Forsyth was pacing in his sitting room, waiting for news. The top military brass had had an important meeting with the king, so the castle was full of people who didn’t belong there, and Forsyth’s door was closely guarded. One would think the Crown Prince would be invited to the meeting, but he had not been. The king flew into a rage practically every time he saw his son now, so such things were out of the question.
In order to find out what was going on, he would have to wait for the General’s report, which would certainly be biased and full of holes. Then he’d have to wait even longer for Chris to get the news from the Baroness and relay it to him.
He turned sharply at the knock on the door, adjusted his posture to look confident and serene, and called for whomever it was to enter.
General Peters-Stahl opened the door and strode inside, assessing the room with a glance. He immediately took up a position in the room that made Forsyth feel intimidated.
“What can I do for you, General?” asked Forsyth pleasantly. He loathed General Peters-Stahl, but it was morally inexcusable to hate people, and it would without a doubt hurt the man’s feelings if he knew that Forsyth hated him—so it was vital that he pretended to like Peters-Stahl until he could force himself actually to change his feelings.
“I’ve come to inform you of the council’s decision. In light of Giat’s recent offensive actions, we have decided to retaliate.”
“Recent offensive actions?” Forsyth hadn’t heard of any such thing.
“Yes,” said Peters-Stahl decisively.
“But… what did they do? I mean,” Forsyth hesitated, “doesn’t military action seem like a rather extreme response?”
The General looked down at the prince with a sneer. “There are those, Your Highness, who would not flinch from extreme action.”
Forsyth flushed.
“Thank you,” he managed. “You may go.”
Peters-Stahl turned sharply and left, snapping the door closed with a flick of his powerful hand.
The prince stalked to the window, glaring at the little yellow blossoms that waved cheerfully at him. He had enjoyed watching over them, making sure that they were watered and turned every so often so that their stalks grew straight. He liked taking care of things.
He disliked Peters-Stahl. It was hard to like somebody who did awful things without feeling the tiniest bit of remorse.
And he wished everybody would stop insinuating that he was a baby.
It was wrong, wrong, wrong to kill innocent people. Forsyth knew—and Peters-Stahl knew—and everybody knew—that the people who suffered in war were the common people, the people who couldn’t defend themselves, the people who didn’t have a voice in the decisions that were made.
Somebody had to defend these people. And as their prince, Forsyth knew, it was his duty to protect them. It was his duty to care for them. It was more than his duty—it was his right.
He felt a swell of pride as he thought this. His determination to serve his people, he was certain, showed that he was growing up. He didn’t have to enjoy hurting people to be a man. The kind of man that Forsyth wanted to be wasn’t a man like Peters-Stahl—it was a man who didn’t need to feel defensive, a man who was strong enough to be kind.
Forsyth scowled. He couldn’t wait until he took the throne. There was going to be a major reorganization of the military. The General was an unscrupulous man who hungered for power; any time he chose, he could stage a coup, and there’d be no one to stop him. The only reason he hadn’t yet, Forsyth figured, was that he hardly needed to. The king was in the palm of his hand already.
A good king would be at the front lines, and an honorable prince would be at his side.
It was late by the time Chris arrived.
Forsyth was ready for bed, actually, and had wrapped himself in a blanket on the floor by his fireplace. He had spread out copies of poetry books he’d found in the library: Göthe, Petrarch, Homer, Shakespeare. He was trying to figure them out. He had begun to teach himself English a couple of years ago, but the Shakespeare book was very old, and it didn’t quite make sense. The other books were English translations from a later period, and he wasn’t having quite as much trouble with them.
The ancient world was intriguing. Its cultures were exotic, but its people were uncomfortably normal.
He was getting involved in the story of Achilles and Patroclus when there was a soft knock on his door. Scrambling to his feet, he draped the blanket around his shoulders. He hadn’t expected anyone this late, and he was bare-chested. “Come in,” he called.
Chris had slipped in the door and shut it before Forsyth made it halfway across the room.
“Ginungagap,” he said.
“What?” asked Forsyth.
“Ginungagap,” Chris said, more loudly. “It’s an offensive spell.”
Forsyth looked at him blankly.
“A strategic grade offensive spell. They’ll use it on a Giat ship that carries the Scrapped Princess.”
Finally, a sentence that made sense. Forsyth paled. “Doesn’t that violate international law?”
“There will be war with Giat,” said Chris. “I’m sure.”
Forsyth sank onto the floor tiredly, gesturing for Chris to do the same. “Peters-Stahl?”
Chris nodded and sat cross-legged, facing the prince. “According to the Baroness, the king said next to nothing during the meeting. It was almost entirely run by the General.”
Forsyth pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to push out the headache.
“The Baroness speculated that… the king…”
“That the king is a puppet of Peters-Stahl and Hogue?” Forsyth laughed bitterly. “Of course he is.”
“Well, that… and that he might be losing his mind.”
Forsyth let his head fall forward onto Chris’s chest. “Everything’s falling to pieces, isn’t it? The end of the world really is coming.”
Chris went rigid for an instant, but then he seemed to realize that a response was in order. He patted the prince’s back inelegantly.
Forsyth sat up immediately. Physical contact was uncomfortably awkward.
“If it’s the end of the world,” said Chris after some thought, “there’s nothing we can do. We have to act as though what we do could matter.”
“I know,” said Forsyth. “I’ll… I’ll talk to Father about it in the morning and see what can be done.”
Chris nodded his approval. With his left hand, he flipped through the open books Forsyth had left on the floor.
“What have you been reading?”
“Oh… Poetry, mostly.”
Chris pulled one of the books closer. He frowned. “Is this English?”
“Yeah.”
“You can read this?”
“Yeah.” Forsyth brightened. “Would you like to hear some?”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Okay,” said Forsyth, taking the book. He looked up at Chris earnestly. “It’s hard to translate as I go, but I’ll try my best.”
Taking a deep breath, he began, “Then Love might grant me such confidence that I’d reveal to you my sufferings, the years lived through, and the days and hours…” He sent a quick look at Chris under his eyelashes. “And if time is opposed to true desire, it does not mean no food would nourish my grief: I might draw some from slow sighs…”
He trailed off. He could feel Chris looking at him.
“Is something wrong?” he asked uncertainly.
Chris was definitely staring. “Nothing. You’re… good at that.”
Forsyth glanced down bashfully, opening his mouth to begin the usual protestations that followed compliments. “Oh, no, please—“
“Who taught you to read English?”
“Nobody, really.” Forsyth blushed. “I was bored one summer, so I figured I’d look it over. It’s not that different from our language, really; it’s very instinctive. Actually”—he knew he was launching into a lecture, but it was so interesting—“it’s amazing how little the language has changed, really, considering it’s been five thousand years. It’s almost like there’s some kind of outside force keeping things from developing. Anyway, anybody could have figured it out.”
“That’s not true. You shouldn’t downplay it.”
“Oh… Okay.”
Chris nodded thoughtfully. “Princess Senes can read English.”
“Senes lur Giat?”
“She’s using it to pilot a battleship from the Genesis Wars.”
“What?!” Forsyth almost clapped his hands with delight, but caught himself in time and lowered them to his lap. He didn’t want to act completely childlike in front of a person he was trying to impress.
“Senes lur Giat has a Genesis ship?! That’s… that’s…! We have to go see it!”
Chris looked at Forsyth as if he wanted to call him an idiot but didn’t think it would be proper. “You’ll see it sooner than you think. Princess Senes just sent her brother’s entire navy to the bottom of the ocean, and she’s on her way to Sauer with the Scrapped Princess on board.”
“WHAT?!” Forsyth leapt to his feet in indignation. “Why does nobody tell me anything? How long has this been known? I am always the last person to learn of things like this!”
All at once, he felt ridiculous, standing half-naked and barefoot with his hands on his hips and his hair tousled and an exaggerated expression of righteous anger. He sat back down.
“Apparently that’s what the General meant by Giat’s ‘recent offensive actions’?” he asked meekly. Everything made so much more sense when he had the relevant information.
“Evidently.” Chris lay back on the rug, folding his arms under his head. “What are you going to say to your father tomorrow?”
Forsyth sighed. “I have no idea.”
He flopped down to lie on his stomach next to Chris, kicking his feet in the air, and the soft legs of his pajama pants slid down to his knees. Propping himself up on one elbow, he leaned in so that their heads were close together, a mess of blue and blond and brown that reflected as a pleasant splatter of color in the window.
“Stay and help me figure out what to say.” He pouted impishly.
Chris almost smiled. “Sure.”
The drapes to the throne room were drawn, letting only a little light filter in around their edges. Forsyth, who preferred rooms to be well lit and free of grime, felt uncomfortable. He had to tilt his head back to look up at his father, who sat on the center throne of the three that stood on the dais. The physical discomfort of tilting his head up added to the prince’s nervousness.
It was rare for them to be alone together. Forsyth had been aware for a long time that his father had never particularly liked him, but lately, the king’s criticisms of his behavior had become… well, in Forsyth’s opinion, less and less just. He didn’t really object to being punished for lateness and messiness and other things that his somewhat overzealous father stressed—and he was proud that he had mostly eradicated that sort of unprofessionalism from his behavior. It seemed now, however, as if the king reacted irrationally to every innocent thing his son said or did.
He wanted to please his father, but eventually he had learned that he would never be the person his father wanted him to be. Years of experience had taught him that the best thing was just to avoid interaction with the king. Ordinarily, he would never initiate a confrontation, preferring to allow his own wishes to go unnoticed if it meant preserving the uneasy peace. But this was about other people, so it was okay… no, it was essential… to speak up.
“Father!” He drew a deep breath and tried to keep his voice bold and assertive. “Please reconsider what you’re doing! We mustn’t throw away the lives of our precious soldiers in a needless war!”
He’d practiced this speech. It had sounded powerful and dramatic in his chamber, but now… it didn’t, somehow. Too passionate, perhaps? He thought glumly that to anyone listening, he’d sound like a child campaigning against perceived social evil without really understanding the complexities of the situation.
“Silence!” commanded the king.
Forsyth started. He looked up at his father, unable to keep the disappointment off his face. Oh, no, he was going to cry. He could feel his eyes trembling a little as he fought to keep the tears back.
“Don’t look at us with those eyes,” snapped the king. “You have your mother’s eyes. She disobeyed our command and allowed our daughter to escape!”
The prince opened his mouth to protest the vast injustice of that statement, but closed it again when he realized that any attempt at speech might result in him actually weeping in his father’s presence.
The old man turned his body in fear, shrinking back from his son as far as he could in the large throne. “Your sister almost certainly has the same eyes, as well.”
Forsyth gave up.
Chris was waiting for him when he pushed open the heavy doors and came out. He’d been staring off the balcony into the fog that enveloped the city, and he turned abruptly to face the prince.
Forsyth let the door fall completely closed before saying in a low voice, “He wouldn’t listen to me, just as I expected.” He kept his eyes fixed ahead, unable to look anyone in the eye.
“Is that so,” said Chris.
Forsyth stared off into the distance that was the city’s skyline. “Father is going to throw countless subjects into a war just so he can kill the Scrapped Princess. So he can kill my sister… What in the world is he thinking?”
Chris looked away, evidently unwilling to answer.
“Even if,” the prince continued, “it is in the people’s best interest for the Scrapped Princess to die, must we kill them to kill her? That doesn’t make any sense whatsoever. Why don’t they just send an assassin after her or something?”
Chris had a strange look on his face. “I think you underestimate Shannon Casull,” he said in a low voice. “And this is best discussed elsewhere.”
“Yes, yes, you’re right…” They began the walk back to Forsyth’s suite.
“Do you think he’s insane?” Chris asked.
“You mean Father?” Forsyth thought about it. “I don’t know,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. He’s just a coward. And selfish.”
His father was wrong. Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. And not wrong in a “misunderstanding” way, or in an “I disagree with him, but I guess he’s the one in charge” way. Wrong in a fundamental way.
It was scary.
It occurred to him that this was the first time he had ever realized that his parents could be wrong. He’d had arguments with them, of course, but not since he was very young. They all ended the same way: Forsyth’s parents would “talk” to him about what he’d done—the king would yell (“That’s completely idiotic!”), the queen would query (“Now, what could you have done instead?”)—and Forsyth would try to fast-talk his way out of trouble even though he knew he was wrong. When he couldn’t stand the stress any more, he’d get hysterical and start to cry, and then his father would call him a baby, but at least then, they usually stopped “talking”. Even now, when one of his parents said they wanted to “talk” to him about something, he panicked. His parents were always in charge, always the winners, and always the ones whose final decision mattered in the end.
But… His father had let paranoia make him delusional, and his mother lived in terror, doing whatever she could to please a man who was basically impossible to please. He felt sorry for them, but he didn’t want to be anything like them. They were both weak, weaker even than he was. At least Forsyth knew he was afraid and tried not to let it affect his judgment.
It felt disloyal to think such thoughts, but it was exhilarating, too. His head and heart literally felt lighter, almost as if he had gained an intractable power simply by coming to this realization. The door to his suite seemed as if it weighed less, and he swung it open with too much force and sailed into the room with strides that took very little effort.
“It’s okay, you know,” he said to Chris. “I didn’t really expect him to listen to me.”
Chris nodded.
Forsyth looked out the window. “What’s going to happen, do you think? What kind of damage can a spell like that do?”
Chris shrugged. “Nobody knows. It’s been so long since one was used. It’s supposed to be powerful enough to decide a war on its own. It might even kill a thousand people.”
The prince shuddered. “It’s like in this book I was reading… A long time ago, there was a war. They figured out how to get up really high somehow—I’m not really sure, maybe there was a mountain—and they dropped this sort of cannonball-thing on the city and killed forty thousand people at once. And then, because of the magic they used, thousands more people got sick. The war was over then, but the whole country had been destroyed.”
“It’s not possible. For one thing, how could there be forty thousand people in one city?”
“I think things were different then.”
“There’s no way there could have been a weapon that could kill forty thousand people. You must have been reading a folktale or a myth.”
He knew he hadn’t been, but he didn’t feel like arguing, and it would take too much trouble to try to explain the concept of encyclopedia. “Maybe,” he said. “Giat will retaliate with a similar spell, won’t they?”
“Yep.”
“What can we do to stop it?”
“Nothing.”
Forsyth looked at Chris, unable to believe it. “Do you really think so? What do you mean?”
“Just stay out of the General’s way and do whatever you can to avoid displeasing the king. Then you’ll be all right.” Chris turned his gaze out the window. “It would suck if… If something happened to you.”
“Yes, I imagine it would,” murmured the prince.
“When you’re king, you’ll be able to do whatever you want.”
“If there’s anything left to be king of. Besides, the people won’t accept me as king if they know I stood by and allowed them to suffer when I could have stopped it.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’d be the one with power.” Chris leaned back carelessly on one elbow. “Assuming you weren’t the puppet of some shadow ruler,” he added under his breath.
“But it’s the people who hold up the government! They’re the ones who really have power. It’s a basic principle of Mar—oh, never mind.”
He’d been reading about philosophies of governance lately. He thought his father and grandfather probably qualified as Absolutists.
Chris looked at him very seriously. “You can’t change anything, so stay out of the way. You’re not the one responsible for what’s going to happen.”
“That’s completely false,” argued Forsyth. “What I do is always my choice and always my fault. I want to take responsibility for myself.”
“Prince Forsyth—“
The prince sighed. “Let’s not argue. I’m too tired.”
It was hard work to think of compelling arguments, and disagreeing with Chris was awful. He wanted so desperately to please Chris… Normally, he’d just find something in his friend’s statements that he could agree with. (Forsyth was very good at agreeing with people and telling them what they wanted to hear. That was why, he had decided, people thought he was “nice”.) However, on such a vital topic, he didn’t feel right about being disloyal to his true feelings. The dilemma was uncomfortable to the point of making him feel torn.
Chris nodded, leaning against the window frame with his arms crossed across his chest. “It’s not up to us,” he said quietly.
“Yeah, I know,” said Forsyth, pressing his forehead against the cool panes of glass.
Soon after the rain began to fall, there had been a strange sound, low and rumbling. Then the wave came. It washed away much of the city’s coastal front, and several ships were lost.
Ginungagap, Forsyth supposed. He was afraid to make inquiries regarding the death count.
He had asked Cardinal Hogue if he might be allowed to go out into the city to assist in the relief effort, but the Cardinal had assured him that his presence would cause more trouble than it was worth. Extra soldiers would have to be taken from their work to help guard him, and there might be excitement in the street, should the prince be sighted.
Forsyth spent hours watching the work from his window, but nothing changed very quickly. The drizzling rain was relentless. It was unusually cold for this time of year, and the freezing rain made the work extremely uncomfortable.
He felt utterly helpless.
Brutally, he snapped one of the yellow blossoms off at the base of its stem and held it up to the mottled gray light. Tiny veins could be seen in its leaves when the light shone through. People had veins, too, but nobody was sure what they were for or why they existed. Perhaps people and flowers were the same on the inside.
There was much to understand, and nobody who could understand it.
It was after dark when Chris arrived, although that meant little, considering that thick clouds blocked the light of the setting sun. It was after dinner, though, and Forsyth, who had been bored, was already undressed for bed. He’d blown out all of the candles and extinguished his fire to make it easier to see outside, but the drizzle made it impossible to tell what was going on, and he’d long since given up.
Now he sat in an armchair, curled up with his back to the door. There was a quilt wrapped around him; he had been shivering. Whoever built the palace had thought more about showing delicate strength of the arches than he had about proper insulation.
Knocking was a mere formality by this time; Chris pushed the door open without waiting to be told to enter.
“How many have died?” asked Forsyth without turning around.
“No one knows yet,” said Chris.
“And did they achieve their objective?”
“No.”
The prince rose and moved toward his friend. “They didn’t hit the ship?”
“The ship went down, but the Scrapped Princess disappeared. Her body hasn’t been found.”
Forsyth looked at him for a moment, trying to decide whether to say the obvious.
“You’re thinking it was a waste,” said Chris.
“Rather.” Forsyth flopped gracelessly down on a sofa, flinging one arm over his face.
Chris, poised as ever, knelt on the floor next to him.
“I wish,” said Forsyth, his voice muffled by his arm, “that I could keep my people safe.”
There was a pause. Chris seemed to be thinking about something.
“The Baroness said something to me today,” he began slowly. “She said, ‘If you should ever want to keep someone safe, you must act as a shield for that person.’”
“I can’t,” Forsyth wailed. “I can’t do anything! I can’t even protect myself,” he added miserably.
Chris shrugged. “I wasn’t suggesting that you…” He trailed off, tilting his head to one side. “Are you crying?”
“No,” the prince choked out.
Chris poked tentatively at Forsyth’s shoulder with one finger. “Hey… It’ll be okay. I’ll make sure of it.”
He sighed. “It’s like the Baroness was talking about. You’re one of those people who can still believe in freedom and equality. You shouldn’t have to be disillusioned.”
“What?” sniffled Forsyth, moving his arm to look at Chris with one eye.
Chris looked very serious. “I want to protect people like that.”
Forsyth was almost completely certain that he knew what Chris meant. But not certain enough to risk anything he considered precious. And so he did nothing except look at his friend, almost secure in the knowledge that they understood one another.
Of course, he couldn’t be sure that this was so—he might be wrong—he might be misinterpreting the situation completely. Something awful might happen at any moment.
But he thought, at least with a reasonable amount of confidence, that, well… that Chris was fond of him and enjoyed spending time with him and felt no small amount of loyalty to him. In fact, Forsyth suspected that Chris thought very highly of him indeed, which humbled him to no end. How wonderful, he marveled, to be respected by the very person he so much admired! Surely, this was a rare coincidence, to be found only in the work of the poets and in the lives of a few blessed individuals.
He knew he didn’t deserve such happiness, not only because of his personal sins, but also because of the sins of his family and the terrible destiny laid upon him and his sister. It was more than likely that it would all be taken from him. Yes, the best thing would be to keep silent.
He would try his best to smile and act casually, but he was very much afraid that his transparent nature had already made his feelings quite obvious.
He probably ought to give up seeing Chris entirely, considering the general mess this affair was making of his life, but his whole self protested against such action so vehemently that he couldn’t bring himself to contemplate easing out of the friendship. He felt selfish and weak and un-self-controlled and guilty.
“You’re okay now, right?” asked Chris, jerking Forsyth out of abstraction.
“Hmm? Oh, yeah, fine, thanks.” He sat up, running his fingers through his hair. He knew he was probably just messing it up, but it felt sort of invigorating, so he did it anyway.
Chris moved to the fireplace and struck steel against flint, trying to catch a flame in the tinder.
“I can have someone else do that,” said Forsyth.
Chris shrugged.
“I know it’s cold,” continued the prince, “but I put it out because it’s easier to see out the window if there are no lights in here. Not that I mind if it’s lit again; please go ahead.”
He frowned, realizing that Chris had just come in from the rain. “Are you cold?”
Chris glanced over his shoulder. “A little,” he said, measuring his words. “But you shouldn’t sit around in the cold air, either, you know.”
“I’m fine; I never get sick,” said Forsyth cheerfully. He moved over to the hearth and dropped his quilt over Chris’s shoulders. “At least let me do that. I should have offered before—I’m sorry.”
Chris quirked an eyebrow ironically and handed him the flint. “You know how, right?”
“Sure. I’ve seen it done hundreds of times.”
Chris held out his hand. “Prince Forsyth…”
The prince obediently returned the flint.
“How is it possible,” asked Chris conversationally, “to be fifteen years old and not know how to start a fire?”
Forsyth chewed the corner of his lip, thinking. “As far as I can remember, it’s never come up. There’s just always been a fire without my having to wonder where it came from. It seems a useful thing to learn, though… only there’s never been time to learn that sort of thing.”
Chris made an ambiguous sound. “So what do you study at the university, then?”
“Grammar, dialectic, rhetoric, arithmetic, geometry, music, and astronomy. Oh, and philosophy, and theology.”
“Those things are useful, too,” said Chris kindly.
“In a year or so, I’ll have to choose between law and medicine, but I’m not very excited about it. I think my father would prefer I study law, but I’d rather just continue with theology.”
His friend grunted, clearly unsurprised.
“It sounds silly,” Forsyth went on, “but the words of Lord Mauser are so important. I want to study them and learn them all by heart. I don’t believe that one can properly interpret them without context, and I want to serve my country as best I can. Look at the Grendel prophecies, for example—some of them were wrong, but maybe we were just thinking about them incorrectly.” He sighed blissfully. “I love reading religious texts. Could there be anything more vital to daily existence?”
“Have you ever thought about how strange the name Mauser is?” asked Chris, avoiding the question altogether. “It seems like God would have a more… primal name. Ancient. Intrinsic.”
“Like an Ur-name,” breathed Forsyth.
“Sure,” said Chris.
“You’re right… It is dismally mundane,” Forsyth mused. “Thank you for making the fire,” he added.
“You want me to teach you, don’t you?”
Forsyth nodded. “Please.”
Sunshine streamed through the glass panes of Forsyth’s sitting room. Chris had seemed so busy lately; Forsyth was humbled and flattered to find that he continued to make a point of keeping him informed of the military’s latest actions. The visits were short, though, and to the point, and Forsyth hadn’t even bothered to invite Chris to sit down this time. Instead, Chris stood stiffly by the door, while Forsyth faced away from him. They spoke in low voices.
“A search for the Scrapped Princess?” Forsyth repeated, confused. “So, you’re saying that she is here in Sauer.”
“No.” Chris was concise, but, as always, respectful. “Just that there is a strong possibility. However, the military’s top brass have been leaning towards going to war ever since Ginungagap was used. I’ve heard that they want to use her as a trump card.”
Forsyth closed his eyes. “I’m so pathetic. If only I had more power…”
Chris looked up. “Please don’t blame yourself,” he said earnestly. “It’s not set in stone that we’re going to go to war.”
Forsyth stared out the window, knowing that Chris was lying. He was grateful for the attempt at comfort, but his fears were growing steadily stronger.
“Don’t be so concerned about me,” he murmured. “Let me feel guilty for what’s my fault.”
“Prince Forsyth,” said Chris. “Forgive me, but that’s… unwise.”
“Maybe…” Forsyth answered absently, not wanting to discuss it. “Who exactly will be conducting the search for the Scrapped Princess?” Chris had been very vague about the subject.
His friend paused. “The Obstinate Arrows,” he said finally.
“You?” Forsyth wasn’t sure what to say. “You’re going to kill her?”
“We’ve been ordered to capture her.”
“Ordered by Peters-Stahl?”
“Who else?”
The boys looked at each other.
“She’ll be bait then,” said Forsyth. “Or, no, she’ll be a bargaining chip.”
Chris nodded. “General Peters-Stahl is putting pressure on—“
Forsyth sighed.
“I have to go,” said Chris.
“You said what?” Forsyth couldn’t believe what he had just heard.
“I said, ‘Do I have something on my face?’,” answered Chris with a self-satisfied smirk.
“And he just let you? He didn’t do anything?”
Chris shrugged disdainfully. “He knows better. He needs the Obstinate Arrows.”
“You mean he needs you.”
“That too.”
Forsyth was always amazed by Chris’s guts. Peters-Stahl was so intimidating, and yet Chris could get away with acting so aloof and disdainful. Forsyth would never dare to talk back like that.
Chris had been in an unusually peevish mood today, which Forsyth attributed to the recent capture of the Scrapped Princess. Chris hadn’t been the one to catch her, personally, but he had overseen her imprisonment. He had assured Forsyth that her cell was one of the most comfortable in the entire dungeon, which somehow wasn’t very comforting.
“My birthday is in less than a week,” the prince ventured, trying to find a safe approach to the subject that most concerned him.
“I know.” Chris had gotten up from the table and was pacing.
“Do you think the world will really end?” asked Forsyth.
Chris shrugged.
“Well… Do you think I might see her?”
“Who?” Chris raised a contemptuous eyebrow. “The Scrapped Princess?”
Forsyth set his teacup down impatiently. “Of course!”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s heavily guarded, and you’re not allowed in the dungeons.”
“They let you into the dungeons,” Forsyth pointed out, rather perversely.
Chris gave him a look.
“What is she like?” said Forsyth, trying another tactic. “Is she smart? What kind of forces is she commanding?”
Chris laughed humorlessly. “She’s a young girl, with no popular support. She’s not a threat.” He stalked over to the window. “She hasn’t done anything. There isn’t even any proof that she’s dangerous—prophecies have been wrong before. It’s just… it’s just…”
“Immoral? Unfair?”
Chris sighed. “It seems that she suffered a head injury when her ship went down. She appears to be feigning amnesia and says she has no idea who she is. I can verify that she’s the Scrapped Princess, but the General doesn’t care whether she is or she isn’t. He just wants someone to use for a trade in his negotiations.”
Forsyth frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would Giat care about the Scrapped Princess? They won’t offer anything in exchange for her.”
“I’m not sure that it’s Giat he’s bargaining with.”
Forsyth tilted his head to one side. “What? Who else is there?”
Chris scowled.
Absent-mindedly, Forsyth pushed crumbled-up bits of pastry around his plate with his fork.
Chris stared out the window at the darkness outside, evidently lost in thought. After a while, he said, “We were told that if we did not capture her within the designated time limit, the Obstinate Arrows would be disbanded.”
The prince nodded slowly. The General had dismissed Baroness Bairach from her position as leader of the Special Forces, just because she had opposed his warmongering. Chris seemed to think that Major Sturm, their new leader, was a decent person, but still… he couldn’t possibly feel very secure about his position after his own mother had been discharged.
“No doubt Peters-Stahl is eager to eliminate all groups with the potential to stand against him,” said Forsyth. “Still, it isn’t fair. You don’t feel right about harming her… He shouldn’t have asked you to choose between—“
“It doesn’t matter,” Chris interrupted. “We did as we were told to do; that’s all.”
Forsyth got up from the table and went to Chris, stopping awkwardly a pace away. “I wish,” he said, “that my father would allow me to see her.”
Chris studied his face. “Prince Forsyth, you must know that it’s not your father who is making those decisions.”
“But…” He sighed, gazing over Chris’s head to the gloom of the mountain forests outside. “I want to do what’s right. I mean… I want what’s right to be done.”
Chris grimaced. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Nothing makes sense.”
“Yeah.”
For what seemed like a long time, they stood, not looking at each other.
“Listen, Prince Forsyth… I have to go. We have… things to do.”
“Like what?”
“I can’t really tell you.”
“Oh… okay.”
“Promise me you won’t try to get into the dungeon.” Chris had a very serious expression. “General Peters-Stahl will not hesitate to kill you if he gets the smallest excuse.”
Forsyth made a face. “I promise.”
“Good.” Chris had one hand on the doorknob when he hesitated. Turning, he said, “Queen Elmyr… has also been arrested.”
And then he was gone.
There were only three days until his birthday. As time went on, he had been left alone more and more often, and there was nothing to do but stare out the window at the sunny city—so it had been a surprise when there was a knock at his door.
Now, he stood with his back to his room and to its other inhabitants.
“Highness. By order of His Majesty, I am to take you to the holy city.” Cardinal Hogue spoke nervously. Four of his inferiors flanked him, almost as if they were lending him strength. It was so like the Cardinal, thought Forsyth, to be afraid to confront one helpless boy without a posse of sycophants.
Keeping his voice light, he asked, “Father’s orders?”
“The capital is in turmoil, so he believes this to be in Your Highness’s best interest.”
As if the king were capable of thinking so rationally.
The prince turned halfway around. “I’ve heard that the Scrapped Princess has been captured,” he said carefully, staring at the carpet. “Would it be possible for me to at least see my sister before I leave?”
He would have asked to see his mother, too, but he wasn’t supposed to know she was imprisoned.
“As to that…”
Of course. It was impossible.
Forsyth turned to face the old man, smiling regretfully. “I suppose it’s too much to ask,” he said.
He hadn’t expected to be allowed to see her. He never got what he wanted, but he couldn’t allow himself to feel bitter about it. It would be selfish of him to cause trouble for anyone.
Cardinal Hogue smiled with relief. Forsyth couldn’t help feeling sorry for him—the man really hadbeen terrified that Forsyth would insist. “When do we leave?” he asked cheerfully.
The Cardinal shifted his weight anxiously. “Well… you see… I will not be travelling with you, Your Highness.”
Forsyth sent a prayer of thanks to heaven and immediately felt guilty for it.
“In fact,” continued the Cardinal, “I will be leaving within the hour. Your Highness will leave this afternoon, accompanied by my aide, Berkens.”
One of the priests bowed. Forsyth looked him over; he was a tall, dark-haired man, not too old, probably not very high-ranking. It was quite like the Cardinal to make a quick escape and leave the more unpleasant duties to his underlings.
The prince bowed. “I am pleased to meet you.”
“You will depart at three o’ clock,” said the Cardinal. “By order of the King, you are not to leave your room before then.”
Forsyth nodded. “I understand.”