Freed from Gravity (Bound and Freed #2)

Chapter 13

Thirteen

SENAN

FIVE YEARS AGO

I used to wonder why they never put pillows on the chairs in the throne room. The king gets one to cushion his royal arse but the rest of us are left with awkward wooden slabs. Now I realize they’re meant to keep us from falling asleep. Because if I was even the slightest bit comfortable, I’d be snoring away until this meeting ends.

Thank the gods for notebooks and ink pens. I was meant to be taking notes in mine but an hour in, my eyes started going crossed and I abandoned that in the pursuit of fine art. Since then, I’ve drawn a fawn with tiny white spots, a badger with black eyes, and an entire family of mice.

It’s some of my best work, if you ask me.

I’m not the only one distracted.

Philip sits beside me, rag in hand, polishing the barrel of a short pistol. A gift from his father’s brother’s cousin or some shite like that. I stopped listening the moment he pulled the thing from its holster.

Then there’s Rhainn. He hasn’t stopped paying attention once. I’m not even sure he’s blinking. By the time this meeting finishes, the notebook in his lap is going to be filled to the brim—and not with artwork like mine.

Philip’s father Counsellor Windell and the rest of the king’s jowly council have been yammering on and on about policy and foreign relations and some other topics that bring tears of boredom to my eyes.

Then there’s Boris with his hideous crown sitting on his cushy throne, listening intently. He wanted Rhainn and me to wear our crowns, but I outright refused. I’d rather fade into the background than be stared at for wearing a magpie’s dream on my head.

I wonder what Allette is doing. Gods, do I wish it was Tuesday. Instead, I have to wait another five days to see her again. Maybe I could find a way to sneak out early during tomorrow’s meeting. Or skip it altogether.

I see a terrible stomachache in my future.

Normally, they’d be having this meeting in the privy chamber, but since we have representatives from the other kingdoms in attendance, there wasn’t room. Thank goodness. The privy council chairs are even more uncomfortable than these.

The doors fly open, and a man stumbles in, not in fine robes and garments like everyone else in attendance, but in a pair of faded trousers held up by bright red braces. The shirt beneath is yellowed from age—or sweat, I suppose. Either way, between his clothes and the unhealthy gray cast to his skin, he stands out like a rabbit in a den of bears.

The whole place goes silent—which is no mean feat considering there are fifty-six men in here. I know because I counted them twice.

Two guards burst in behind him, their wings protruding from the backs of their silver leathers. The man doesn’t fight when they take him by the arms and start to pull him out of the room.

Boris stands from his cushy throne, and even though I cannot see his face from behind, the anger in his voice is unmistakable. “What is the meaning of this?”

The turquoise-haired guard bows his head. “Apologies, Sire. It would seem this intruder managed to sneak in with tonight’s performers.”

“That is unacceptable, captain. Let’s hope he isn’t here to murder me.”

The man’s limp silver hair barely moves when he shakes his head. “N-no, Your Majesty. I would never dream of it. I only came to ask for your help.”

The counsellors and foreign dignitaries exchange wide-eyed glances, murmuring amongst themselves.

Boris waves his hand, and the guards let go of the man. The Tuath takes a moment to right himself, smoothing his stained hands down his trousers. Why are his fingers so black?

“Help with what?” Boris asks.

The red-haired guard shoves the man between the shoulder blades. “Out with it.”

The Tuath’s hands shake when he begins to speak. “The foreman just announced they were closing the northern mines. I’ve worked there for fifty years.”

Fifty years in one place? Sounds awful. Doesn’t the man get bored? I’ve only been in here for a handful of hours and already I’m dying to escape.

“Then you must be thrilled to retire,” Boris says.

“I’m afraid I cannot afford to retire, Your Highness. My wife Sarah has an awful case of gout, and the tonic to relieve her pain costs almost an entire week’s wages. I was hoping to appeal to your giving nature for a few coins to get us through until I can find work.”

Counsellor Windell pushes to his feet and leans close to whisper in Boris’s ear.

Boris nods and then asks the man where he lives.

How is that relevant? The man is worried about his poor wife.

Redhead jabs him in the back again. “Your king asked you a question, Tuath.”

“I live in the burrows, sire.”

The room erupts in curses, and those closest to the Tuath push from their chairs, stumbling back as if the man is on fire and dragging their collars over their noses.

Windell pulls his robes over the lower half of his face as well, his enraged voice muffled by the silken material. “You live in the breeding ground of wasting sickness and you dare to bring your filth near your sovereign? Remove him at once!”

The guards drag the man out of the room, but he doesn’t fight. He hangs his head, his hair falling like a curtain, hiding the shame on his face.

The meeting is adjourned so that the servants can clean every inch of the throne room in case the man was infected by the wasting. He appeared healthy to me—as healthy as any of the Tuath look with their gray skin and bulging eyes, anyway.

I abandon my notebook beneath my chair. My body sighs the moment my arse leaves the seat.

“That was exciting, wasn’t it?” Philip says, tucking his pistol back in its holster as he trails after me into the hallway.

While I appreciate an interruption to the monotony, I feel sorry for the man. How desperate must he be to climb all those steps and infiltrate a meeting full of self-righteous Scathians simply to ask for assistance? “How sad that you find one man’s tragedy exciting.”

Look at all of us, rushing for the dining room where there will be more than enough food laid out for everyone in attendance while that man is probably trudging back down the thousand steps, empty-handed and without hope.

When I see my brother’s crown glistening up ahead, I push through the others to where he and Counsellor Windell speak in low tones next to a bust of our late father. “Boris? Might I have a word with you?” Windell shoots me a glower. “In private,” I add.

The last thing I need is that oaf’s opinion on anything.

With a nod, Boris says, “I’ll see you inside, Windell.” He follows me to one of the many alcoves lining the wall and folds his arms over his chest. The stance used to be imposing back when he was a head taller than me. Now that we’re eye-to-eye, it doesn’t have nearly the same effect.

“What is it now, Senan?”

He doesn’t need to be so snippy. I only have a question. If anything, he should be happy that I’m taking an interest in something that happened during the meeting. “If that man hadn’t been from the burrows, what would you have done?”

Boris stands taller, his crown glinting in the sunlight streaming through the windows. “Where he’s from doesn’t matter. He gained access to the castle illegally?—”

“To help his wife.” I feel like that’s a very important piece of information.

“His reasons don’t matter. He broke the law. We were lucky he wasn’t an assassin sent to murder us all.”

Please, he was hardly going to murder all of us. “What if he had arrived on the fifteenth instead?” That’s the one day of the month when Boris meets with the Tuath in the throne room.

“Then we would have listened to his woes and sent him on his way.”

“How would that help his wife?” Anyone can listen. The man needed help .

“You are too soft,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand down his jaw. “Beggars are like rats: Feed one and you end up with an infestation. If they thought we’d be willing to empty our coffers for them, there would be a line of beggars from here to Nimbiss. Now, if that’s all, I’d like to have my dinner before getting back to work.”

It’s not all—not by a long shot. But when Boris is hungry, his mood tends to sour more than usual. Still, I must know, “What will happen to the man?”

“If you bothered to study the law, you’d already know.” Boris lifts his eyes to the heavens, a heavy sigh passing through his lips. “He’ll either be fined or incarcerated. That’s for the courts to decide.” My brother starts for the dining room without a backward glance, leaving me to my chaotic thoughts.

Yes, the man broke the law, but only because he needed help for his sick wife. How will he pay a fine if he cannot even afford healing tonic? If he’s thrown into the pit, how will his wife manage without him?

Is there any way to keep either scenario from happening?

There’s only one way to find out.

Jogging toward the nearest balcony, I call on my wings and leap over the ledge, freefalling toward the downy clouds, plummeting beneath the cottony layer to the grayness that lurks below. By the time I land at the courthouse, I’m no closer to a plan. All I know is that I need to do something .

The guards from the castle wait in line with the man, his wrists clapped in manacles and head hanging in defeat.

“You there!” I really ought to learn some of these guards’ names. “Guards!”

Both Scathians in silver twist toward me, their scowls almost as menacing as the swords at their hips. When they see me, their scowls vanish, replaced by wide-eyed confusion.

The one with the penchant for shoving bows his head. “Prince Senan, you shouldn’t be here. If people recognize you, there could be a mob.”

I’m willing to risk it. “I’ll leave as soon as you let my friend go.”

“Friend?” the other guard scoffs, glancing at the man in their custody. “You mean this Tuath beggar?”

“That is exactly who I mean.”

The Tuath’s mouth drops open. Does he not realize he should be playing along?

“But he’s to be put on trial,” the guards say in unison, as if they’ve been rehearsing together.

“And I’m saying he’s to be set free. Consider it a royal pardon.”

“Can princes pardon criminals?” the one with red hair says under his breath, as if I’m not standing right here and can’t hear every word. The other guard shrugs.

Enough is enough. It’s cold and damp down here, and I left without my cloak. The sooner I get back to the sun, the better. “Do you know what princes can do? We can have insubordinate guards thrown into the pit with no questions asked. I know that for a fact, because I’ve done it to three guards before.”

Thankfully, my threat seems to do the trick.

One fumbles for the key, dropping it into a grimy brown puddle. The other picks it up, unlocking the manacles and freeing the man.

“Thank you both. You are dismissed.”

The turquoise-haired guard reaches for me. “But we can’t leave you on your own?—”

The audacity of this one. I slap his hand away. “I said, you are dismissed.”

Although they take off, they don’t return to the castle, choosing instead to circle overhead. The people in the line have all turned around to stare at us.

This man has already suffered enough humiliation. He doesn’t need these looky-loos gossiping about his plight as well.

I gently take the man by the elbow, leading him to an alley. “I want you to have this.” I unhook my purse and hold it out to him.

In hindsight, I probably should have added more coins. How much do miners make, anyway? Hopefully this will be enough to cover his expenses and his wife’s medical costs while he searches for work.

The man throws up his hands, slinking deeper into the shadows. “I couldn’t possibly.”

“Is what you said in the throne room true? Is your wife unwell?”

“Well, yes, but?—”

“Then I demand you take the coins.”

His hand trembles as he accepts the purse with a quiet word of thanks. “Why would you do this for me?”

Maybe Boris is right. Maybe I am too soft. Either way, I’m here and I refuse to stand by and do nothing when someone is hurting. I offer the man a smile and a clap on the shoulder. “Because anyone who climbs all those stairs up to the castle deserves a reward.”