Pleasure and Purpose (26 page)

"What happened, what happened," she cried, irritated. "Everyone says it's because of what happened, but I scarce can think of anything that he might have done that would be so terrible years later!"

"He killed someone, lady, and went to the madhouse for it." Bertram's low voice held shame, but truth.

Honesty's stomach turned again, twisting. "He's not insane." Bertram looked pointedly at the open door. "You would be one of the few to think so."

"He's not... I would know. He's not crazy, Bertram." Honesty got up into the carriage and arranged her skirts out of the way of the door.

"There's all kinds of crazy, lady," Bertram replied and closed the door so firmly there was no way he could hear anything she said after that.

In moments the carriage began its rocking and a short time after that Honesty was on the train, moving out of the station and away from Firth. She hadn't even asked where they were sending her but assumed it was back to the Motherhouse. She stared out the window as night fell and the countryside changed. She stared through darkness and until the light again filled the sky.

Then she pulled open her hand-trunk and began to read.

The plate of food stood untouched on the table, drawing flies, but Cillian didn't bother even to wave them away. Devain hadn't been so foolish as to try and hold the king's son as he would have a man of lesser status, but even if the room was decently appointed it was still a cell, and though the food was as fine as any that had ever graced Cillian's table it was still a prisoner's fare. It turned his stomach to take even a mouthful. He hadn't even taken any of the small ale Devain had ordered for him.

What he wanted was a bath and some sleep, but the former had been denied him these five days past and the latter he dared not take. They kept you from bathing to demoralize you and put you closer to the beast they claimed you to be, but sleep was when they came to hurt you. Lessons well learned and not forgotten. Devain would know that and would be watching Cillian for signs of it breaking him, but Cillian refused to give the bastard even a hint that this treatment had affected him. He wore his soiled, five-days-worn clothes as though attired for a formal ball, and he stretched out on the thin mattress of the cot and closed his eyes for hours at a time, though he didn't sleep. He'd had visitors aplenty, for Devain couldn't dare deny him that, either. Cillian greeted them as though holding court, even as he knew sluts like Persis Denviel were coming so as to brag on his closeness with the prince rather than true concern. Alaric had come, looking worse than Cillian, his blond hair dulled and tangled and shadows on his face but bringing a bowl of herb to share and news of what was being said, mostly about the king's health and what had brought him low, speculation it was something other than his long habit of overindulgence. Rumors of if the king had indeed officially named Devain as his heir and denounced Cillian, and if he had the right to do so. Nonsense, mostly, but satisfying nonetheless. The country might have shaken its collective head at Cillian's recent exploits, but most of them couldn't also forget he was the son of Queen Ingrid, their beloved, that he bore her features and the color of her hair, and how they'd celebrated his birth and first steps as though he were their own dear boy and not only the king and queen's.

Edward came, too, grim-faced but determined, revealing what was being said in the court amongst the lords who'd judge him when the time came. Devain had been hasty, acting as soon as the king fell, and people panicked about who'd take his seat. It had been easy to garner enough signatures to arrest Cillian on the charges Devain had provided, but it was taking him longer than he'd thought to get enough men to agree to bring Cillian to trial.

"And yet he can hold you here," Edward said through gritted teeth, his fists clenched at his sides as he paced. "For your safety, he says. Lest there be an uprising." Cillian found a laugh, made easier by Edward's presence. "So he holds me for a few more days. So he brings me to trial, Edward, what then? What will he prove? I am my father's son, and there is none who will deny that. All the rest is detail." Edward turned with a shake of his head. "Devain has his heart set on your seat, Cillian. He wants it and he'll stoop as low as he must to get it. There have been pantomimes in the public square called 'The Mad Prince.' Think you Devain doesn't encourage them? He has the truth behind him."

"And I'll not deny it," Cillian said quietly. "But you and I both know the worst I've ever done is better than some of the kings this country has seen." Edward's smile came slowly, but warmed the room when it did. "He's trotting out that ancient ruling about being wed."

Cillian's man had brought him the old texts laying out the lines of succession. "I have a year after taking the crown to marry. Perhaps no father has wished to send his daughter to a prince of questionable person, but I'm fair certain, my dear one, that a king's crown and castle are of sufficient sweetness to lure at least one princess to overlook the fact of madness. And I'd only need one."

Edward looked doubtful. "He's going to make you face the priests, as well." They would be more difficult to sway. "I shall have to put my trust in Sinder, then. I know my holy texts, even if I'm not a Temple-goer. I can quote them to please the priests. I can promise them money, if that's what it takes. Who knows. Maybe I can even find some true faith, if I have to. More than one condemned man has found his way to the light."

"You have an answer for everything." Edward came closer and put his hand on Cillian's shoulder. "But then, you always have."

The muscles beneath Edward's hand leaped and tensed, and the face Cillian had maintained to keep Devain and any who watched on his behalf at bay cracked. Edward saw it or felt it, he had to.

He'd known Cillian too long not to notice. His fingers curled squeezing, and then Edward had both his arms around him.

Cillian pressed his face into the familiar scent of Edward and gave in to his dear friend's comfort. He closed his eyes and pretended they were lads again, running and snapping at each others' heels. He pretended they were young and nothing had yet come between them, not jealousy, not fury, not hate. Not love.

"I can help you." Edward's lips tickled Cillian's ear. "There are many who would see Devain encounter an accident and be happy of it."

Reality snapped into Cillian, and he stepped back to stare into Edward's eyes. "No."

"Cillian—"

Another step back took him farther from Edward's embrace. "No, Edward. You have your lady wife and child to think of. What you say is too dangerous. I won't allow it. There are many who support him who'd look first to you should something happen. I won't have it. I won't have you risk your entire life."

Emotions struggled on Edward's face. A flash of anger, of guilt. Cillian had put himself forward years ago to save Edward, and now the man, damn him, felt he should do the same.

"I was a prince," Cillian said in a low voice, eyes never leaving his friend's. "With naught to risk but myself. And I loved you."

Edward's jaw clenched and loosened. "I know you did."

"And I still do." His heart swelled into his throat, threatening to choke him. "As I ever have. But you will not do that. If harm comes to Devain, you'll be the first blamed, and I won't be able to save you from this cell."

"You would be king," Edward pointed out.

"And what you did would still be wrong," Cillian told him. Silence. Edward's chest heaved and he blew out a long breath, then turned away. Cillian swallowed hard and sat, his legs gone weak from lack of sleep and anxiety. His heart pounded, choking him further, and he loosed his collar.

"It would be wrong," he murmured to Edward's back. "I cant let you make yourself what you are not for my sake."

"What I'm not?" Edward sounded strangled. "But I am, Cillian, have you forgotten?"

"An accident caused by passion's heat is not the same as a premeditated one." He didn't say murder aloud, aware that Devain's guards could be bought off but the word would raise the price.

Though he had at times imagined what it might be like to have Edward at his feet, Cillian had never truly expected to find him there. Edward crossed the room in three long strides and knelt, his hands on Cillian's knees and his forehead pressed to the backs of his hands. Cillian felt their heat even through the heavy velvet of his trousers, but was too surprised to do anything except place his hand on Edward's hair. His fingers dug deep into the depths, the strands thick and coarse and yet as silk on Cillian's skin.

"Edward, my dear one," he whispered. "Don't."

"I plead your mercy," Edward said without raising his head. "Cillian, by the Arrow, I beg you for it."

How many times had he imagined a moment like this? Some nights, with the rats nibbling at the edges of his blanket and the darkness pressing into his eyes it was all he'd been able to think of. Edward, his dear one, his friend. Sometimes he'd thought of him with somewhat shameful desire mingled with thoughts of revenge, especially in the long, long days when Cillian had died a little every hour under the care of men whose cure was worse than the disease and Edward did not come.

He'd never imagined that Edward on his knees would make him feel nothing but softness and clear-sighted love unblemished by anything else. He wanted to weep with it, but tears had stayed behind in the darkness with the rats and he could only manage to blink against the sting.

"You have ever had it, Edward. How could you not know it?" Cillian's hand stroked down the dark hair and over the braid at the base of Edward's neck. "Rise you up, my dear one. You don't have to do this."

Edward heaved another sigh and raised his face, and Cillian saw tears had not deserted his friend. He handed Edward a handkerchief from his pocket, but Edward only swiped them from his face without shame. He didn't get off his knees.

"You will be king, Cillian, and I shall bend my knee to you then." Edward said it without any doubt, so firmly Cillian could believe it himself. "And you will be a fine king. Better even than your father. I know this."

The tumblers of a lock deep inside him shifted, like tiny gears moving at last after long being rusted tight. Something moved in his heart and in his head, like a flower unfurling or the glimpse of sunshine through black clouds, or the parting of a curtain on a play long-delayed.

Cillian opened.

"Rise you up, my dear one," he murmured with a smile, "else I think you'd like to spend an hour on your knees in a different sort of service."

Edward grinned. "If I were to serve you in that way, my prince, I guarantee it would not take me an hour."

Cillian's hand found Edward's neck and pulled him close. He kissed Edward's mouth with his lips closed and his eyes open, and only for a moment. Then he did it again softer. And then, he let Edward go.

"You have ever been my dear friend," Cillian said. "And I am fair grateful you will always be."

"Then let me help you," Edward said, still on his knees.

"Have you signed Devains petition to bring me to trial?" That sent Edward to his feet. "No! Of course not! By the Void, Cillian, how can you ask that of me?"

"Sign it," Cillian said calmly. "Have Alaric sign it. Have Persis, though he might be more hindrance than help, I'm uncertain. Have all the lords who would serve me sign it."

"Are you mad?" Edward cried, aghast.

Cillian stood, his laugh genuine. "Well, yes, I've heard it said so.

"If we sign Devain's petition, you will come to trial for your seat.

"And all those who sign it will be made to sit upon the voting committee, Edward. I need a majority to rule in my favor. Now, what do you think I'd rather have? A small list of men convinced I need a trial to determine my worth? Or a long list of those who know I'm worthy of the crown?"

Edward stopped, shook his head in wonder and then again. "So simple."

"Not all intrigue needs be complicated," Cillian said.

Edward looked impressed. "I daresay Devain wouldn't have thought of it."

"Even if he has, he can't stop you from signing."

"You, my prince, are a marvel."

"More than merely handsome, yes?" Cillian shrugged. "I lived more of my life than not being groomed to rule, Edward. Devain forgot that."

"I forgot it, too."

Cillian gave another shrug. "Well, it's a good thing I never did, yes: Edward came close and clapped his hand on Cillian's shoulder. "I'll go now and make it so. We'll shake him up, Cillian. We'll put that rat back in his hole."

"And bring me word of my father, will you?" Cillian asked quietly, pleased with Edwards reaction but unable to forget the only way any of this would matter was if his father died.

"Yes. Of course."

They embraced again, without lingering, and Edward made to

"My regards to your wife," Cillian said with a smirk, if only because some things would never change.

Edward didn't rise to the bait. He made a rude hand gesture, instead. "I may have to remind her who you are, first. She does tend to forget every other man's name." Cillian laughed so loud and long the guard opened the door. Edward grinned and left. Cillian ordered a fresh plate and a jug of wine, and the guard looked surprised but nodded and closed the door.

Cillian smiled to himself, well pleased for the first time since Devain had shown up at Edward's door. The guard brought more food and more visitors. Alaric had come, and Edward, and a few of the fabric merchants still seeking boons though imprisoned Cillian was unable to do much for them. Friends and enemies had all been to visit, but Honesty had not. And in the end, he mused, had it mattered? For he'd found his solace in forgiveness, the giving and the getting, both.

Nothing so bold as a signpost marked her leaving one province and entering another, but nevertheless Honesty drew in a deep, slow breath of the sea-scented air and slowed her horse. Ahead of her she could see the mountains overlooking the Belloran Sea. Her father's house was a hard two hours' ride in that direction, and though they'd been riding for the past two weeks, Honesty didn't at once set her heels to the horse's side. She reined it short and stared down the road, neatly lined though unpaved this far out into the country. At this time of year her parents would be in their country manor, not in the seat of state, in the city. She was glad of that, at least. The chance to meet them once more amongst the orchards rather than buildings and noise. She'd been glad for the excuse to ride instead of taking the train so she might return the way she'd left, bearing nothing but herself and a desire for change.