Page 5 of The Prince

“Not much different than yesterday,” Clament explained, shrugging. “Alina said she would be by soon to help me takeanother short walk to build back my strength. My lungs are as strong as they’re going to get with magic; they just need time to heal at this point. And all of my other wounds are better.” Clament had said basically the same thing yesterday and the day before, but despite that, Braxton’s smile took on a relieved edge as if he had let out a pent-up breath and relaxed slightly.

“Good to hear. I can’t stay long today, unfortunately. I wanted to let you know I have to leave the city for a few days. I should be back by Moonsday. If you need anything while I’m gone, please tell Alina. I’ve instructed my siblings to help you while I’m away, and she can contact them for you.”

More likely, he had instructed his siblings to keep an eye on Clament to make sure he didn’t do anything squirrely—which Clament firmly believed was the real reason why Braxton visited regularly—but it was good to know Clament wasn’t being handed off to some army stooge or one of Braxton’s subordinates in whatever clandestine business he ran for Toval.

In some ways, Clament enjoyed Braxton’s visits. Only in the small, hidden part of himself he was vehemently suppressing, of course, but the warmth Braxton exuded—even if it was feigned as part of his act—was addicting.

“Safe travels,” Clament responded, giving Braxton a small smile in return.

“Thanks.” Braxton stood and started walking to the door, but paused awkwardly to look back at Clament as if he wanted to say something more. His mouth opened, then closed again, and he gripped the handle and pulled the door open. “I’ll see you on Moonsday,” he finally said before leaving and shutting the door firmly behind him.

“See you,” Clament echoed into the empty room, wondering what that was about. Part of Braxton’s act? A mistake in his actor failure of his acting skills? Or was Braxton genuine? Clament dashed that last thought away with a mental scoff. Whatever Braxton was up to, Clament refused to fall victim to it.

Not willing to dwell on it, Clament returned to his book, settling in until Alina came by to help him get some exercise a few hours later. He tried to get lost in the novel, but his brain was churning, thoughts swirling on wondering where Braxton was going and why. The spymaster of Toval had people come to him or sent out minions to gather information from his people in the field. There was no reason for him to travel somewhere unless whatever he was up to was so incredibly sensitive Braxton couldn’t trust it to anyone else. Which, of course, no doubt meant Namin was up to something again.

Clament let out a sigh, forcing himself to focus on his book. Worrying about his father scheming was like worrying water was wet. Father schemed and plotted and distrusted everyone constantly, and his biggest target when Clament wasn’t around was Toval.

What if he told Braxton about the plot to take over the southern farms in Toval?The traitorous thought slipped out before Clament could suppress it. Still, the plot was dead at this point since his role as a distraction in the north had failed so miserably. Would telling Braxton hurt anything more than his pride? Certainly it would end the painful status quo they were stuck in, where Braxton pretended to be offering a carrot since the stick hadn’t worked and Clament pretended he didn’t know what Braxton was doing. Ending the façade would almost be a relief, since Clament would finally know where he stood.

Of course, then it would be back to the prison and an end to all this luxury. Yet, at the same time, it would also mean an end to waiting for the other shoe to drop. Was losing his accessto comfort worth stopping the constant anxiety? Clament didn’t know.

Clament growled to himself, disgusted with both his indecision and the fact that he was even considering betraying Namin. The answer was no; he could not tell Braxton anything. He could not let Braxton win their little game.

Resolute—or at least pretending to be—Clament picked his book up again and this time it swept him away.

He looked up again when there was another knock on the door. This time, Alina walked into the room, holding a tray with a steaming teapot, a delicate china cup, and a rocks glass full of about a finger’s width of the murky-green-colored, opaque, and bitter liquid masquerading as medicine that Alina had him taking every afternoon. The shadows on the floor cast by the sun through the windows said quite a few hours had gone by since Braxton had stopped in. Braxton was likely well on his way to whatever task he was journeying to, but Clament firmly yanked his thoughts back to Alina and the green goop. He didn’t need to worry about what Braxton was doing and whether he would be okay, or how dangerous the assignment he was on that the Prince Spymaster had to attend to it personally.No, Clament scolded himself. He had already banished those same thoughts once. All he needed to worry about right now was forcing that noxious green sludge down without throwing it up again.

“I brought you tea to help wash it down,” Alina said, correctly guessing what half of Clament’s grimace was about.

“You think tea is going to cover up the taste of that slime?” he asked, whining slightly because he knew it would make her smile.

She laughed. “It won’t hurt. Your daily dose of slime is why you’re already walking. The sooner you drink it, the sooner we can go get that exercise.”

“Fine, fine.” Clament made a production out of sighing heavily as he reluctantly reached for the glass as she held the tray out toward him, his behavior only half feigned. His fingers touched the side of the glass, and then he stopped, freezing in place as an odd sort of tingling swept through his awareness. His magic roiled, the slightest bit of gold shining out of his eyes. Someone with ill-minded intent toward Clament had just stepped into his magic’s passive field of awareness. Which meant somewhere nearby, inside the castle, someone was preparing to kill him.

Chapter Four

“WE NEED TOevacuate the healing ward,” Clament said, throwing his blankets back. He got his legs over the side of the bed and stood, wobbling, but he refused to fall. His knees stabilized, and he headed for the door.

“What? Why? Where do you think you’re going?” Alina gasped out.

Clament didn’t know if he had time to explain, but he also knew he needed Alina’s help to get everyone who might be in the healing ward to safety. He called up his magic, the room taking on a gentle golden glow.

“Sorry about this,” Clament said as he clamped one hand on Alina’s arm and dragged her awareness away with his, along the path his magic carved through the castle. They stopped in what appeared to be a dusty, unused storeroom where five people crouched. They wore dark, nondescript oversized clothes over leather armor, hoods over their heads, and masks covering their noses and mouths. The strip of skin around their eyes was darkened by some sort of powder.

“Shouldn’t we wait till dark?” a woman asked, her voice a hissing whisper.

“Guards expect danger to happen at night,” a man hissed back. “Our source says the damned princely guard dog is gone, and this is the time of day when the ward he’s in is emptiest. We’ll be able to get in, kill the bastard, remove any witnesses, and get out before anyone notices. Prepare yourselves.”

Leather creaked as armored bodies moved and hands were placed on sword hilts. Clament let the magic go, returning to his body with a gasp echoed by Alina’s.

“Where can we hide?” Clament asked.

Alina dropped the tray onto the end of the bed, green goop and tea splashing onto the lacquered wood, and dashed ahead of him into the main ward. Clament usually took his walks around the wide room, so the octagonal space was familiar. Two rows of beds down the middle for short-term treatment, four doors on the back wall leading to private treatment rooms—including Clament’s—two more doors on each side, the left leading to storage and the right to the herbarium where concoctions like the green goop were made. The rest of the walls were absolutely stuffed with cabinets, except for directly ahead where wide double doors were open to the hallway outside.

“Marcia, get Lord Loweseth up. The ward is about to be attacked,” Alina called to a young woman in trainee robes, sitting idly in a chair by the door.

Marcia gaped for a moment before swallowing hard and jumping to her feet. She hurried over to the only occupied bed in the middle of the room and gently shook the shoulder of the young man sleeping there, one of his arms immobilized in a sling. Alina went over to one of the cabinets and yanked the door open, revealing a staircase partially obscured by the healer’s robes hanging inside.

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