by J. C. Owens
He was not even the prince they wanted, and yet his sense of duty was as strong as any royal’s. Was this what they had ensured with their training and indoctrination?
Gently, he closed the book, standing to return it carefully to its place. The questions buzzing in his head would not allow him to study further, and he needed space, needed—something. Air perhaps.
He smiled at Ryvas as he passed, wondering if the gesture looked as stiff as it felt. He swung the heavy cloak over his shoulders, nodding as his guard opened the stubborn door.
The air outside was crisp, the sun beginning to slide toward the horizon. Within an hour or two, it would be dark, the temperature plummeting.
He wandered across the courtyard, then ascended the worn stone steps that led up to the battlements. The guards there eyed him for a brief moment, then resumed their measured pace, eyes fixed on the winterscape outside the walls.
Aidan leaned on one of the embrasures, staring out at the swirling snow. How long would he have to endure here, caught in a half life? Neither friend nor foe, what was his place within Torin’s world?
He shivered, clutching the cloak tighter, a weary despondency settling upon him. It seemed that happiness, if such a thing were even possible, was just as far as it had ever been.
One of the guards came closer on his route, and Aidan envied him his role, knowing what he was, and what he was needed for…
The guard passed behind him, close to his own guard, and then there was a muffled sound that made Aidan turn in curiosity.
He only had time to draw breath, then his assailant was on him, propelling him backward toward the edge of the battlements.
Aidan cried out once, tried to brace himself, but the attacker was too strong, too big.
They plunged over the edge.
* * *
Torin heard the alarm bell from his office and looked up sharply, then lunged to his feet. With swift strides he crossed to the door and swung it open, almost crashing into Paulsten who was literally running down the hall, pistol in hand.
Torin did not ask questions, he merely joined his friend, drawing his own gun from its holster.
The hive of activity outside seemed to be centered around the gates, and several soldiers turned to face him, faces pale as he approached.
“Somehow one of the bastards got in, my lord. Dressed as one of us. He attacked the boy’s guard, stabbed him, then forced the boy over the south wall.”
“Over the wall?” Torin blinked in disbelief, horror beginning to tighten his chest.
There was nothing but the river along the south wall. A frigid, ice-choked river.
Dear gods.
He had utterly and completely failed.
* * *
Aidan had imagined dying in many ways, but never had he thought he would drown.
The shock of the frigid water had taken his breath, and the heavy woolen cloak was dragging him under before he could draw in more air.
He thrashed desperately, feeling his muscles cramp within the embrace of the icy waters, the swift current dragging him along mercilessly.
So this was it…
He sank, feeling his senses float away from him, his eyes roll up in their sockets…
There was a hard yank, and then suddenly he was in the air again, gasping, arms flailing weakly, trying to grasp his rescuer in a final bid for life.
Fingers scrabbled at his throat, then the cloak fell away, its deathly weight sliding blessedly away from his body.
Ice ground into his face, but he hardly felt the pain as it sliced his cheek. It all seemed far away and unreal.
Fingers sank into his hair and pulled him up against a body, forcing him to face away from his attacker—or was this a rescuer? The cold made his very bones ache, his teeth chattering against each other uncontrollably.
A hard arm slid across his chest, holding him firmly, and he stopped struggling, laying limply in the grasp of whoever had him.
He felt movement, a rhythmic tugging, and realized that the person who held him was swimming strongly, pulling him along.
Moments later—or was it hours?—he was pulled up and out of the water. He could not stand—his legs seemed to be no longer part of him—so he was dragged across the ice-bound shore and upward to the edge of the forest that lay thick along the river.
A voice hailed them, and Aidan’s eyes widened, his body fitfully spasming in an useless attempt to escape.
Heratis.
Which would mean that the man who held him was most likely Nairat.
He shuddered, invisible among the shivers that wracked his form as he realized his position.
He had been taken from Torin and now was returned to Nairat and Heratis’s imprisonment.
A scream of horror lodged in his throat, but all that escaped his clenched chattering teeth was a low whimper.
They wrapped him in a thick blanket, then hard hands took him from Nairat and hoisted him high, belly down over a rider’s legs. He heard murmurs from both men, but could not respond, his senses swimming. With a low moan of distress, his thoughts faded and he sank into cold darkness, wishing never to wake and face what lay ahead.
Chapter Three
Torin felt his mount slip on the icy path, and his legs tightened as he helped the horse recover. It was madness to move so swiftly in this weather, but there was no other recourse. He held no doubts as to who had taken the boy, and there would be little time to catch them before they disappeared back to the north and out of Torin’s reach. By the gods, he would not leave Aidan in their cruel grasp.
Paulsten had spent time with the boy, had, with time, winkled out small details of his life, and what he had endured under the rulership of his so called guardians. Torin, despite his animosity toward Aidan, could not help but soften, his ever-present need to protect rising up to overwhelm prejudice. It had become evident that Aidan was a gentle soul, but with an inner strength that had not yet found its way to the surface. To imagine Aidan with either Nairat, who apparently had almost raped the boy, or Heratis, who was renowned for his love of torture, touching that slim form made him want to rend something violently.
Torin and his men were the boy’s only hope, and Torin was damn well not going to let Aidan down. The young man had willingly consented to this plan, had endangered himself in the name of aiding Torin’s cause, and he deserved all that they could do for him in return.
The clatter of hooves ahead made him draw up sharply, his grim mood easing somewhat as he saw one of his scouts returning.
“My lord. I found their trail. Four horses, heading straight as an arrow toward the capital.”
“Any sign of the boy?”
“One horse is heavily laden. Probably two riders. I would say the boy is one of them.”
Torin cursed. There was no way they could catch them before they crossed the current border between the rebel held territory, and the captured lands. It was evident what they were doing.
They had gotten the boy back, and they would put him on the throne. The plan was coming to fruition.
Torin’s gloved fingers tightened upon the reins, making his stallion dance in place.
It was now or never. They would have to go in before the bastards had a chance to use Aidan to provoke dissent amongst the downtrodden populace, who might, in their wish for normalcy, accept Aidan as their king and give up on the rebellion all together.
He turned to Paulsten. “Call in all the reserves. Everyone. I had hoped to postpone this until we could bring in mercenaries from Darnaria in the spring, but we can’t wait.”
Paulsten grinned, wild and mad.
“It has come then, my friend. All or nothing.”
* * *
Aidan stared out the window, grimacing at the persistent headache that seemed to have taken up residence within his skull ever since his retaking.
He watched the figures outside, below the tower he was currently held in.
He had been well treated so far in the four days since t
heir arrival, but he was terrified of the moment Nairat decided to continue his pursuit.
Glancing around at his opulent surroundings, he got to his feet and paced, arms wrapped around himself. He could not seem to get the chill of his frigid swim from his bones. He attempted to distract himself, glancing at the room’s extravagant contents.
The palace. The true residence of the royal family. Was this exactly how it had looked before the invasion? It seemed familiar, as though he had seen it before, perhaps in a painting.
Certainly Torin’s residence had held many important paintings. Perhaps there…
The door swung open, and Aidan tensed, hands fisting by his side as Nairat and Heratis entered.
They bowed, and he watched them expressionlessly.
Something had changed within him since he had met Torin, since he had learned about the resistance. Some sliver of pride he had not even been aware of had risen, and now a determination had grown. Somehow, he would find a way to see Torin lead this country once more. He may not know his heritage, may not know of whence he came, but Torin’s strong ethics had made a powerful impression upon Aidan, had given him a direction and purpose he had never known before. None of what he had been taught from his childhood had ever touched his soul. He had paid lip service to it, in the name of survival, but now—now he had something to believe in that he felt deep within to be right and good.
Whatever came, he must find the courage and strength to withstand and counter the plans these two men had for the people they had conquered. Aidan would not be their tool to gain a greater foothold within Ceratas.
That alone was the only gift he could offer Torin.
“Come, my prince. It is time to meet your people. There is a case of justice to be meted out by your hand.” Nairat gave a small smile, his eyes hot upon Aidan’s body.
“I am no prince. I cannot hand out justice as though I were. The people deserve better than that.” Aidan’s chin rose, a spike of defiance making his fists clench in rejection of all these men expected.
Heratis laughed, low and with malice. “So our little bird has been corrupted by Torin. Infected with his foolishness. Don’t worry, young one. Soon he will be by your side, your consort, working to our betterment, stilling the rebellion once and for all.”
Aidan felt his breath catch, the surety in the general’s voice making fear slither up his spine.
Consort…what madness was this?
“Torin would never lower himself to be your puppet. There is nothing you could do that would bring him to your side.”
Nairat laughed, striding closer, grasping Aidan’s arm and pulling him up against his larger, heavier body.
Aidan stayed stiff, not fighting, not seeing the point. It was two against one, and he refused to pander to their love of pain.
Nairat leaned close, brushing his lips along Aidan’s temple in a sickening parody of affection. “So brave now. Torin made quite the impression upon you, did he not? So handsome, so strong and powerful. A hero. Even now, he comes to rescue you, army in tow.”
Aidan’s eyes widened, and he looked up, meeting Nairat’s lust-filled leer and trying to stifle the hope that flared. “He’s coming?”
Nairat grinned, his expression turning feral. “Right where we want him. Once we have him in our grasp, he will be given randice. See then if your hero manages to hold his morals, if he continues in his rebellion, or if he’s reduced to begging for his next dose.”
Aidan sucked in a strained breath, shooting a glance to Heratis as though to confirm the horror of the words, of the intent that would reduce a man as powerful as Torin to a drugged puppet.
Heratis’s cold smile made him shiver.
“We will name him your consort, two royal bloodlines upon the throne. The people will sink into apathy, with no rebellion to give them hope. Rebel against what? They will be following royal Ceratasians, no invaders to rally against.”
“I will not do this. I will not live a lie to imprison my people yet further.” Aidan pulled back, wincing at the pain of Nairat’s fingers upon his thin arm.
“You will. For the sake of your people’s welfare, and for your consort. This could not have turned out better. You already feel for him. Every time you rebel, refuse to act upon our wishes, he will be the one to suffer. Never a mark upon your royal person.” Heratis’s lip curled, his eyes lighting. “I cannot wait to have a turn with Torin Greyan. He has been a thorn in our side for far too long.”
Aidan jerked toward him, rage suffusing his features. “You will not touch him!”
Nairat tsked, pulling him back against his chest. “Then you better be a very, very good boy, little prince. Starting now.”
Aidan glared at him. “You don’t have him. Will never have him. I will not do your biding.”
Nairat nudged him forward, his strength unassailable. “You will, Aidan. You will.”
* * *
“Kneel to your prince. Bow your necks to his sword of justice.” Heratis’s tone held anticipation, no reluctance at all to view the coming executions.
Aidan could only stand frozen, fingers turning white around the hilt of the heavy sword that had been thrust into his hand.
The weight of watching eyes, of judgment, pressed upon him, sweat beginning to bead upon his brow.
His tormentors had brought him here, to the great throne room, smiling and nodding to the assembled nobles as though they were royalty themselves, arms linked through Aidan’s, hiding the fact that they were forcing him as much as guiding him.
They seated him upon the throne, Nairat standing behind him, one hand resting on the boy’s shoulder in a proprietary gesture that told all and sundry where the real power lay.
The expressions upon the courtiers’ faces ranged from sullen and furious to timidly hopeful. It was clear they had no idea what to think, whether to accept this young man as their rightful prince, or to reject him as a mere puppet of the enemy.
Aidan had been paralyzed with terror.
He had never been the focus of so many people at once, and he was frozen with indecision. Should he speak up, denounce his supposed mentors, or remain silent, find a way to protect his people, help the rebellion?
He should have known he would have no choice at all.
The massive double doors had slowly opened, and soldiers had entered, dragging three men in chains along with them.
Aidan had watched in confusion and mounting fear as the prisoners had been brought before the throne and forced to their knees. The soldiers stepped back, leaving them to their fate.
“These three men have been charged with the murder of a royal guard, during an attempt to assassinate his royal highness, Prince Aidan. The charge has been upgraded to treason, punishable by death. The Prince himself will face his attackers and execute them, as is just.”
Nairat lifted Aidan’s right hand, curled his fingers around a sword, and pulled him to his feet, maneuvering him so that he stood close before the three kneeling men who stared up with nothing but hatred and defiance in their eyes.
“As prince, it is your duty to defend the crown. You must see justice done.” Nairat stepped back to stand beside Heratis, his eyes hooded, expression blank.
Aidan watched him go with disbelief, then returned his attention to the men before him. Two looked to be in their thirties, but the third was young, perhaps not even twenty, so close to Aidan’s own age.
Silence fell upon the hall. It was a though all ceased to breathe, waiting for the outcome.
Aidan looked up at the crowd, his gaze falling upon a girl cradled into the side of an older man, her eyes fixed upon the youngest prisoner, silent tears flowing down her cheeks. There was no hope in her expression, only a burgeoning grief that etched her features.
Aidan found a snarl rising in his throat, and he jerked his attention back to the three men awaiting their fate. With a gesture of fury, he cast aside the sword, the sound of it clattering across the ornate marble floor loud and startling.
; “If I am your prince, then I say there will be no death here this day. If the wrong was done to me, then I freely forgive the trespass. I will not slay my own people.” He ignored the looks of utter shock on the prisoners, the disbelief upon the courtier’s faces. He only looked upon the dawning hope in a young girl’s eyes. “I pardon these men. They are free.” He shot a triumphant glare at the generals. Nairat and Heratis came forward, bowing to Aidan, before they addressed the gathering.
“You have heard the prince. May his mercy and kindness long reign. Kneel before your future king.” There was no tone of anger, only neutrality.
A well dressed man to the right side of the room raised his fist to touch his chest, bowing deeply. “Long live Prince Aidan, our rightful ruler!”
The people knelt, and there was confusion on their faces, some looking at Aidan with an expression of awe, of dawning hope, while others looked skeptical, but less hostile than before.
Aidan was guided back to the throne, and as he sat, he caught a glimpse of Nairat’s eyes, full of guile and satisfaction.
It was only then that he realized he had tumbled, head first, into their trap. His first introduction to his people, his actions and words, had brought with it something to induce hope.
Like the blindest of fools, he had become the very thing he had vowed to avoid.
* * *
Aidan watched from his tower as preparations were made for his coronation. The capital city, Lazern, that surrounded the palace was teeming with people. There had been a few public protests that he had seen, swiftly broken up by the military, but the event seemed to be proceeding with an almost eerie calm, a surreal air heightened by the fact that an army was on its way to the capital.
Aidan laid his aching head upon the glass of the window. Torin was their only hope, as he always had been.
Aidan was nothing, a mere pawn. He’d been manipulated. Political intrigue was something he knew only from the books he had read, and the reality of it left him bewildered and lost.
