The trouble is finding a place where my father—or, to be more precise, his devoted Court Air Rider, Lady Katerine— won’t see or overhear us. Where she can’t spy on us by sending a breeze to fetch our conversation to her ears.
We’ve found only one room that meets our requirements in all our years living in the capital’s palace. Without windows and with a closed door, it would be difficult for a spare breeze to circulate. Aleta sits, waiting for me to begin, and the story of the farmer and his fate spills from my lips.
“And,” I conclude. “Thanks to my father’s idea of justice, the poor man is probably locked in the dungeon now, his lands taken from his family, awaiting conscription. Or worse, execution.” I kick bitterly at the ground, achieving no result except a blunt pain in my toes.
Aleta’s quiet and I look at her, expectant. “Have you nothing to say?”
She looks heavenward, as though praying for strength from the Makers. “I’m going to ask you a question,” she says carefully. “And if the answer isn’t what I hope to hear, I won’t bother you on the subject again. But here it is: what do you think justice is?”
I think for a moment. “Justice is defined by those who hold the power,” I say slowly.
Her face falls, her sharp eyes skewer the floor, and I lean forward. “No—Aleta. You misunderstand me. It’s defined by those who hold the power. I’m the crown prince. I may not be able to match my father yet, but I am far from powerless.”
⚔
Though Aleta tries to persuade me otherwise, I insist on trying reason first before taking more serious action. Two nights later, I formally request an audience with my father. Not as my father, but as my king.
I return to the throne room where two seats sit vacant. My own, and Aleta’s— though the rules governing her presence are far more strict than when I bear witness to proceedings. She is only a ward. Only an honored guest. Though she will be queen, she cannot speak as one yet.
No other witnesses are present when I enter the room. Not even a solitary scribe to record the ruler for posterity.
It does not put me at ease.
“Your Majesty,” I say, taking a hesitant step forward.
Before I can ask, he offers an explanation. “I thought it preferable that we be alone so that we may speak plainly with one another.” He is amiable. In a good mood. Smiling, without malice hiding in it.
“Your Majesty,” I reiterate firmly. “I come to you today not as your son, but as a subject—”
“Preposterous,” he scoffs.
“Please.” I raise my voice, holding up a stalling hand. “Please think of me as though I am just a simple vassal.”
He raises a brow, but waves a hand, indulging me. “By all means.”
My fingers tremble for a moment before I get a hold of myself, fisting them and holding them at my side. “I bring before Your Majesty a proposal on the matter of Elemental Adepts.”
Father’s good mood vanishes. “Think quite carefully before you continue, Prince Caden.”
“I have thought, Your Majesty. Very carefully indeed.” I swallow— imperceptibly, I hope.
“The conscription of Elemental Adepts is an old and respected tradition within Egria,” I say. “Old, respected— and outdated. The country was at war when the practice was established. We needed every advantage then.”
“Do you mean to say that we can spare such advantages now?”
“Is there a war on that I am unaware of?” I shoot back, then ease a breath out between my teeth in an effort to regain myself. Easy. Don’t overstep. Keep your calm.
“The people are ill at ease, Your Majesty. Even at court, I hear the whispers of nobles with children approaching seventeen. They are fearful. Some go so far as to pay for asinine ‘tests,’ endangering those they fear for, exposing them to the worst of the elements and seeing which fail to harm them.
“Imagine the loyalty they would feel for a monarch who puts an end to that fear. Who saves their children. Who sends their wives, fathers, and siblings home. Without a large army to constantly feed and provide supplies for, we could lower taxes substantially. And more agriculturally-inclined Adepts may band together to revolutionize crops, as the farmer we saw a couple of days ago did. It could improve our economy, our trade with other nations… the benefits are too numerous to properly count.”
“This is a very heartfelt speech, Prince Caden, but if you have a point, I suggest that you state it outright.”
“I humbly propose that Your Majesty end the draft,” I say in a rush. “At least until such time as Egria finds itself at war again. And, perhaps, think on the release of those who hid their abilities and were discovered. Those who now face imprisonment or execution for a victimless crime. For breaking an outdated law.”
He nods, index finger at his cheek as he considers. For a moment, I am hopeful, but then— “No.”
“But surely—”
“No.” He rises and descends the steps from his throne to circle me like a hawk. “You want to be treated like a vassal. I owe my vassals no explanations. Were you my son, I might tell you that empires are not built on peace. I may enumerate the many ways that sending the Adepts home would leave us vulnerable to attack or remind you that the Nereids have Water Throwers and that we sit on the ocean’s cliffs with none. I could say that fear can prove equally useful in engendering loyalty.”
“Father—”
“Oh, are you my son again?” He draws close and hisses into my ear. “Then start acting like it.”
I clench my jaw and close my eyes in defeat as he leaves the throne room without another word.
⚔
I have never openly defied my father before. Debated a point of state? Certainly. Parried a sword thrust? Of course. But outright defiance? Working against him? No.
However, after our meeting and his outright refusal even to entertain the notion of revising the law, I don’t see that I have a choice. Not one that my conscience will permit at any rate.
And if this endeavor goes as I hope it will, no one will say that I’ve done any differently than obey him.
I ask to be served in my quarters tonight, but Aleta will attend dinner so as not to raise talk of the two of us missing at once. She appears at my doorway prior to the meal, bearing a ruby cuff draped over her fingers. I balk, understanding immediately what she intends.
“I’m not wearing that.” We both know what red means. It’s the mark of a murderer. If I am to play at honor and justice, I won’t sully myself with the connotation.
“Wear it,” she says, her tone brooking no arguments. “Say nothing about it, but let it make its implication silently. Suggestion and imagination are powerful tools at your disposal. Use them.”
I wear the cuff.
After my food is delivered, I wait just a moment before slipping away. My chamber guards think nothing of it; they’ve been with me for some time and are used to my unusual comings and goings. Walking often helps me think. I am counting on the fact that they are too used to my wanderings to take note of this one.
I use a tunnel to sneak into a visiting Elemental Adept’s room while he attends the dinner I am missing. The Fire Torcher whose rooms I visit is a high-ranking colonel in my father’s army and his status affords him a stay in a hall largely populated by lower nobles. I have no trouble locating his wardrobe and fetching the black, hooded robe I require to disguise myself as an Elemental Adept.
My face is wreathed in shadows as I approach the guard station outside the prison. It’s a bit closer to the palace than the dungeon we use to house high criminals and I make good time. They’ll be preoccupied at dinner for some time yet.
I try not to breathe an audible sigh of relief upon noticing that none of the guards wear a robe that matches mine. I’d feared encountering a Fire Torcher, one who could easy lift a palm, flames alight, to have an unobstructed view of my face. As it is, I keep my face turned toward the ground. It would spoil all of my efforts
if I were recognized.
I clutch a sheaf of paper in my own handwriting, bearing my own seal. Its wrinkles are creased with my sweat as I pass it over. “I’m to escort some Shaker for a hearing,” I say gruffly.
The guards cracks the seal with a suspicious hand. “Bit late, isn’t it? Besides, truant Elementals are s’posed to await trial here.”
I shrug. “Not for us to question the royals, is it?”
He doesn’t look convinced. Damn. I’ll have to use Aleta’s method after all. Nonchalantly, I adjust my sleeve so that the ruby cuff peeks out. The move has the desired effect: the guard recoils when it glints up at him like a bloody star in the darkness.
“Fetch the newest truant,” he barks.
The farmer—Walden, I seem to remember Father calling him— looks bewildered when he’s dragged out. The guard thrusts his shackles and the keys that will free him into my hands. It’s been mere days but already he looks worse for the wear. A bruise blooms on his cheek and black circles rest beneath his eyes.
“Where are we going?”
“Never you mind,” I grunt, releasing his shackles and shoving him ahead of me. I prod him forward. “Walk, truant.”
We can’t move quickly. Walden’s footsteps are shuffles, his ankles shackled just enough to let him walk, but not easily. I have to wait until I’m sure we won’t run into any well meaning guards before I undo his restraints.
I’d headed toward the castle at first in order to throw off any suspicion from the prison guards, but now I loop us back around the stables. The head hostler and a few select stable hands sleep above the horses, but the others will have gone home by now.
Walden tries to look back at me, but I tilt my head lower, ensuring that the hood obscures my features. The unfortunate result of such a move is that I can see only my feet and Walden’s on the ground before me. Thankfully, I know this route well. I’ve set us on the path toward a vacant pasture and to my hunting grounds, lush and green and untamed; much of the growth that my father’s Shakers pulled from the Leeched Desert that surrounds our city lives there. What’s more: it’s—
Walden’s shackled feet hop in place and a jagged stone hurls itself up from the ground toward me.
I leap backward before I’m impaled on the rock. Walden takes off for the hunting grounds as fast as he can, shackles rattling. He throws a terrified look back at me as I maneuver around the new unexpected obstacle.
The fool. I grit my teeth, trying not to lose my temper. He’d best thank the Makers that I took him this way. It’s unguarded. If he’d tried this foolishness along any other paths, the palace’s soldiers would be on us instantly and he’d have assured his own execution. As it is, however…
When he sees me coming for him, he desperately slices his cuffed hands across his body and I’m walloped in the back of the head by a tree branch.
The hood drops to my neck. I blink for a moment to clear the stars from my vision. Gingerly touching the rising lump on my skull, I’m relieved to find it free of blood. I’ll be able to keep the bruise hidden under my hair until it heals.
My mouth solidifies in a determined line. Enough of this farce. Walden hasn’t been able to get far, shuffling as he is. I manage to get close enough and launch myself at the man, tackling him to the ground. We land loudly, the path protesting such an affront.
“You damned idiot,” I mutter, scrabbling for the keys I’d looped onto my belt. I unfasten Walden’s wrists and he blinks.
“What are you—”
“Go.” I concentrate now on freeing his feet, the key fumbling in its lock. He stumbles as he stands and steps from the shackles’ grip.
“How did you manage—who—”
He pales when he sees my face, free of its hood. Recognition dawns in his eyes as he places me in his memory. “Your Highness?
I rise, holding Walden’s gaze. I should be more dismayed over the fact that he knows the identity of his savior, but I can’t bring myself to feel that way. It feels good. To know that I’ve helped someone and to have them know it too. Good to know that at least one of my subjects will believe someone in the royal family understands that we should be loyal to our people if we expect their fealty.
It’s a start.
“Go,” I say again.
“Prince Caden,” he says, reiterating my identity. I nod. “Why, though? Why free me?”
I meet his eyes. “Do you feel like you’ve done something wrong?”
“I broke the law,” he says.
“That doesn’t make it wrong.”
He waits for more, but it’s the only answer I have to give.
It would seem he’s not a man given to pressing his good fortune. Walden bows low. “I am— eternally grateful,” he says. He stands again, looking at me searchingly. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
“I wish you good luck,” I say. And then he’s gone.
I don’t know where he’ll go as he scrambles off into the darkness, withdrawing into the shelter of the forest-like grounds. If he makes it back to his family, they will have to run.
I truly hope he makes it.
But this is all I can do for now. I listen to the crunching of leaves swallowing his retreating footsteps. It’s not long before the trees and creatures that fill the hunting grounds gobble up those sounds too.
Later, I will protest that the note extrapolating Walden from his cell was forged. A search will reveal that my seal is missing. Stolen. I will demand that the Adept who dared to misrepresent the crown in order to free a truant Elemental be found and brought to justice for his crimes.
They will never find him.
Justice has many definitions. True justice—a justice that is righteous and fair—is a rare thing. But my father isn’t wrong. Justice is defined by those who hold the power.
And perhaps it’s time he held a little less.
Fall of Thrones and Thorns Page 22
