Page 56 of The Prince's Curse

Katalin was right—so what if they didn’t love each other? This was a marriage of political necessity, nothing more. What they wanted was insignificant next to how this union would benefit their houses.

And that was why, after he’d awoken this morning and slipped from Benjin’s chambers while praying to the Goddess no one noticed his indiscretion, he’d resolved to distance himself from the apprentice. For both their sakes.

Once he’d taken his seat in the carriage and shut the door, he issued the order to depart. He stared out the window as the carriage trundled away, the marble towers and arches of the Galax estate vanishing behind them. Grimacing, he settled back in the silent carriage and channeled runeflame to conjure a light breeze to answer Khordan’s oppressive heat.

The day passed uneventfully. They’d soon left Luxem’s ordered streets behind and trundled through Khordan’s scrubby countryside toward the Tholan River and the border with Ilthabard. Haldric had expected Benjin to approach him at somepoint, whether to confront him over last night, to continue their usual runeflame lessons, or simply to take refuge from the sun within the carriage.

But the apprentice must have felt as awkward as Haldric since he kept his distance, sticking to the back of the cart. That earned a few sideways glances from Marshal Fendrel, but he didn’t dare question it.

Neither did Haldric. Desperate to distract himself from his idle thoughts and memories of last night, he filled his time alone in the carriage by continuing his studies. He might have a firmer grasp of the fundamentals than Benjin, but true runeflame mastery required constant practice.

Whenever they stopped for a break, he’d pull Fendrel aside to run through his forms and hone his swordplay. Every now and then he’d pause to catch his breath or wipe sweat from his brow and catch Benjin watching him from the wagon. The instant he saw Haldric looking, he’d quickly avert his eyes. Each time was another little stab in Haldric’s gut, another sliver of guilt.

Part of him wanted Benjin to storm over and berate him for his behavior the way the apprentice usually would. But Benjin did nothing of the sort. Whatever force had been tugging them together these past few weeks seemed to have finally snapped. That thought left a heavy sorrow resting on his heart.

More days passed in like manner, each bleeding into the next. There were no more laughing discussions of spells, no more warm gatherings sharing stories around the campfire. Other than Fendrel’s tutelage, Haldric’s only companions were the ceaseless rumble of the road and his churning regrets.

They were somewhere in the heart of the province of Zaros, still several days from Revesole, when muffled shouts jarred Haldric from daydreams of Benjin’s lips. Frowning, he moved to check the nearest window. Had they encountered another caravan on the road?

He’d barely reached the window to slide it aside when the carriage door ripped asunder with a loudcrackof splintering wood. Haldric spun to see a shadowed figure looming in the opening. A steel sword glinted in their hand.

Ambush.

Reacting on instinct, Haldric threw himself forward beneath the figure’s arms. The figure shouted in surprise, attempting to twist and block his way, but Haldric was already tumbling past. Springing to his feet outside by the carriage, the din of battle enveloped him, Marshal Fendrel and the royal guards fighting against men and women in rough clothes.

Haldric’s own attacker recovered his balance and bared his craggy face in a snarl. He didn’t seem interested in talking, opting instead for another lunging strike. Haldric barely evaded, drawing his own sword to deflect the follow-up blow. Steel clanged against steel as they thrust and parried. The man was good—not as good as Fendrel, but more skilled than your average bandit.

Is that what these are: bandits?

The question fled his mind, his eyes widening when a dull white glow enveloped the man, radiating from his skin.Soulflame!

Though Fendrel rarely used his own magic while dueling Haldric, the royal marshal had taught him what to expect against a soulflame warrior. They could harden their skin and enhance their blows to be stronger or swifter than the average man. Some could even perform incredible techniques akin to a trained spellblade.

Which Haldric by no means was—not yet. It would take him precious time he didn’t have to imbue the necessary enchantments onto his sword, and if he messed up the runes even a little, they might end up hurting more than helping.

As if sensing Haldric’s hesitation, the man grinned, advancing on him. “Best you accept your fate, little princeling. Much easier that way—quicker, and less painful.”

Surprise gripped Haldric. “You know who I am?”

The man simply grinned. A slight flick of his eyes to the right gave away his next attack an instant before he made it. Haldric slipped to the side just as the man swung, the blow whistling through the air with impossible strength. It would have severed Haldric clean down the middle had it connected.

Haldric attempted to slide in and deliver a strike to the man’s undefended flank. It should have landed—not a killing blow, perhaps, but enough to weaken the man and slow his attacks. Instead, the sharp steel glanced off the warrior’s glowing skin the way it might a boulder.

The man fixed Haldric with a savage grin. Then, he swept his sword in a wide arc, more soulflame flaring from his fingers. Haldric scrambled out of the way of the blow, but a shockwave of force followed in its wake, slicing through the air like a rippling blade.

His eyes widening, Haldric narrowly managed to raise his sword in time to catch the blast. His arm shuddered at the impact of the magic, and he cried out as he lost his grip on his sword, tumbling backward. He landed hard in the dirt while his blade clattered out of reach.

Chuckling, the soulflame warrior loomed over Haldric, his glowing sword poised to strike. “Just what I expected from a spoiled noble brat.”

Haldric gritted his teeth, and raised a hand, thrusting his palm toward the man. “Oh, yeah? How aboutthis!”

When nothing happened, not even the barest flicker of runeflame, the man’s grin widened. “Do you expect me to kiss your hand,Your Highness?Sorry to disappoint, but our days of begging for scraps are finished.”

A boot to Haldric’s chest sent him sprawling to the dirt. He curled up around his throbbing chest and groaned, his mind racing. Some sort of anti-magic ward—that was the only explanation. Which meant the ambushers had come prepared with at least one mage of their own. This was no simple bandit attack. They’d laid a trap for him, knowing exactly when and where to strike.

Had it been the same for Melisie?

The thought seared his veins like poison. The official reports had claimed she’d been the victim of random cutpurses, but had there been more to the story?

---