The princess was forbidden to leave the castle. She could not go to the village, ride beyond the grounds without a minimum of six guards, or do anything outside the walls. She'd been locked in this place, and somewhere along the line she'd gotten creative about it.
"The Duke of Mearlyon was the most satisfying," she said. We were in her chambers. She'd stolen an apple from the kitchen again, smuggled it in the folds of her gown, and handed it to me without comment.
"He arrived with fourteen trunks. He brought his own chair. Gilded. He instructed the servants to remove my father's seat from the dining table to accommodate it. The Duke was said to suffer a severe affliction and the scent of lavender caused him to swell. That under no circumstances should lavender be permitted near his person. I then arranged for every vase in the guest wing to be filled with it. Although, unfortunately, the Duke did not swell, he did sneeze without ceasing for nine hours. By morning he was convinced he had contracted a plague. He departed before breakfast and sent word to my father that the castle was infested with —" she paused, savoring it "—malevolent vapors. My father was most alarmed.”
Although she loved to terrorize others, Muime was off-limits.
"I am not a fool. She has known me since I drew my first breath. There is nothing I might attempt that she has not already foreseen and dismantled."
Therefore, guards were her favorite targets.
Cruit knew every hidden passage, every servant's corridor, every loose panel in every wall. She had been mapping escape routes since she was a child to watch what happened when they realized she was gone.
Today, we were at the library.
One of the guards glanced in. The silence alarmed him.
"Your Highness?" He stepped inside and went behind the chair. Even behind the curtains and under the desk. "Your Highness!"
The second guard had already started to move. "Sound the —"
"Do not sound anything," the first one hissed. "If the Commander hears we lost her again he will have us both flogged. Search the corridors. Quietly."
They split, with urgent footsteps in both directions. I watched them leave. A panel in the wall beside me slid open three inches.
"The west wing," she said, appearing by my side. "The torch brackets are ancient and the drafts cause them to flicker.”
In the afternoon, we rigged it. We used candle stubs on cords, a jar of flour and a crack in the stone that was wide enough to see through and speak through.
That evening, two guards were on the night shift in the west wing.
"My Elspeth's taken ill again," the shorter one said, shifting his weight. His armor creaked. "Third time this season. The healer says it's the damp but I reckon it's the well water. Tastes of iron since the rains."
"Aye, the Hollow well's been off for months. My lad won't touch it."
The other guard grunted and glanced down the corridor, then adjusted his grip on his pike.
"You hear about Brannock's boy? The one courting the miller's daughter?"
"Which miller?"
"The fat one. By the river."
The princess pulled a cord, and the candle at the end of the corridor went out. The two men glanced in its direction.
"Draft," the taller one said.
"Aye."
She pulled another one. A second candle. Then a third. The corridor was half dark now. She blew a handful of flour through the crack. It drifted into the corridor, white and curling, catching the remaining light.
"Dust. From the —"
She pressed her face against the wall and moaned. Low. The shorter one’s pike came up. Both of them, back to back, blades out. Slowly, she scratched the stone, the sound of her nails echoing down the corridor.
"I've got a wee girl at home who needs her father breathing —." The first guard dropped his pike and ran, full sprint, armor clanging. The other one held out for only a few seconds before following suit, abandoning his pike on the ground.
Behind the wall, Cruit had both hands over her mouth. Her shoulders were shaking, and she was emitting a sound I had never heard before: she was giggling like a kid, pressing her back against the stone.
"You paint?" I asked. She had been telling me about the other things she did in her spare time, such as harassing the guards. Or reading.
"On occasion."
"Can I see?"
"No."
"Why?"
"It is not for others to view."
"That bad, huh?"
"I did not say —"
"Come on, Cricket. Aren't princesses supposed to be good at everything? Singing, dancing, painting, little birds landing on your fingers while you hum? Woodland creatures braiding your hair?”
"That is a remarkably inaccurate portrait of my life."
"So you're saying you can't sing either?"
"I can sing perfectly well."
"But you can't paint."
"I did not say I cannot paint."
"So let me see."
"No."
"Fake modesty, Cricket. Come on. I bet it's fine. I bet it's great—"
“It is not modesty, false or otherwise. I simply —." She stopped. "You will be unkind."
"I won't. I swear. I will be completely cool about it."
She paused for a few seconds, then rose to her feet. “You will hold your tongue."
"Tongue held. Lemme see."
She guided me to a tiny room at the end of an unfamiliar hallway. Stacks of canvases lined the walls, and brushes were arranged in jars. A palette covered in hardened paint sat nearby. She moved toward the largest covered canvas and stood next to it, her gaze darting in my direction.
"This is a portrait of my father," she swallowed. "I have been working on it for some time. It is...” She turned the canvas around.
For about a second, I managed to maintain my composure. I think this was very generous given the circumstances.
King Ionracas, Sovereign Lord of Tolamn and all his other grand titles, stared back at me with eyes that pointed in completely different directions. One gazed nobly off to the side, while the other went somewhere else entirely. His eyebrows were like two enormous dark masses waging war across his forehead. His skin was a sickly, greenish-yellow that made him look like he had been dug up rather than sat down. His lips were a narrow, trembling line.
I broke. Every time I tried to stop, I looked at the painting and it hit me again.
"Cricket. What happened to his eyes?"
"They are perfectly —"
"And his skin... is he supposed to be that color? He looks like he has jaundice.”
She smacked my arm. Hard. "You are dreadful. You are the most dreadful person I have ever —"
But she couldn't finish her sentence. She couldn't get past the defense, because she knew. Her mouth trembled. Her hand was covering it as she struggled to maintain her composure.
"The eyebrows!” I cried. The laughter that had begun to subside only worsened.
"I have attempted to correct them seven times. They only grow worse. I believe the left one has developed a will of its own." She pressed both hands against her face.
“You should hang it in the great hall."
She pushed me, and I staggered, still wheezing. She was trying to cover the painting with her hands as if she could hide it.
"I will hang YOU in the great hall."
“If your father saw this he'd abdicate."
Eventually, the laughter calmed down. She picked up a brush from the table, absent-mindedly.
"We should return," she said. "Muime will be expecting me."
"Yeah."
She walked ahead. I followed.
She glanced back once, quickly.
I winked.
Her cheeks flushed, and her head jerked forward.
The king had been trying to get Cruit to hold court for months. Apparently, it was her duty as the future queen, voice of the throne and all that. She'd managed to wriggle out of it every time, with headaches, prior engagements, etc. A sudden and suspicious fascination for embroidery, conveniently clashing with every proposed schedule. But the king was adamant: the court would assemble, and the princess would lead it. That was final.
She requested that her hound be present. Wherever the princess went, the hound followed. That was that.
I waited outside, close enough to hear the king's voice. He was lecturing his daughter. Seems like even princesses couldn't escape that.
"You will listen before you speak," he stressed. "I know you, daughter. I know your temper. I know how swiftly it moves and how poorly it listens. You are clever and you are proud and both of those things will serve you as queen. But cleverness without patience is cruelty, and pride without mercy is tyranny. You are neither cruel nor a tyrant. Do not play at being one because a petitioner bores you."
"Yes, Father."
“Do not embarrass me."
"I will not."
"Go."
The great hall was set up for court. An empty throne stood at the head. In front of it, a smaller one had been set up. She took her seat there. Hands folded. Her face was composed; if she was nervous, she didn't show it.
Olc stood at the foot of the steps with a contingent of guards. The room was packed.
"First matter," the herald announced. Olc's men dragged the first one forward. He was thin and middle-aged, with hollow cheeks and rope-bound wrists.
“Gareth of Barren Creek," the herald announced. "Charged with poaching two hares and a pheasant from the king's forest. The game was recovered. The accused claims hunger."
Olc shoved him to his knees, harder than necessary. The man's knees struck the stone and he winced.
"You hunted the king's game. How do you answer the charge?" Cruit asked.
"I took 'em, Your Highness. I ain't gonna lie about it. Two hares and a pheasant from the king's wood." He swallowed. "My little ones 'adn't eaten in three days. The youngest ain't even two yet. I weren't huntin' for sport. I were huntin' so they don't starve."
"And your wife?"
"Dead these past two winters, Your Highness. It's just me and the four of 'em."
"The game was returned," Cruit said. "And the children remain unfed." She turned to the steward next to her. "See that provisions are sent to his household. Grain and salt for one month." She looked at the man. "You will not hunt the king's forest again. If hunger comes to your door, you will come to this court and make your needs known. That is what the court is for. Am I understood?"
"Aye, Your Highness. Aye. Thank you, Your —"
"Next matter."
Olc pulled him up by the rope and shoved him toward the door. The man stumbled, caught himself, and was gone.
The second was a forger. A young man who had been caught creating fake documents with the king's seal. He stood before the princess with defiance.
"You forged the king's seal."
"I did, Your Highness. Quite well, if I'm bein' honest."
She examined the forged writs, which were laid out before her, holding one up to the light. “Royal ink is mixed with blackthorn and iron gall. This is elderberry. It fades in the light." She put it down. "A poor choice."
The forger was taken aback.
"Sixty days in the cells." She paused. "And you will speak with the court scribe before your sentence begins. If your hand is as steady as you claim, there may be honest work for it when you are released."
The third one was a big man, broad and heavy-jawed. He'd beaten a merchant almost to death over an outstanding debt and didn't seem particularly sorry for it.
"The merchant owes me," the man claimed. "Three months' wages for labor on his storehouse. He refuses payment. I collected what was due."
"You broke his jaw," the princess said. "Four of his ribs and his hand.”
“’He should've paid up then, shouldn't ‘e?”
"And you believe a broken hand settles a debt?"
"Sends a message, don't it?”
“As does mine." Her voice became cold. "Ninety days in the cells. If you raise your hand to any man in this kingdom again outside of lawful defense, you will lose it."
He was dragged away. Olc's men were rougher with him than the others.
I sat against the wall and watched her work, and I was... I'm feeling a bit stunned, to be honest. I didn't think Cruit was stupid, but...
The herald's voice broke my reverie, announcing, "Fourth matter."
The doors swung open, and Olc's guards escorted someone toward me. My stomach plummeted to the ground.
Wesley.
His hair was longer, and he looked thinner than I remembered him. He approached slowly, his head bowed, his hands pressed flat to the stone.
"Your Royal Highness," he addressed. "I come before you, not as a petitioner but as a brother. A brother who has heard tales of your mercy. A brother who has come to beg, not for himself, but for the one he loves most dearly in this world. My brother dwells within your walls."
He looked up, and his eyes were wet. I couldn't tell if it was genuine. With Wesley, you never knew.
“He was taken from our home in payment for a debt he incurred through loyalty to me. A loyalty I did not deserve and have not earned. He spoke in my defense when silence would have spared him, and for that he was bound to your service." He pressed his forehead against the stone. "But our mother, Your Highness, has fallen gravely ill. She weakens by the day. The healers speak of weeks, perhaps less. And her last wish—her only wish—is to see her son once more before the end."
I stared at him. For how long had I been in this palace? How many weeks? Mother was dying?
“I would take his place,” Wesley replied, lifting his head. "Let me bear the weight of his service. Let me remain within these walls in his stead. I have heard tales of your mercy, Your Highness. I am here to prove them true."
The princess was motionless, and then spoke.
"I have no use for a bard," Cruit said. "Your songs and your tales are of no service to the crown."
"Your Highness, I would serve in whatever capacity —"
"I said I have no use for you."
Murmurs. Wesley's face didn't change, but his hands pressed harder against the floor.
The princess was quiet for another long moment. I waited, sitting against the wall with my heart in my throat and my fists balled in my lap.
"Cassian, son of Buain, is granted leave from the palace," Cruit announced. “He may depart this evening and return in three days' time. And he will return. Those are the terms." She turned her attention to Wesley. “You may go with him. I have no interest in keeping what I did not ask for."
Wesley rose. He bowed deeply and swept his arms.
"Your Highness, your mercy is —"
“Three days. Not a moment more."
Olc caught me before I could take a step. His hand clamped around the back of my neck, and he guided me through the throng, down the darkened hallway leading to the staff stairs.
"Three days," he whispered, his lips inches from my ear. “And when you return, things will be as they were. The princess may have softened toward her little pet, but I have not. I have watched you sit at her feet and eat from her hand and play at being something more than the gutter filth you are. But soon, your time will come.”
He shoved me forward, and I stumbled, catching myself on the wall.
"Run home, cur. Kiss your mother. Say your prayers. And enjoy the road. It is the last kind thing you will know for some time." He turned and walked back toward the corridor, emitting a rhythmic clanking from his armor and a resonant thump with each stride. In response, I stiffened, fixing my gaze on his receding back. I raised my middle finger in his direction, keeping it there until he vanished around the corner. Eventually, I made my way outside.
Wesley was there waiting by the cart, identical to how it looked the night we'd set off for the ball. The moment he caught sight of me, his face lit up in a broad grin.
"Fox!" He grabbed me. He wrapped his arms around my shoulders, lifting me off the ground, despite being only slightly larger than me.
"Wes. Wes! Put me down —"
"Look at you. Look at your face." His hands on my shoulders, he held me at arm's length, assessing the damage. The faded bruises and the scab on my eyebrow. "What has she done to you?"
"Wes. I'm fine. Let's just go."
We clambered onto the cart, and he grabbed the reins. The mule began to trot, a pace slightly faster than standing still. The castle shrank behind us. I watched it go. The towers, the banners, and the walls that I had been observing from the inside for several weeks. From out here, it looked like a painting.
"Mother is ill?" Cassian, rising concern pulling her forward. I let her. It was only fair. "Gravely so? When did this begin? What ails her? Is it the fever that took Arthur's mother last winter or —"
He was smiling. The bastard was smiling. Fighting it and losing, "I knew my words had struck her heart when I saw her hand tremble. She tried to speak, but her voice —" he clutched at his chest "—it faltered with compassion."
"You should have been born a goose. All you do is honk,” I reached out and smacked him across the head.
"Perhaps. But at least my epitaph will rhyme."
“Fool! You should never have come to court. Do you understand what you have risked? Had they accepted your offer, you'd be chained now in my place! Have you any notion of what they might have done to you?"
"I had faith Her Highness would not permit such cruelty," he replied mildly. "When the third day comes," he went on, his eyes fixed ahead, “You not return to that cursed palace. We'll ride west, perhaps. To the borderlands. There are villages where no one knows our names."
"Wesley."
"We'll find work enough. I can earn coin with my lute, you with your hands. We'll live. It will be freedom, true and clean."
"Stop this nonsense."
"Nonsense? You mean to go back? 'To them?” he asked incredulously. “You owe them nothing! You would go back willingly, knowing what awaits you?”
"I would rather bear my own punishment than see it fall upon those I love. The world has beaten pride out of me before, Wes. I'll survive it again."
He slowly shook his head. “I do not know you when you speak so. My sister—my wild, reckless sister—would sooner fight ten soldiers than bow to one. Do you know what I have heard? They speak to me, fox. They tell me what that woman has done to you.” His grip on the reins tightened. "I have seen the marks on your arms.”
"It's not like that anymore,” my voice.
He turned to face me, with the reins loose and the mule straying onto the shoulder of the road.
"What hold does she have on you? What spell, what threat, what—" Wesley stared at me, baffled.
I didn't have an answer. Not one that made sense. Not one I could say out loud without sounding insane because the truth was insane. The truth was that between every stupid, complicated, and infuriating moment with that impossible girl, something had changed.
"I mean... okay. You're right. Going back to being a prisoner would be pretty shitty. I hear myself." I admitted. "So what if we just like... took her with us?"
"I beg your pardon?" Wesley swiveled his whole body on the seat to face me. The reins went slack again. "You wish to kidnap the princess? You have gone mad. The Commander has knocked something loose inside your skull and it has rolled to a place it should not be."
"Wes —"
"You wish to abduct the heir to the Coastal Throne? The most guarded woman in Tolamn? The princess whose commander would hunt us to the edges of the earth and return our heads in a basket?" He placed his hands over his face. "My sister has lost her wits entirely."
"Okay, when you say it like that, it sounds bad.”