The Fire Prince (The Cursed Kingdoms Trilogy Book 2) (37 page)

Cora took the last star from the leather pouch the assassin had kept them in. “I’ll toss this in the air, if you like?”

Harkeld nodded.

Cora held one blade carefully between her thumb and forefinger. She extended her arm. “Ready?”

Don’t lose a finger
. He bit the words back and gathered his magic. “Yes.”

Cora tossed the star into the air. It spun upwards, razor-sharp blades flashing in the last rays of sunlight.

Burn
.

A flare of white flame, a small crack of sound, and the throwing star was gone. All that remained was a handful of ash drifting down.

“Well done,” Cora said.

Harkeld accepted this with a nod. He turned towards the camp.

“Flin.”

Something in Cora’s voice stopped him. He glanced at her.

“You will have one of the shapeshifters in your tent tonight.”

“What?” His anger came bursting back. “No!”

“You will have a shapeshifter in your tent, tonight and every night. For precisely the reason that Justen demonstrated this morning.”

He drew breath to refuse.

“It is not negotiable.”

Harkeld glowered at her. He trembled on the brink of an outburst of rage, a screaming, stamping, hair-pulling tantrum.
Like a child,
he told himself.

He took a deep breath, made himself unclench his hands, unclench his teeth.

“The choice of shapeshifter is yours. I suggest Justen. He has proven his ability to protect you.”

Harkeld shook his head.

“Why not?”

Because I trusted him.

Cora waited for him to speak, then shrugged. “Let me know who you choose.” She headed for the camp.

“Ebril,” Harkeld said when she was half a dozen yards away.

Cora halted. She turned to face him, her hands on her hips. “Justen didn’t volunteer to be your armsman. He was given no choice; he was the only one of us you hadn’t seen. He wasn’t happy about deceiving you.”

Harkeld turned his back to her. After a moment, he heard Cora walk away.

He looked down at the ground, scuffing the mud with his boot. Ebril. He grimaced. It had been Ebril whom Dareus had chosen to share his tent that very first night.
And I said I’d kill him
. And Dareus’s response had been to give him Justen.

“Rut it,” Harkeld said aloud, gouging out a chunk of mud with his heel. Back then, he’d rather have murdered a witch than share his tent with one. But he’d been sharing a tent with a witch for two months.
And I am one myself
.

He looked at the camp, a hundred yards distant. He saw the picketed horses, saw the witches, saw the tents. The campfire was golden in the gathering dusk.

He didn’t want to go back. He wanted to turn and walk towards the dark, distant fringe of unlogged forest.

Can’t I leave the witches? Take my horse and set out alone?
He didn’t need them any more. He knew how to use his fire magic. A sword, a horse, his magic... what more did he need?

Harkeld kicked at the mud, gouging out another chunk. Without the witches, he’d have been dead many times over. He needed them, if he was to survive. If the Seven Kingdoms were to survive.

“Rut it,” he said again, and then he headed back to the camp.

“B
E
J
USTEN UNTIL
after dinner,” Cora said, keeping an eye on the prince as he approached. “Then you’re yourself for the rest of the night. Take the first watch. Petrus will take the second.”

Innis nodded.

Cora smiled at her. “At least you can sleep as yourself again. That’s one less Primary Law broken.”

Innis tried to smile back.
I don’t want to sleep as me. I want to sleep in the prince’s tent and share his dreams.

They ate a silent dinner. The campfire seemed very empty. Gerit had taken up so much space it felt as if they’d lost four people, not two. Innis looked at her bowl, stirred the stew with a spoon. She didn’t feel hungry.

She put down the bowl, pressed her palm to the ground.
I killed him for you,
she told Frane and Gerit.
He’s dead
.

Did they hear? Did they feel avenged?

Frane had had green magic, she remembered. He’d coaxed wild grasses to grow on Susa’s grave.
And I gave her meadow flowers too,
he’d told her.
It will be beautiful for her in summer
.

No one had been able to do that for Frane.

Innis pushed to her feet and walked away from the fire. She’d taken a tent by herself. Justen’s bedroll and blanket were in it. Innis crawled inside, stripped off Justen’s clothes, and changed into herself. She wrapped the blanket around her. It was damp, smelling of mildew.

The Grooten amulet still hung around her throat, the walrus ivory warm and smooth. She pulled it off, clenched it in her fist. Today she’d lost what made Justen important. Riding at the prince’s side, being his friend.

Footsteps stopped outside her tent. Someone crouched at the entrance. “Innis?” The voice was Petrus’s. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. It’s just... it’s been such an awful day.”

Petrus crawled into the tent. “You didn’t eat.”

“I know. I was thinking about Frane and the wildflowers he grew on Susa’s grave.”

Petrus put an arm around her, pulled her into a hug.

“I hardly noticed Frane, and now he’s dead,” Innis said. Regret and guilt and grief choked her. Tears spilled from her eyes.

“I know.” Petrus held her close. “But you got the bastard who killed him, Innis. You gave him that much.”

Innis wiped her eyes with the blanket and nodded.

“Innis... did Rand or Cora talk to you about that kill?”

“They asked if I was all right.”

“Are you? Because killing someone that way is pretty awful.”

At his words, the taste of blood filled her mouth. She was abruptly glad she hadn’t eaten her dinner.

“If you want to talk about it, there’s me and Ebril. We both know what it’s like.”

Innis nodded. “Thank you.”

“How’s your jaw?”

“Fine. Rand helped me. It didn’t take long.” She leaned against his shoulder, oldest friend and almost-brother.
Don’t you dare die,
she told him.
You are all the family I have
.

“Bastard,” Petrus said, his voice suddenly fierce. “Hitting you like that. I should have broken his rutting neck.”

“He was upset. You’d have been too, if you were him.”

“I’d never have hit you!”

“He’d never hit a woman, either. He didn’t know it was me.”

“He broke your jaw! He’s as bad as those cursed Fithians, violent son of a—”

“No, he’s not.”

“Just because he’s a prince, you think he’s a hero. Well, he isn’t. He’s a bad-tempered whoreson who thinks he’s better than us. If he didn’t need us, he’d kill us all and not care.”

“No, he wouldn’t!”

They stared at each other in the dark tent. She couldn’t see Petrus’s face, couldn’t read his expression, but she heard his breathing—short, harsh, angry.

Innis spoke quietly: “I’ve been Justen more than anyone. I’ve seen a different side to him.”
I’ve shared his dreams
. “He’s not a bad person, Petrus. He’s just extremely angry right now.” She found his hand. “Please, don’t let’s argue.”

For a moment she thought Petrus wouldn’t take her hand, but then he did. The handclasp wasn’t as comforting as it usually was. It felt awkward, as if they were pretending to be friends.

I
NNIS PATROLLED FOR
half the night, flying along the road, skimming low across the half-mile-wide strip of logged ground on either side of it, circling over the dark forest. The moon cast long, black shadows, and she understood how the assassin had crept up on Gerit. He’d have waited in the forest until he saw Gerit swoop off to patrol the road, then crept down through the stumps. And when Gerit returned, when the owl was silhouetted against the pale disc of the moon...

Innis swept into another circle. It was easy to imagine that arrows were aimed at her. Her skin prickled, as if her feathers stood on end.

B
Y THE TIME
Innis swapped with Petrus, she was exhausted. Not from flying, but from the constant fear that she might miss something. “Be careful,” she told Petrus.

“Don’t worry about me.”

Innis watched him flap upwards, his pale feathers gleaming in the moonlight.
If anything happens to Petrus, I think I should die.

She walked to her tent, crouched, and pushed aside the flaps. The tent was dark and empty.

She didn’t want to be herself tonight, didn’t want to sleep in an empty tent. She wanted to sleep alongside the prince and share his dreams. She wanted lazy, sunlit hours in the palace garden. She wanted the side of him he never showed anyone else.

What was the harm? An extra shapeshifter in the prince’s tent could only be a good thing. He’d be safer if anything went wrong.

A Primary Law broken,
a tiny voice whispered in her head. But she’d broken
that
particular Law every night that she’d slept in Justen’s shape. And really, what was the harm?

I
NNIS FOUND THE
prince in a training arena, lit by the moon. A handful of men struggled in the centre of the arena. She heard gasps, grunts of pain. The prince’s emotions flooded her—fear, panic. Innis ran towards the men, sawdust puffing beneath her boots. There was the prince, pinned to the ground, and there, his half-brother standing with a sword. “We’ll cut off his hands, first.”

Prince Harkeld fought, tried to break free, but his arm was wrenched outwards, his wrist laid bare in the moonlight. The sword swung up.

The prince’s fear spiked. She felt his panic burst through her.

“No!” Innis cried. “It’s only a nightmare—”

A loud crack swallowed her words. White fire lit the arena, so bright she couldn’t look at it.

The light faded. Four charred bodies lay smoking on the sawdust.

Harkeld sat up, moving slowly, as if he ached.

“It was only a nightmare.” Innis crouched beside him. He was trembling, panting, sweating. She felt how close to tears he was. “Harkeld, it was only a nightmare.”

“I know.” He scrubbed his face with both hands.

“I won’t let anyone cut off your hands. I promise.”

Harkeld raised his head, his eyes black in the moonlight. “You can’t do anything. You don’t exist outside my head.” He pushed to his feet and walked away from her, striding across the arena.

Innis followed. They passed through a bustling stableyard, crossed a vast marble courtyard with statuary and fountains, and came to the palace gardens, where the sun shone brightly. The prince didn’t stop. He walked through rose gardens and over smooth lawns, past sculpted hedges and groves of slender trees, finally halting at the water lily pond where the dragonflies hummed.

Innis stepped up alongside him. She reached for his hand. “Harkeld—”

“Don’t.” He snatched his hand away. “No more witches in my dreams. Do you understand me?”

Innis shook her head.

His expression grew fierce. “This is
my
dream and I won’t have witches in it.”

“You want me to go?”

“What I
want
is to tup a human, not a foul, lying witch. Anything would be better than that shape!” He gestured angrily at her. “Rut it, even
Broushka
would be better!”

Tears burned her eyes.

“And don’t cry,” he said, disgusted. “You don’t even exist. You’re nothing more than my imagination.” He turned away from her. “Get out of my head.”

Innis pressed her hands to her mouth, blinked back the tears.

The prince swung round to face her again. “I said, get out! Get out of my head.
Get out!
”

I
N THE MORNING
, while she was saddling Justen’s horse, Petrus came over. “I saw you go to the prince’s tent last night.”

“What?” Her head jerked up. “I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. As a fieldmouse. I saw you go in, and about half an hour later I saw you come out.”

“I...” Blood rushed to her face. “I just wanted to check on him.”

There was an expression on Petrus’s face that she’d never seen before. Mistrust. “Ebril will keep him safe.”

“I know, I know,” Innis said hurriedly. “But after what happened, I wanted to check on him. I was just...” Her voice trailed off. “Checking.”

“Petrus, can you give me a hand with these tents?” Rand called.

Petrus hesitated, then went to help Rand.