The Exile Prince

by Isabelle Adler

  Warren was the first to get up and helped Stephan to his feet. Before Stephan could ask what he was doing, Warren ran to the opposite end of the roof and kicked at the top of the rickety ladder that served as the roof access until it came off and fell onto the pavement below with shattering noise. This would hardly stop their attackers, as the houses on the street were built too closely together, but it would give them pause for a few more seconds.

  “Let’s go!” Warren took Stephan by the right arm, and they ran, leaping from roof to roof.

  Stephan had never been more grateful for the Vartatian custom of making them flat, so they could be used as communal verandas—or for keeping the houses roughly on the same level. He gulped, covering his mouth to avoid breathing in the sand particles blowing in his face, and clutched Warren’s hand, not daring to turn back to see if they were being chased.

  As they reached the end of the block, they climbed down another ladder to the street, with Warren going first to secure Stephan’s clumsy descent. He risked a glace upward but didn’t see anyone on the rooftop. Apparently, their hunters had abandoned that avenue of pursuit, but he could hear shouts coming from down the street.

  They dashed into the closest alley a split second before footsteps thundered around the corner. Warren pulled Stephan into a deep recess around an intricately carved door, and they both flattened themselves against it, hidden in shadow, as the pursuers ran past the mouth of the alley.

  Stephan’s heart beat so loudly in his ears, drowning the wailing of the wind, he was surprised it didn’t give away their hiding place. Beside him, still holding his hand, Warren let out a deep breath that showed he’d been no less afraid.

  Stephan squeezed his hand. He’d always thought of Warren as the stronger and more competent of the two of them, the one who knew what to do even if Stephan hadn’t always agreed with him, the one he could rely on to carry them both through in difficult circumstances. But Warren was his responsibility as much as Stephan was his. Perhaps Stephan wasn’t a prince anymore, no longer bound by the obligation to protect his subjects, but he had no less sacred duty than to protect the man he loved.

  “They might retrace their steps or search the house,” he whispered, turning to Warren. He could only discern the glint of his eyes, the rest of his face cast in shadow. “I’ll draw them away.”

  “What?” Warren’s grip tightened on his hand involuntarily. “They’ll kill you.”

  “Listen to me. I know it’s me they’re after. That’s precisely the point. I hardly believe Robert’s vindictiveness extends to you. I doubt he or his cronies think you’re still anything more than my manservant. If they’re busy chasing me, you could slip by unnoticed, make a clean escape, and find us a safe place where I could join you after.”

  Warren would be out of danger, free to go where he pleased. And if Stephan’s plan went awry, well, Warren would also be free to choose a different path for himself, a different life, one where his happiness wouldn’t be dependent on Stephan’s steadfastness—which Warren had made clear he doubted. It was a strange thought to find calming, but Stephan was at peace with the possibility of dying if it meant keeping Warren out of harm’s way.

  “ No .” Warren sounded horrified, appalled, and overall, disgusted. “I’m not leaving.”

  There wasn’t much space for movement within the confines of the recess, so Stephan couldn’t extract himself without risking being seen from the street. But he let go of Warren’s hand, severing their contact. His skin prickled with the sensation of acute loss.

  “I can’t let you protect me this time. It’s too dangerous. You were right; it’s time for me to grow up and consider things realistically. I can understand your reluctance to trust the depth of my feelings when all my life I’ve been nothing but fickle. Now is my chance to finally do right by you.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” Warren protested. “Gods, Stephan. It was never my intention to make you believe I’d ever forsake you of my own accord, or that you have to prove your worth to me.”

  “But you’re in danger because of me. You might die because of me.” Stephan’s voice broke, and he struggled to gain enough control to continue. “I can’t bear it.”

  Hurried footsteps approached slowly from down the alley, and Warren drew Stephan in a swift embrace, leaning in close enough to pretend they were kissing. Stephan had neither the strength nor the will to resist.

  “No. This may not be my place, but I can’t let you do it,” Warren whispered in his ear. “Not for my sake. Playing into their hands would be the worst kind of folly, even if you do it out of the most noble intentions.”

  “But—”

  “We stay together,” Warren said firmly. “I’m not leaving you. Promise me you won’t either, at least not to save me at your expense. Promise me, Stephan.”

  Stephan shook his head mutely, struggling to regain composure.

  “I promise,” he said finally, his voice no more than a whisper. “I love you.”

  Warren was still crowding him with his body against the door, as if shielding him against all possible danger.

  “I love you too.” He planted a gentle kiss on Stephan’s brow. “Now, do you still have that key?”

  DUSK HAD ALREADY settled when they reached the harbor. The dazzling green water had turned into a pool of midnight ink, pinpointed with the lanterns on faraway ships. The sandstorm had somewhat weakened, and the air felt fresher with every step that took them closer to the sea.

  The smaller boats huddled in the docks, secured by their moorings while the fishermen waited for the storm to pass, so closely packed they bumped together on the high waves like a flock of particularly clumsy ducks. The tall ships drifted farther from the shore, slightly deeper shadows against a rapidly darkening sky.

  With no sail to be set during this weather, the docks were eerily quiet, an unusual state for Varta’s perpetually bustling harbor, but the streets leading up to it were teeming with sailors eager to spend the brief respite seeking whatever entertainment the city had to offer despite the foul weather. Music and drunken laughter spilled from the inns and taverns, bouncing off the cobblestones in the confines of the narrow streets.

  The sheer numbers of jostling people put Stephan on edge, but Warren seemed confident it would be easier for them to slip by unnoticed in the throng. The wild mix of foreign languages and styles of attire in this part of the city allowed them to blend in, nothing more than a pair of shipmates, or passengers, on shore leave in an exotic port.

  Stephan kept glancing over his shoulder but spotted no sign of being followed. Perhaps they really had been successful in ditching pursuit; but it didn’t mean they could resort to complacency. Whenever they passed someone, Stephan ducked his head, hoping his stiff posture and filthy clothes wouldn’t attract undue attention. Thankfully, the settling night softened the ruggedness of their appearance, the light from the windows and the opened doors of the taverns and brothels casting a golden veneer over their faces.

  The noise of revelry faded away as they made their way to the rows of warehouses off the side of the docks. Darkness gathered around them, pooling in the cracks between the structures, punctuated by the low sound of the waves crashing against the pilings of the wharf.

  Stephan stopped at the first warehouse and squinted at the key that Mala had given him. The sky was still overcast, dust hanging thick in the air, filtering out the moonlight and making it difficult to make out the crude markings on the flat metal bow.

  “I think it says ‘18,’” Stephan whispered.

  “All right.” Warren walked along the row of warehouses, scanning the doors. Most of them were nothing more than rickety sheds held upright by the force of adhesion. Many weren’t marked at all, at least not where either of them could see. But apparently, Mala’s family had been taking better care of their property because the warehouse clearly marked “18” in white paint was more solidly built than the ones flanking it. Casting furtive looks around them, Stephan undid t
he padlock and admitted the both of them inside.

  The shed, which was just big enough to house a fishing boat, smelled of damp and seaweed. There was no boat there at the moment, but various other tools of the trade—nets, spare oars, coils of rope—took up most of the space. Very little light came through the crack under the door, and it was already pitch-black outside, so all they could do was fumble around, hoping they weren’t making too much noise, until finally settling down on a couple of crates.

  “I don’t like it,” Warren whispered. He moved closer to Stephan, the warmth of his body a familiar sensation in the darkness. “We’re sitting ducks here. If they know where we are, they won’t need to bother dragging us out. All they’d have to do is throw a bolt over the door and set fire to the sheds.”

  “You’re letting your imagination run away with you,” Stephan chided, though he couldn’t hide the shiver that went down his spine at the picture Warren had painted a bit too vividly. “Mala will come through, you’ll see. And in any case, we’ll only have to stay here till morning. As soon as the sun is up, we’ll book a passage.”

  “We have very little money.” Warren shifted uneasily next to him. “Only some spare change I had on me, but other than that, nothing but the clothes off our backs, quite literally. I doubt it’ll be enough.”

  One of the advantages of being a royal was not having to worry about such petty and trivial things as travel expenses. But Stephan could no longer throw his title around, and the simplest practical considerations had become serious hurdles he was only beginning to navigate. Thankfully, he’d learned more about the ways of the world from Warren in their short time traveling together than in his whole life spent at the royal castle.

  “You know…I think I have an idea,” he said slowly, but then they both started at the scraping sound coming from the door.

  Chapter Six

  WARREN GOT UP , placing himself between the door and Stephan, who groped blindly for a makeshift weapon until finally grabbing an oar.

  “It’s me,” Mala called quietly from the other side. “Are you here?”

  Relief flooded Stephan, and for a moment he was grateful the darkness hid the embarrassing tremor in his hands. He sat on the crate, more heavily than he would’ve liked.

  “Yes,” he said. “Come in.”

  Warren unlocked the door. Mala slipped in the narrow gap and immediately closed it behind her.

  “A moment,” she said, feeling her way to the crate Warren had vacated. There was the sound of a fire striker hitting a piece of flint, and then Mala was holding a thin wax candle, its small flame casting harsh, grotesque shadows on their faces. After affixing the candle on top of the crate, she unslung a large bag from around her shoulders.

  “I don’t think anybody followed me,” she said in answer to Warren’s questioning look. “I gathered what I could, but they tore your rooms to shreds and took whatever they didn’t destroy.”

  “Are you and your mother all right?” Stephan asked in concern.

  “Yes. We hid in the kitchen and locked the door. They didn’t bother coming after us, not after you two sprinted off on the rooftops.” She shook her head ruefully. “I still can’t believe you did that.”

  “Me either,” Stephan said. Even now, he couldn’t quite conjure an image of himself daringly jumping from roof to roof, like some kind of cat burglar or a hero from a wild tale. Mostly, he couldn’t believe their desperate maneuver had worked so far in throwing off their pursuers.

  Mala opened the bag and took out two small packages, wrapped in waxed paper, and a jug of water.

  “I brought you some of yesterday’s crab cakes. You two must be hungry. I also found a few of your spare shirts,” she told Warren, “but the rest of it was either trampled or torn to pieces. Sorry, Stephan.”

  “That’s all right. It’s just clothes.” Stephan shrugged, though he dearly wished he could change out of his dirty and sweat-soaked tunic.

  As if reading his thoughts, Mala fished a neat bundle out of the bag.

  “I brought you some of my own. You’re not that much taller than me, and, well, I thought you wouldn’t be averse to wearing them.”

  “Indeed I’m not,” Stephan said around a sudden lump in his throat. “Thank you.”

  He unwrapped the bundle and took out a long tunic, embroidered around the hem and collar with red thread. It was similar to the one she was wearing. Stephan stepped aside to put it on and found it fit perfectly. When he was done, Warren helped him plait his long hair in an intricate braid, mimicking the style favored by the younger city girls.

  “We must be away at dawn,” Warren said, meticulously combing the tangled hair with his fingers. Stephan stifled a sigh of pleasure at the familiar, comforting touch. “Do you think it’ll be possible to set sail tomorrow?”

  “It could well be,” Mala said. “Looks like the storm is passing. The worst of it is over already.”

  She slung the empty bag on her shoulder. “I promised Mother I’d be back for the night. She’s too scared to stay there on her own, but I’ll return in the morning as early as I can to see you off.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” Stephan said. “It’s risky; we’ve seen already those people would have no qualms hurting you if you get in their way. I’d hate to have you push your luck for our sake.”

  Mala smiled. Sadness lingered in her eyes, but it could have been a trick of the fickle light.

  “I couldn’t let you leave without knowing you were safely on your way. As much as I don’t want to see you go, I’d rather be sure you escaped unscathed rather than wondering whether I could have done something more to help. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”

  With that, she crossed her fingers in a sign to ward off evil and then slipped out the door, quietly closing it after her, before Stephan could say anything in protest.

  Stephan sighed and returned to the crate, running his hands over the braiding that now held his hair in place. Distant thunder rolled somewhere high above, the muted sound carrying the promise of a much-needed break in the heat.

  “If Otis isn’t completely stupid, he’ll be canvassing the harbor come morning. There’s no escaping the fact that it’s the easiest way out of Varta,” he told Warren. His arm was throbbing again, a dull persistent ache he did his best to ignore. It was a good thing the candlelight was too feeble to highlight how sickly pale he probably appeared. “We may yet encounter him and his new friends at the docks.”

  “We’ll wait for Mala’s return and hopefully slip by while it’s still reasonably dark out. Hunker down at the pier, where it’ll be busy in the morning,” Warren said. Ever practical, he sat, unwrapped their dinner, and passed the slightly dry, but still delicious-smelling crab cakes to Stephan. “The difficulty lies in choosing the vessel that leaves soonest and in haggling with the shipmaster.”

  Stephan sank his teeth into the cake, savoring the bursting spicy flavor. Mistress Nalia’s cooking was perhaps the thing he was going to miss the most among so many other small comforts he’d learned to enjoy during their all-too-brief stay in Varta.

  “Neither of those is a problem if the shipmaster is already in your pay,” he said, dusting the crumbs off his lap.

  “Ah,” Warren said after a second. “You mean to go with Yotein, then?”

  “The Gazelle is scheduled to leave in the morning if the storm indeed lets up, so there would be no waiting. And the South Isles is as good a destination as any. If we escape across the sea, perhaps Robert will finally realize I’m not going to suddenly reappear at the royal palace at Sever with the sole purpose of embarrassing him.”

  Warren seemed unconvinced on the latter point, but he nodded slowly. “Not that I’m thrilled about the prospect of venturing all the way beyond the South Sea, but it’s the best idea I’ve heard all day. It just might work.”

  “I’m sorry to be dragging you halfway across the world again,” Stephan said. The words came out with great difficulty, as if there wasn’t enough air in t
he tight space to articulate them properly. “I’d understand if you’ve had enough of that. Especially if you think my feelings won’t stand the test of time.”

  They both knew this would be the last chance to change course, to make a different decision. The second they stepped onto the boat that would take them aboard the southward-bound ship, there would be no going back.

  Deep down, Stephan already knew Warren’s answer—because, as insecure as he was at times, he wasn’t that selfishly oblivious. And yet, the quiet tenderness with which Warren leaned in to tuck a stray lock of Stephan’s hair behind his ear struck the very core of his heart.

  “I could never have enough of you,” Warren said softly, his dark eyes reflecting the small flame dancing at the tip of the candle. “Every day with you is an adventure. It doesn’t matter where we share it, as long as we’re together.”

  Stephan’s breath caught. He didn’t remember moving, but suddenly his lips were on Warren’s, hungry and desperate, like crackled desert earth crying out for water. The darkness sharpened all his other senses into hyperawareness, and he was acutely conscious of the warmth of Warren’s skin, the slight chafing of his stubble, and, for some reason, these mundane sensations stoked his arousal into a bonfire. He clutched Warren’s shirt with his right hand, claiming his lips, teeth and tongues clashing, tiny needy noises bubbling up at the back of his throat. Heat that had nothing to do with the stale confines of the shed rolled down his spine, going straight into his groin.

  Finally, Warren pulled back with a last nibble at Stephan’s lower lip. His pupils were wide, tiny pools of utter blackness in his flushed face.

  “I want you so much,” he whispered, his fingers trailing from Stephan’s cheek down his neck. Stephan leaned into his touch instinctively, trying futilely to suppress the vivid memory of those fingers doing wonderfully wicked things to him. “You are so beautiful like this. A damsel in distress.”