The Errant Prince (6 page)

"How are you at roof repair?" Tamsen asked. He held out his hands, frowning at the way they trembled. "This won't wear off until tomorrow, and I'd like to finish the house today."

"Never done it, but I follow instructions well," Myron said. He jerked his chin toward Tamsen's hands. "Sorry about that, by the way."

"My own damn fault," Tamsen said, scowling. He curled his hands into fists, dropping them into his lap. "I should have just told you I would go back."

Myron shrugged. He didn't blame Tamsen for his silence. As far as Tamsen knew, there was every chance Myron would have pushed him to leave sooner. Or forced the matter, or been less cooperative. Besides which, Tamsen didn't owe him any explanation.

"Tomorrow I'll settle things with Rafi, and we can go to Rishaw the day after," Tamsen said. He stood, and Myron bit back the admonition that Tamsen should probably stay sitting. Tamsen was an adult. "Come on, I'll show you how to fix the roof."

Myron followed Tamsen out of the house, somewhat apprehensive about climbing on the roof of the cottage. In the end, however, the repair turned out to be an easy task. Myron spent the rest of his day being run ragged in pursuit of the cottage's upkeep. Tamsen even had him doing things that Myron highly doubted needed doing before he left, but he did them anyway.

By the time the sun was setting, Myron was tired, sore, and hungry. It was almost fun, running around and playing domestic. Tamsen had recovered his color as the afternoon wore on, though his hands still shook enough that Myron took over serving dinner—another soup—so that Tamsen didn't spill it everywhere.

Tamsen let him, leaving the table to fetch a dark-colored glass bottle from somewhere near his bed. He poured two glasses from it, barely spilling any despite his trembling hand.

"Rafi will drink it if we don't," Tamsen groused, but he didn't sound too annoyed by that. He passed Myron a glass before sitting down across from him with a sigh.

Myron picked the glass up and sipped at it cautiously. The alcohol turned out to be whiskey, though Myron didn't know enough about whiskey to tell whether it was a good one or not. Tamsen knocked back the contents of his glass in one smooth swallow, with none of the simpering and sniffing that most nobility indulged in.

They ate mostly in silence. Myron was busy trying to figure out what to ask for spells, and mostly coming up blank. The things he wanted to learn were far too complicated for a night's teaching, and he doubted Tamsen would have time—or the inclination—to teach him when they returned to Rishaw. Tamsen was lost in his own thoughts, slowly eating his soup and mostly looking miserable.

Myron could empathize, even without knowing the details of why Tamsen had left. If Myron were made to return to his parents' home… Well, Myron would be equally upset and miserable. Tamsen left his half-finished meal on the table but brought his cup and the bottle of whiskey with him. He paused to top off Myron's cup and then wandered over to the chairs by the fireside, careful to keep his feet off of Myron's pallet as he walked by it.

Finishing his own meal, Myron took his time tidying up the dishes. He sipped at his whiskey intermittently, enjoying the way it burned down his throat. He didn't often indulge in liquor; he didn't often have time for it. He'd learned the hard way the perils of drinking heavily when he had training or missions to do. His instructors had been hardest on the guard trainees who had shown up with hangovers—and showing up drunk was a one-way ticket out of the guard.

He joined Tamsen when he was finished with the dishes, settling down in the second chair in front of the fire. Tamsen held up the bottle questioningly, and Myron obligingly held out his cup, letting Tamsen refill it. His hands were shaking a bit more, but he managed without spilling, so Myron didn't comment.

"What do the colors mean?" Myron asked. He took a sip of the whiskey, settling back in his chair. He gestured to the fireplace with his free hand when Tamsen looked at him curiously. The fire was edging into green from blue.

"How hard it has to work to keep the temperature and such," Tamsen said. He knocked back the rest of his glass, apparently intent on drinking the entire bottle of whiskey that night. Myron glanced at the bottle, finding it was already half-empty. He doubted he and Tamsen had drunk that much this evening, so some of that had to be gone from a previous sitting. "Do you want the specifics as one of your spells?"

"I don't think I'd use it," Myron said. The fire was mostly green, so it was probably combating the lowering temperature outside.

"You only learn useful spells?" Tamsen asked as he poured himself more whiskey.

"Mostly."

"What do you do that makes constructs useful to learn? Do a lot of spying for my brother?" Tamsen asked. He set his cup down instead of drinking from it and turned to watch Myron.

"Not really, no," Myron said. The whiskey was making him a touch overwarm, but it was a pleasant warmth. "They're good for throwing at unknown magic. They can take a curse that would be much worse to deal with if it hit a person. The spying part was just a useful side effect."

"And you run into curses often?" Tamsen asked.

Myron grinned but didn't answer. He ran into them often enough, though usually there were King's Wizards with his regiment of the King's Guard, and he didn't have anything to do with breaking them. What would Tamsen think of his real reason for learning to create constructs? Perhaps he'd find out at some point, though given the barriers between them… Myron doubted he'd have the opportunity.

"You…" Tamsen paused, sipping from his whiskey, "… are keeping something from me."

"I'm keeping lots of things from you," Myron replied easily. He sipped at the whiskey in his cup, almost hoping Tamsen would press. He wasn't a fan of keeping things secret; it was too close to being ashamed of his life.

"I suppose that's fair," Tamsen said quietly, frowning down at his cup. "I haven't exactly been forthright with you."

"So you're not planning to return to Rishaw?" Myron asked, frowning. Perhaps Tamsen had had enough whiskey to be truthful with him about that, though he didn't seem particularly affected yet.

"What? No, I mean…" Tamsen sighed, setting his cup down next to the bottle. "I mean, I can't expect you to spill your secrets when I won't share mine."

Myron wasn't sure what to say to that. He was making Tamsen spill his secrets before Myron would share his own, which suddenly seemed unfair. Perhaps that was the whiskey talking, but Tamsen had said he'd return to Rishaw, which meant there was no need for Myron to get the details about why Tamsen had left to begin with.

"You probably know my parents," Myron said as that thought occurred to him. Tamsen had left around the time that all the drama with his parents had gone down, but Tamsen would have known them, or at least known who they were.

"I do?" Tamsen looked baffled at that. "But I've only known you a few days."

"You probably
knew
my parents, I should say," Myron corrected himself. He knocked back the rest of his whiskey—if he was going to tell this story, he was going to need more fortification. "Adalynn and Garrett Vere."

"The heads of the Tower?" Tamsen asked. He didn't hesitate to pour Myron more whiskey, topping off his own cup while he was at it. "But then…"

"You can ask," Myron said.

"How do you not know more magic?" Tamsen asked. He furrowed a brow. "Is it because…?" He trailed off, clearly not knowing how to finish that question.

Myron let Tamsen squirm because he could, only taking pity on him after a moment. "Most wizards start their formal training at fifteen. I was… a spirited child, so my parents started me a year early in the hopes it would settle me down. Then a few months in, I told them I wasn't their daughter but their son. I wasn't doing well with my studies, and that was the last straw for them. "

"Yeah, well, they were always strict about the stupidest things," Tamsen grumbled. "Your mother supervised the wizards who were 'officially' training me. She—and they—were righteous idiots." Tamsen paused. "No offense."

Myron snickered, sipping at his whiskey, pleased Tamsen hadn't yet asked anything stupid. "None taken. They decided the best way to get me to do what they wanted was to throw me in the King's Guard to teach me discipline. They hoped I'd return home all obedient and give up my nonsense to focus on learning magic properly, and if I gave up the stupid idea of 'being a man,' too, all the better."

"You seem pretty capable to me," Tamsen said, giving him a sideways glance. His cheeks were flushed, but Myron didn't know if that was the whiskey, or if he'd managed to fluster Tamsen again.

"The plan backfired on them," Myron said cheerfully. "But that's why I know a little magic. My parents blocked me from pursuing it elsewhere, and obviously I can't go to the Tower for training." Tamsen scowled at that, and Myron hastened to add, "It's all right, though. I like being a King's Guard."

Tamsen muttered something under his breath that didn't sound particularly flattering. "You're a waste of power. That no one stepped up and smacked your parents is a lapse in judgment. Wait." Tamsen shifted, sitting up straighter to stare at Myron suspiciously. "How old are you, then?"

"Twenty," Myron replied promptly, grinning. "Why?"

Tamsen didn't answer, but his cheeks turned a darker pink. "I could probably convince my brother to see you get proper training in magic."

"I don't want it," Myron said, rolling his eyes. On the one hand it was a relief
that
was what Tamsen was focused on, but on the other, he wasn't listening. "I'm happy with dabbling, I promise."

Tamsen scrutinized him, eventually nodding. He sipped at his whiskey, then grimaced. "I think the spells I owe you will have to wait until tomorrow."

"Drunken spell casting never ends well." Myron agreed. He wasn't drunk yet, but he'd always been a lightweight. It wouldn't take much more to get him there.

"How come no one thinks you're good at magic?" Myron asked, drawing his legs up in his chair. "We were told you know some magic, but this…" Myron waved at the entire room, "… you're much better than that."

"That would be the work of one Hartley Whitwood," Tamsen said bitterly, slogging back the rest of his cup. "Stupid bastard. This is all his fault."

Myron wordlessly poured Tamsen more whiskey. He knew that name, though he'd only run across the man in person a few times. The kingdom's magic was split into two sects: the scholars in the Tower, headed by his parents, and the King's Wizards, headed by Hartley Whitwood.

Whitwood had been an acquaintance of his parents, and Myron had mostly avoided him because of it. That hadn't been difficult, particularly after the last fight with his parents, where they'd disowned him and thrown him out. He'd been—and still was—too low a rank in the King's Guard to deal with the head of the King's Wizards.

"I'm not a good prince," Tamsen said. His words were softer, flowing together more. "I never was. I don't deal with people well, I don't run things well, and I'm easy to fool."

"I don't deal well with people either," Myron said. He sipped at his whiskey, watching as Tamsen fidgeted with his glass. "I don't think that's what they really want you for, though, the leading part. Supposedly they want to marry you off to a princess of Sumira."

"Fantastic," Tamsen muttered. "I'm not marrying anyone. If I wouldn't marry Hartley, they're not going to make me marry a Sumiran princess."

"You were supposed to marry Whitwood?" Myron asked, startled. He'd never heard anything of the sort, but he had been dealing with his own problems at that point.

"Hartley wanted me to," Tamsen said, staring miserably down at his drink. "He never understood that I didn't want any of it. And then out it came, the 'why am I with you, if not for your position.'"

Myron winced. "And you didn't light him on fire?"

Tamsen laughed loudly, his head falling back against the back of his chair. "I should have. I left instead, and apparently no one believed I meant it."

"He's still in Rishaw," Myron said, mostly as a warning. "You still have a chance to hex him."

"Maybe I will," Tamsen said quietly. "He deserves a small hex, at least."

Tamsen lapsed back into silence, drinking his whiskey steadily. Myron could see why Tamsen was so reluctant to return to Rishaw—contending with being shoehorned into a role he obviously didn't fit along with dealing with a noxious ex-lover? Myron wouldn't want to return, either. He should probably be more surprised that Whitwood was capable of such gross stupidity, but his experience with high-ranking wizards was that they were uniformly in need of having their egos deflated. What had Tamsen called his parents?
Righteous idiots.
Tamsen was prickly, but Myron didn't doubt it was worth the effort to get past that.

"So why the rumor that you're not so good with magic?" Myron asked. That part still didn't make sense to him. Unless Whitwood was aiming to keep Tamsen from being found?

"He was giving me lessons," Tamsen muttered, and his words were definitely getting less distinct. "The whole thing was secret. The lessons, the relationship. I wasn't happy with what your mother's tutors were teaching me. He didn't think Stirling would approve of our relationship or of the extra lessons, and I should've known there was something wrong with that."

Myron frowned, confused. Why would Stirling care if Tamsen was seeing the head of the King's Wizards? Whitwood was high enough in rank that he'd make a suitable spouse. Unless the age difference was the problem. If Myron recalled correctly, Whitwood was near his parents' age; Tamsen was much closer in age to Myron.

"He thought…" Tamsen paused, concentrating on pouring himself more whiskey, "… that Stirling would agree if we announced our intention to marry."

"Why didn't you want to marry him?" Myron asked, prying shamelessly. He was curious, and Tamsen didn't seem to mind telling him.

"It didn't feel right," Tamsen said, shrugging. "To be fair, that's a crappy reason to say no."

"I'd say your instincts were pretty good." Myron wanted to offer to stall for Tamsen, but he knew it was a bad idea, even if he didn't want to force Tamsen to return to Rishaw. Someone would check here eventually; Myron would be out his position in the King's Guard, and Tamsen would have to face Stirling—and Whitwood—eventually anyway.