The Unforgiven

by A. Katie Rose

  “The Bryn’Cairdha princess, you know? Princess I – um, Iyum, maybe? Iyumi!”

  Fainche danced in place, her pale, wheaten locks bouncing, and her blue eyes eager. “Did I get it right? Oh, please tell me.”

  I stroked her pale silky tresses. “Yes, dear heart. You got it right.”

  “Oh, good.”

  Her small arms crept around my waist again, like cold and homeless kittens. Only she loved me unconditionally. Only she coaxed from me the warmth, the kindness, the I-never-want-to-be nasty-to-anyone-ever-again attitude. In her presence, I felt I might one day accomplish something good. I reached for the Flynn that someone might actually like. My soul cried aloud for that rare individual in this crazy world who liked me for me.

  Once I left her side, reality descended with the thunk of a hammer to the skull. Like Prince Flynn? Are you nuts? He’s a rabid mongrel with a title. The day a stranger cared for me would arrive when hell vomited up its vile inmates and the world collapsed in upon itself.

  I felt her triumph against my chest, her smile under the hollow of my throat. Fainche’s blonde mane spilled across my arms, its rich scent tickling my nose and threatening a sneeze. Sniffling, regaining control of my wayward sinuses, I gently pushed her away and negligently swiped her hair from her tiny face.

  Sergei scowled and gestured imperiously. Get on with it and let’s go.

  “Do shut up,” I muttered, cross.

  “What did you say?” Fainche brushed her hair back, glanced from Sergei to me and back again. She peered up at me, concerned. “Don’t be angry, Flynn. He but does his job.”

  I sighed as I gazed on her sweet innocence. Fainche’s naturally sunny disposition made meadowlarks appear grouchy. She lived within the earthly bounds of the angel’s purity of spirit, seeing naught save the world’s goodness. I’d give up everything if it meant I could dwell in such a place, free from cares and men’s evil, happily caught within them in a long span of years. I’d count myself free and blessed.

  Her face nestled into my chest at the same instant she sighed. Her arms tightened about me; those small slender and as delicate limbs anchored themselves to my body as tightly as a steel cable. She lifted her pale face and blue eyes up, her chin digging into my breastbone.

  “You’ll succeed in your task,” she murmured, peeping up at me. “I know it. I saw it in the fire.”

  Gods, she didn’t own magic – did she?

  “In the fire?”

  Resting her cheek against my chest, Fainche sighed. “I see things, sometimes. I saw you riding in under the light of the moon with a silver-haired princess. She’s holding something – a baby, maybe. It cries and wriggles.”

  Gods. She has the Sight. They’ll kill her if they knew.

  Over her shoulder, I glowered, trying to appear the ruthless, ill-begotten bastard I was. I didn’t want to risk Sergei overhearing her sacrilegious words. Magic was forbidden in our land. Not even the King’s daughter was immune to the harsh punishments given if she were guilty of practicing magic. Her words were lost under the horrible vision of her dangling from the city gate by a rope. My gut clenched. Sweat sprang from my brow.

  Sergei rolled his eyes and folded his arms, hardly impressed with the danger I presented. Under my father’s hand, he certainly knew I dared not touch him. One day, Sergei, I thought. One day I’ll see you regret this.

  Fainche felt my tension and glanced up, into my face. A rapid – there and gone – frown creased her sweet face before collapsing into her usual light, happy expression. Nothing fazed Fainche for long.

  “They’re waiting for you, brother.”

  Fainche drew away from me, her angel’s cheeks rounded in all the right places, smiling. Mine, in contrast, was all hard angles and granite planes, as hard as oak and twice as thick. I knew folk named me dumber than a brick wall, as sensitive as a randy goat and more pathetic than any loser in the gutter. I heard their voices time and again, read it in their contemptuous eyes, felt their scorn on my skin.

  As long as their slurs didn’t touch this daughter of heaven, I didn’t care.

  “They?”

  Her fingers entwined mine. Those delightful dimples at the corners of her mouth dug in deep. Her blue eyes sparkled. “Mother waits for you, too. Will you say good-night for me?”

  I bent at the waist and kissed her knuckles. “For you, my love, I’ll do anything you ask.”

  Fainche giggled as though I were a true courtier and withdrew into the shadows. Her hand snagged mine, trapping it until the very last when the darkness swallowed her whole. My hand, my treacherous sword-hand, held onto hers like a drowning beast. Until she vanished utterly, the shadows swallowing her whole. My soul wept at her departure.

  Stiffening, I snapped my fingers at a nearby guard. Half-asleep at his post, he eyed me with no little distaste as he straightened from his indolent lean against the wall. Lovely, I thought, too worried for annoyance, I found yet another fan of the father but not the son.

  That bloody bastard took his sweet time to approach via my summons, his thumbs hooked in his swordbelt with that exact mercenary touch of arrogance. My father’s men, I thought, my eyes flattening. Ill-trained, haughty, full of their own testosterone, they jumped when my sire spoke. Yet, with me they discovered the merits of questioning authority.

  Despising his arrogant sauntering answer to my command, I hoped his incompetency didn’t include getting Fainche hurt. Eyeing him from head to toe, I knew a slouch when it irritated me. I may not be my father, but I sure as shit kept records. One day, this obnoxious ass will wish he’d been a fraction more respectful.

  “D’var, escort my sister to her rooms.”

  The palace folk adored Fainche as they revered my mother. She was my direct opposite, and everything I wasn’t: lovely, sweet, caring, good – the adjectives go on. I knew they hoped and prayed I’d die young, childless, and leave the throne to her.

  D’var brightened at his new duty, and deftly retrieved her from the shadows. Ushering her before him like a dog with his sheep, his bulk didn’t quite hide her face peering over her shoulder. In the near dark, Fainche’s teeth gleamed, her eyes alight with mischief. My stony heart softened as it always did when she used that special I-love-you-Flynn smile.

  Together, soldier and sister vanished into the shadows beyond the torchlight. The darkness returned with a sharp thump. I swallowed my bitterness and stifled my curses. Her absence, even for a short while, left a gaping hole in my soul.

  “Your Highness, please.”

  Sergei’s voice, nasal and annoying, raised new hackles on my neck. I eyed him with open hatred. I prayed for the guts to finally cut his obnoxious throat as he gestured impatiently, pointing down the half-lit corridor. Sighing, I gestured for him to lead on, absently wishing for – I don’t know – anything. That I’d never been born? That’ll do for starters.

  Of the four huge towers rising high over Castle Salagh, the western one was home to the royal family. The south and the east housed whomever my father favored at the moment – family members, nobles, or the myriad military officers. As long as I could remember, the north tower remained empty. My own lavish chambers lay around the far side of the tower from my parents’, while Fainche’s quarters stood opposite mine.

  Banners bearing the Raithin Mawrn crest, the unicorn and spotted cat rearing toward one another as though dancing on a field of lush green, lined the corridor leading to my parents’ chambers. At the far end of the long marble passageway, a twin set of huge doors stood silent and closed. Palace guard in their purple, white and gold uniforms lined the walls. My father’s – my ancestors’ – emblem, the royal eagle flying above crossed swords, brooded in embroidered silk on their breasts. Black cloaks lined with scarlet silk hung from throats to heels, their deadly pikes in their right fists. With strict military discipline, they looked neither left nor right nor at me as I walked past them.

  Even so, I felt their curiosity, and their hatred, on my back.

  Sergei de
parted after delivering me to the very gates of hell and vanished like a phantom at dawn. The door-wards, all but identical in their blue and silver palace tabards, swung wide the huge oak and teak doors. Laced with silver chasings and heavy chains, the monstrous doors, so wide three horses could walk abreast, creaked like coffin hinges. I passed the elderly wardens and into my parents’ private bedchamber as though I walked on deadly spikes. At least those old men bowed, even if they faked their obeisance.

  “Boy,” my father called as the heavy doors swung shut behind me with a resounding slam and the rattle of chains. “Come here, lad, come here.”

  Like a fat and stupid hare ambling into the wolves’ den, I obeyed him.

  I likened walking into my parents’ personal rooms with that of a stroll in a museum. Huge and expansive, walled with dark oak beams and its vaulted ceiling high and buttressed, I wended my way among standing suits of antique armor. Sightless knights glared down at me, swords clasped within gauntlets of steel. Dead horses reared and screamed silently, jaws agape. Glass-topped tables held notable weapons, aged manuscripts and scrolls, and tapestries so old a breath could crumble them to dust. Paintings of warriors, knights, great men and women hung on the walls, their miniscule eyes watching my every move.

  Dead critters hung as trophies on teak mantles, their coats dusty with age. A stag with an incredible spread of antlers gazed outward in sorrow. A huge black bear snarled down at me from my left. A grey and tan wolf’s head stared in rapt fascination across the room at a wild hog with tusks larger than its head. An incredible spread of horns from an immense feral bull one of my ancestors slew hung over the great fireplace, a fire large enough to roast an ox in blazing inside. Despite the summer heat outside, the chill of the dank walls demanded a blazing hearth.

  Their bed, the size of small room and hung with dark red curtains, stood off to my right, covered in quilts and furs. I’d draw those drapes every night, I thought. Having all those dead people and animals watching me make love might cow me into abstinence. Should I one day inherit this room, I suspected I’d never sire offspring.

  Seated in huge armchairs beside the roaring fire, my parents watched me enter. As ever, I glanced first to Enya, my mother, to gauge her mood. If my father raged, she wore a tight-lipped smile that warned me to tread softly and watch his hands. Tonight her lips widened in a soft welcome, her incredible blue eyes luminous in the firelight, informing me my sire lounged in a genial, if not happy, frame of mind. I relaxed a fraction.

  Both Fainche and I inherited her wealth of blonde hair, blue eyes and pale complexion. I easily tanned under the summer sun, but, as neither Enya nor Fainche left the palace often, their skin remained as pure as spun silk. My wild, uncut mane fell to my shoulders while theirs cascaded to their hips. One of my father’s hounds peered up at me from under Enya’s heavy wealth, all but buried in gold silk.

  Enya smiled as I approached, and her beauty stunned me as it never failed to do. Clad in a simple pale yellow robe, her hair loose and falling to the carpet and hides covering the floor, she appeared to me as regal as any goddess. Tranquility seeped across my screaming nerves, her presence acting as a soothing balm, and I relaxed for the first time since Sergei’s summons.

  As usual when they were alone, in private, my father’s hand rested on hers. We three stood pale of skin and hair, but Finian, oddly enough named the Fair, was as dark and swarthy as a pirate. His thick mane, the color of a raven’s wing, curled to his shoulders. My sire liked beards, and kept a full one on hand. They made him seem wise and just, he often joked. Finian wasn’t a huge man, stocky and broad across the shoulders, but he owned a commanding presence. No eye could or ever did pass him by. One loved him totally, or hated him to his bones.

  I fell into the category of the latter.

  Dutiful son that I am, ever their obedient subject, I crossed the distance toward their chairs with lowered brow and neutral expression. Two rods from their chairs, I knelt, my hands behind my back.

  “Father,” I said stiffly, formally. “Mother.”

  “My son.”

  Like my sister, Enya’s voice might challenge an angel’s for purity and sweet resonance. No wonder the people loved her so. Her skin glowed like alabaster marble, and, despite bearing two children, her waistline remained as slim as a maid’s. Full rounded breasts bulged in all the right places, and her smile brought every man to his knees in homage. She descended from a long line of kings, ruling before the Mage Wars, who claimed kinship with the gods themselves. When I regarded her, I firmly believed she was a goddess in truth.

  Even my corrupt and crude sire worshipped the ground she walked on. He adored her as no man revered the official Raithin Mawrn goddess. Peasants, merchants, yeomen, nobles, foreigners…all of them fell prey to her beauty. As did everyone she came in contact with. She had but to smile and the earth fell to her delicate fingertips.

  “Boy, you reek like a whore’s den.”

  I winced.

  “Are you a prince or a damn hound seeking his bitch in the gutter?”

  As did everyone save my mother and my sister, my father found little in me to enjoy and much to condemn. If he found delight in his eldest born when I was small, I never heard tell of it. My earliest memories were of his beatings when I missed the target with my arrow, fell off my bucking horse, or lost my wrestling match. His laughter and coarse jests at my expense followed me at court. Naturally, his favorites laughed along with him, and their lackeys sang the same tune. Nothing I did was ever good enough. In his eyes, and in the eyes of his people, I fell far short of the royal family standards. I never measured up to the expectations the King had for his eldest, his son, no matter how hard I tried.

  Only my mother dared turn his hand from me, beg him with soft eyes and a tear or three to be kind, to offer me some affection. Her methods worked, for he’d never gainsay her in anything – until she walked out of sight. At her disappearance, the torments began again. And again. And again.

  “Hush, father,” Enya said, her musical voice soothing his annoyance, her fingers entwined with his. Instantly, his demeanor changed from angry to adoring as he glanced toward her. “He’s exploring his adulthood. Don’t make me remind you of your own search for independence.”

  Finian chuckled. “Of course, mother. Let’s not give the boy any bad ideas.”

  He lifted his hand, and hers with it, to his thick lips to kiss. I glanced aside, wishing I had the guts to kill him for daring to lay his filthy slobber on her flesh. Her tinkling laughter stilled his displeasure and my fury, easing both at the same time.

  Finian’s dark eyes descended on me and his free hand beckoned me from my knee. “I’ve an errand for you, boy.”

  I tried to recall the last time he called me by name, and couldn’t. I was never ‘Flynn’ to him. He never called me ‘hey, you!’, though at least if he had I’d suspect he at least tried recalling the name he gave me. To him, I was, ever and always, ‘boy’. Perhaps I should officially change my name to ‘Prince Boy’.

  Stifling my irritation, I obeyed him, striding the few steps closer to their chairs. Maintaining a discreet distance should his anger rise enough to lash out, I’d room enough to dodge. Quicker with his fists than a whore with her G-string, Finian’s speed left a cobra gasping. Had I a gold crown for every time he hit me before I knew he was annoyed, I could arm the royal cavalry.

  Warily watching his hands, I half-smiled the expected I’m-listening-with-avid-attention curving of my lips. I truly hated the farce, but had I not played into his fatherly fantasies, he’d not just beat me but murder anyone associated with me. For Fainche’s sake, and that of my mother, I dared not defy him in expression, word or deed. I feared him, but kept that much to myself.

  Much to my relief, he nodded and smiled at me as if happy to be in my company. On those occasions, though rare, I could pretend he loved me. Outside of his lack of naming me, I could imagine us as father and son, united in a common bond of blood and caring for one another. As u
sual, he saw only what he wanted to see, and didn’t notice my lack of enthusiasm this particular evening. His excitement spilled over and quashed his prior aggravation.

  “My spies have captured her,” he said, forgetting I was allegedly ignorant of what the errand was.

  Though he worshipped Fainche with the same adoration he reserved for Enya, I didn’t want him to know she heard rumors and passed them on to me. He might not care, and then again he might care enough to chastise her. Should his heavy hand ever rise against her –

  My mind shied from the memory of Fainche imparting her secret. I dared not think such thoughts, half-fearing he’d pluck them from my head and punish Fainche in my stead. Though I knew he’d never read my mind, my gut feared he might.

  I willed such thoughts away and dipped my brow. I faked a bland I-don’t-know-anything-at all expression and its neighborly half-smile. “Pray tell, my father.”

  “We caught that infernal bitch princess whatshername.”

  I exchanged a confused, lightning swift glance with Enya.

  “Who, sire?”

  He glanced my way and waved his hand, dismissive. “Oh, right. I didn’t tell you.”

  Like you ever tell me anything, I thought, damping down my resentment.

  “I commanded my spies keep watch on Princess, er, Iyuma? Ayumas?” he said, half-laughing at his own memory loss.

  Enya chuckled under her breath and leaned her bosom toward him, her wealth of blonde hair sliding across her face as she ducked her head onto his broad shoulder. “Iyumi, father. Princess Iyumi.”

  “Of course. How silly of me.”

  He bussed her porcelain cheek, then bent to spill more filth from his mouth onto my mother’s pale fingers. “Now I remember, thank you, my love. Beautiful girl. A fit queen for you, boy.”

  I bristled, fear nudging my spine. A queen? I, er, already had –