“Prince Henry, your other uncle, died of illness just before my ship sailed. At least that’s what they say—he died of an illness.”
“And Willard?” she demanded, asking about the only person still ahead of her on the Roll of Ascension for the throne of Wren.
Brice’s voice trembled. “He’s defying the wishes of everyone. Despite his advanced age, your uncle is accepting the throne as the rightful heir. If he dies, and you cannot be located, you will be declared legally dead, and Princess Elenore will assume the throne.”
Prin laughed without humor. “Willard sounds just like a true member of my family. Stubborn and defiant. But they’ll kill him for it.”
“Why would he accept?” Maude asked. “I thought he and his brother always said they would not accept the crown because of their advanced age.”
Prin turned to face her. “He did it to provide time for me to return home and claim my legacy, and so Eleonore is never proclaimed Queen of Wren.”
CHAPTER TWO
Prin’s statement implying she would immediately return to Wren to claim the throne from her uncle Willard, the new King of Wren, stilled the room. The three others exchanged dismayed expressions with her, the burst of information not only came as a surprise but as a shock—an unwelcome one.
Sara said, “I’ve loved living here with all of you. This feels like home, and you’re my family.”
“Me too,” Prin said, lifting her chin and fighting back the tears. “But it’s time for me to go home. My education has only begun, but thanks to all of you, I’ll return to Wren better prepared.”
Brice said nothing, but his eyes took in every exchange as they shifted from one woman to the next.
Maude poured another cup of her endless tea and spooned in two sugars instead of one, a rare occurrence that drew the attention of all three younger people. As she slowly stirred, she raised her eyes to briefly meet those of each of them. “We all knew this day would come, but rarely spoke of it, or what we would do when it arrived. I propose we halt our conversation while we take this information into account, and then, perhaps this afternoon, we convene for a family discussion.”
Prin started to object and explain again that it was her duty and obligation to return home but saw the wisdom of the suggestion. She was not the only one affected or disturbed. Prin whirled and strode out the door to the garden, and reached for her throwing knife as she crossed the threshold. It flew in mid-stride, twenty steps from Treeman. The knife struck the target dead center, the point buried in the soft wood of the third Treeman they had constructed in the back yard. The previous two targets had been hauled away in years past, too damaged for anything but kindling.
The knife she wore on her thigh had also found its way into her hand, unbidden. Not magic, but training. After replacing it, she grabbed a battered practice staff as she passed the bucket holding ten of them upright, and worked on her power-strikes for Hitman, the padded stump used for single-person practice. Knees flexed, hands positioned correctly, she used her back and shoulders to propel the ends of the staff against the leather-bound practice target. The pattern sounded almost like a woodpecker attacking a tree, each strike more robust than the previous.
Her heart and mind were not in it. She fumbled a simple progressive pattern and tossed the staff aside in irritation. The stone bench under the green apple tree drew her. She sat and looked at the garden with unseeing, frightened eyes. When her thoughts returned to her mediocre performance on Hitman, Prin remembered she had called the target Jam for a time.
Jam was the captain’s son on her first sea voyage. He had become her nemesis from the almost the first. When he threatened to expose Prin’s identity, Maude had used her magic to send him off on a ship to some faraway land, but months later he’d returned, again searching for Princess Hannah, her actual name. Maude sent him away again and again until at last, they didn’t see him for two full years. However, his persistence and tales of fantastic rewards had drawn bounty hunters and assassins Prin’s way as he tried to punish her for winning each encounter.
She reached for the nearest apple hanging on a low branch and bit into the ripe fruit. Brice came outside to sit in the grass near her. She snarled, “More sad news?”
“No, I thought you might want some company or have more questions.”
She spat out the skin of the apple. She never liked the skins and should have peeled it with her knife before eating. “I’m sorry. You’re just the messenger.”
“More than that, I hope.”
“I was trying to apologize for my abruptness.”
Brice allowed the conversation to fall flat while Prin worked things out for herself. He always understood there are times when silence is the best response. He’d explained that in the past, and this was one of those times.
She threw the apple core into the garden with more aggression than she intended, turned to him and said, “There’s more. My uncle is only accepting the throne to give me time to return home and claim it from him—but he’s over eighty. And barely alive.”
Brice said, “So?”
“Alive. Meaning they haven’t killed Willard yet, but it’s not like killing a young, healthy person where you must send a royal carriage over a cliff. At his age, they could simply smother him with a pillow and people would believe he died in his sleep. A drop of poison in his food, or a fall down a flight of stone stairs—after a gentle shove, would do the same. But instead, they let him live. Why?”
“It’s obvious. To draw you back to Wren,” Brice said. “The other royals, and even the peasants will revolt at the continued murders of their rulers, but that aside, there are also those who supported King Harold and your father. They are old-line leaders and will stand against Princess Eleonore and for you. They will only accept her if you are proven dead. And, of course, King Willard, now that he’s crowned, must either die or give up his throne.”
Prin asked Brice, “How long were you at sea?”
“Seventeen days, plus five days to travel from Wren to Indore. Two more sitting in port waiting for the ship to sail. This is day twenty-five since the King’s carriage went over the cliff. There was to be a state funeral for the King and his son after the tragic accident, and the coronation of Willard ten days later, but my ship had already sailed.”
Prin was counting on her fingers. “Willard has only been King for perhaps a dozen days. If I were anywhere in Wren, I would have come forward by now to support my claim for the next in line. That absence tells my enemies I’m not anywhere in the kingdom and that I will have to travel there to claim my rightful place.”
“And they will wait for you at every turn, path, road, and back-trail. Every bounty hunter, assassin, low-life, and rebel in the kingdom willing to take your head to earn a fortune will be searching for you.” Brice threw a punch at an imaginary foe.
From his sitting position, it looked as if Brice’s awkward punch missed, but Prin didn’t remark or laugh at his antics, as she normally did. She settled back onto the bench with her knees pulled up under her chin. Brice was right—and wrong. They would wait for her, but none knew that for five years she’d studied sorcery with Maude, a slave-driver, and a master teacher. She had also taught Prin and Brice what little they could find in books about the powers of a mage. However, Maude never managed to locate a mage to instruct them. There were strict rules within their ranks about who could be educated. Males with potential joined the mage ranks, usually as children, and learned. All others were shunned.