The Bastard Prince

by Megan Derr

  His ability to transform was nothing like his more ordinary magic. It was hot as it consumed, painful as he felt things crack and shrink and otherwise alter. Part of the magic was in numbing the full brunt of the pain, but he could still feel some of it.

  But it was also one of the most thrilling feelings, when the change took and he could soar. It was heady, exhilarating. More than even that, it simply felt right, like a pleasant exhaustion after working hard all day. Like falling asleep sated and complete in a lover's arms. Like the rare smiles he coaxed from Reyes, that were for him and him alone.

  He finished changing before he had fallen even halfway, and his cry made a few guards jump as it broke the quiet of the night. He flew swiftly higher, and alighted on the crenellation of the tower, crying out again to Tamark before lifting off into the dark, star-strewn sky, circling once before heading back toward Basden. He was anxious to be home, to deal with the would-be usurper.

  One way or another.

  He arrived on a well-lit private terrace accessible only by those who lived in this private wing of the castle—himself, and half a dozen other men, all high-ranking nobles who shared his rare brand of magic. He transformed as he drew close, landing neatly on his feet and standing smoothly, settling his clothes with practiced ease.

  The sound of movement drew him up short, and he stopped in surprise as he saw Reyes step out onto the terrace.

  "It's about time," Reyes snapped.

  Kinnaird almost smiled, teased, but he had never seen Reyes so visibly worried and strained. Closing the space between them, he reached out wholly without thinking to gently grasp Reyes' chin and tilt his face up for a brief kiss.

  He was simultaneously elated and increasingly concerned that Reyes did not in any way protest the kiss, or even attempt to move away. "I am sorry," Kinnaird replied quietly. "I came immediately after receiving your letter, but storm winds slowed me halfway home. What else has gone wrong, since you sent the letters?" He let go of Reyes' chin and slid his hand down to gently grasp Reyes' arm instead, squeezing reassuringly. "You look exhausted, my dear."

  Reyes, even more alarmingly, did not protest the endearment. "He will not sleep. He barely eats. He is making himself sick with worry and dread and shame. That stupid twit is not helping matters; quite the opposite."

  Kinnaird lifted one brow. 'He' was obviously Rhoten. 'Stupid twit' could only be the Princess. The only purpose she served was providing a means by which to put Keene on the throne someday. If Rhoten doted on Reyes like a much-adored young son, then he had definitely helped mold Keene for the throne like he would have a true eldest son. No better man in the country existed, and Kinnaird would be damned if he let anyone else take the throne away. That the foul impostor was also upsetting Reyes to this degree… yes, he would be rid of the bastard by whatever means necessary.

  He kissed Reyes again, wishing briefly he could always steal kisses so easily and casually. "What is the imposter doing now?"

  "Making friend and allies, though he's not been here long," Reyes replied, and then seemed to shake himself, drawing slightly away and firmly back into himself.

  No more kisses, then, Kinnaird thought with an inward sigh.

  "People are already saying that perhaps he should be given a chance," Reyes said. "The court is dividing, and I fear the protestors will shrink as the days continue. He has a presence, much as I hate to say it, and charm enough to put even you to shame."

  Kinnaird scoffed at this. "Obviously you have not been subjected to my charm for far too long, my dear. Where is he now?" he continued, before Reyes could yell at him for being flippant.

  "The garden pavilion," Reyes said. "The Earl of Pleasant is holding a luncheon for him, to 'further quiz the King's son and see how he manages amongst the court'. People adore his tales, especially those from the 'land which fears magic'." His lips curled in distaste.

  "The what?" Kinnaird's brows shot up. He only knew one country which detested magic, but they certainly did not fear it… "Afraid? Oh, my. He really knows nothing, or cannot tell the difference between fear and contempt. Do me a favor, would you, my dear?"

  Reyes looked at him, clearly torn between annoyance and surprise. "What did you need?" He finally asked, and Kinnaird wanted to kiss away the confusion that drew his brows down. He never let Reyes do anything for him, not so much as fix his coffee. He refused ever to let Reyes see him as one more element of duty, to put more formality between them. Reyes had not quite figured his motive out, yet.

  "My bedchamber," Kinnaird replied. "There is a small box carved from feyestone in the table by my bed. Bring it to me at the garden pavilion."

  "As you wish," Reyes said with a nod. He turned away, and Kinnaird could not bear it when the exhaustion and worry slid over his face again.

  Yanking Reyes back, he kissed him deeply, holding fast and not letting up until Reyes finally began to kiss him back. When finally forced to break the kiss, he said softly against Reyes' mouth, "We will fix it. I promise, I will set all to rights."

  Reyes shoved him back and Kinnaird smiled to see the more familiar glitter of annoyance in his eyes. But Reyes surprised him when he said, "I know you will. That is why I wrote to you."

  Kinnaird could not think what to say against such unexpected faith. He was not at all accustomed to Reyes being nice to him, as badly as he wanted it.

  "But," Reyes continued more icily, "that does not grant you leave to kiss me."

  Grinning, Kinnaird led the way from the terrace, reluctantly splitting off so that Reyes could continue back through the wing to fetch the box, while Kinnaird turned toward the main part of the palace, through it to the gardens.

  Magic being an extremely valuable commodity, it was generally used strictly for essentials, and very rarely expended on a large scale on frivolous things. That being so, gardens as foreigners thought of them did not exist in Elamas. Instead of thriving greenery and flowers, gardens in Elamas were complicated works of stone and ice and snow. The royal gardens were the result of thousands of hours of slow, careful, laborious work. Statues, benches, footpaths—everything was an intricate display of beauty made from the elements of their hard, unforgiving world. Like the landscape, it was a beauty not everyone could appreciate.

  The gardens were especially valued because they were a safe sort of outdoors, unlike the untamed landscapes beyond the palace and cities, where snow and ice could hide far greater dangers.

  Certainly the stranger bearing some passing resemblance to the King, sitting next to the Earl of Pleasant in the middle of the pavilion, did not seem to appreciate his surroundings. Perhaps he was simply too busy being admired himself, to admire anything or anyone else.

  As Kinnaird drew close, several voices and conversations drifted into silence, and all eyes were upon him as he reached the bastard.

  The bastard stopped talking as he realized people were no longer paying attention to him. He looked at Kinnaird. "My lord?"

  "That would be 'your Grace'," Kinnaird corrected coldly. "Who, or what, are you?"

  "I am Gandy Aquebor, illegitimate son of the King." A pause. "Your Grace."

  Kinnaird looked down his nose. "Clearly illegitimate. A legitimate son would have managed to acquire some manner."

  Around them, people were silent, or whispered and tittered behind gloves and fans.

  Gandy finally stood up, something he should have done much sooner, moving with deliberate slowness. "Your Grace, I have heard much about you, even before I managed to make my way here. You are the King's famous falcon, his favorite pet."

  Kinnaird gave Gandy a smile that was all teeth. "Only his favorite bird. I am not really very good at being a proper pet. So, tell me, illegitimate son, what did you do before you decided you wanted to try your hand at being Crown Prince?"

  Returning the smile, Gandy said, "We traveled, until we decided to settle in a country far from here. A country that manages to survive without magic, actually. It's quite fascinating how they manage, how much they fear
magic."

  "I see. But that still does not tell me your profession, your calling. 'Tis no easy thing, being King. What makes you think you are fit for it?"

  "I was an entertainer, your Grace."

  Kinnaird nodded. "A not unworthy profession. My mother was an actress. But she would be the first to say that is not a profession which makes you good at being King."

  "I want only to know the father I was always denied. It is not my decision whether or not I ever take the throne, or even am named a prince. That is for wiser minds than my mine to decide."

  Oh, he was certainly smooth, Kinnaird would give him that. He could already see many people soaking up the display of humility, the self-deprecating smile.

  A stir in the crowd briefly drew his attention, and he half-turned to see Reyes approaching him with Kinnaird's box in his hands.

  "Thank you, my dear," Kinnaird said, taking the box. Then he pulled out a small ring of keys from an inner pocket of his jacket. Selecting a small one made of silver, he unlocked the box, then tucked the keys away again. Opening the box, he rifled around its wildly varied contents until he at last found what he sought. Then he handed the box back to Reyes, and stepped a bit closer to the imposter.

  "You said you come from a country that reviles magic. I have been there several times. The entire continent is generally rife with war, between the three countries that cover it. Growing up where you did, I am certain you will appreciate this. Keep it, as a token of welcome." He held out the object he had taken from his box.

  Between two small, square panes of glass, framed in silver, was a pressed flower. It bore five petals, fat at the base and narrowing to a sharp point. It was the color of fresh blood, and had lost none of its color despite the fact it had been trapped in glass for the past three years. Obtaining it had cost Kinnaird a small fortune.

  Gandy frowned briefly as he accepted it, but then the expression cleared, and he smiled stiffly. "Thank you, your Grace."

  "What is it?" Someone asked, and others bustled closer to see it for themselves and await the explanation.

  Kinnaird answered before Gandy could form a more theatrical reply. "It is a called a seven-year flower. These flowers take seven years to fully bloom, and they go through several colors before finally reaching red. The country of Salhara, across the western sea and farther west still, knows the secret of turning these flowers into an elixir that gives them the gift of magic. Their neighbor, the country of Kria, hates magic and strives constantly to wipe the seven-year flowers out of existence."

  He could see in Gandy's eyes that his message had been received—if Gandy really had been to Kria, he would know all about seven-year flowers and the elixir made from them. It was impossible to live in Kria and not learn about Salhara, their longest and bitterest enemy. If Gandy possessed the seven-year flower elixir that granted magic to those who did not have it, he could no doubt sufficiently fake the special royal magic that he would need to posses if he wanted to make everyone think he was the King's son.

  But he had just been informed he would not fool Kinnaird. He knew all the signs of seven-year poisoning; Gandy would not slip by him easily.

  "I am astonished your Grace was able to obtain a red seven-year flower," Gandy finally said.

  Kinnaird nodded. "It came dearly. But please, do take it as a gift. You would appreciate it more than I."

  "Then I thank you again, your Grace. You are too generous by far."

  Smiling blandly, Kinnaird nodded again, then turned and strolled away, taking Reyes with him.

  "What was that about?" Reyes demanded when they were well away.

  Kinnaird explained quickly, concluding with, "Watch his eyes. Should they change color, to seem to glow, he is drugged and using the elixir, or about to use it. Be careful. That magic is nothing like ours. Much more wild, and far more dangerous. The Salharans use it for many things, but its primary use for them is martial. They can use it with deadly force, and it's all too possible Gandy has acquired those skills."

  "Is Salhara involved in this, do you think?" Reyes asked.

  Kinnaird purse his lips as he thought, but he shook his head after a moment, further consideration not changing his initial opinion. "No. Salhara is voraciously protective of its flowers and their secrets. They have never expressed interest in international matters before, and they need nothing we can offer. No, I think that Galand is behind the attacks, and it is interesting that a bastard shows up at this time. But, I think we are also very far from seeing the entire picture."

  Reyes nodded. "Keene arrived while you were in the gardens. He is waiting for you in my office. I am going to check on Rhoten, then I will join you if you require it."

  "Of course," Kinnaird replied with a smile. "I think—"

  "You have taken enough liberties," Reyes said, cutting him off, voice tart. "Do not try to take more."

  "Well, you cannot blame me for trying," Kinnaird replied, winking. "I like kissing you."

  Reyes rolled his eyes. "I will see you later, your Grace."

  "Yes, my dear."

  He watched Reyes walk away, admiring the fine lines of his body, the tidy, elegant way he moved, the way the torchlight struck his dark hair and warmed his skin. Then he turned his mind back to business, and strode to Reyes' office.

  Inside, a tall, broad-shouldered, handsome figure stood by the window, the light from the fireplace highlighting his profile. Black hair, sharp green eyes, and the sort of drawing, commanding presence that helped make a good king.

  "Dilane," Kinnaird greeted.

  Turning from the window, Dilane Lymon, Duke of Keene, smiled tiredly. "Kinnaird. Have you encountered this pretender, yet?"

  "Encountered, and warned. I think he knows a few Salharan tricks to fake his way through the royal magic. But he must not have it quite mastered yet, because Reyes mentioned to me in a letter than he put forth the excuse of blockers to stall people. He resembles the King, but only in passing. I think we can be easily rid of him. If worse comes to worst, I'll use foul means rather than fair to rid us of him."

  Dilane shook his head. "Our position will be all the stronger if we can discredit him legitimately. Violence will only make people believe the King is guilty. But I think we will have to keep the option in mind, depending on how this Gandy behaves and what he does."

  "I agree," Kinnaird replied. "Reyes says the King is not taking it well."

  "He should not have to take it at all," Dilane said. "I wish people would stop heaping further difficulties upon his life. Even for a King, he has endured enough. At that, I suppose I should go visit with her Highness."

  Kinnaird nodded. "Good luck. Reyes mentioned briefly to me that the 'stupid twit' was helping nothing."

  Dilane made a face. "I see. How typical. She is in for a rude awakening when she is my wife, I promise you that. I will see what I can do."

  "Better you than me, my friend." Kinnaird finally abandoned the doorway, and crossed the room. Dilane met him halfway, and they embraced briefly. Then Kinnaird went to the small bar tucked into one corner, and poured them both drinks. "So how was your journey home?"

  "Uneventful," Dilane replied, swirling the pale gold liquid in his glass. "The quiet was nice. I believe my brother will do quite well with the title and estate, when I pass them to him." He grimaced. "Assuming, of course, that I still will be in a position to do precisely that, in a few months'' time."

  Kinnaird squeezed his arm reassuringly. "We will not let that bastard take the throne away, I vow it. No upstart foreign imposter will displace the Fox of Elamas. You were born for the throne, Dilane. You will get it."

  Dilane smiled faintly. "This would all be a good deal easier to manage if I really had been born to the throne. I would not protest if a better man came along, of course but…"

  "This one is no better than a rat, I promise you."

  "Then we must discredit him," Dilane said. "What sort of investigations have been started? If he is a liar, some evidence of that will exist somewhere.
"

  They paused as the door suddenly opened, and Reyes stepped inside. He looked at them both, then strode to his desk, accidentally brushing against the roses as he circled around it. Several petals fell to the floor, bright splashes of color against the deeper shades of the rug.

  Kinnaird stared at them, realizing that tomorrow was his day to go down to the city proper and purchase a fresh bouquet of flowers. Hopefully, he would have the opportunity. In the years since he had started the tradition, he had only ever failed to deliver when he was away from the palace. Perhaps he could slip away that night.

  Reyes sat down and pulled out the portfolio that seldom left his person. "Now that both of you are here, I can bring you fully up to date. I have sent out men to learn whatever they possibly can about Gandy Aquebor. I also sent a letter to our contacts in Kria, though that will not turn up much, I expect. In the meantime, he continues to ingratiate himself to the court. Already he has the full support of the Earl of Pleasant. The King dare not act against him, for fear of making himself look all the guiltier."

  "Right," Dilane said. "What of her Highness?"

  "She is furious, 'ashamed' of her father. She has not left her rooms since returning to the palace in a tizzy, though she makes certain her opinions are spread far and wide."

  Dilane frowned, clearly angry. "I will deal with her Highness. In fact, I will go to do that now. Thank you, Reyes, for summoning me so quickly. Kinnaird." He nodded in farewell, and left.

  Leaving Kinnaird alone with Reyes. Refilling his own glass, he then poured one for Reyes and carried it to the desk, setting it down with a soft clink. "Drink," he ordered.

  Reyes opened his mouth, clearly to argue, but then simply shut it again. Picking up the glass, he tossed the contents back in one quick, neat shot. Kinnaird smiled at how smooth and unthinking the gesture had been.

  High, noble fashion was all about delicate sips, with lots of swirling and sniffing in between, making a show of appreciating the nuances of the alcohol. The manner in which Reyes drank, that reflexive toss back he had probably barely realized he'd done, was pure lower class.