His King Enslaved

Arrival

SINDAR SWORE HE’D never return home, but Ser Bera could throw a blade as surely as he could carry one, so there was no point in arguing or trying to run.

There was no love lost between the exiled prince and his bodyguard-turned-jailer, and Bera would probably appreciate an opportunity to stab him and drag him to the palace.

Bribes were also out of the question. Firstly, Sindar had already spent his meager royal allowance on coca and his beloved girls. Secondly, Bera would most definitely stab him, and might cut off a few fingers for good measure.

Sindar resigned himself to his impending death quickly.

He’d lived his life in exile reasonably deliciously, dusting himself as generously with coca as his meager funds allowed, because going to bed each night wondering if he’d finally be dispatched in his sleep would drive any reasonable man mad.

He had no regrets on that score. By day, he enjoyed a simple life, and by night, he enjoyed simple vices.

He’d made the best of it. The only wrinkle was the few seconds after waking each morning, when he briefly wondered why Xandar hadn’t quietly finished him off yet.

The summons to the palace was the long-sought answer to that question. His brother was finally ready to deal with him, and he intended to do it in person. If Sindar cooperated, he could at least enjoy one last ride before his head rolled across the palace floor.

He took a liberal sniff from his coca box and helped himself to a gorgeous dapple gray from the governor’s stables, and they were off.

They traveled swiftly, changing horses three times along the way.

At each stop, mounts were prepared and waiting for them.

The king’s adviser knew Sindar would prefer traveling on horseback and made preparations. As usual, Patel thought of everything.

The thought of seeing Patel after all these years, only so his mentor could watch him die for real this time, made Sindar’s heart crawl miserably in its cage of bone. He blotted the thought out entirely and focused on the thrum of hoofs and the powerful beast beneath him.

The rain was relentless, but a few more sniffs of coca kept Sindar going. He arrived at the palace mud-spattered, well-dusted, and ready. His brother favored the guillotine, and there were certainly worse ways to go.

Sindar dismounted his frothing horse, and his boots sank into the rich, dark chernozem Kysan was known for.

He took a moment to savor it. Once again a wayward prince stood among the royal stable hands, sore and stinking from his long ride, high as a kite, with the celebrated “gold of Kysan” on his boots.

It was like old times, with one exception: there was no bowing and scraping.

No servants stood at his elbow awaiting command.

It had been so long since Sindar graced the royal stables that his people did not even recognize him.

Bera was uncharacteristically uneasy as he dismounted and passed the reins. He ought to be relieved. Sindar was no longer a yoke about his neck. He’d be free to do… well, whatever the hell it was huge, knuckle-dragging guards did.

Bera bodily herded Sindar toward the servant’s entrance, but Sindar was having none of it.

This was his last chance to be a royal ass, and he was committed.

He broke free of his warden and strode into the palace through the south arch, flinging filthy water off his cloak as he purposefully tracked mud up the richly embroidered carpets.

Bera followed, shaking his head. He could not be bothered to wrangle his cumbersome charge anymore, and who could blame him?

“Brother!” Sindar called, spinning slowly around. “I’m here! You can behead me now!”

The royal family’s chief adviser, Patel, scuttled to meet him, stopping Sindar’s muddy progress before he could ruin anything else.

What a sight for sore eyes he was! Sindar’s mentor was very much as he left him, perfectly pressed and trimmed, not a thread out of place on his three-foot frame.

Sindar’s heart constricted in a rare moment of contriteness.

Patel had saved his life all those years ago only to watch Sindar get dragged back here for execution, and instead of meeting his fate with dignity and gravitas, Sindar was parading about like a muddy ass.

Patel didn’t look sad, however. He looked worried and more than a bit peeved. “Hush!” he hissed. “Quiet down! No one is beheading anyone!”

Sindar was so resigned to his fate that the only emotion he could summon was annoyance. “Well, why the devils not?” Sindar demanded. “What did he drag me back here for if he’s not going to lop something off?”

“Did anyone see you?” Patel asked Bera.

“Only the stable hands, my Lord. They did not recognize him.”

“Good. You are relieved of guardianship, Ser Bera. Report to the captain for your next assignment. Speak to no one of this.”

Bera’s relief was palpable. “Thank you, my Lord.”

“Oh, come on,” Sindar said. “It wasn’t that bad. We had a few good times, didn’t we, old boy?”

Bera’s final parting glare was answer enough.

“Quickly, now,” Patel said, motioning impatiently, and Sindar followed him into the labyrinthine servant halls behind the main atrium, easily matching the little man’s stride.

“You were supposed to come in through the servant’s entrance, not make a mess in the front hall like a spoiled little piglet,” Patel said irritably.

“No one can know you’re here. Thank the Goddess you’re still a slob.

That terrible beard renders you virtually unrecognizable. ”

“If word got out Xandar the Ruthless spared his own brother, he’d be ruined, I suppose,” Sindar said with a laugh. “He has a reputation to maintain.”

Patel shook his head and hurried Sindar into his private office.

This was the place where the king’s very best adviser got up to his very best mischief.

It was a cozy nook, stuffed to the brim with books and gifts from dignitaries.

Many political intrigues were hatched within these cluttered walls, but Sindar had only been privy to a handful of them.

Sindar slumped into the chair in front of the dwarf’s low desk.

In his younger, more brazen days, he would have put his feet on the desk as if it were a footstool, just to piss his mentor off.

But with age came wisdom, of a sort. Patel was likely his only ally.

Certainly, he was the only reason Sindar wasn’t dead.

“Ugh, that beard is horrific,” Patel said, squinting at him. “How do you live like this?”

“I’ll have you know the girls like it just fine.

” Even if they hadn’t, Sindar wanted to put as much distance between himself and the king’s royal visage as possible.

A full beard and mustache aged him up nicely, and most people didn’t look at him twice.

Sindar removed the small box of coca from his jacket.

“You still take that?” Patel asked, even more peeved now. “Will you never learn?”

Sindar ignored him and took a sniff. “I’ve earned it. We rode nonstop. I can’t believe Xandar—excuse me, his royal majesty—dragged me all the way back here and didn’t even have the courtesy to yell at me face to face. What the devil does he want, if he’s not going to kill me?”

“I couldn’t write you and risk word getting out.” Patel sat heavily, the weight of the kingdom on his shoulders. “Sindar, there’s been an accident. A stroke, we think. Your brother is in a terrible state.”

Sindar wiped his nose, his eyes narrowing. “How terrible?”

“He’s in a coma. Alive, but completely non-responsive.”

“For how long?”

“Three days. According to the doctor, he may not come out of it.”

They’d sent for him almost immediately. Sindar let that sink in. “And you’ve called me here to announce to the kingdoms I am in fact alive, and as second in line to the Kysanian throne, I will assume control as regent. Right?”

Patel’s look was grim.

“Right?” Sindar asked, his voice rising.

“Your Highness, no one can know the king is incapacitated. We are in a perilous position. Between the insurrection at the border and the looming war…”

“Patty, you can’t be serious.”

“I need you to step up. If not for your country, for me.”

“As regent, gladly!”

“No. That won’t work. A transfer of power will weaken our position. I need you to pose as Xandar until he recovers.”

Years in exile gave Sindar plenty of time to think about how it all went wrong, and it started with his face.

Growing up, the servants constantly mixed up the mischievous twin princes.

When they were young, their similarities made for a fun game.

Sindar loved sharing a face with his best friend and using it to wreak havoc amongst the royal staff.

But as they grew older, Xandar recognized their uncanny likeness for what it truly was: an existential threat.

By the time they were teenagers, being identical twins wasn’t fun anymore.

Sindar stared at his mentor. Patel knew what he’d gone through better than anyone. “The fuck I will,” he said evenly.

“You can, and you will, or people will die, and I might be one of them.”

Silence settled over the room. Patel’s aged eyes were searching.

“I only ask that you pretend to be your brother until he recovers. There is one duty, in particular, that only a royal can undertake. I will manage the kingdom and make sure everything goes smoothly until then. Xandar will resume the throne when he recovers, and no one will be the wiser.”

“What if he doesn’t recover?”

“It will never be safe for Sindar of Kysan to take the throne. If he does, enemies within and without will conspire to destroy him, and I fear they will succeed. The Pavarians will march, and many Kysanians will die defending our fields. King Xandar’s reputation is the only thing keeping our alliances strong and the Archon at bay.

” Patel rose and circled the desk, his expression grave.

“My boy, I would not ask you if there were another way.”