Prologue
Ruarnon: the Zaldeaan Realm
Heir Ruarnon fought the corners of their lips, which tried to twist in distaste. They succeeded only in forcing their mouth into a neutral line, probably a grimace, the best they could do. Before them, floor-to-ceiling frescoes of wanton slaughter dominated the corridor. Zaldeaan warriors in bronze armour impaled enemies on spears, every foot of both walls declaring: “We will cut down every man who dares oppose us.” To Ruarnon it read more like, “We have big spears and big appendages and that puts us in charge.”
Ruarnon suppressed a smirk. They doubted their body parts would count for much here. Zaldeaan servants scurrying past eyed them with open curiosity, the servant’s gazes lingering on the kohl around Ruarnon’s eyes and the spiral on either end, marking them as midlun. Bronze armoured guards stationed at an intersecting corridor stared at Ruarnon’s trouser-covered legs, knowing both were clean-shaven beneath the silk. The guards raised insolent looks to Ruarnon’s clean-shaven face.
Ruarnon swallowed awkwardly. “Do you truly believe the body shapes the mind? That it determines gender?”
The largest, broadest man replied in Migryan, and one of Ruarnon’s guards translated.
“How else could gender work?” There was a pause before he added “Benevolence,” as his companion elbowed him.
Ruarnon slowed their pace. Companion Tor had warned them the Zaldeaans may be questioning, even disbelieving of their gender, but meeting a man who flat out denied the existence of midluns was still a shock.
A whisper from Ruarnon’s bodyguards cut through their thoughts. “His mind must be thick, then.”
Ruarnon glimpsed two men and two women smirking at the Zaldeaan guard before the captain’s stern gaze swept around, and Ruarnon’s entourage moved on straight-faced. Ruarnon breathed more easily knowing the men and women assigned to protect them had their back against more than just physical threats. The knowledge was a comfort while Ruarnon kept their chin up, striving to represent Tarlah well as its Heir, in their father, King Urmillian’s greatest test of their readiness to become co-ruler when they came of age.
The corridor stretched on forever. An unusual number of Zaldeaan palace officials stood about, rubbing their oiled beards in twos and threes as they eyed Ruarnon appraisingly. Ruarnon took a deep breath. Half the Zaldeaan court was here. And they were all men. Every man’s gaze was fixed on Ruarnon, weighing and measuring Tarlah’s youthful Heir. Ruarnon shivered, sensing an undercurrent of hostility that set their teeth on edge.
The soft pad of their bodyguard’s sandals’ on stone, trailing after them, no longer felt strange. Father and Companion Tor were right: Ruarnon’s safety wasn’t assured here.
At last, they turned into a quiet corridor. Ruarnon’s shoulders relaxed as they stepped beyond judgemental gazes.
“Do we stare so rudely at visitors at home?” Ruarnon asked.
“They are curious about how Your Benevolence compares to their new king,” Captain Arleath replied. “King Kyura is only a few years older than you.”
Ruarnon’s brow furrowed. “They don’t think much of me. Kyura must come off well in that comparison.”
Arleath’s brows furrowed, and he eyed Ruarnon pointedly. Ruarnon almost stopped in their tracks. The walls here would have ears and probably eyes. Ruarnon couldn’t say what they thought without it getting back to high-ranking Zaldeaans, or even King Kyura himself.
“Apologies, Your Benevolence,” a servant called, his well-pronounced Timbalen catching Ruarnon by surprise. “The oil barrel lid came loose, and the corridor is a mess.”
Ruarnon glanced at a stone floor so thickly coated in oil that it would ooze over their sandals and feet. “We will go another way,” they said, and the servant bowed again.
Ruarnon doubled back, feeling the unfamiliar drag of their long, Zaldeaan style tunic sleeves and trousers resisting the air as they walked. The cooler Zaldeaan climate demanded warmer clothing, but they missed the ease with which bare limbs and a short Tarlahn tunic let them move swiftly.
“Servants have their own corridors,” Captain Arleath told Ruarnon, his narrowed brown eyes scanning the corridor as he spoke. “And I wouldn’t expect many of them to speak Timbalen. Most speak only Migryan. They may have been refilling oil lamps along the main corridor, but they may not.”
Ruarnon tensed. What kind of trap was spilt oil? And would someone really teach a servant to pronounce two sentences perfectly in Timbalen just so they could tell Ruarnon to walk into a trap?
The corridor came to an end with a turning left and right. A folded wooden screen sectioned off the right while daylight bathed the left. Ruarnon slowed as they turned left into a corridor that opened out to a terrace overlooking palace gardens. Ancient trees rose in all directions, creating a dark green canopy vaster than anything that could grow in Tarlah’s dry climate. Dense bushes tangled with flowering vines rose to Ruarnon’s height.
One of Ruarnon’s guards shifted. The man’s iron blade flashed as it hurtled towards the trees. Whom was he attacking? Another blade spun end over end towards Ruarnon. Ruarnon ducked instinctively. Iron rang against stone as the dagger struck the wall behind them. Battle alertness pulsed through Ruarnon’s body as their training kicked in, and they drew their sword. But this wasn’t training. It was attempted murder, and it set their heart thundering.
Sword in hand, Arleath stepped between Ruarnon and their attackers. Where had that dagger come from? Ruarnon scanned the trees.
“Archer!” their guards warned.
Arleath gestured. Ruarnon dived wide of a power-bow bolt that could have pierced the bronze disc tunic under their Zaldeaan linen.
“Keep moving, Benevolence! Guards! Follow!” Arleath commanded.
Ruarnon jerked their sword up. A second dagger clanged against their sword as they knocked it from the air. Then they ran, their heart pounding, eyes scanning the lawn on their left for more projectiles.
Leather slapped pavement ahead. Ruarnon raised their sword, anticipating an ambush. They and Arleath turned a corner. Before them, Ruarnon’s uncle’s eyes widened. Ruarnon gasped and lowered their blade.
Uncle Omah stepped aside. His blonde braid swished behind him. “Go to your aunt! Use the servant’s corridors!”
“You can’t stay here, Benevolence. We don’t know how many there are and we’ve too few guards,” Captain Arleath asserted.
Omah nodded, then ran alongside Ruarnon as they turned into a doorway and the dark, narrow corridor beyond. The flickering torches lining the walls were so spread out that Ruarnon could barely see the ground. They imagined someone following. What if someone had? What if they’d sent word to spill the oil and redirect Ruarnon to the terrace and the ambush? An ambush by who?
They hurried on in the cramped, confusing darkness, everyone’s footsteps echoing off the walls until a door burst open and the corridor ahead filled with daylight.
Ruarnon followed Uncle Omah through a doorway into the sitting room of their guest chambers. Aunt Telena and two guards approached.
“What happened?” Telena asked.
Ruarnon’s gaze was drawn across the sitting room to green lawns stretching to more trees. They didn’t seem beautiful now. Ruarnon half-expected the grounds to conceal more attackers. They gestured to a guard and exhaled with relief when the man bolted the doors shut.
“Assassins,” Captain Arleath reported, his gaze sweeping the room, then fixing on Ruarnon’s aunt and uncle. “Armed with throwing knives, easy enough to conceal inside Zaldeaan sleeves.”
“I thought King Kyura supported his father’s Peace?” Ruarnon asked, their mind scrambling to make sense of reality while their heart raced. “So, who just tried to kill me?”
“He appears to support it,” Omah replied. “Your father isn’t certain —that is why I am here— to find out and to persuade Kyura to uphold his father’s Peace. But even if he supports peace, others of rank may not. Now we know one of them is well-resourced enough to attack you inside the Zaldeaan palace. We need to get you out of here. Now. Dangerous times call for decisive action.”
“You intend to stay?” Ruarnon asked. If it was dangerous enough to send them back to Tarlah, why on Mijora’s earth wouldn’t their uncle accompany them?
Aunt Telena had opened Ruarnon’s trunk on the bed in the room opposite and pulled out clothing. The sandy fringe which usually framed her face was tucked behind her ears and her elegant, pale fingers packed nimbly, as if used to servant’s work.
“You’ll need your plainest arms-training tunic,” she said. “Fetch yours, Arleath. And have a servant find our palace guide. I want Ruarnon out of the palace and halfway across Zaldeaa City before our supper with King Kyura is finished.”
“Someone just tried to kill me,” said Ruarnon. “We do not know who or why, yet you and Uncle Omah are staying for supper?”
“Kyura is only nineteen, and nine months into his reign. His wife is dead. His heir is dead. Do not forget that he is vulnerable. If he does approve of peace, now is the perfect time for those who favour war to twist his arm. I want to assure him he has our support, and to exert every influence I can in person.”
Ruarnon felt a flash of resentment at their father for their favourite uncle having to put himself at risk for their father’s plans. Then Ruarnon processed the rest. They were the child in the room sent to safety while adults did the work, at a time when they were supposed to step up and demonstrate that they could be Co-Regent.
“If the danger isn’t too great for you, why is it too great for me?”
They didn’t want to be skewered by a crossbow bolt, but they were tired of striving for their father’s approval. It seemed within reach, yet now that they were in danger, it was being pushed away again. What would Urmillian think of Ruarnon running back to Tarlah the first time someone tried to kill them? Urmillian had faced multiple assassins when he came to the throne at fifteen because his reign began when Tarlah threw off Zaldeaan rule. Could Ruarnon ever measure up to him?
Omah stepped closer, his gaze piercing. “Whoever opposes the Peace sees you as a more valuable target than me. You are heir to the throne and last of our family’s line. We cannot risk you by having you stay. Now that throwing knives in the garden have failed, perhaps it will be a crossbow in the theatre or a poisoned snack in the training grounds. Whoever tried to kill you, I expect them to try again soon. You must return to Tarlah. Once out of the palace, you will take a chariot to Edesinia and a private ship back to Tarlah City. When you return, your first task is to send your aunt and me word you are safe.”
Ruarnon turned to Aunt Telena as she stepped back from laying out a plain white tunic and worn sandals on their four-poster bed. Captain Arleath was already pulling a tunic over his muscled frame and small clothes. In front of Aunt Telena. The breach of propriety impressed the need to hurry upon Ruarnon.
They entered their room, tore their red silk tunic off over their head, and pulled on a white linen one. They slipped out of their trousers, hastily removed the solid gold ornaments from their dark braid and seized a washcloth to wipe away the kohl around their eyes. Then they returned to the sitting room, where Uncle Omah and Aunt Telena were giving hasty orders to Captain Arleath.
“Are you sure you will be safe?” Ruarnon asked.
Uncle Omah smiled. “When I was two years younger than you, I slew two Zaldeaan guards who attacked our home during the uprising which won our independence. I can protect myself.”
Ruarnon couldn’t help asking, “How many did Father kill?”
Omah’s gaze darkened. “He wasn’t there. He snuck out to join our father in assaulting the Zaldeaan Garrison and was proclaimed king of Tarlah when our father died of his wounds. Urmillian expects much of you, but I doubt he expects you to brave assassins yet. He will think no less of you for returning home if that is what you fear.”
Ruarnon’s gaze fell. No matter how impossible Urmillian’s expectations seemed at times, they found themself striving to meet them. But Omah was Tarlah’s ambassador and Urmillian’s brother, so if Omah thought their retreat was necessary, it should be all right. Omah smiled kindly, and Ruarnon knew their uncle had their back.
“Benevolences, we must hurry!” Captain Arleath urged. “If they intend another attack and predict our flight, it will come soon.”
Ruarnon started to walk away, but their aunt snatched them into her arms. They smiled and hugged her back. Omah gave them a quick hug as well, then Captain Arleath was ushering them into another dimly lit servant’s corridor and the door closed behind them. Arleath led the way through the quiet stone space, and Ruarnon wondered if, beyond the palace, they could step into the open and walk out of Zaldeaa City without being recognised, accosted, or attacked.
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