The Wrong Prince

by C. K. Brooke

  She took hold of the columns and hoisted herself up. She refused to look down at the grounds extending beneath her. Breathing heavily, she straddled the railing and finally slid down into the balcony’s confines. The glass-paned door was ajar, as it had been before. She paused with caution, listening.

  She left the lariat in place; she may need it for an escape. But now was the moment of intrusion—quiet, gentle intrusion.

  There was just enough space for her to squeeze through the door. With one hand raised in a gesture of peace, and the other poised at her garter, she stepped into Ira’s bedchamber.

  The canopy bed was empty, although the linens were mussed, as though recently occupied. Cerise glanced around. At last, she spotted him. He sat at a mahogany writing desk, his back to her, running a quill across parchment.

  Cerise moved in. If her footfalls made any sound, they were lost upon the king, who continued to scribble with intensity. He met the bottom of the page, tossed the leaf aside and resumed with a fresh one. Coming behind him, Cerise noted that the parchment she’d assumed he had filled was blank, as were the others piled beside it. She looked to the page he currently wrote upon. It, too, bore no markings, even though Ira’s hand moved midway down the paper.

  Cerise frowned. The quill was dry. He wrote with no ink.

  He must have sensed her there, for his shoulders stiffened, and he stopped. Cerise remained in place. Ira turned, taking in her appearance, and his granite eyes hardened with recognition. “You,” he muttered. He took a breath, widening his mouth to alert the staff, but Cerise clenched the dagger strapped at her garter and brought it to his throat. His hands lifted in careful surrender.

  “Before I kill you,” she said calmly, “I only wish to know something.” She studied his pallid face, the wasted apathy in his eyes. “Why did you try to drink from the goblet? You knew it was poisoned.”

  “Perhaps,” he rasped, “I no longer wish to live in a world without the ones I hold most dear.”

  “Held,” Cerise corrected him. “Your wife and son are dead.”

  He winced as if she had cut him, although the blade had not yet touched his skin. Aggrieved, he looked away.

  “You lost your family, yes.” Cerise brought the dagger closer. “But you are still king of this land. You could’ve had anything you wanted. A new wife, more sons.”

  His eyes were suddenly aflame. “And despoil their sacred memories?” he exploded. “How dare you suggest my family could ever be replaced? They cannot be!”

  “I know what it is to mourn.” Cerise lowered her face to his. “But it does not excuse what you’ve done.”

  “Hypocrite,” he spat. “You are nothing but a murderess.”

  “I only kill scoundrels who have it coming to them. Not innocent men and women.”

  Ira glared at her, unflinching. “You know nothing of my plight, witch.”

  Cerise rested the knife against his worn flesh, upon the pulsing vein in his unshaven neck. “When my daughter entered this world stillborn, think you that I did not weep? Think you that I do not grieve her loss to this day?” She dug the knife nearer still. “But that does not entitle me to cause others undue suffering. Nor does your grief excuse you.”

  The last word had hardly left her lips when Ira bared his teeth and knocked the dagger from her hand. It flew through the air and scuttled across the flagstone floor. Cerise leapt after it, but the king shot up and seized the back of her stolen blazer.

  She tore open the jacket, brass buttons popping free and bouncing across the rug. The king was left holding the garment as she slid her arms from it in wild search of her dagger. But the man caught her by the shoulders, his grip unspeakably strong, and spun her around to face him.

  Cerise sucked in a breath at his maddened face, those previously emotive eyes now vacant, his grimace murderous. He lunged at her, and something ejected forth from beneath his unfastened collar—a gleam of silver and shimmery gold. Reflexively, Cerise reached for it. Grabbing onto the chain around his neck, she tugged mightily, attempting to throttle him with it. He choked with strain, cheeks purpling, until the links burst apart.

  Cerise barely noticed the broken golden chain slipping to the ground, seeing only the intriguing silver key that fell along with it. Ira was coughing, eyelids pinched shut and massaging his throat as the woman caught the key and tucked it hurriedly into her brassiere. Wheezing, the king reopened his eyes. Cerise stood before him, weaponless, breast heaving.

  Fluidly, the man knelt down. When he arose again, something glinted in his grip. Her dagger.

  She backed into the wallpaper as he stalked forward triumphantly. Drool leaked from the corner of his mouth. Cerise tugged at a tear in the bust of her dress and bared her cleavage to the blade aimed at her heart. “Do your worst,” she whispered, though she doubted he could understand her in his present state. “It is already broken.”

  Ira’s eyes glassed over. And then, quite suddenly, he turned the weapon on himself, and ran it across his own throat. Cerise screamed as he staggered back, rich blood seeping from his neck, gurgling from his mouth. Onto the bed he collapsed, face-up, his stomach rising with shallow breaths until, with a shattered croak, he fell still.

  Shaking, Cerise approached the body and pried the dagger from his wet hand. Her heart pummeled her chest with the irrational fear that he would jerk awake at her touch and slay her at any moment. But no such objection occurred, and Cerise took back the weapon, drying the blade on his lank, velvety garments. She was sliding the dagger back into the sheath at her garter just as three curt knocks sounded at the bedchamber door.

  Her chin shot up. “Damn,” she whispered, and scrambled out to the balcony.

  DEATH WAS THEIR SENTENCE. HANDS manacled to one another, bare feet chained to the filthy, damp dungeon floor, Lucie and Geo sat side-by-side, awaiting the ultimate punishment. The band of soldiers marched back up the staircase, leaving the two prisoners to languish in the drabness with only a sconce on the wall, and a pair of guardsmen keeping vigil at the base of the stairs.

  Lucie reckoned she’d cried out all of her tears during the agonizing descent into the fishy, rusty place of her pending demise; more crying would be useless. It was over. They were in chains. Unless the King of Llewes ordered their freedom—which was about as likely as a starved wolf pitying its cornered prey—they would not live to see the light of another day.

  Geo leaned his head against the wall. “Why?” he croaked, sounding on the verge of shedding his own tears. “Why did I let you come with me, Lucie?”

  Her heart dropped. In their final moments, the man was regretting the time they had shared? Did he believe her responsible for the outcome? Was it her fault? Had she not run fast enough, held her head high enough?

  “That day at the river,” Geo bemoaned, “I should’ve ordered you to return with the horses. Nay, that first evening, in the stables! I should have forced you to remain behind in safety.” He shook his head. “I never should have dragged you into this. I should’ve alerted everyone at the banquet that night of your intentions. They all would’ve insisted you stay. But I was so single-minded, in such a hurry. And now you’re going to die, because of me.”

  Lucie blinked. “Geo, I….” She gently jiggled the hand that was cuffed to his. “I wanted to come. I made my own decision.” When he didn’t respond, only looking ill, she went on. “This isn’t your fault. We’re in it together.” She took a breath. “And if I’m going to die anywhere, then I want it to be here, at your side.”

  Her throat tightened as he turned to look at her. Silence stretched between them, an abyss of hidden truths, unspoken confessions, and Lucie gathered her resolve. She would not carry her secret to the grave. Neither would she allow Geo to perish without knowing how she truly felt. “I need to tell you something,” she said, “before it’s too late.”

  He surveyed her, eyes haunted with caution.


  “I never knew your brother,” Lucie admitted. “Nor was I intimate with anyone else, for that matter. You are, and always were, the only man in my life.” She exhaled, resting her back against the wall. A weight had been released from her, and now floated skyward and away.

  The prince’s gaze softened, although his confusion was evident. “Then why did you—?”

  She tried to retain her calm, but passion seeped through her voice. “Everything I claimed that night,” she choked, “was my attempt to ease the pain of our unchangeable fates.” She closed her eyes. “I needed to say something to ensure that you’d not come after me. If you knew how I really felt, then you weren’t liable to quit. I only wished to make it easier to tell each other goodbye. I’d no idea that the stranger to whom I’d been betrothed would turn out to be the other prince!”

  She reopened her eyes to meet his. “I’m so sorry, Geo,” she breathed. “It was a lie. The most heartless lie ever told.”

  Countless emotions played across his features in the torchlight. “Nay,” he finally uttered. “The most heartless lie ever told, Luccia Camerlane, would be to profess your love for me when, indeed, you have none. So tell me now.” His hand found her knee. “Did you ever love me?”

  “Aye,” she burst, “I always have, and forever will!”

  “Say it,” he pleaded, squeezing her leg as he brought his chin over her crown. “Oh, Lucie, I want to hear you tell me, just this once.”

  “I love you,” she declared. “I love you, I love you.”

  “And I love you,” he confessed. He nestled his lips at her neck, trailing them up her chin until they latched onto her mouth. Geo kissed her, tender and true, warm and familiar, and Lucie’s heart flew. It was absurd—their mission had been foiled, brutal foreigners were preparing to slay them, and the poor Crown Prince…was he really gone? All the same, Lucie had somehow never felt freer. Geo loved her, and he now knew that she loved him, too. She thought she had no more tears to cry. She was wrong.

  They broke apart, and Geo’s expression mirrored her elation. His was the face of the sun still fighting to shine amidst the raging storm. Lucie shrugged her shoulders against her moist cheeks to dry them, and her mouth lifted into a smile for him.

  “Lucie.” He spoke her name as though it contained new meaning. “I only need to ask…if you never knew my brother, then why did you risk your life coming after him?”

  She laughed. “I came after you. I couldn’t let you journey out here on your own. I wanted to keep you safe. And I….” Her spirits sunk. “I failed.” She thought of her mother, felt the amethyst pressing at her breast. “My mother lost her life to give mine,” she mumbled. “S’pose I thought I could be a heroine, too. If I could have saved you and your brother….”

  “You’ve not failed,” breathed the prince, running his lips across her hair. “Your love has rescued me in my final hour. You are my heroine, Luccia, my heart.”

  Another smile broke through her tears. If she was about to die, at least it would be as Geo’s. He was leaning in to kiss her again when a thunderous scrape reverberated all around them, and an orchestra of new voices flooded the dingy dungeon.

  “…NAUGHT BUT A DAMNED CESSPOOL, I’m telling you all.”

  “‘Tis not! We are in the fortress.”

  “Philip, you jackass, why would a cesspool be lit with torches and riddled with breaking wheels and iron maidens?” A familiar shadow drifted into focus, and Geo listened, stunned beyond belief, to the unmistakable voices of his friends. “Graden’s right. I daresay we’ve tunneled straight into the dungeons of Wintersea.”

  “Unimaginable,” proclaimed another voice, which Geo vaguely recognized as belonging to one of the Atasi. “My people have not used this passage for centuries. I never thought it would have brought us….”

  “Will?” Geo called after the curly-haired silhouette fronting the mass, strutting purposefully through the darkness. First Lucie’s confession of requited love, and now this. Was he dreaming?

  Will startled. “Your Highness?”

  The group erupted behind the knight, yammering wildly and rushing to the bound prisoners. The two guardsmen at the staircase charged to the scene. They extracted their swords before the Atasi and Tybirians, but were outnumbered. One guard escaped and fled upstairs with a shriek, leaving his unfortunate partner to fight solo. It wasn’t long before he lay in a drippy corner, unconscious. Aidan stood over his body, panting.

  “What the deuce has happened?” demanded Kieran, rushing to Geo’s side. “How long have you two been down here?”

  “Not long,” Geo assured him. Before he could stem it, he bubbled with laughter. Moments ago, he’d thought his hours were numbered—but lo, he and Lucie were saved!

  Will and Sir Chauncery heaved an axe from one of the rusty torture devices over to Geo and the woman. “Saving grace,” she exclaimed, extending her manacled hand.

  Geo did the same, lengthening the space between them to prepare the chain for the men’s aim. Will raised the axe over his shoulder and lowered it in a flash, smashing the metal links apart. Sir Philip and the Atasi went to work with their daggers, sawing the cords from the prince’s and Lucie’s waists and arms.

  With another few heaves of the axe, Will busted the shackles that tethered their ankles to the floor. Geo and Lucie rose, freed. At once, they flew into each other’s arms. Lucie squeezed him with the sum of her strength, and Geo held onto her in turn.

  Kieran cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but I fear we’ve limited time. I imagine the guard who got away is informing his fellows of our presence as we speak. You and Miss Camerlane must escape through the tunnel, beneath the manhole—”

  “What about the Crown Prince?” intervened Will.

  Lucie carefully released Geo, and the prince looked down. “Men, Prince Dmitri is….” Something stalled him, however, as he glanced between his friends’ faces…friends whom he had thought he’d lost forever, faces he’d once believed he would never see again. Maybe, just maybe, could there be a modicum of a chance that the captain of the guard had lied, and Dmitri was possibly still…?

  “Don’t move!” An array of Atasi stood over the lone Llewesian guard, who was slowly regaining consciousness. “Prince Georome.” A barebacked man coated in tattoos raised a spear. “May I have the honor?”

  “Wait.” Geo lifted a hand. He approached the groaning guard, his knights hovering close behind. “What is your name?”

  The guard said nothing, and the Atasi directed their spears at his various vital organs. “Answer His Highness,” snarled Sir Chauncery, the tip of his sword between the man’s eyes.

  The guard paled. “Traugham, sir.”

  “Officer Traugham,” Geo appraised him, “is Prince Dmitri Straussen here, at Wintersea?”

  Traugham looked hesitant, but replied, “Yes, sir.”

  Geo stepped closer, dreading to ask the question. “And does he live?”

  “Yes,” the guard exhaled. “S-somehow, he is still alive.”

  The knights murmured between one another, and Geo’s heart pounced with joy. “Where are they keeping him?” he demanded, his excitement rising. But Traugham closed his eyes.

  “Answer,” barked Chauncery, his blade drawing blood above the guard’s nose. “Or else we will strap you to the rack.” He indicated the barbaric contraption across the room.

  Traugham shuddered. “The t-t-tower, Your Highness. In the k-keep.”

  Geo pushed through his companions and clasped Lucie’s hand. “You must escape with an escort,” he told her. “The rest of us will rescue my brother. I will see you in Tybiria.”

  “No!” she cried, clutching his wrists. “I’ve come all this way with you, Geo. I am not leaving you now!” She seemed to remember their audience, and closed her mouth.

  “Your Highness,” grunted Kieran. “We need your orders pos
thaste. At any moment, the Llewesians are going to storm down those steps and—”

  Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

  The dungeon fell silent, listening to the ominous crunch of an army marching overhead. “Too late,” whispered Will, eyes grim.

  Geo issued his command. “Fight, all of you. Spare no one.”

  “Right. You heard His Highness,” announced Kieran. “Weapons at the ready, men!”

  Geo seized Lucie’s hand. “And now, we rescue Dmitri.”

  Her jaw fell ajar. “Now?”

  He looked to the staircase. “If we wait until the soldiers get here, we’ll never make it up to the keep.” He addressed Kieran. “If the need arises, flee back through the Atasi’s passage. Do not wait for us.”

  “But, Your Highness—!”

  Geo would not be impeded by the knights’ protests as he guided Lucie to the stairs. On his way, he picked up the axe Will had used to sever their chains, and cradled it by the neck. They leapt up the steps, all the while aware of the soldiers mobilizing just stories above them.

  “We’re going to run right into them,” Lucie fretted as they reached the top, and their surroundings became considerably better lit.

  “No, we won’t,” insisted Geo. “The guards are still a floor above us by the sound of it. But there are other stairwells, as you know.” He ducked, racing her down the corridor and away from the threatening footfalls. “The tower is north. We only have to figure out which stairway.”

  “I think that’s the direction we were headed,” she ejected, “when we were caught.”

  Geo’s eyes darted about, trying to regain his bearings. “Damn it! I’m all turned around.” Indeed, his sense of direction felt jumbled.

  Lucie frowned as they wove down another labyrinthine corridor, only to find themselves back in the main hall.