Chapter Five
GENTLE FLURRIES OF snow blew outside Clament’s window, the first signs of the coming winter as the chill of late autumn truly settled across the land. The fat white flakes drifted downward, where they immediately melted on the flagstones far, far below. The season was far too young for any snow to accumulate just yet. The royal wing of the palace comprised the top two floors and tower on the western section of the castle, and Clament had been given one of the smaller, one-story rooms. He let the curtain fall and turned around to survey his space for the thousandth time, still in disbelief that Fenwick had allowed him access to so much luxury.
The chair Clament was sitting in was part of a small breakfast nook tucked under the window, out of which he had just been looking. Gleaming, golden wood floors spanned the space covered with thick area rugs of geometric shapes in dark gray and green. Two cream-colored couches with green scatter cushions surrounded an oval coffee table stained dark brown. By the door, a matching entry table with places for correspondence, keys, and other miscellany, and a matching sideboard, with crystal cut decanters full of brandy and gin, spanned the back wall. To the left was the door to the office, which had another green and gray rug and a desk in that same dark wood that dominated the room. Clament had no use for an office, so it was empty aside from a bookcase near the door, where he kept some of the books the castle library had loaned him.
The bedroom was equally well-appointed, a massive four-poster bed with green curtains and a dark gray blanket over a mattress so sinfully soft most mornings Clament had to convince himself to get out of bed. Dark-stained nightstands framed either side of the bed, and a dressing table with a mirror filled the wall opposite the windows. Another door led to a closet the same size as the office, the shelves almost completely empty aside from his handful of borrowed outfits. Through the closet was an actual bathing room with running water. A tub and shower, a flush toilet, and a sink in beautiful, gray-threaded marble. Clament had heard of the new magic and technology that allowed for running water, but had never seen it used for such luxury. The castle where he grew up in Namin certainly couldn’t boast such extravagance.
A gentle knock sounded on the door. Clament looked away from the snow toward the sound and called out, “Enter.”
The door opened and the usual servant who tended Clament’s room stepped inside. “Prince Braxton asked if he might come by to speak with you, Your Highness.”
Finally. Clament controlled his face so he didn’t show his worry, but the churning in his stomach and his heart rate increased.
“Whenever he’s available, please tell him he’s welcome,” Clament responded, glad his voice didn’t crack or sound strangled.
The servant bowed and left, closing the door behind him. Clament wanted to get up and pace; his legs ached to move to relieve some of the tension, but his legs also still ached because of the abuse he had inflicted on them six days ago, running from his attackers. Also, Alina would subject him to more of her nasty concoctions if she found out he was moving around too much. Clament compromised by only moving over to one of the couches where his patchwork quilt was neatly folded.
Another minute passed and Clament started to worry Braxton wouldn’t have time to come by until later, but then another knock sounded, this one firmer and louder than the previous.
“Come in!”
Braxton walked inside, closed the door behind him, and then awkwardly stood in the entryway staring at Clament. Clament wanted to believe he saw genuine relief in Braxton’s lovely hazel eyes as he looked at Clament for a long moment.
Clament wanted to be able to tell Braxton everything, exactly like he had said to Fenwick. But while his statement to Fenwick was about who had tried to kill him and why, right now the small, secret part of Clament really wanted to explore the way his insides were melting and squirming under Braxton’s regard. Beautiful eyes, set in a face that Clament had only allowed himself to dream about when he was alone, looked at him as if he mattered—Clament, the useless, throwaway prince of a country that didn’t want him. That seemed too far-fetched, though, and distracting himself by looking at those beautiful eyes and dreaming about such nonsense wasn’t helpful. Clament needed to focus on reality, not speculation. He firmly shoved away his errant thoughts, turning his attention back to the fact that Braxton had safely returned from his trip.
Thankfully, aside from looking tired, Braxton didn’t appear to have suffered on his journey. His hair was still damp from a recent shower, the strands curling over his forehead and around his ears in a way Clament struggled not to call cute. Add a few droplets of water sliding down Braxton’s suntanned skin, and Braxton would easily slide from cute to sexy. With a flash of panic that finally quelled the overexcited beating of his heart, Clament clamped down on that thought too. He shouldn’t be thinking like this about an enemy prince. It was past time for Clament to get himself under control. Thankfully, Braxton spoke again, giving Clament a needed distraction.
“Alina said you were unharmed, and I’m glad to see she told the truth,” Braxton said.
Clament belatedly waved to the opposite couch, realizing Braxton was waiting for an invitation to come closer. He ignored the stab of—he wouldn’t call it jealousy —but some sort of dark, unpleasant jolt went through him, hearing Braxton had gone to speak with Alina first.
“I heard you had been attacked and had a moment of panic when I reached your room in the healers’ ward and you weren’t there. Alina told me Fen had you moved somewhere safer. I…um… When you were well enough to leave the ward, I was planning on moving you here anyway, so don’t think you’re taking someone’s room or something. This was already prepared for you beforehand.”
Clament hadn’t considered that he might have displaced someone from their home, but it was nice to know all the same, particularly with the addition of the blooming warmth that filled him at the thought of Braxton thinking of him and planning ahead for his comfort. His earlier feelings… Well, he still refused to call what he felt then jealousy, but at some point he was going to have to sit down and figure out what to do about his growing, swirling emotions when it came to Braxton. He had to get rid of them…or embrace them. The latter was impossible, so he had to do the former even though he was clearly failing miserably.
Either way, that warmth comforted him more than he wanted to admit.
“The room is wonderful,” Clament replied and then shut his mouth hard when that came out a touch too wishful. He had resolved to tell Braxton about Namin’s scheme; Braxton didn’t need to know about how difficult life had been for Clament in Namin though. Letting Braxton know this was the nicest room he had ever lived in would only distract them from the real reason Braxton was here.
They lapsed into awkward silence for a few long moments before Braxton let out a heavy sigh.
“Right. Namin is building a fortress in the Spikehorn Mountains, somewhere south along the border with Toval,” Braxton said, his tone stern, but his eyes soft and worried. “Their intent is to have better access to the border, troops stationed closer, supply lines closer, everything an invading army needs. And what Namin needs is food.”
Clament let out his own sigh, dug deep to firm his resolve, clenched his fists, and jumped off the cliff’s edge Braxton had dragged him to. “Not just food,” Clament replied. “The military has been promised a grand victory over Toval for generations. Instead, the generals are plump and spoiled off the king’s bribes, and the regular enlisted are starving, the same as the peasants. More sergeants and lieutenants have had mysterious accidents than the generals can conceal, and soon the coup will come from those trained to fight. There are still some lords who haven’t fallen into the kleptocracy, and they’ll side with the military. Plus, the peasants will rise up and provide the numbers the coup needs to succeed. However, for all of that to occur, the military has to slip their chains first. The king knows all of that. Rather than allowing the military to plot in the capital, he sent them to the mountains where they would be distracted by building a ridiculous fortress Namin can’t afford to build, all so they can have their promised victory over Toval rather than a coup against the Namin throne.”
Clament ran his hands through his hair as he mentally reminded himself why he had finally chosen to break his ties with Namin. Three red triangles, tattooed discretely on the people sent to kill him. He had been betrayed first, in the worst way. He opened his mouth and the rest fell out in a rush of words, too fast to stop or temporize.
“The north was a distraction. The mercenaries were meant to pull your attention and your forces there, so Namin could begin making forays into the south. Small victories and some food plundered before winter would tide the military over until the spring when the fortress would be completed, and Namin could invade at full force while Toval was still distracted rebuilding the north. I…erm…I did tell them the distraction plan would fail, but I suspect that my being killed by Toval was their contingency plan.”
Braxton shook his head in disgust, and he didn’t seem surprised by anything Clament was telling him. Well, he already knew about the secret fortress, so perhaps he had also known or guessed why Clament was leading that ridiculous band of mercenaries in a plot doomed to failure.
“Thank you for telling me,” Braxton finally said, and his smile was small and gentle, with absolutely no sign of pity or disgust. “If you don’t mind my asking, what made you change your mind? You were adamant before about not breaking your silence, to the point…” he trailed off, grimacing, but Clament could interpret. To the point that two guards and a so-called healer had taken it upon themselves to torture him to try convincing him to talk, but saying that out loud would be crass.
Rather than dwelling on what had gotten him to the healing ward in the first place, not daring to open the box where those memories were so carefully tucked away, Clament instead chose to focus on the event that had gotten him sent to the royal wing. He pulled over a small folder he had been doodling in the last time he had sat on the couch and flipped it open to reveal the top piece of paper covered in triangles.
“Terrorize, torture, and terminate. The three foundational principles of the Triumviré, an ancient term that roughly translates to three leaders. Children are chosen at birth to join them and trained from infancy in how to kill. Their only loyalty is to the king of Namin, who uses them as a threat against anyone who might think about unseating him. All the people who die mysteriously—heart attacks in their sleep, falling off a parapet in the night—the Triumviré are the culprits. By sending them to kill me, the king of Namin declared he sees me not just a traitor to Namin, but as a threat to his continued existence.”
“Does he care at all that you’re his son?” Braxton asked, his tone gentle as if he wasn’t certain he ought to be asking that question. He was right, but the wound that question prodded was an old and long-scabbed-over one.
“Did whoever told you about the fortress also tell you about my name?” Clament didn’t want to bring up the source of all his pain, or to explain his sordid past, but Braxton needed to understand the level of cruelty the king of Namin was capable of before he went up against him.
“They mentioned your name was an explanation but told me it was your story to tell and didn’t elaborate.” Braxton’s eyes were soft as he looked at Clament, as if he was actually concerned he might be causing pain by bringing up the topic, and Clament had to look away before sorrow turned into pity.
“The king raped my mother, a servant whose job was to tend fires in the royal apartment. These days he’s more careful, but back then he didn’t bother with contraception. When I was born, my mother walked into the court at full session and declared what he had done to her, and I was the proof. He was forced to adopt me, and he named me Clament, with an A rather than the usual spelling with an E, because he couldn’t name me Lament outright. As the unwanted, bastard child, I am expendable—a tool to be used until I die, and even then, he planned to use my death as a rallying cry. Apparently, he decided to ensure I died here in Toval.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, how did the court prove you were the king’s son? A newborn babe would hardly have any distinguishable features.”
Clament laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “The royal power of Toval allows you to summon weapons from thin air. The royal power of Namin allows us to see danger before it arrives. They say the original kings and queens could see the past, present, and future, but these days we only see the present with premonitions when danger comes nearby.”
“That’s how you knew the attackers were on the way in the healing ward,” Braxton said, nodding to himself as if that explained a lot.
“Yeah. I felt it when they made the decision to attack. The power couldn’t activate when I was with the mercenaries because while every single one of them would have been very happy to take my head, none of them had decided to actually do it. I didn’t realize how bad the situation had gotten until Prince Fenwick walked into the tent. Anyway, as children, the royal power leaks out until we learn to control it. Even as an infant, there was no concealing I had the power of kings.”
Clament let out a breath and released his magic, a golden glow suffusing his vision. His third eye opened, but he didn’t push the magic outward. He let Braxton see for a few moments, the way his pupils vanished beneath the golden sheen and the gold eye that opened between his brows, before clamping back down on the power to shut it off again. His vision returned to normal, and he looked over at Braxton, who simply smiled cheekily.
“I bet not all your siblings have that power, or if they do, it’s not as strong.”
That surprised a laugh out of Clament. “Yes. Only Cadell has the same amount of power as me, which is why he’s the heir. If he could have, he would have sent the Triumviré after me years ago since I’m the biggest threat to his succession.” Clament didn’t bother telling Braxton about the years of torment that comprised his childhood, but he had a feeling Braxton guessed. “I didn’t want to prove them right,” Clament admitted. “That’s why I didn’t want to tell you anything. Until my father decided I was worth more to him dead than alive, that is.”
Braxton shook his head. “Every time I hear something about your family I think surely they can’t do anything worse. And then I learn something new and am disgusted all over again. They never bothered to get to know you—the real you. Did they?” He sighed and they lapsed into silence. Clament closed the folder, hiding away those damned triangles again and leaned deep into the couch cushions, resting his head against his quilt.
“If your family doesn’t want you anymore,” Braxton began, hesitant as if he wasn’t certain he ought to be saying anything. “You could renounce them yourself.”
Clament’s mouth dropped open, and he stared at Braxton. “How would I do that?” he asked, except now that the thought was in his head, churning and bubbling and welcoming in a way not much else in his life had ever been, a sort of lightness came over him. He could renounce his father, who saw him only as a pawn, and his brother, who saw him only as someone to torment. He could toss off the false trappings of a prince and become someone completely new.
“Change your name to something that makes you happy rather than something that gives them evil feelings of glee. Your name should be one you can be proud of, reflects how good a person you are, and is used by people who care about you.” Braxton shrugged. “That’s where I’d start, but it’s entirely your decision.” He smiled and stood. “I’ll leave you to think it over.”
Braxton left, shutting the door gently behind him as if he knew those simple words had eased away all the complexities of what Clament had always seen as such a thorny issue. Clament curled up on the couch, pulled his quilt over him, and thought about those words for a long time, until Alina came by with his afternoon meds.