SanClare Black (The Prince of Sorrows)

by Jenna Waterford

  “Seems like a long time ago when we last talked in the stables,” Michael said.

  Pol climbed up into the saddle in front of him, looking a bit startled that his friend would bring up something he’d been thinking.

  “Yeah, it does,” Pol agreed. “And now you’re this big, highborn prince. I don’t even know what to think.”

  They headed off at a walk, the group moving forward slowly at first, and Pol guided the horse around several burnt-out husks blocking the street.

  The revolution continued. Michael thought it was going well, but sometimes the sounds of explosions or shouts or crowds sounded very nearby. That they were being escorted by a group of scary-looking men didn’t set his mind at ease, either.

  “Don’t think anything,” Michael said. “I’m just me. I don’t even know who this ‘Prince of Sorrows’ is supposed to be. I hardly remember being him. I was really young.”

  “I know it’s best that you’re going,” Pol said. “It’s best that you get away from here—far away...but I wish you didn’t have to go.”

  “You could come with us,” Michael ventured. He meant it. What life would Pol have in Fensgate if the revolution failed? He’d be burned just like his mother before him.

  Pol didn’t answer him, and Michael did his best not to eavesdrop on his friend’s mind, not wanting to overhear a refusal or betray the joy of an agreement.

  The volunteers were watchful, careful, but after they cleared the end of the block, they picked up the pace, and Pol was able to urge the horse on. Jarlyth always stayed nearby, ready to pull Michael from the saddle or grab the horse’s reins if need be.

  The sounds of the revolution sprinkled the night, and what little talk there was amongst the volunteers was very quiet.

  We’re sneaking out of Fensgate. That can’t be good. He and Pol fell silent, too.

  They finally reached the last turn which would take them to the docks and found overturned, half-burned carts and the fallen-down wall of a building completely blocking the street.

  “No horses from here,” Pol said, and he dismounted. Jarlyth helped Michael down, and the two friends stood facing each other.

  Daren called to Pol, “Harly said for you to go back before we reach the docks.”

  “I know.” Pol glared over at the man.

  Does he know? It seemed likely. Michael supposed he should be equally angry at Pol’s uncle, but the truth was, he’d never quite trusted Harly after their first meeting. He’d never forgotten the man snapping at him for being foolish enough not to want to become a whore. But he’d thought he’d known Daren. I thought I could at least trust him.

  “I guess this is it.” Pol turned back to Michael with a stiff smile.

  “You won’t come with us,” Michael had known all along that Pol wouldn’t. He’d hoped, but he’d known.

  “Uncle Harly would be lost without me. You know that.”

  “But Pol,” Michael protested. “What if you lose?”

  Pol shrugged, though his fear of just such a fate was visible through the brave façade he wore. “Then we lose. Have to try, though, don’t we? Keep the bastards from hurting more people like you. Like my mother.”

  “I wish I could stay—” Michael began, but Pol’s bark of laughter interrupted him.

  “Vail above Us All, Michael. You do not. You never, ever wanted to be here—even when we were at JhaPel. Oh, you were happy enough there, but you always wanted to be somewhere else.”

  Michael smiled ruefully. “I just didn’t remember where.”

  “Nikking Serathon.” Pol shook his head, still stunned by the truth. “Ned joked about that, remember? I’ll have to tell him he was right.”

  “Do that. Tell him good-bye for me. And Jiin. Everybody.” They were both overcome with the finality of it all at the same moment and stumbled into each other’s arms, hugging as if neither ever wanted to let go.

  “Go on, then,” Pol grumbled as they both stepped back, trying to pretend they didn’t have tears in their eyes. He looked up at Jarlyth and snatched the reins from his hand, growling, “You’d better take good care of him!”

  “I will. I promise,” Jarlyth said, solemn.

  “Fine. Well...good-bye.” And so saying, Pol swung up into the saddle and clattered away, back to the Red Boar.

  Michael watched him go, realizing as he did that this was really the end of his life in Camarat.

  I’m really leaving. Finally leaving. But going back to Serathon...he couldn’t imagine that. After everything he’d done, everything he’d been...

  The volunteers were clearing a path, which looked as if it would take a bit of time. Jarlyth guided him out of the way, staying with him on guard.

  Leaving here is one thing, but going back to Serathon...I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready for that. My father didn’t love me before; now he’ll have good reason to hate me. I don’t want...

  “I’m sorry, Jary,” Michael said. They were alone, too far for any of the volunteers to overhear them.

  Jary opened his mouth to argue, but Michael shook his head. “I was weak. I was scared. I should never have let them bully me into this life. I should have been willing to die instead. I wasn’t.”

  “Nylan, don’t—”

  “I am so, so sorry. I wanted to be strong. I tried to be good, but I was so scared and so tired and so hungry—”

  “Stop it!” Jarlyth growled, his outrage palpable—a rare thing for a warder to let his charge sense his feelings. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You survived. Do you have any idea how strong you are to have done that?”

  Michael took a step back from the man, startled by the sudden outpouring of emotions he could sense. Outrage, fury, misery, helplessness—all were mixed together, all so powerful—and over all of this, love.

  “How you managed to endure what you’ve been through, I’ll never understand. It would have killed any other Sensitive, even me with my pitiful powers—”

  “I should have been strong enough to die—brave enough,” Michael insisted. “I was, once, but...I just—I didn’t want to die. I don’t want to die. So, now I’m nothing. I threw away my honor—”

  “That’s nonsense! You glow with honor. When I saw you that first time—”

  “Shize.” Michael blushed furiously and stared down at his scarred hands which were clenched into white-knuckled fists.

  Jarlyth’s voice shook with emotion. “This life was killing you—I could see that. But you’re pure in spite of it. The way you treat those around you, your concern for Pol and Varian, the girls at the Red Boar, even your cat—”

  “Don’t do this to me, Jary.” Michael’s head jerked as if in anticipation of a blow. His voice trembled with unshed tears. “Don’t be nice to me. I don’t deserve it.”

  “Well, if that’s true, then I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” the man retorted, a look of pure misery skittering across his face. “I should never have fallen in that fight—never! This all happened because of my weakness.”

  Michael inhaled sharply and looked at his warder as if the man had gone mad. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” He rubbed at his nose to stop the threatening tears. “They killed you! I felt you die. I don’t even know how it’s possible that you’re here at all!”

  And at that moment, Michael’s long-ago deep-rooted trust in his warder ran straight into his even deeper-rooted fear and distrust of men.

  “I—” he began. “How do I know you’re you?” he whispered. “It could be another trick. He’s a waerlok—maybe this is all some sick game he’s playing.”

  Jarlyth rocked back on his heels, dumbfounded. “That’s crazy, Nylan. You know it is.”

  “I don’t!” Michael backed away another step, shaking his head. “You don’t know what he did to me—what it was like! Everybody tricks me and lies to me, and I’m so stupid, I believe them. I don’t want to be lied to anymore!”

  “How would he know about me?” Jarlyth asked, very calm, his voice soothing
. “How would he even know about Tanara?”

  Michael felt shattered and sick, knowing he was acting crazily. But his fear of this being a cruel joke was too strong to be easily overcome.

  Jarlyth smiled a gentle smile. “You spoke your first word on your first birthing day. It was ‘Yary’ because you couldn’t say the ‘J.’ Your favorite color was always purple. You’ve always loved cats, and they’ve always loved you. They used to follow you around like ducklings all over the Priory. You never minded going to bed on time, but you hated to get up in the morning. You—”

  “Jary,” Michael said as if his heart were breaking. “Where have you been?”

  “Looking for you,” his warder said. “You were so hard to find...I am so sorry.”

  “Can you really take me back? It isn’t just—I didn’t go crazy and make it all up?”

  “You didn’t. It’s real, and I’m going to take you home.”

  The temple bell began ringing Last Prayer, and Michael thought, It has to be Jary. It just has to be true. Exhaustion overtook him and, without realizing he’d decided, Michael closed the distance separating them. He fell into his warder’s open arms and rested his forehead against the man’s broad chest. “Jary. Please make everything be quiet.”

  # # #

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “All right?” Jarlyth gave Nylan an encouraging smile, silently relieved he’d been able to soothe the boy’s meltdown. He caught sight of the loyal little gray cat padding her way toward them out of the gloom and added, “See? Your Cyra’s ready to go, too.”

  The boy sniffed hard and rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand but nodded. Jarlyth picked up their few belongings and surveyed the progress. Daren stood watching them and gestured when he saw he had their attention.

  “Are they still sounding Last Prayer?” one of the volunteers asked. He glared toward the temple.

  Nylan’s sick fear swept over Jarlyth. “Vail protect me...oh, dear Vail, please—”

  “What does it mean?”

  Nylan didn’t answer, but seemed about to pitch over in a faint.

  “Damn it, Nylan,” Jarlyth snapped. “Tell me!”

  A hand grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him around. “It’s the witch-bell!” Daren glared at Jarlyth as if he had struck the boy. “They sound it when they’re on the hunt.”

  “Leovar saw me there,” Nylan whispered. “He knows I killed the duke.”

  “I killed the duke,” Jarlyth began but a cracking noise ripped through the air and one of the volunteers screamed. Nylan lurched toward the wounded man, his instinct putting him in danger as the air filled with noise and the volunteers broke into chaos.

  Daren caught Nylan around the waist and hurled him at Jarlyth. “Run!” Daren shouted. “Through the gap—they’re coming up behind us.”

  Guns. They use guns here! Too easy to enchant and turn against their wielders, guns were nearly unknown in Serathon and even cannons were rare things. I didn’t think about guns.

  Jarlyth held Nylan in front of him, prepared to feel a bullet enter his back so long as his body shielded the boy from the evil things, and the boy stumbled forward, stunned by the pain all around him but thankfully not resisting being kept from healing.

  Volunteers reached down and dragged them up and through the gap, and Jarlyth wished he’d taken even a moment to really look at any of them. He’d trusted Harly’s judgment after their adventure together to save the boys, but he could see now that in spite of the chaos, few if any of the volunteers had run. Some lay wounded, maybe even dead, cut down by the evil guns. These men are dying for Nylan. For their fabled SanClare.

  As soon as they were through, along with the remaining volunteers, they began work on closing the gap against pursuit. Jarlyth didn’t see Daren among them.

  “I thought the revolution had blocked off Fensgate completely!”

  “No, sirra,” one of the volunteers said, apologetic. Blood stained his arm, but he still worked on in spite of it. “The temple and JhaPel held the bridge to Carillon open. Our fighters have been pushed back from there a block at a time since Fourth Prayer.”

  “Shize, we’re here!” Nylan wailed, and Jarlyth turned to look at what had so upset the boy.

  It was a tactical nightmare. Behind them lay a large, open area, dominated by an enormous stone arch.

  He almost missed what Nylan was saying, so stunned was he by the sight of that massive edifice.

  “—burn people here, Jary! This is where they burn witches!”

  “Nylan...do you know what this is?”

  The boy looked outraged at the question. “Yes! I’ve been telling you! It’s—”

  “Feniss’s Gate.”

  Nylan stopped with his mouth open and looked at the arch. “Shize.”

  “They’re going to be through that in no time,” the same young volunteer shouted at Jarlyth. “You need to get to your ship! We’ll cover you.”

  The sounds coming through the too-flimsy barrier told Jarlyth that they would never make it to the ship in time. There was only one possible way out for them now. He caught Nylan’s shoulders and looked him in the eyes, desperate.

  “Nylan, you can do this—you can activate the Crossing.”

  #

  Michael stared at his warder, wondering what he’d ever done to Vail to make her do this to him. Jary’s gone crazy, and the revolution’s going to fail and Pol’s going to burn—I’m going to burn.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “Now isn’t the time to freeze up.” Jarlyth tried to smile but produced a terrifying expression of mixed fear and agitation instead. “You can do this. You can save yourself.”

  “Myself?” Michael echoed. “What about you?”

  “I’ll guard your back. I’ll make sure you get away.”

  “No, Jary!” Michael grabbed onto the man’s arm. “Don’t leave me!”

  Jary shoved him away toward the dormant Crossing and turned his back, watching the barrier as it slowly crumbled. The volunteers stood around, helpless, holding onto cudgels and knives and knowing this was how they were going to die.

  “No—” Michael began again, standing where he’d stumbled to a stop.

  .:If you don’t do this,:. Jary said, mind to mind across the little distance, .:My whole life will have been for nothing.:.

  Michael staggered back a step and turned toward the stone arch, witness to so much death. Michael could feel it in the air all around him. The pillar jutted out obscenely, the chains hanging off of it, blackened and worn.

  There was power here—so much power, born of blood and misery and pain. This whole place was like an enormous version of Terac’s workroom.

  Experiments...he killed all those people, and it must’ve started with experiments.

  He struggled up onto the platform, his bad leg no better than dead weight, but he finally made it, almost collapsing as he rested his hands against the pillar before him. This close to it, he could sense the power roiling beneath the carved surface. All he had to do to awaken it was reach—

  Noise exploded behind him, and he fought every instinct to turn until he heard an all-too-familiar voice.

  “Stop him!”

  Something slammed into the pillar, near his hands, cracking off a piece of the stone. Michael backed away at once, whirling to see where the shot had come from.

  In a new gap in the barrier stood none other than Prince Leovar. His men had come through the gap, long-guns at the ready, but they were few and still outnumbered by his depleted volunteer force, all of whom were standing ready to fight with their pitiful weapons. Only the long-guns gave Leovar the advantage. Jarlyth stood between them all, closer to Michael and farther from Leovar. He held his sword, as helpless against the long-guns as any of them were.

  “This makes it easy, Michael,” Leovar said, his voice loud enough to carry across the open space as he climbed down the barrier and strode toward Jarlyth. “Since you’re going to burn tonight.
”

  Jarlyth made an inarticulate sound of rage and seemed about to rush forward, but Leovar stopped and held up a hand. “I wouldn’t! My best shooter has the dear boy in his sights. And then there won’t be any need for a pyre.”

  .:Nylan, just go! Leave me and GO!:.

  .:I won’t leave without you, Jary,:. Michael insisted. .:Even if that means I burn.:.

  “Do you have any idea who he is?” Jarlyth demanded.

  Leovar looked at Michael with distaste. “A very expensive whore with whom I once fancied myself in love. And my cousin’s murderer.”

  “And Prince Nylan SanClare of Serathon,” Jarlyth added, each word as sharp as a knife.

  Every long-gun barrel trained on them dropped as every man with the prince muttered, almost in unison, “The Prince of Sorrows.”

  “No!” Leovar stumbled forward a few steps. “That isn’t possible. You—”

  “Can’t you say my name, Leovar?” Michael asked. “I think you owe me that much—you made me say yours often enough.”

  Leovar fell to his knees, shaking his head against the demand. He found the tip of Jarlyth’s sword under his drooping chin and froze. None of his men reacted, too stunned by the primal magic they’d just experienced to fight against it.

  “Say his name, pretender.” Jarlyth pricked the man’s throat with a twitch of his blade. “And pray they aren’t the last words you ever say.”

  “The Prince of Sorrows,” Leovar sobbed. “The SanClare Unawares!”

  “The Crossing, Nylan,” Jarlyth said. “Let’s go. While we can.”

  In spite of everything, Michael smiled as he turned back to the arch. Those words were a promise that they would go together. Cyra leapt up beside him, her tail lashing as if to say, “Well?” and he almost laughed. He pressed both hands to the pillar and closed his eyes, reaching for the hidden power sealed within the stone, and to his delight, it rose up to meet him.

  #

  Jarlyth kept the threat of his sword at the prince’s throat while he waited for Nylan to awaken the Crossing and save them both—possibly save them all. The revelation of Nylan’s identity coupled with true, full-fledged wizardly power might change these magic-fearing men’s minds about how so-called witches should be treated.