Fatal Heir

by L. C. Ireland

  “It’s a carriage,” Zarra said, making me jump. I hadn’t realized she had been following so close behind me. “A carriage!” She called back to Mel and Rath. We all approached. The carriage had rolled onto its side. The creaking sound came from one of its wheels, spinning uselessly in the air.

  “That explains where the horse came from,” Mel said. “What is it doing here?”

  We all froze when we heard the unmistakable sound of a person groaning. Lying on his face beside the carriage was a man dressed in rich livery. Mel and I hurried to his side while Zarra and Rath examined the overturned carriage.

  “It’s alright. We’ve come to help you,” Mel told the man. She grunted as she rolled the large man onto his back. “What happened here?”

  “The prince—” the man gasped. His skin was as pale as a sheet. Mel lit up her torch again, and we could see that he had bloodshot eyes and purple lips. Was he talking about me?

  “Yes…” I said cautiously. How would this man know I was the prince? Had word traveled that quickly?

  “The prince—” The man repeated. His eyes rolled upward. He curled onto his side and vomited into the grass.

  “Look at this,” Rath said to Zarra behind us. “This carriage is a work of art. This thing must be worth a fortune.”

  “Look there,” Zarra said. “Look, that’s the Safford seal. This is a royal carriage.”

  “How can we help you?” I asked the sick man. Mel was unlacing her water flask to offer him.

  The man gazed up at me with fever-glazed eyes. Sweat sparkled on his face, catching the light of Mel’s torch.

  “They rose…” he groaned, and let his head fall back against the grass, dirtying his hair with his own vomit. His body convulsed. Mel gasped.

  “Sem?” I asked. He didn’t respond.

  “I think he’s choking.” Mel held the torch closer. His whole face was turning a pale purple. His eyes were huge.

  “Sem?!” I tried to pry his mouth open. But something odd happened when I touched him. He went suddenly, completely still. The panic left his eyes. A warm, tingly sensation rose up my arm. It was the feeling of stepping into a hot bath after a cold, dirty day in the fields. The man’s eyelids fluttered, and then closed, and he died with a smile on his lips.

  “No, no, no, no!” Rath cried, floating toward us in what I assumed was a hurry. “What did you do?” I opened my mouth to explain, be he spoke over me. “Did you touch him, Izzy?”

  “Y-yes, I was trying to—”

  Rath cut me off again. “What did I tell you about touching the dying, Izzy? You killed him!”

  I gaped at Rath. Mel spluttered in my defense, “He was dying well enough all on his own.”

  Rath rounded on her. “I could have saved him.”

  “How?” Mel challenged, glaring up at him.

  Rath seethed with helpless anger. “I’m a potion maker. I make medicines. I could have found an antidote.” Rath groaned. “I told you to never touch the dying. This is what happens.”

  “Why would he need an antidote?” Mel asked. “What happened to him?”

  “He was poisoned.” Rath knelt on the grass beside me. “Looks like a mixture of nightshade and hemlock. Someone wanted to be sure he would die. At least he died peacefully, thanks to your touch of death.”

  “I don’t understand how I killed him! Why would only my touch have killed him? Mel touched him, too, and nothing happened.”

  “Mel isn’t Aerona’s son,” Rath said.

  “Now what does that mean?!” How dare he insult my mother, whom I didn’t even know existed until two days ago.

  “Highness,” Zarra called to us, “I think you need to see this.”

  My head spinning, I stood and approached the carriage. Zarra was leaning against what was supposed to be the bottom of the carriage, pointing at the door that was facing upward. It appeared as though someone had taken a dagger and crudely carved a bunch of symbols into the wood.

  “It’s from Izayik — the other Izayik,” Zarra’s said.

  “The other Izayik?” Mel asked.

  “I have a double,” I tried to explain. “He’s been parading about as the prince, causing all sorts of trouble. I was arrested for the crimes he committed. Can you read it?” I asked.

  Zarra nodded. “It says, ‘Dear Farmboy, Kisses. Love, I.’”

  “‘I’ for Izayik,” I said.

  “‘I’ for Imposter,” Rath added as he joined us. “He set you up.” He floated backward a ways, spreading his arms to take in the whole scene. “This is a royal carriage. It must have been carrying one of the Saffords. It’s less than a day’s walk from Hazeldown, only hours after you foiled your execution. There is no way you’re not taking the blame for this.”

  “You took his identity,” Zarra said. “You ruined the story. Now he’s gonna ruin you.”

  “Great,” I chuckled hysterically. “As if I didn’t have enough to worry about already.”

  Mel shoved me out of the way with sudden ferocity. “Did you hear that?” she asked, climbing up on top of the carriage. “I hear something!” She grasped the carriage door handle and tugged upward with all her strength, forcing the door open.

  Zarra peeked inside and gasped. “There’s someone in there!”

  Despite this revelation, I felt oddly disinterested. I could see the woman’s spirit again, standing off in the shadows of the trees, watching me. While Zarra and Mel struggled to keep the door open and reach inside the carriage, I wandered closer to the spirit. This woman must have known what happened here. She must have known there were survivors. So who was she?

  As I approached the spirit, her eyes became clearer, more defined. Our gazes locked. I thought I heard the echo of whispered voices. I was within arm’s reach now. She lifted her hand to touch me.

  “Don! Don, what are you doing?” I heard Mel’s voice, but it came from far, far away, as if she stood on the opposite side of a field, hollering into the wind. All I heard were the distant echoes.

  “Izzy!” Now Rath’s voice joined the chorus in my head. “Izzy! Don’t touch her!”

  The spirit touched my face with a caress so warm and inviting that I fell forward into her eyes and tumbled into her past.

  I was reliving a memory, just as I had when the seer first touched me. But this time, it was different. I was not looking out of my own eyes, but the eyes of a woman. I knew that her name was Lana. I could hear her thoughts in my mind as if they were my own. I had no control over her actions; I was merely observing as she told me her story:

  The bones of my corset pinched my skin as I approached the prison on wheels. My father was so proud of this beautiful carriage, but I hated it. I hated everything that it stood for. I hated that it would draw me away from my home.

  No matter how many times I requested a looser pull, Martha always laced my corset too tight. I was beginning to wonder if she didn’t hold some sort of grudge against me, to willingly torture me so. I would just have to grin and bear it. My father and husband would be mortified if I stopped now, under the eyes of all these guardsmen, and adjusted myself.

  A young footman opened the carriage door as I approached. The footmen seemed younger every winter. Or was it simply that I was getting older? What a bother age could be. I took the young man’s offered hand and stepped one foot into the carriage.

  “Lana!” I paused, turning a radiant smile on my approaching husband. Oh, dear Bernard. He managed to maintain a youthful appearance every passing winter while I withered into an old hag. Meeting our son had renewed his energy like a spring storm. He glowed like an infant. Meanwhile, after two winters, I was still bloated and pale and felt so much older. Bearing a child had not been easy on me. Life simply wasn’t fair.

  “Are you leaving without giving me a kiss?” Bernard asked.

  The footman guided me back to the cobblestones. I let my husband wrap his big arms around me and buried my face in the fur of his collar. Beneath that collar, I felt the hard leather of armor. Even ins
ide the castle walls, he wore armor now. “Must I go?” I asked, clinging to him.

  “We discussed this, Lana,” Bernard said. “You know your father’s wishes.”

  We hadn’t discussed anything. Bernard had simply informed me that I would have to leave. The only decision that I had any part in was what I would wear when I departed.

  Bernard held me out at arm’s length. I clung to his sleeves. I didn’t want to leave this place. This was my home. I felt safe here. But Bernard crushed what little hopes I had been clinging to.

  “The seer said that the darkness is coming. It’s coming here.”

  “I hate that seer,” I groaned. “She’s caused nothing but trouble since she arrived here. And now she means to send me away.”

  “If the Heir rises, he will bring the darkness to us.” Bernard sounded like he was reciting poetry. “You will not be safe here.”

  “You sound just like her,” I whispered, fearful and angry. Mostly angry. I hated the way the men flocked around that old lady, hanging on her every wretched word, planning out the future before it ever had a chance to occur.

  “Canron will find the Heir and execute him, and the danger will pass. Then you can come home.” Bernard kissed my cheek, his beard scratching my ear and throat.

  I wanted to pull away, but I didn’t. Too many people were watching.

  “And you can bring my son back to me.” Bernard peered around me, into the carriage where plump Martha sat, cradling Aleksander in her arms. “I would like to hold him one last time.”

  “Oh, don’t distress him,” I scolded. “He’s only just fallen asleep.” Bernard looked disappointed. Good. Let him feel some discomfort for sending me away into the outlands while he fought a fairytale war the crazy old seer had dreamed up for him.

  “Very well,” Bernard grumbled. “I will hold him again soon, I should think.”

  “I should think!” I repeated shrilly. “How long do you intend to leave me in exile?”

  “Not long, my dear.” Bernard pulled me into his embrace and placed a kiss on my lips. I was too grouchy for his affection. I turned my head away. At last, he sensed my anger. Grasping my hands, he looked me in the eyes and promised me, “Not long. We will dispose of the Heir, and the threat will pass. Then you can come home. I promise.”

  “I suppose we shall see how much your promise is worth,” I said curtly, turning my back on my husband and holding my hand out for the footman. He helped me into the carriage, and I settled into the cushioned bench. It was comfy enough for now, but give it a day or two, and this carriage would become a torture chamber, drawing me ever further from home.

  I refused to make eye contact with Bernard. At last, I heard him sigh and turn away to talk to one of the guards. I let out the breath I had been holding. I felt guilty and sick. Then I felt angry for feeling guilty. All I wanted was a say.

  I didn’t want to leave.

  A servant rapped on the door, jolting me out of my thoughts.

  “What is it?” Martha asked. She was the one who usually addressed the servants.

  The man opened the door and held a flask out to me. “Some wine for the journey,” he said. “Courtesy of your father. You will want to quench your thirst.” He winked at me. I rolled my eyes in disgust.

  “Yes, thank you,” I said dismissively. “Leave us.”

  The servant docked his cap at us, closed the door, and strolled away. I fingered the flask he had handed me, considering with dismay the journey ahead of us. Sighing, I threw my head back and took a swig from the flask. The wine tasted odd, but I didn’t care. I hoped the spirits were strong enough to dull the anger raging in my belly.

  I held the flask out to Martha. “Wine?” I offered.

  Martha shook her head. “Thank you, Miss. But I can’t. The grapes make me sick.”

  I laughed without humor. “This is going to be a long journey for you, then.” I took another long drink.

  “Yes, Miss,” Martha agreed, shifting the weight of my sleeping son in her arms.

  “Izzy!” Rath roared in my ear. I inhaled cold air, startled back to my senses. I must have fallen to the earth, because I lay there now, shaking. The spirit was gone, but I felt her regret and shame lingering like smoke after a fire. Her memories swirled in my mind, containing so much information that I couldn’t hope to sort it all out at once. But one thing stood clear in my mind: I had recognized the face of the servant in her memory, the one who had given her the flask of wine. Poisoned wine.

  It was the Imposter.

  “What happened to you?” Rath asked, snapping his fingers in front of my eyes.

  “I saw her past,” I mumbled, sounding even to myself like I was talking nonsense. “Her husband’s name was Bernard. Her father was King Safford. This is her carriage. She drank the wine. She shouldn’t have…” I covered my face with my hands. “She shouldn’t have drank the wine. He must have given it to all of them. The whole party. And they all drank it. Everyone but — but the nursemaid.”

  “Help us!” Mel hollered, straining to keep the carriage door open against the forces of gravity. “There’s someone in here!”

  Rath helped me to my feet. I was spared the burn of his flesh by the rags wrapped around my hands, yet there was still an uncomfortable amount of heat between us.

  Once I was certain I could stand up straight, I hurried toward the carriage and peered inside. Curled on the opposite door was the trembling form of a woman that I recognized as Martha, the nursemaid. Her arms were wrapped around a bundled blanket.

  I climbed on top of the carriage. “Hand me my pitchfork,” I commanded. Rath handed it up to me. I slid it into the hinge of the door and pulled back with enough might to hold the door open. “Get her out.”

  Zarra lowered herself into the carriage’s interior. She bent over the woman. “She’s alive!” She called up to us. “She must have hit her head when the carriage rolled. But she’s awake. Just talking nonsense.”

  “She wasn’t poisoned. She didn’t drink the wine. She’s allergic to grapes.” My voice was strained with the effort it took to hold the heavy wooden door open.

  “How do you know that?” Mel asked. She was positioning herself on top of the carriage to help Zarra haul the semi-conscious woman from within.

  “The spirit told me,” I said, readjusting my grip on the pitchfork and ignoring the burning protest of my abused palms.

  “Oh!” Zarra gasped. “She’s holding a child!”

  This was why the spirit of the woman named Lana had tried so hard to get our attention. Even after this massacre, her child was still alive. That’s what the poor sap meant when he said “the prince.” In his eyes, this little baby was the prince. Not me. Then I’d somehow killed the poor man just by touching him.

  So far, I was not exactly proving to be the greatest leader of men.

  Zarra gently untangled the boy from Martha’s sleeves and lifted him up into Mel’s arms.

  “Oh, aren’t you the most handsome little man,” Mel cooed, cuddling the baby in her arms.

  There was no reason to be jealous, right? The kid was only two winters old.

  “You have a preference for princes, I see,” Rath teased as he helped Mel down. He took her place on top of the carriage beside me. “Stand back, Zarra. I’m going to try to lift her out. I need you to get under her and push her up. Guide her out so she doesn’t hit her head on anything.”

  Movement in my peripherals caught my attention. I glanced up and saw the spirit of the prince’s mother lingering among the trees near where the man had died. At first, I thought she wanted to tell me something, but then I noticed that her eyes were fixed on the man’s body.

  “She keeps saying, ‘they rose’,” Zarra reported, her voice muffled beneath the fabric of the big lady’s dress. “Over and over.”

  “That’s the same thing the other man said before he died,” Mel mused, bouncing the child in her arms. He was beginning to fuss.

  “Something isn’t right about all of this,�
� Rath muttered to himself. “A princess and her son would never travel with just one herald and a maid.”

  I watched the spirit take a step toward the body. Something in her expression made me tense. She was full of sadness — a sadness deeper than melancholy. This was a sadness bordering on hunger. She reached out to touch the body.

  “Don’t,” I whispered.

  She ignored me.

  “There should have been a large party,” Rath continued, “especially with a carriage this large — at least twenty people. Where are they?”

  The spirit touched the body’s face and shimmered out of existence.

  “Rath,” I said.

  Rath was too focused on lifting the woman from the carriage to respond to me. “Where is the princess’s body? The footmen? The soldiers? Survivors would never have left a child alone, and no one burned the bodies. I don’t smell smoke. Besides, who would have done the burning?”

  “Rath,” I said again, louder.

  The body was twitching.

  “They rose,” moaned the terrified nurse maid. She had come to her senses enough to scramble out of the carriage with Zarra and Rath’s assistance. Zarra helped her balance on the side of the carriage. Her breathing was heavy with horror.

  There was more movement in the trees. Something approached. Several somethings. I could hear the way they dragged their feet through undergrowth.

  “Where are the bodies?” Rath asked. The dead man sat up, his head lolling uselessly on his shoulders. His eyes opened.

  “Rath!” I yelled. “I found the bodies!”

  We all looked up, and around, and realized — too late — that we were surrounded by deadmen.

  I yanked my pitchfork out of the door hinges. The door slammed shut, and we all flinched at the sudden loud noise. The big man was climbing clumsily to his feet. Mel dumped the young prince into his nurse’s arms and held out her torch. I wondered if maybe we should have left the nurse and the baby in the carriage where they would have been harder to get to. But it was too late now.