Page 12 of The Uncrowned Prince

CHAPTER3

The spell at his outer door awakened him early, with the obnoxious clattering sound that indicated someone had come calling.

Someone welcome or unwelcome?

Dislodging the cat from his chest, the man formerly known as Prince Vaniell of Garimore rolled over and felt blearily for his boots. He remembered dropping them right beside the couch before falling into a fitful sleep.

There. The worn leather was rough and cracked beneath his fingertips, and he used the texture to anchor himself in the moment. His nightmares meant nothing. He was not that person anymore. No longer weighed down by the chains of pretense. No longer enmeshed in such an elaborate web of lies that he could scarcely remember the truth.

Was it any better, this desperate creature he’d become? Searching for clues to a mystery ten years in the making. Longing for news that was torturously slow in coming.

Not all of it good.

He’d learned of his true father’s death over the winter, and wondered whether he should feel more than a dull sort of resignation. It was difficult to mourn someone he’d never met, whether connected by blood or not, and Lord Iandred had done little to endear himself to the citizens of Abreia before his passing.

There had been a handful of pleasant tidings amidst the grim. Aunt Pip was married now, it seemed, to a man she cared about. When he’d heard the news, Vaniell had raised a solitary toast to her health and happiness. She deserved all that and more after all the long years she’d suffered for the crimes of others.

Danric, too, was married, and that brought a grin to Vaniell’s face whenever he thought of it. He considered his brother’s marriage to Princess Evaraine of Farhall to be his greatest triumph to date—except perhaps for the freeing of the Raven and the subsequent treaty between Farhall and Dunmaren.

But each time it seemed like they had a chance of winning, something…

The door spell alerted him again, eliciting a groan of annoyance as he pulled on his boots, tucked in his shirt, and donned the long, slightly disreputable black coat that held his effects. No telling who was at the door, so it was always better to be prepared.

By now, he could find his way through the labyrinth of traps in the outer warehouse in his sleep, so he turned his attention instead to the light filtering through the filthy windows in the upper story of the building. It was barely past dawn by the look of things, so who would have come knocking on his door at such a heathen hour?

His friends should know better, which meant…

Vaniell stuck one hand in the voluminous outer pocket of his coat and sorted through the objects within. Nothing deadly, and his string would need to be re-enchanted, so all that remained was…

Yanking the door open with his left hand, he scowled at the figure on his doorstep for a solid three seconds before he recognized the boy.

“Boden, what the devil are you doing here?”

A street urchin with at least as great a propensity for trouble as Vaniell himself, Boden ran errands and reported on gossip, usually with a wicked twinkle in his brown eyes.

But now those eyes were wide and stark, and on the dark brown skin of the boy’s cheeks, Vaniell perceived the faintest hint of tears.

“News…” he stammered, and Vaniell stood aside so he could enter the warehouse.

“Come on back then,” he said, considering that any news serious enough to make Boden cry warranted at the very least a cup of tea and a biscuit.

The kettle already held sufficient water for two, so Vaniell set it in the grate, pushed a bit of extra magic into the stone to heat the water, and fetched the biscuits that still remained from the last time he bothered to procure food.

“Here.”

The boy took one, brought it halfway to his mouth, and then stopped before dissolving into tears once more.

“Perhaps you’d better tell me.” Vaniell crouched in front of him to peer thoughtfully into his face.

Boden had no family that he knew of, aside from a few younger street children. Whatever had happened, the tears seemed more likely to be from fear than grief.

“Last night…” The boy looked at his hands and shivered. “The palace…They say the king is dead.”

Vaniell froze. King Trevelian, dead?

“How?” His tone was more harsh than he’d meant it to be, but his own fear now matched Boden’s.

“Rumors…” The boy’s voice was no more than a whisper. “They say he took a dagger. The queen, too. And a page boy. All dead.”

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