The Errant Prince (4 page)

Tamsen's cottage was a home, not a hideaway. If Myron were in Tamsen's position, he'd do what he could to stay—even try to convince a nosy soldier not to say anything to anyone.

"Sit," Tamsen ordered, pointing Myron to his earlier seat. Myron did as he was told, contemplating his theory. The only hole in it was that Tamsen wasn't exactly trying to butter him up. He watched Tamsen as he fetched dishes, the soup he'd put together earlier, and a jug of something that turned out to be a weak, but not terrible, ale. Tamsen served them both, then took the seat across from Myron.

"Why not try and bribe me?" Myron asked, feeling out his theory.

"Do you see anything around here worth as hefty a bribe as I'm sure you'd require?" Tamsen asked, ignoring his soup in favor of his ale. "Bribes are only so useful, and there's nothing to guarantee you'd stay bought once you returned to Rishaw. How did you find me, anyway? I thought I'd laid a good false trail to Sumira."

"That was pretty easy to discredit. The port master was arrested for accepting bribes a few months ago, and he gave your bribe up alongside a bunch of others," Myron said. He ate another spoonful of soup. "This is really good."

"Thanks," Tamsen said dryly, but he started eating his own soup finally.

"I probably wouldn't have found you if I hadn't run across a peddler who swore he saw you selling something in Traversin. I followed that back to here, though it wasn't easy. I don't think anyone thought he was telling the truth, but eventually they'll run down everything else and come this way for thoroughness' sake."

"Wonderful." Tamsen drank down the rest of his ale and poured another glass. Myron didn't comment, continuing to eat. The soup was good, flavored by hints of spices that Myron couldn't even begin to name. Cooking was not one of his specialties, despite how much time he spent traveling on his own.

Tamsen didn't seem very happy as he ate his soup slowly. Myron almost wanted to offer to leave Tamsen in peace. He could easily sow misleading information. All he had to do was report the cottage was a dead end, and that would gain Tamsen plenty of time, particularly if he laid low and didn't visit any of the larger cities.

That wasn't what his orders were, however, and if his deception ever came to light, he'd lose everything. Everything he had left, anyway, and he doubted Stirling's reasons for finding Tamsen were stupid. Myron finished his meal and brought his dishes to the washbasin. It was already filled with water, and Myron heated it with a quick flash of magic.

"You can cast fire magic and build constructs but can't cast a light spell?" Tamsen said, sounding absolutely baffled.

Myron shrugged, shoving back his sleeves. He started washing the dishes they'd used for lunch first. "Light spells aren't in most magic books." They were one of the first spells taught to new wizards after a few months of book learning. Myron hadn't gotten past the book learning.

Tamsen came up behind him, setting his dishes down. He lingered a moment but walked away without pressing further. Myron finished the washing up and laid the dishes out to dry. Myron dried his hands off on the front of his pants, and then turned for some indication of what Tamsen wanted him to do next.

He was fussing with the fire, making it change color from yellow to green again. Myron didn't know what the different colors meant; perhaps he could learn that if Tamsen used him as another set of hands tomorrow.

Tamsen looked weary, the set of his shoulders tired and defeated. Myron hesitated but turned away. Tamsen's misery was none of his business, no matter how much Myron understood the misery of being forced to do something he didn't want to do. Slipping out the open back door, Myron cut through the garden and headed for his tree.

The sun was just setting, giving Myron enough light to fetch his cloak from the tree branch. Wrapping up in it, Myron settled in next to the tree. The light from Tamsen's cottage was the only light for as far as Myron could see, and he dozed off wondering just what had forced Tamsen to run so hard and so fast from his life as a prince.

*~*~*

Myron woke stiff and sore again, but a quick round of stretches sorted out the worst of it. The cottage was quiet, the back door shut, but smoke—purple, this morning—climbed from the chimney. Myron headed for the well, yawning as he went. He dragged a bucket of water up and splashed his face with it, trying to wash away the remnants of sleep. He would kill for a proper bath, but he doubted that would be forthcoming anytime soon. Cold well water would have to do. 

He'd also love to launder his clothing. What little he had was travel-stained and smelled like he'd been reusing it for weeks—which, well, he had been. Myron wandered back toward his tree, intending to settle beneath it until Tamsen woke up, but the back door of the cottage was open again, so Myron detoured that way.

Tamsen was half-naked, tugging a shirt down over his head. His skin was tanned, and while he was soft around the edges, there was more than enough muscle to convince Myron he was a spoiled prince in demeanor only. Myron had figured that out already, but he wasn't objecting to seeing it was true. Tamsen tugged his shirt into place, hiding the view. He turned toward the back door, lacing up the shirt. "You're still here, then?"

"Nowhere else to be," Myron said. He stayed just outside the door, unsure of his welcome.

"Prefer the hospitality of the trees?" Tamsen asked. He ducked to grab his boots, and his loose hair fell in his face.

"You didn't invite me to stay," Myron said, shrugging one shoulder. He was watching Tamsen too closely, and Myron made himself look away. That didn't stop him from imagining sinking his fingers into that vibrant hair or watching it spill around Tamsen's face in the middle of— "I didn't want to overstay my welcome."

"You're here, your welcome is already overstayed," Tamsen muttered, but the grousing sounded half-hearted at best. He sighed, shoving his hair out if his face impatiently. "Is that why you're lurking outside my backdoor like a creep?"

"I could
be
a creep," Myron suggested, giving Tamsen a grin.

"Just get in here," Tamsen said, scowling at him. "Put a pot of tea on."

"Yes, highness," Myron said brightly to annoy Tamsen further. To Myron's disappointment, Tamsen's expression didn't change, and he simply focused on braiding his hair.

Stepping into the cottage, Myron fetched the kettle from the fireplace and filled it with water from the bucket he'd brought in the previous day. Tamsen finished braiding back his hair, tying it off with a bit of the same twine they'd used to tie the bundles of herbs. He slipped past Myron, heading for the pantry. By the time the kettle had boiled, Tamsen had pulled together a breakfast for them: more stale bread, a soft cheese, and fresh apples.

"How do you feel about chopping wood?" Tamsen asked, drinking down his tea as though it tasted amazing instead of like dirt and grass.

"Not my favorite task," Myron said, yawning. He rubbed at his face, considering it. Chopping wood would keep him busy and might earn him more credit with Tamsen. "I'd need three things for doing it."

"Oh?" Tamsen asked, a smile flickering briefly across his face.

"A bath. I'll smell even worse when I'm done with that," Myron said frankly. "A chance to wash my clothes, too, and another spell."

"Done." Tamsen paused, then added, "You're hauling water for the bath."

Myron snorted but nodded. He finished off the last of his breakfast, glancing around the cottage as he did so. Something seemed different… His eyes landed on the purple fire burning once more without firewood.

"Why do you need firewood, anyway?" Myron asked. He looked at Tamsen, gaze lingering on Tamsen's fingers when he licked a bit of soft cheese from them.

"Not every fire I make is magical," Tamsen said. He gathered up their dishes, leaving Myron to wonder what Tamsen might use a wood-based fire for. Myron glanced around the cottage again, trying to pinpoint what was different from the previous day. Nothing stood out, except perhaps it was tidier? "Come on, day's wasting."

Myron drank down the rest of his tea, barely managing to keep a straight face at the taste. He followed Tamsen outside and around toward the well. Some twenty feet past the well, closer to the woods, was a large stump and a stack of thick logs that Myron had noticed the previous day but not really noted.

"Find me when you're finished," Tamsen said. He headed back toward the cottage, and Myron stifled a laugh. Tamsen might not be the epitome of spoiled prince, but it seemed even he wasn't above fobbing off hard labor when he could.

A bit of rooting around produced an axe—not as sharp as Myron would have liked, but serviceable—and Myron set to work. He hadn't chopped wood since his early days in the King's Guard, but it was easy enough to fall into the familiar rhythm of it. He'd spent three months doing nothing but chopping wood and hauling water with the other new recruits, the first of a long series of tasks meant to weed out the weak and build up strength.

It was as boring and monotonous as he'd remembered, but it was also easier than he'd built up in his head. That didn't mean he didn't work up a sweat; the day was too warm to keep him cool. About an hour in, Myron shucked his shirt. The fabric binding his chest would have to stay, but that was a necessary evil. Myron took advantage of the break to fetch up a bucket of water from the well, grabbing a quick drink before returning to his chopping.

He worked steadily through the morning, catching glimpses of Tamsen here and there around the edge of the cottage. Tamsen seemed to be up to something in his garden, and Myron was pleased that Tamsen hadn't set him to work only to laze about.

Myron stopped about two-thirds through the stack of wood, when the sun tipped past its apex and started its downward curve. Stretching his arms above his head, he headed for the well. He washed up as much as he could and drank what seemed like an entire bucket of water. He debated fetching his shirt again, but Tamsen had likely seen him without it by this point. It was too hot besides, Myron decided, and headed for the cottage in search of food.

He met Tamsen as he was rounding the corner of the cottage. Tamsen was near covered head to toe with dirt. It was caked into the knees and shins of his pants and liberally streaked across his shirt and face. He wore a wide-brimmed straw hat, his face shaded beneath it.

"Are you injured?" Tamsen asked, surprise and concern crossing his face. He stepped closer, lifting a hand, but almost immediately dropped it to his side, the fingers clenching into a fist. "You didn't have to—"

"I'm fine," Myron said, cutting Tamsen off before he could work himself up further. "I'm not hurt. I wouldn't have agreed if I were."

Tamsen's brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth—but Myron cut him off, not really wanting to hear whichever stupid question Tamsen would invariably ask. "Are you feeding me this afternoon, highness?" Myron asked.

"Tamsen," Tamsen snapped. He rubbed at his forehead, leaving another streak of dirt just under the brim of his hat. "Yes. Go wait inside while I clean up."

Myron did as he was told, relieved Tamsen hadn't pushed. That wasn't to say Tamsen wouldn't push in the cottage, but Myron was happy for the reprieve. He definitely should have put his shirt back on and avoided the issue altogether.

Slipping into the cottage, Myron blinked in the dimmer light inside. It was cooler in the cottage, despite the fire that was still burning in the grate. Myron wandered over to his usual seat at the table and poured a cup of tea that was, by now, room temperature. He drank it slowly, waiting for Tamsen to join him.

Tamsen appeared just when Myron was beginning to get antsy. He'd dumped a bucket of water on his head, if the dampness of his shirt and hair were anything to go by. His hair was no longer braided and hung limply where it was loosely tied back. Tamsen's shirt was sticking to him, and his face was red where he'd scrubbed it clean.

He headed straight for the pantry, and Myron waited, tense, for whatever Tamsen had to say about his chest binding. Tamsen was quiet, however, even as he laid out food for them. Lunch was slightly less stale bread, bits of roasted meat, and more apples.

"How is it not stifling in here?" Myron asked when it became clear that Tamsen had no intention of breaking the silence. "That fire hasn't been out since I arrived."

"Magic," Tamsen answered. "The house is charmed to maintain this temperature. The fire has to keep burning to heat the humidity out of the air."

"To dry those," Myron said, glancing up at the endless bundles of herbs hanging from the rafters. "Clever."

Tamsen smiled but lapsed back into silence. Myron let him, in no hurry to prompt Tamsen into a conversation he didn't want to have. Myron tried not to let it get to him—if Tamsen wanted to be an idiot about it, that was his right, and Myron didn't have to do anything to make it easier for Tamsen to deal with.

He'd gotten used to people knowing. Everyone in the palace was well-aware, and he rarely ran into anyone who had a negative attitude about it. He hadn't had to deal with explaining it to anyone in ages.

Finishing his meal, Myron stood. He brought his dishes to the washbasin, pausing there to glance back at Tamsen. Tamsen was staring off into space, picking apart, but not really eating, the bread on his plate. He looked pensive, and Myron wondered what, exactly, was weighing on Tamsen's mind. Deciding it didn't matter, Myron left the cottage and returned to the wood pile.

By the end of the day, Myron was beyond sore and tired. He wanted nothing more than a hot bath, a hearty meal, and to sleep for hours. He hadn't worked that hard in ages. Tamsen was still working in the garden when Myron finished the last of the chopping, but when Myron ducked into the cottage, he found Tamsen had dug out a small tub at some point. It was set up in front of the fire, empty, and Myron stalled filling it by pouring himself a cup of tea.

Water hauling. Myron groaned at the thought of it as he drank some of his tea. Was it his imagination, or was the tea tasting better the more he drank it? Probably he was being indoctrinated through prolonged exposure. He'd still give his left hand for a pot of decent coffee. Myron drank the last of his tea slowly, in no hurry to start hauling water.