Chapter 5 #2
I swallow hard. My fingers tense around the knife, bringing it into the light.
The only friends I’ve had were also my brother’s, and since leaving for war, they followed him like dogs. I also don’t remember having a friend with hair like starlight.
He sighs again, then stands to scratch his head.
I follow him carefully with the tip of the blade.
He slides his dagger easily into a leather sheath at his waist. “Allow me to refresh your memory, Your Highness.” His voice doesn’t sound condescending, but the lack of decorum in his sudden intrusion along with his poor display of reverence doesn’t help his overall impression.
He turns on me, crossing thick arms over his chest as he huffs a haughty introduction.
“Ronan Perri, heir to the Perri Duchy and Prince Xavelor’s right-hand military aide.
And also”—his expression hardens—“the person who witnessed your brother die in battle.”
I blink at him, processing his lackluster confession.
The person who witnessed his death? Were all the other soldiers dead then?
He watches me closely, his fingers steady on his blade.
Perri. I’d just seen the duke at the meeting with my father, and he had mentioned his son returning from battle.
Given their reputation, members of the duchy are faultlessly loyal to the throne.
Though their nobility is nothing new, their fealty remains with the king, who keeps their political power in check.
I did indeed have a friend, Ronan Perri of the Perri Duchy, as a young boy. He’d been mine and Xavelor’s playmate. But that boy had distinct brown hair, a shade lighter than my own.
He seems to realize my scrutiny, because his mouth quirks to one side in amusement. “I can tell you’re wary of me. It’s probably the hair. I served your brother for thirteen years, so I didn’t have time to dye it back to brown.”
“It’s naturally silver?”
He rasps a laugh. “Yes. My father’s hair is silver as well, but it’s easier to mask it with age. From birth, it’s been like this. But I assure you, I am your brother’s age. Do you have any other questions about my appearance? Or any other curiosities we should get out of the way?”
I lean against the headboard, confused. He acts as though I’m the one who broke into his chambers.
Tucking the knife into its spot beneath my pillow, I clear my throat. “Tell me, Ronan. What business do you have in my private chambers, at the break of day, the morning after my dear brother’s funeral?”
He raises an eyebrow at me, and for a flickering moment, I see his father, Viktor Perri, the Duke of House Perri. He’d confirmed his identity before, but the bitterness in his expression when he ogles me is so like Viktor, it nearly makes me shudder.
“Where are my manners?” he says, crossing one leg over the other. “I’m here because I have a message from your brother. His last words.”
When his gaze flashes to me, it contains a formality I hadn’t known him capable of.
Then again, the last time I’d interacted with him was when we were only boys, skin flush from adventure and play.
He’d been soft-spoken then, and much more shy than I was.
The years from then to now… What happened to change him so drastically?
With a tick in his jaw, he collapses to a knee and brings a fist to his chest—Arioch’s official gesture of loyalty.
I feel myself straighten on instinct. “Xavelor Faundor, Crown Prince of Arioch, wished for me to serve him well, so no harm could come his way. Alas, my failure is tenfold.” His head lifts momentarily, and his humor disappears.
“Ramiel Faundor, second prince of Arioch, I hereby acknowledge your imminent tenure and request your approval to serve by your side as your aide. It was your brother’s dying wish, and one I plan to uphold until the day I perish. ”
I suck in a quick breath and shift my hands over my bedcovers. He doesn’t move from his position, hand still pressed to his heart.
You will be joined by a companion , the witch had said. But is it Ronan whom she’d meant? It seems too convenient for him to appear so soon after her prediction.
I take a moment longer to observe him. He remains as though made of stone, waiting for my acceptance or dismissal with an impressive impassiveness.
Bernadette would have scolded me for not immediately organizing the information I know so far about my brother’s death, for not doubting the man kneeling before me more before coming to conclusions.
And yet, nothing negative surfaces when I look at his pale complexion, nor when I study the hand balancing the rest of his body as his arms straighten over the ground.
Nothing at all that would make me question his sincerity.
Curse that old witch for planting this idea in my head.
“Rise,” I say, turning my covers over. I clear my throat when his eyes briefly flick to me. “It would be improper to continue this conversation whilst wearing only undergarments. Allow me to dress myself first.”
He stands, but his feet remain planted. His eyes stare forward as I walk past him to my wall-length wardrobe.
I open a middle door and finger through tunics of differing shades of purple, red, and black—Arioch’s national colors.
They’re only for show, of course. To wear them would be to proclaim to the kingdom that I am worthy of them, which I know I am not supposed to be.
So, instead, I choose a cool-toned gray one and begin shoving limbs into their respective sleeves.
When my clothing is presentable, I give Ronan a side glance. He’s now turned toward me, but he averts his eyes. Clearing my throat, I say, “Tell me about my brother. How, exactly, did he die?”
When I face him, his eyes flash from side to side, then settle on a corner of the room. A deep breath lifts his chest, then he closes his eyes.
He must not be able to talk about it yet.
I can understand that. But his servitude to and friendship with Xavelor probably make this much harder than I’m giving his composure credit for.
With a nod, I say, “You may take your time answering that question. The funeral happened just last night, after all.” I face the tall gilded mirror nearest to my chamber’s doors and begin threading the thick string through the front of my tunic.
My fingers pause and a thought pushes through my lips. “You…were in attendance, yes?”
His reflection nods once. I’m sure he’s the soldier I saw kneeling before the Magic Circle of Alignment, tears sparkling in his now-unfeeling eyes. Not unfeeling , my thoughts chide. You know better than anyone how many emotions a blank expression can hide.
“Grand,” I say with a nod. “You know my identity, and, more importantly, to keep it secret. You also know to remain oblivious to the death of my kin. Because of this, I have no reason but to accept your loyalty, Ronan Perri.”
His features loosen and his shoulders relax in genuine relief as though now in the company of a good friend. I realize I prefer this to rigidness.
“Thank you, Your Highness. I swear to serve you with every intent to keep you alive and well,” he says, this time with only a brief lift of his fist to his chest.
I wave a hand. “Please don’t make me any promises.
I would hate for you to hold yourself accountable for anything that happens to me.
” Once I’ve spoken the words, I realize how cruel and insensitive they sound.
He protected my brother for thirteen years, yet in the end, he outlived him.
I hadn’t meant to rub salt in the wound, so I quickly add, “I’d much prefer us to treat one another as friends.
Call me Ramiel, please. In turn, I will call you Ronan, if that’s all right. ”
Thankfully, my previous statement doesn’t seem to affect him. With a smile, he nods.
I reach into the wardrobe for a new strip of cloth and tie the ends in a knot at the nape of my neck. Ronan watches me with raised eyebrows.
“Our first adventure begins in Arcanvale.” My voice is slightly muffled through the cloth.
He shakes his head, not in refusal but in confusion. His eyes blink in hard, unbelieving lines. “The cloth. Is it for anonymity, Your Highne—Ramiel?”
I angle my head toward the mirror and run my fingers through the short, tangly curls of chestnut that have bunched themselves together throughout the night, then shake stragglers away from my eyes. With a quirked brow, I offer Ronan a grin he can’t see. “Doesn’t it become me?”
He huffs what almost sounds like a laugh. “It must, if you’re to wear it as the merchants do. Though you ought to hide that ring.” His eyes flash to my hand. “What if someone were to recognize it? And someone will recognize it.”
The silver ring feels weighty on my smallest finger. I lift it so both of us can view it in the warm morning light. Around the oval onyx stone swirls the twin dragons Myrn and Steil, symbols of our kingdom’s strength, and also a clear indicator of my royalty.
I’ve worn it ever since I can remember, and I’ve never taken it off.
“The ring remains. I’ll be careful,” I say, but this time my lack of confidence betrays the steadiness of my voice.
I know it’s probably dangerous to parade around with such an obvious symbol of my identity, but I cannot remove it.
If I were to lose this ring, it would be like losing my mother all over again.
And I can’t do that. It’s the only thing I have left of her.
Ronan sighs, but he moves the conversation along. “Arcanvale is infamous for its close proximity to the Aldorin forest and, therefore, it’s rumored to house many rogue mages and witches. What business does a prince have in entertaining such uncomely company?”
I bite my tongue at his emphasis on “prince.” I am now the only one in our kingdom who holds the title, but I try not to smile at the recognition just yet.
“It sounds… fun ,” I say with a light laugh. I’m surprised at the honesty of my words. “And I’m also in search of a teacher who might help me rival my brother’s strength at the Feast of Undying.”
The truth comes so easily to me. Ronan would make a terrible enemy, simple as it is to communicate my thoughts to him.
“You seek the wrong kind of attention, Ramiel.”
His pronunciation of my name is rusty, as though he hasn’t spoken another’s name in a long time. Here, we only address one another by title. So speaking someone’s first name is considered crudely informal. He doesn’t seem to dislike it, though.
Had Xavelor not given Ronan permission to use his name?
I clear my throat. “I know whose attention I seek, Ronan. Those who know my identity have refused to help me. Where else am I to look for a master who will take me under their wing?”
“Elsewhere.”
“That’s helpful.”
“You’re welcome.” His eyes are hard, serious.
I sigh. “We’ll go to Arcanvale, and if that doesn’t work, we can search… elsewhere .”
He looks at me, understanding I haven’t thought past Arcanvale. At the very least, we should try to get information from the magical folk there.
“Shall we go now?” he asks.
I nod. “I don’t have much time. A week has already passed.”
“Time is no enemy,” he says, rubbing a hand over his chin. “Mages and witches are always desperate for an underling. Unless, of course, they’re allied with those who have refused you before. But I’m doubtful of that.”
When I don’t respond, he takes my silence as a cue to continue. With a grunt, he says, “Ramiel, it will take us a full day on horseback to reach Arcanvale. Have you ridden a horse for so long?”
Again, I say nothing. I’ve never been far from the castle, thanks to Bernadette’s insistence on keeping me close.
For the most part, I’ve experienced other worlds through the storytelling of my favorite authors.
I haven’t had much of a desire to explore areas beyond Bellmane, certainly not anywhere as close to Aldorin as Arcanvale is.
The fact that we’ll be so close is invigorating, and also equally terrifying.
Ronan follows me from my chambers. We walk briskly through the corridors of my wing and pass into the dining hall, where I pluck three shiny apples and a flaky pastry from the always-filled table at the center.
No one pays us any mind as we make our way through the servants’ quarters and to the livestock behind the castle.
When we reach the stables, Derryl is combing through the short mane of a cream-colored mare. He startles when I call him by name.
“Derryl, please saddle Claude for me. And the mare, that’s Melanie, right?”
Derryl’s cheeks flush as he nods. He glances between me and my companion, then turns away with haste to prepare our horses.
“You’re giving me the stallion, I hope,” Ronan says through his nose. When I turn to him, he’s pinching his nostrils together. His eyes squint, a wetness threatening to pool over his bottom lids.
I laugh. “If you can’t handle the smell of manure, you’re not going to like Claude. He’s known for his…frequent droppings.”
He makes a face, but it’s distorted under his hand.
After a few minutes, Derryl walks the black stallion and yellow mare to us.
I toss my apples into my satchel, sling it under Claude’s saddle, and stuff the pastry into my mouth as I check the flask strapped to his flank.
It’s still halfway filled with water, which will suffice until we find an inn or flowing water.
My longsword remains sheathed at his flank, and my birch lute lies face down against his shiny black fur.
The lute has received much love and attention as opposed to the sharp metal I’ll need to learn to wield in the coming months.
Ronan hoists himself onto Melanie, then waits for me.
I swing my foot over Claude, and he shakes his mane. I give him a friendly pat to the neck, then adjust my thighs over the saddle. No matter what I do, I know I’ll be sore later, though.
Finally, with a sigh in Ronan’s direction, I lead us into the castle’s courtyard. My chest tightens as we take treed paths past the walled fortress, and before I can blink, we’ve already passed through Bellmane.