A Royal Rebellion (8 page)

“Shh, little one,” Edward soothed, his more than capable hands gently pulling him closer. Percy collapsed on his chest, crying into Edward’s shirt. His tears wouldn’t stop. Why wouldn’t they stop?

“What’s…what’s wrong …with me?” Percy tried to speak, words interrupted by sobs. Eyes scrunched up, nose pressed to the firm swell of muscle over his lover’s heart, Percy was falling apart.

“Nothing, my love,” Edward whispered in his ear. “You’re pregnant, and instead of being safe and secure at home in Hartgrove, we’re in a strange town in a strange place. There is nothing wrong with you, but the world. So cry until you can’t cry anymore, and I’ll talk you through our options.”

“Don’t wanna…don’t wanna cry…”

“There is nothing wrong with your tears,” Edward replied, stern and tender. “Anyone who complains about your tears will receive a reason to cry themselves.”

“Can’t make everyone cry,” Percy sniffled.

“Watch me,” Edward whispered to him, and Percy giggled. He smiled, the tears leaving as fast as they came, and Percy hugged Edward back. He leaned on his lover, and Edward let him, his embrace welcoming and steadfast.

Percy opened his eyes, and he accepted the handkerchief Reynard held out to him. He wiped his face, and Reynard gripped the nape of his neck with a big, callused hand, squeezing once before dropping away.

He was worn out, but strangely enough his mind was alert. He pressed his cheek to Edward’s chest, arms about his waist, and let Edward rock them side to side gently. Percy pushed closer, his baby bump against Edward’s thigh, and a big hand fell to caress him.

“Better?”

“Yes. I’m sorry,” Percy whispered.

“You did nothing wrong, little one,” Edward assured him. “Come sit on the bed with me, and Reynard and I will tell you what’s going on.”

Edward sat with him on the bed, Percy in his lap, his master’s hand still on his belly, rubbing the taut flesh. Edward’s touch felt so good, and Percy melted into his arms. Reynard went to a chair across from them, long legs out and crossed at the ankles. His jacket gaped, and Percy saw a gun snug in a holster under his left arm. Dark jacket, dark shirt, dark pants, Reynard was a shadow, but for his rich auburn hair and twilight blue eyes, offset by pale skin and a stony expression.

Reynard was tense. Even appearing relaxed, slouched in the chair, hands over his stomach, there was a tension that hovered about the captain.

“What’s wrong?” Percy asked, oddly relaxed. The words came easily, far easier than they would have even a week ago.

“There are royal guards in town. The barracks just on the outskirts of town is active, and ten royal guards arrived about an hour ago,” Edward said, rubbing Percy’s belly.

“Are they…do they know we’re here?” Percy asked.

“If they knew for certain we were here, they’d have us already,” Reynard replied. “They must be responding to a tip or a reported sighting. If not for us, then perhaps for the local…nobleman. This is the closest I’ve seen the guards in days.”

“Can we get out of town?” Percy said, as Edward caressed him, hand dipping dangerously low as his lover swept the whole of the bump. Edward was trying to feel the baby, but the tiny one was always sleeping, rarely moving when Edward tried to feel for him or her.

“Maybe,” Reynard said. “This is a small town, and the Estiary estate surrounds it on three sides. Only way out back to the highway is past the barracks.”

Reynard’s face gave a small twitch as he said the name, and Edward paused in his motions, hand stilling before he continued on.

“Estiary,” Percy stated. Reynard’s eyes flicked to him, lightning swift, before going to Edward. “Why do you both react like that?”

“Lord Lucius Meriele, sixth Baron of Estiary, is the local lord and the one who owns most of the land in this area.” Edward stopped rubbing him, arms coming up to cradle him close. “Lord Estiary is also one of the most prolific buyers of pleasure slaves in the country. His harem is almost mythical for its slaves.”

Percy’s body went cold. He pulled his feet in, and curled up as small as he could, Edward gathering him close. “Breeders?”

“Only a few, just enough to get heirs,” Edward said, “but he has a penchant for perfection, and his harem is rumored to only hold the most beautiful slaves ever created. He is most jealous of them, and will go out his way to procure the best as the breeding houses make them.”

“He was also banished from court about ten years ago, around the time Prince Malcolm and Princess Arianna wed,” Reynard said, and Percy was barely able to hear him past the rushing of blood in his ears. “Lord Estiary was banned from setting foot in the capital for crimes against the crown. Unspecified, but King Henry, for whatever reason, didn’t have him arrested. Whatever his offenses, it’s been speculated he has something holding off the King, so his punishment was banishment instead of prison.”

Percy shut down. He could care less about whatever Lord Estiary and the king had between them. His courage failed him at the thought of breeding houses. The place of his birth, for all that it was predictable and familiar, was now a place of horror. He knew what life was meant to be, in some way at least, and living in a cage was not life. And if Heritage ever got their hands on Percy, he would lose his babe, lose Edward, and spend his life in a dark cell, raped and bred and cloned.

“We need to go. I say we wait until early morning, then drive out,” Reynard offered. “We stay here any longer and someone is going to say something. You’re too recognizable, my prince, and if Estiary catches wind that there’s a collared slave in town, he will know immediately who it is. Percy’s the only collared breeder in the whole world. Whether Estiary would alert the crown is a hit and miss, but I don’t want to risk it.”

“Agreed. We get some rest now, then we leave at dawn,” Edward said, and Percy was glad. They needed to leave. Hopefully the guards weren’t here for them, and this was just happenstance that they were here, so far from Hartgrove and where they should be looking.

Why were the guards here? Did someone see them, report them to the palace? Maybe they had nothing to worry about, and the guards were merely here to check that Lord Estiary was obeying the banishment order.

Were the guards even here for them?

***

Mason

***

Several days ago

***

Blood almost made him lose his grip.

Mason flipped his wrist, and the guard’s arm snapped. He fell, screaming to the floor, but Mason’s knee to the back of the head silenced him. Mason jumped over the guard, grabbing the metal tray that held his paltry dinner of stale bread and grayish gravy, and swung it across the face of the next man through the door. A resounding clang and the crumpled mess of limbs told him the man was out, and Mason stepped out of his cell, pulling the door shut behind him.

Arianna gaped at him, mouth open, eyes wide. A handful of keys, a cell phone, and a dark leather jacket hung from her hands, and Mason grabbed them before she could drop them from her senseless fingers. She’d made excellent time. A part of him was certain she would have been caught running back and forth between his cell and room, but she’d made it back in time for his dinner tray. His father must be looking for her, given Camilla’s interference. If he wasn’t, then sometime soon he would be.

“Don’t worry, dear sister,” Mason quipped, pulling the jacket on, and pocketing the keys. He woke the cell, and made sure it was one he could use before pocketing it. It was from the hidden stash in his room, and the battery was full. “I don’t think I killed them. I’m not too sure, though. Blood loss may have impaired my control. You can check if you like.”

Mason strode past her, glad his boots weren’t thrown away, since the stones of the Old Palace were ice cold. He heard the patter of slippered feet behind him, and Arianna followed him, her skirts rustling over the stones. He waited, and sure enough, she found her voice after a few turns deeper into the Old Palace.

“Mason…” He spun, putting his hand over her mouth. She stopped, and then her eyes narrowed in a glare and she yanked her head away.

“Shush,” Mason said, pointing at her face, which made her glare even more. His sister-in-law looked ready to kill, and he smiled. “No talking.”

He walked down the unlit corridor, heading for the throne room, buried in the center of Airric’s castle. He counted, and after about 30 seconds, Arianna’s control wavered.

“Why are we going to the old throne room? Aren’t you supposed to be escaping?”

Mason kept walking, listening for echoes of pursuit. Anyone chasing him now would likely think as Arianna did, and that he would try and get out of the palace. He would, but not just yet. He needed something first, and there was always a way out of the palace for a royal son.

After what a few minutes, Mason paused outside the heavy doors of the throne room. He listened, but at this time of night, there was no one about. He opened the ancient portals, slipping inside, Arianna clutching his elbow as he led the way into the shadowed cavernous throne room. She had likely never been here in years, probably not since the grand tour of the palace before she wed Malcolm a decade earlier.

The long room was cast in darkness, and he decided against the lanterns. There was just enough light in the throne room to illuminate the way. Airric’s throne, as ancient as the castle in which it sat, rose high from the low dais. Mason walked faster. To be this close, only to be caught, would be the height of cruelty, and considering fate’s treatment of him the last twenty years, he figured he had better hurry.

Arianna was all but running to keep up. He jumped onto the dais, and went to the side of the throne. The ancient wood was polished by the centuries, heavy, battle-scared, bearing the marks of betrayal and attempted coups. In ancient times, the throne had been modified to hide weapons inside it, so that the king or queen upon the throne would have a last line of defense. One long-ago queen had even placed a small crossbow equipped with poisoned bolts in the throne. The line of Airric lay unbroken due to that precaution.

It was no crossbow he was after. He found the latch, small and hidden inside a burl near the base. Pressing it, the base of the throne gave a small sigh of sound, and slid to the side.

“What is that?” Arianna hissed in a bad approximation of a whisper. She really was bad at subterfuge.

“A secret. No peeking,” Mason said, and she kicked at his ass with a dainty slipper. “Dammit, woman! I’ve been tortured for days, and your first impulse is to kick me?”

“I’ll do more than that if you don’t start telling me what you’re doing! We’re going to be caught!”

Mason ignored her, which earned him another tap on the ass, but he reached down and into the small void at the throne’s base. His fingers found what he needed, and he pulled out a dark object, hiding it from Ari’s sight. It went under his jacket, and he reached back in.

Deeper than before, he found the stone lever, and yanked.

Nothing happened at first. Quiet ruled the ancient room, and the dust swirled in the faint light. Arianna huffed behind him, and Mason listened.

A hollow groan reverberated through the room, the floor vibrating. Echoes bounced off the walls, and Arianna gasped, spinning, trying to see the cause of the noise.

Mason smiled. He carefully put the hidden panel back in place, and stood. His body was sore, and tired, but he was damned if he was going to spend one more fucking night in this wretched prison.

The palace stopped being home the day his mother revealed the truth, letting him read her journals as her life bled out through internal injuries that could never be repaired, the disease destroying her body from the inside out. She died, his father watching unseen from the door, Mason crying at her bedside, clutching her forgotten journal in his hands. Mason had thrown himself at his father in righteous anger, only to be knocked to the floor, mouth bleeding.

That moment was the exact time the palace stopped being home, and his father became someone to hate.

“Ari,” Mason said. She turned from her search, and waited. “I still think you’re a spoiled brat. You care more for fashion and Malcolm’s crown than you do anything else, but I’ve never meant you harm. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

“I love my children.” Arianna replied softly. She walked forward, and hugged him, surprising him. He hugged her back for a brief moment before backing away. She gave him a bitter smile. “I love them enough to be angry at their real father, but never angry enough to regret them. You need to leave, Mason. My children need me to stay.”

“He might kill you.”

“He might,” Arianna said, stepping back, taking the high step back down the main floor of the throne room, backing away. “Then if this is the last time I’m ever going to see you, I should tell you that I don’t really dislike you all that much. I have a suspicion that your escape had something to do with that noise, so I’m going to leave before I see exactly how you get out. That way I won’t be lying when I tell them I don’t know anything.”

“Smarter than you look,” he murmured, backing away into the shadows. “Be careful, Arianna.”

He turned away, and headed for the heavily shadowed doorway in the wall behind the throne. There lay King Airric’s old bedroom, and inside, the ancient escape route he found as child. The knowledge was lost to the centuries, and Mason was certain that no one other than he recalled that there was a tunnel under the Old Castle, leading out past the new palace’s boundaries. Not even his brothers knew.