anything that first time but run away.

  Michael ran through everything again, trying to find a way for it to not be true; trying to find a way that his nightmare of a life could remain a series of horrible accidents rather than the cold-blooded plan of someone he’d believed he could trust.

  “That’s why you looked so sick when Pol brought me in,” Michael said aloud. “Isn’t it?”

  Daren stepped out of the shadows, his shoulders slumped.

  Michael didn’t know how or when the strong-arm had slipped in nor how he’d evaded Jarlyth’s notice. Maybe there were secret entrances in the guest rooms as there were in some of the streeter’s suites.

  Michael didn’t look at the man. “You didn’t know what he did to his victims. And maybe he never did that to the others. Maybe it was me. He talked like it was just me—like my power required new methods. He called the things he did to me ‘experiments.’”

  Daren’s voice was very quiet, trying not to alert the blood-lusting warder standing just outside the door. “It was too late, then. I couldn’t take any of it back.” He sounded as if he were about to cry. “He’d trapped you, and I couldn’t do anything—”

  “You could have helped me get away,” Michael said in a harsh whisper. “You could have realized it was too much to ask and helped me get away from him... Do you have any idea what he did to me?”

  “Your Highness, if I’d—”

  “Don’t you call me that.” Michael glared up to meet the man’s eyes at last. “I’m not your anything! I’m not your long-awaited SanClare, either. I’m just a whore. You and Harly made sure of that.”

  Jarlyth shoved into the room, sword out and eyes blazing. “Nylan! What in all the hells—?”

  “He was just leaving, Jary,” Michael said. “And so should we. I’m sick to death of this place.”

  As he struggled to his feet, Daren hovered between helping him up and fleeing, but one look at Jarlyth made his decision, and he hurried from the room.

  Michael shrugged away Jarlyth’s offer of help, too, brushing past him to shut himself in the bathing room. Ma Fitz had brought his things over while he’d been asleep. She’d cleaned and mended his clothes and tucked the few belongings he’d kept in his tiny room into a clean canvas bag.

  I’ll miss her. I’ll miss Pol and Risa, too. He’d miss a lot of people, with more names coming to him as he pulled his boots on. But none enough to stay even long enough to say good-bye.

  I just want to be done with this place forever.

  Jarlyth had regained his composure by the time Michael emerged, dressed and ready to go. He sorted through the small pile of things Ma Fitz had brought along with his clothes, pulling out the few he wanted to take with him. The book on Mirthia which had given him so much hope for so many moons; the sketchbook Nanna Tierna had given him so long ago, now battered and worn; a barely-used box of colored chalk; and a couple of his favorite books, much reread over the years. That was all.

  An entire life, and this is all I have to take away from it. He stuffed his few extra bits of clothing into the pack, too, and hefted it over his shoulder.

  “I’m ready.” He looked up at Jarlyth.

  “What about the cat?”

  Michael smiled down at Cyra and returned one of her long blinks with his own. “She’ll follow. She always does.”

  They quit the room in silence with Cyra at their heels and moved through the corridor and to the staircase without incident. Time froze when Michael came into view of the people filling up the central salon, however.

  Michael couldn’t see Jarlyth’s face, but he knew the man’s expression must be intimidating from the reactions of those ranged below them. Only Varian moved toward them through the crowd.

  “You’re leaving.” A soft, sad smile graced his lips.

  “Are you all right?” Michael ignored the question hidden in the other’s words. “He hit you so hard.”

  Varian reached a hand back to finger the bandage artfully wrapped around his head. “Your healer’s very good. I’ll be fine.” He hesitated, then blurted out, “Prince of Sorrows, huh? Makes me even more of a fool than I already knew I was.”

  Michael shook his head. “You weren’t a fool. You’re my friend. You always were.”

  He reached up and caught Varian’s face between his hands, caressing the stubbly cheeks and smiling at the confused, almost-frightened look on the musician’s face.

  “What are you doing?” Varian gasped, though he didn’t pull away. “Your warder’ll kill me.”

  “He won’t,” Michael soothed, still smiling. “It’s a gift. For you and for me. I want the last person I kiss here to be someone I love.”

  Varian shook his head minutely, not breaking Michael’s light hold on him. “No. Don’t.”

  Michael hesitated, searching Varian’s face for the true objection. “If you want me to, I want to. I don’t want to be mean to you, Varian. It’s just...it would be nice to end it like this, instead of...”

  He could see understanding dawn in Varian’s eyes—that his last kisses now were from the Duke of Reyahl with blood and pain, hate and violence and sex all twisted together, the memories like knives.

  “Kiss me, then,” Varian whispered. “It would be my honor, Your Highness.”

  The room had gone still, as if everyone in it had stopped breathing, wanting and not wanting to witness such a moment.

  Varian bowed his head as Michael stretched up on his toes to reach the young man’s mouth. His lips were soft and warm, gentle. He didn’t demand or push or grasp. His hands came up, fingers weaving caressingly into Michael’s hair, holding him close, and Michael suddenly wanted to cry—to grab onto Varian’s shirt-front and sob his heart out right there in front of everyone.

&n
bsp; Never again, he thought. Never, ever again.

  Varian stepped away first, ending the kiss gently, catching Michael’s hand as he did so and clasping it to his chest.

  “Your Highness.” He bowed—a deep, formal bow like those taught to young highborns—released Michael’s hand, turned, and strode away through the crowd.

  Michael watched him go, concentrating still on not crying, and almost jumped when Jarlyth asked, “Are you all right?”

  Michael forced a smile as he so very often did in this place. “I just needed...a different memory.”

  Jarlyth’s chin jutted out in a half-nod of acceptance. “Let’s go. Our ship’s waiting.”

  Harly stood outside with Pol beside him. More men were ranged around the front steps. They were all very obviously waiting for Michael and Jarlyth. The warder made a noise like disgust at this new interruption, and Michael was briefly afraid that they meant to stop him from going.

  Instead, Harly waved his arm, indicating the group below them. “Volunteers,” he explained. “To escort you to the ship. I picked the best of them. Everyone wanted the chance to honor the Prince of Sorrows.”

  Jarlyth inclined his head and murmured, “Thank you, sirra.” Michael fought down a sudden urge to scream at Harly for daring to use his prince-name.

  Harly turned to Michael to ask, “Can you ride? We thought it might be easier that way. Pol wanted to go along, so he can bring the horse back.”

  Michael shook his head. “No. My leg’s a mess. I could keep my seat, I think, but I couldn’t guide the horse.”

  Pol and Jarlyth both spoke at once. “I’ll ride with you,” and Pol blushed.

  “Ride with Pol,” Jarlyth said. “You can say your good-byes.” He moved off down the steps to talk to the volunteers. Michael saw Daren in the group and looked away, but he couldn’t help watching as Jarlyth approached the strong-arm. The two spoke briefly, and when Jarlyth walked away, Daren looked ashen. But he stayed.

  Harly and Pol helped Michael up into the saddle, and Pol’s memories of Michael’s visits to the stables—the gracefulness with which he’d climbed up into the rafters and back down again, the ease he’d had with the horses—flitted around in his head.