The Hidden Prince (5 page)

Read on for more of Prince Tobiah's adventures in
The Mirror King
, the sequel to
The Orphan Queen
.

THE PRINCE'S BLOOD
was on my hands.

Screams from the courtyard below pounded through my ears, through my head, but I was blind to all but Tobiah's motionless form. He was so still. So pale. His skin was like paper. The guards cut away his clothes, revealing the black bolt protruding from his gut. Blood splashed like angry ink, pooling around him.

“Tobiah.” The whisper splintered from inside me. My hands were on his face. His head rested on my knees.

“
Trust Wilhelmina
,” he'd told his guards.
“Protect her.”

And then, “
I don't want to fight
.”

“But that's all we ever do.” My fingers curled over the contours of his cheek. His skin felt icy, but maybe it was my imagination.

Only half aware of the cacophony below, and guards shooting toward the assassin on a nearby rooftop, I bent until my
cheek brushed Tobiah's nose. I held my breath and listened for his.

Gasp.

Rattle.

Sigh.

It was weak, and I could almost hear the blood flooding his lungs, in a crimson tide. Flecks of wetness dotted my cheek, but I didn't move.

Gasp.

Rattle.

Sigh.

I'd learned a little about injuries from tutors the Ospreys had hired, and from the boys who were interested in medicine. Though I'd always been more concerned with causing damage, I knew about herbs and binding wounds and how quickly people could slip into shock—even those who hadn't been hurt.

But with every one of Tobiah's weak exhales, everything I'd been taught flew from my mind. Wet little puffs of knowledge, flying away with his gasps and rattles and sighs.

Except for one fact: Crown Prince Tobiah was unlikely to survive this injury.

Gasp.

Rattle.

Sigh.

If he didn't get
real
help, he would die.

Only I could find it for him.

The world came crashing back in a rush of screams and shouting.
The twang and whack of crossbows punctuated the voices.

“What is she doing?” Blood stained the guard's hands as he pressed a cloth onto the prince's wound. The men surrounding him looked up, toward me.

“Get the princess out of here,” James barked. He was a familiar face: the crown prince's bodyguard and cousin, and my friend. He was the one I should be able to trust. “Get her inside.”

“No!” I clung to the prince's shoulders as someone grabbed around my middle, and another darted in to cushion the prince's head as I was dragged away. “No! Don't touch me!”

Even half standing, I could barely see the rooftop where the shooter had stood with his crossbow, and the boy made of wraith not far from him, following the last command I'd given him: pursue Patrick.

A soldier's fingers dug into my ribs as I struggled. “No!” I elbowed him, and through a gap in the wall of men, I caught sight of the wraith boy returning: a flash of white against the blue sky and brown buildings.

“Wilhelmina!” he cried.

Guards shouted and another one took my arms. “Come on!”

But I couldn't move under the weight of their hands, because a memory stole over me, paralyzing.

Hands on my arms. And legs. And chest.

A week ago, I'd been wearing black trousers and boots, rather than one of the exquisite gowns expected of a proper lady. I'd been caught, accused of being the vigilante known as Black Knife, accused of assassinating King Terrell in his sleep, and accused of impersonating a foreign duchess.

Dawn had just been brushing the sky, and the Indigo Order surrounded me. James had been there. Someone had cuffed me, and then the others came.

Touching.

Groping.

Reaching for places they had no right, until James called them off.

They'd claimed they were searching for weapons, but my skin still bore the yellow marks of fading bruises.

The phantom sensations that had haunted me since were real now.

I had to escape.

With a feral scream, I yanked myself away from the guard and landed hard on my knees. Pain flared, but I forgot all about it as the chaos below intensified, and an enormous white horror leapt over the edge of the balcony, knocking aside the men as though they were dolls.

The wraith boy's body had elongated, his face stretched until his mouth was wide and gaping, and his pale eyes were ovular and enormous. “Release my queen.” His voice boomed like thunder as he shrank and strode across the balcony, stepping around the fallen prince at the last moment. “Do not touch her.”

Ten guards backed away from me, leaving me to kneel by Tobiah's head.

The guards who'd been knocked over stood now, their weapons aimed at the wraith boy. Others still scanned the rooftops for the assassin, while many focused on the prince, bleeding to death in front of my eyes.

The wraith boy reached for one of the guards who'd grabbed me.

“Stop!”

The wraith boy froze in a half lurch, waiting for my permission to move again. The guards hesitated.

I fought to steady myself, grabbing my gown into bunches. “He thought I was in danger. Focus on Tobiah. He needs help.”

“She's right.” James shouted orders, and guards moved in to assist, giving the statue-still wraith boy a wide berth.

Carefully, they pushed the limp prince into a sitting position. Blood saturated his jacket and shirt as they peeled off his clothes and tossed them aside. Blood-soaked wool hit the stone with a
splat
.

The crossbow tip protruded from his back, slick and shining with blood. A hooked barb made the bolt impossible to remove without causing more damage.

If he was even still alive.

“Knife!” shouted a guard. “Cut off the tip.”

The screaming below had softened, now that the assassin was gone and guards had emerged to control the crowd. The roofs across the courtyard were filled with soldiers hunting for the shooter.

One of the men lowered his knife to begin cutting the shaft just below the barb, but his hand shook with nerves. The life of his future king rested in those trembling fingers.

Breathlessly, I leaned forward and batted him aside. “
Wake up
,” I said, touching the bolt. The magic made my thoughts fuzz, but I hardly noticed.
“Do this carefully and gently: break just below the tip and remove yourself from the prince. Leave
no pieces inside him. Cause no additional harm.”

“Is she using magic?” someone whispered. Soldiers drew back, as if being too close to me would contaminate them, but they held their prince as the crossbow bolt followed my instructions.

The wood snapped and the tip clanked against the floor. One of the men dropped a cloth over it and snatched it up, as though containing a wild animal.

Slowly, the shaft pulled itself from the wound; whatever sound it made was covered by the gasping of soldiers nearby, and the noise of people being corralled in the courtyard below.

“Flasher,” someone muttered. “It's true.”

In my peripheral vision, I caught the wraith boy's rapt attention, his eyes unnaturally wide as he watched the crossbow bolt drop onto the prince's lap. Tobiah's hands rested limply on the stone floor, drenched in his own blood.

Please. Please.

As soon as the bolt was out, men pressed bandages to the wound, and I reached around to tap the offending object.
“Go to sleep
.
”

It was inanimate again.

“Now,” said James. “Get His Highness into his quarters. Send for a physician. Have the entire city searched.” He turned to me. “Was that Patrick Lien?”

My stomach knotted. Patrick had always intended to be the liberator of Aecor, our conquered homeland. But while we had the same goals, his methods made him the enemy now. “Yes. Trying again, after he failed the other night.”

James passed a hand over his stomach, the ghosts of pain
and confusion flickering across his face. “All right. I'll need a description. A drawing, if you can manage.”

Around us, guards constructed a stretcher to transport Tobiah. This didn't feel real.

“I can.” My head buzzed with magic and horror, but there was so much to do. “I can send him to search for Patrick.” I nodded toward the wraith boy, still caught in the half lurch. “You can stand now,” I told him.

He shot me a quizzical look as he straightened and assumed normal proportions. He was blinding white, still wearing Tobiah's Indigo Order jacket from the night of the Inundation, though the cloth was torn and dirty.

James glanced from me to the wraith boy. “He's under your control?”

“He is.” Saints, I hoped he was.

The captain gave a curt nod. “Tobiah trusts you. I do, too. But I don't think it's a good idea to send him into the city.”

The wraith boy, perhaps sensing my reluctant agreement, grew smaller, more placid. His indigo jacket hung down to his knees as he lowered his eyes.

My blood-soaked gown dragged heavily as I stepped toward James, keeping my voice low. “There's no way Tobiah can survive that wound.”

Neither of us said what we both must have been thinking: James had survived an almost identical injury.

He kept his voice soft. “What do you propose?”

It felt like betrayal, giving up someone else's secret, but he would understand. He would be protected. “I have a friend who can heal.”

James's eyebrows shot up. “Magically?”

I nodded.

The captain shoved his fingers through his hair, leaving streaks of Tobiah's blood. “The other day, did you bring your friend to me?”

“No.”

He pressed his mouth into a line. “What are the chances of us both mysteriously healing?”

“Are you willing to take the risk?”

“Definitely not,” he said. “Where is your friend? I'll have him sent for immediately.”

“I should look for him. The Ospreys won't trust a messenger.”

“No.” James watched as the men transferred Tobiah to the stretcher and moved him inside. “No, that's not a good idea. Not with the people calling you the wraith queen, or after what you did during the Inundation. It's too much. They'd panic. We can't risk it.”

It was a risk I was willing to take if it meant saving Tobiah's life. But James held all the power here, so I just nodded. “I'll write a message. I'll draw Patrick's face, and I'll tell you anything you need to know. I want him caught, too.”

“And what about your pale friend?” James's jaw flexed as he settled his glare on the wraith-white figure, now no bigger or differently shaped than any other seventeen-year-old boy. “I can't allow him to roam the palace, but I doubt a cell would hold him.”

“I'll put him somewhere safe.”

“Will you be all right?” James reached for my arm, but
stopped short of contact. The wraith boy might see it as a threat.

I touched his arm instead. “When Patrick is in the deepest dungeon, the wraith vanishes, and all of my friends are safe: then I will be all right.”

BY THE TIME
the clock tower chimed seventeen, I'd sent messengers to the Peacock Inn and half a dozen other Osprey hideouts in the city. The messages contained orders for all four of my Ospreys to come to the palace immediately; the other four were with Patrick, including my best friend, Melanie.

Saints, I hoped they were safe. Even the ones who'd left me.

Especially the ones who'd left me, because Patrick wasn't always concerned about whether they survived the missions he assigned. We'd lost so many friends through his leadership, and I'd never challenged it. Not until it was too late.

Now, I sat at a table in Crown Prince Tobiah's parlor, finishing the last strokes of a sketch of Patrick's face: close-cropped hair, a hard scowl, and a scar above one eyebrow. Even from paper, he commanded attention.

“That's the last one for you.” James took a chair next to me and met my eyes. “We have scribes and messengers copying your
drawings for the police and bounty notices. You don't need to make more. That isn't your job.”

“What
is
my job? Pacing the palace and hoping Patrick slips up? Because that's the only way he'll be caught.”

James's mouth pulled into a frown. “The queen regent is offering five thousand crowns for Patrick's capture.”

“You've just persuaded me to go find him myself.”

His smile was tolerant, like I'd made a joke. “It's been suggested that you offer a reward, as well.”

“Even if I knew what the Aecorian treasury looked like, I don't have access to it. Strip Prince Colin of his overlord title and we'll continue that conversation.”

“Would that I could.”

He'd been awake for only hours, and was recently injured himself. He didn't need my derision on top of everything else. I made my tone gentler. “How is Tobiah?”

“Same.” James lowered his eyes. “The physicians are with him. They said the bolt came out cleanly, which will help the healing process. But they told me not to expect miracles.”

We fell quiet, neither of us willing to bring up James's miraculous healing this morning. Why shouldn't we expect miracles from Tobiah, too? But the questions were there, hanging between us. We'd have to talk about it sometime.

Anyway, where was Connor? What about “come immediately” lacked urgency?

“What about him?” James tilted his head toward the wraith boy standing in the corner, where he'd been the whole time I worked. He was hunched over like a scolded hound, waiting for attention.

“He can't do anything.” After the shooting, he refused to leave my side. I could have ordered him somewhere else, but where? “Wraith is destruction, not healing.”

At my words, the wraith boy turned his head, and a thin smile sliced across his face, widening until he showed teeth and gums.

I shivered as he turned back to the corner. James paled and angled himself away from the wraith boy.

“And you?” I touched the back of his hand. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.” James drew a deep breath. “I should have saved him.”

“But you—”

He shook his head. “I should have seen Patrick. I should have been watching the rooftops more closely. Tobiah rushes into what he thinks is best and forgets to look out for danger. He can be reckless.”

I closed my eyes, recalling the black-clad boy with a sword sheathed at his back. Easily, I could picture the way he leapt off rooftops and ran toward the crash and growl of danger. Glowmen, wraith beasts, or ordinary criminals: it didn't matter what it was or who was involved; he would intervene to rescue victims and drag perpetrators to the nearest police station. “I remember.”

“That's why I'm here,” James said. “To look after Tobiah. So that he can be who he is without worrying about danger.”

It seemed to me James was being too hard on himself. Tobiah wasn't easy to look after, given his vigilante habit. James wouldn't be reassured, though. His sense of duty wouldn't allow
it.

“Why don't you wash up?” He motioned to the bloodstains on my gown. “There's nothing else you can do until your friend arrives.”

“I hate feeling powerless.” I wiped clean my pen and closed the bottle of ink. “I hate not being able to help.”

James's jaw clenched as he glanced toward the prince's closed door. If anyone understood, he did. “Sergeant Ferris will escort you to your quarters.” He looked at one of the indigo-jacketed men in the sitting room. “Sergeant, attend Princess Wilhelmina.”

I stood and lifted an eyebrow. “Who is being guarded?”

“You, Your Highness.” James rose to his feet again, too. “Patrick risked you today. What if his aim had been off? What if the wind had picked up? The queen regent and Lady Meredith are being guarded closely, as well.”

As closely as I?
They
were probably permitted knives at meals. “Very well.”

James leaned close. “Now that you've identified yourself, you'll simply have to get used to a bodyguard following you at all hours. Do you think Tobiah
enjoys
my constant company? It is the duty of a member of the royal family to stay alive.”

A darkness flashed through his eyes: his failure today, the failure of King Terrell's bodyguards not even a fortnight ago. He needed me to obey, to take the guard and keep myself safe. And with the wraith boy in the palace, we all needed to be even more alert.

He was correct. But that didn't mean he wasn't also guarding the rest of the palace from me.

“Only because you asked so nicely.” I grabbed the leather-bound notebook I used as a diary and strode after the young sergeant James had indicated. A moment later we were out the door, the wraith boy following at a short distance.

It wasn't a long walk from Tobiah's apartments to mine. Both suites were located in the Dragon Wing, the area typically reserved for Indigo Kingdom royalty. My presence here was indicative of both the respect Tobiah held for me, and the respect he had for my dangerous abilities. He kept me close because he needed to watch me.

Sergeant Ferris led me in silence, though he cast a few curious looks toward me.

As we approached my door, I made my expression stony. “Yes, Sergeant?”

He ducked his head. “Pardon, Your Highness.”

“If you have a question, ask it.”

He hesitated, but curiosity won over. “
You
are Black Knife?”

Though an afternoon of sitting over writing materials had made every muscle in my shoulders and neck stiff, I drew myself up to my full height, nearly even with my guard. “What do you think, Sergeant?”

He snapped to attention at my door and held his position. “Your Highness.”

I entered my sitting room, allowing myself to feel a sliver of satisfaction—at least until I remembered the wraith boy trailing in after me, a white shadow jacketed in indigo.

“Stay in the corner,” I told him. He obeyed, hands clasped in front of him, head slightly bowed.

I moved toward the table to lay down my notebook, but
stopped. Something was different.

When Tobiah had summoned me to his quarters this morning, I'd run off quickly, not bothering to close the jars of ink, or clean my pens. Now, the bottles were corked or capped, and the ink-stained nibs soaked in a shallow cup of water, rusting.

A folded paper was pinned beneath a bottle of blue ink, a quick
W
scrawled on the corner.

Someone had been in my rooms. Or still was.

I snatched a clean pen off the table and clutched it like a knife, moving through the room without stealth; any intruder already knew I was here.

One by one, I opened doors and scanned the shapes and shadows of the music room, the game room, and the dressing room for hints of the intruder. But there was nothing untoward. Just the same opulent suite I'd become intimately acquainted with in the days since the Inundation. The same brocade silk curtains, the same glossy, wood-paneled walls, and the same gleaming brass knobs and hinges and other finishings. There were no strange shapes in the pockets of darkness by full bookcases, or under the ornately carved tables, or in the curtain surrounding the tub in the washroom.

Everything was quiet. The windows here faced the back of the palace, giving me a view of the ruined gardens and woods beyond. Protesters' cries were muted, and I heard no scrape of shoes on rugs or brush of clothes on wood.

Whoever had been here was gone now.

My fist relaxed around the pen, and I lit a candle when I returned to the table.

After King Terrell had been assassinated, Tobiah had told me
that people always wanted to kill kings. Now that my identity was out—as well as my magical ability and the way I'd allegedly spent time as a vigilante—I had to be careful, too. Particularly since I was alone here. Had Melanie stayed with me—

Well, she wasn't here.

I brought the candle close to the paper, but found no traces of powder. There were no unusual scents, either.

It was probably safe.

I slipped the paper from beneath the bottle and unfolded it. The note was in Tobiah's handwriting. A strained laugh escaped my throat. All that work, and the intruder turned out to be a boy dying just a few doors down the hall.

Wilhelmina,

I'm sorry I didn't visit you after the Inundation. I should have.

Please forgive me for what I'm about to do; know that it is duty and honor that compel me to act against my true feelings. You were correct when you said I need to decide who I am.

No matter where my heart leads, I must become who my kingdom needs me to be.

With greatest affection,

Tobiah Pierce

My heart twisted, and tears in my eyes made halos grow around the words.

He must have written this right before he announced the date of his wedding to Meredith—winter solstice—during the
minutes he'd left James's side to deliver a list of places in Aecor Patrick might have gone.

Unfortunately, Patrick had been on his way here.

To shoot Tobiah.

Maybe I hated the prince, but I loved the vigilante, and now he was dying.

My feelings had been complicated enough when I'd believed they were separate people, but now that Tobiah Pierce was Black Knife . . .

Black Knife was Tobiah Pierce . . .

And
where
was Connor?

My breath came hard and fast as I placed the letter on the table once more, and smoothed out the corners. My weapons had been taken away, but not my clothes.

I glanced at the window. Nearly dark.

“Wraith boy.”

In the corner, he perked up and tilted his head. “Yes, my queen?”

“From the balcony, can you lower me to the ground?” Being on the third story, I wasn't keen to climb down without my grappling hook and line. My first night in this suite, I'd checked the outside wall for any footholds, but without tools, there'd been nothing but a high probability of two broken legs.

“It isn't for me to question my queen, but”—he shifted his weight—“can't you simply walk out? Are you a captive?”

I glanced at the letter on the table, the beautiful room that had been my prison for three days, and the crown prince's blood staining my gown. Black Knife's blood. “Can you do what I asked?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then you're going to help me escape.”