If you fail to submit by sunset on the seventh day, our armies will break through your borders.
Should anything happen to Logan Wilde during this time, we will know about it and our armies will arrive even sooner.
Enjoy your coronation and the fact that yours will be the shortest reign of any Prince in the history of Archenfield.
Yours in ambition and anticipation,
Prince Ven and Prince Henning of Paddenburg
SEVEN DAYS UNTIL INVASION…
TWO
The Council Chamber, the Palace, Archenfield
“WE HAVE THREE OPTIONS.” AXEL BLAXLAND’S VOICE held the attention of each man and woman gathered within the Council Chamber. “One, we surrender. Two, we fight. Three, we seek alliances from our neighbor states.”
Prince Jared couldn’t help but envy the easy authority in his cousin’s voice. In the brief time that had elapsed since Jared had summoned his Captain of the Guard to show him the note—swiftly christened the Paddenburg Ultimatum—Axel’s response had been unflinching. Such gravitas was a needling reminder of the disparity in experience between the Prince and his cousin. Jared was a sixteen-year-old boy who had inherited the throne on his brother’s assassination; his cousin was nine years his senior, with far greater experience of political disputes and war itself. While Axel had fought alongside Prince Goran and Prince Anders on the battlefield, Jared and his younger brother, Edvin, had remained cosseted at the palace, playing games of war, where the worst bloodshed had been a scraped knee or elbow.
Jared wished he could summon even a smidgen of Axel’s composure to combat the whirling sense of vertigo that had become horribly familiar to him these past weeks. The new state of emergency had arrived so hard on the heels of the previous crisis of his brother’s murder that there hadn’t been time even to draw breath. It felt like a capricious twist of fate—but these were not two isolated incidents. The crazed rulers of Paddenburg had been the architects of the royal assassination plot, and now it was becoming clear that that had been only an opening gambit in their attempt to take control of Archenfield.
The ultimatum, with its biblical deadline, had made that explicit.
Jared glanced at the somber faces clustered around the Prince’s Table, each member of the Twelve in his or her designated position. The new Prince drew some comfort from the knowledge that this table, hewn long ago from a centuries-old oak, had endured many such crises; other rulers had sat in his position since the infancy of the Princedom, well before the intricate letters had been carved into the wood and filled with molten metal to spell out his title: “The Prince.” Other Princes had summoned meetings with different men and women, predecessors to the Twelve that he had gathered here today. Other Princes had stared into the eye of the storm, held their nerve and navigated the way to peace. He had to remember this.
“Surrender is not an option.” The words came not from one of those seated at the Prince’s Table itself but from the nearby dais, where Jared’s mother, Queen Elin, sat alongside Prince Edvin. It was Elin who had spoken, her voice clear and sharp as crystal.
Jared sensed that she had offered her words in order to fill the void created by his silence. He turned to meet her imperious, harshly beautiful face. “Of course we cannot surrender!” He was surprised by the force of his own voice. “But if we forge weighty enough alliances, then surely Paddenburg’s army will be forced to retreat? There might be no need for us to fight.”
His fleeting relief at having taken control was undercut by the slow shake of his cousin’s head. “I’m afraid that is a naïve thought,” Axel told him. “Paddenburg will attack, whatever alliances we have in place. The lunatic Princes have not come this far to back off without tasting the blood of Archenfield on their cannibal tongues.”
Jared frowned. Had it been necessary for Axel to underline his inexperience in front of the Twelve by branding his comment “naïve”? Not for the first time, he questioned his decision to elect Axel as his Edling, or heir. Only it hadn’t been his choice, had it? He had wanted Edvin for the role. It had been Queen Elin who had told him in no uncertain terms to choose Axel. He was still smarting from the memory of that manipulation as his mother resumed speaking.
“You are wrong, nephew. Of course a new alliance will make a difference. Do not forget that our timely agreement with Woodlark brought an end to the war with Eronesia. Prince Anders married Silva to save our Princedom. If the soldiers of Woodlark hadn’t helped our diminished forces to drive Eronesia back across the border, Archenfield would have fallen. Woodlark, and its own alliance with Malytor to the east, made Archenfield strong.”
“Whatever else we do, we must make ready to defend our borders.” Axel’s glance ranged over the assembly. “But I’m not saying I disagree with the principle of securing alliances. Far from it.”
“It’s good to know you don’t feel my every thought to be naïve,” Jared said sourly. Immediately, he regretted it. It sounded petty, even to his own ears.
“If we’re bandying about words like ‘naïve,’” said Kai Jagger, the Huntsman, “I’m not sure what hope we truly have of securing even one alliance within the seven days before Paddenburg invades.”
“Assuming they actually wait seven days!” Emelie Sharp, the Beekeeper, cut in. “If the accepted thinking is that they are crazy, why would we take anything they say at face value?”
Lucas Curzon, the Groom, now entered the fray: “Emelie is right. We cannot trust this enemy. In destroying the Woodlark alliance, Paddenburg has succeeded in making us weak again. It has been less than two years since the war with Eronesia ended. We’re still reeling from the loss of life that the prolonged fighting cost us. We simply don’t have the manpower to defend ourselves against a new threat.”
Jared was frustrated to hear this from Lucas, of all people. “Surely you’re not suggesting that we just give up?”
Lucas nodded sadly. “It gives me no satisfaction to say this, Prince Jared, but if we fight, we will lose.”
“I refuse to accept Archenfield’s defeat so quickly,” Jared countered. “We must fortify our border settlements and seek a fresh alliance.”
On the dais, his mother nodded encouragingly.
“Assuming we do pursue one or more strategic alliances,” the Huntsman resumed, “then who should undertake this mission?”
His question had been directed at Prince Jared, but it was Axel who responded. “Ordinarily, a task of such magnitude would fall to the Prince himself.”
Kai nodded. “Or, in his stead, the Captain of the Guard.” He paused, smiling. “Or perhaps the Edling.”
The implication behind the Huntsman’s words wasn’t lost on any of those in the room, least of all Prince Jared. He was too inexperienced to broker the all-important alliances; Axel would do a much better job.
Jared found himself responding before anyone else could. “I should go. I am the Prince.”
Kai nodded respectfully. “You are our Prince and the ruler of Archenfield, Jared. But in these exceptional circumstances, the Prince should not depart the Princedom.”
“The Huntsman speaks the truth.” A fresh interjection from Queen Elin. Jared met his mother’s eyes with a grimace. Was even she intent upon undermining him?
“Axel should go.” Jonas Drummond, the Woodsman, drew Jared’s attention back to the Prince’s Table.
At Jonas’s side, Morgan Booth shook his head. “We need Axel here,” the Executioner said, his muscled arms folded on the table. “We need Axel in charge of what little army we have left.”
A chuckle came from the other side of the table. All eyes turned swiftly from the Executioner to the Priest. “It would seem, Axel,” Father Simeon observed, “that you are quite indispensable on both sides of the gates. Congratulations to you!”
Axel shrugged off the Priest’s mischievous compliment.
“Well, what about Prince Jared?” Emelie butted in again. Her eyes were bright with conviction. “Why exactly can’t he go?”
/> Queen Elin did not miss a beat. “Even if he had recovered sufficiently from the traitor’s attack, it is not appropriate for the Prince to leave the Princedom or his subjects in a time of crisis. Prince Jared must remain here, to lead Archenfield through whatever turmoil lies ahead. He is our nation’s figurehead and a beacon of continuity.”
“Rather more than a mere figurehead, I trust,” Jared said. No one responded. Had they all lost confidence in him entirely?
Vera Webb, the Cook, cleared her throat with a phlegmy rattle—a sure sign she was about to take the floor. “If neither Prince Jared nor Axel is able to venture beyond the gates to seek these vital alliances, then who can we send?”
There was silence in the chamber. Then a crystal voice rang out once more. “I will go,” Queen Elin announced, rising to her feet.
“No!” Jared and Axel cried in unison.
Elin pursed her lips and remained standing, poised and as unyielding as a royal statue.
“Why not?” Elias Peck, the Physician, spoke now. “Why wouldn’t we ask Queen Elin to undertake such an important mission? She is a senior member of the royal family, who carries with her the experience of many years and countless other crises. She is a respected figure, both at home and abroad. She is known to all the leaders we would wish to approach. As such, I think we would struggle to find anyone better qualified to seek out these alliances.”
“There is truth in your words.” Nova Chastain, the Falconer, took up the baton. “But we should remember keenly the current animosity between Archenfield and Woodlark.” Her voice was low. “I intend no disrespect, but Queen Elin proved unable to save the alliance with Queen Francesca of Woodlark.”
“And I, in turn, intend no disrespect,” Queen Elin rejoined, “when I observe that your affair with my oldest son, Nova, all but wrecked that alliance beyond repair.”
The Queen’s words sent shock waves around the chamber, reminding everyone that Nova had conducted an illicit relationship with Prince Anders throughout his marriage to Silva, daughter of Queen Francesca and Prince Willem of Woodlark. Jared thought of Silva, whose lifeless body had been fished from the frigid waters of the river days after Anders’s assassination. Silva’s corpse was now reunited with the royal family of Woodlark, who still labored under the misapprehension that the grief-stricken widow had taken her own life. In truth, it had been the deranged Poet who had murdered her, at the behest of his masters in Paddenburg.
It had all been part of a plan to send Archenfield spiraling into chaos, and it had proved highly successful.
“We can’t lay the blame for our broken alliance with Nova,” Jared said, “when the true culprit sits in our Dungeons.” He thought of the disgraced Poet and the reference to him within the Paddenburg Ultimatum: “… should anything happen to Logan Wilde… we will know about it and our armies will arrive even sooner.” The Blood Price had underpinned the justice system of Archenfield since the Princedom’s very beginnings. Everything had a value—from the loss of a limb to the loss of a life. Yet Jared could not even extract the Blood Price from the assassin of the Prince and his Consort; Paddenburg had succeeded in rendering him impotent in this respect.
Axel interjected. “Logan Wilde, for all his deeds and posturing, is only the puppet of the Princes of Paddenburg. They are the true culprits of these unspeakable crimes. Let no one forget that, even for an instant.”
Murmurs of assent came from around the Prince’s Table.
It was Lucas Curzon who spoke next. “Queen Elin will need a team to accompany her beyond the borders.”
“I’ll go,” Morgan Booth offered, raising his hand.
“Of course you will,” said Emelie Sharp, not quite under her breath.
Prince Jared frowned, aware of the sordid whispers concerning his mother and the Executioner. He set his hands on the table and was, for once, grateful for the distraction of Axel’s voice.
“Securing an alliance is a long shot. We must do what we can to protect our border for as long as we can. I will put together an inventory from the armory and assess exactly how many trained fighters we have to send to protect the outlying settlements. Lucas, we’ll need armored horses. I want to know numbers and how soon you can be ready to deploy them. Elias, field hospitals will need to be erected a safe distance from the front line. I expect a plan on my desk by tomorrow morning. The rugged terrain in the south is our greatest natural defense. It will funnel any invaders into our path and slow the advance of however large an army. But if we follow this line of thinking, both the settlements of Grenofen and Inderwick would be in the immediate line of fire and need bolstering.”
“You are all talking as if this is decided,” Prince Jared said. “Shouldn’t I be the one to choose our strategy?” He glanced up and saw Hal Harness, the Bodyguard, watching him closely. He realized that Hal was the only one of the Twelve who had not yet spoken; it was not unusual for Hal to keep his own counsel. He heard Axel’s voice once more at his side. “Cast your emotions aside, Cousin Jared—”
“Prince Jared,” he cut in, angrily. “We are in the Council Chamber now. Please accord me the respect of my formal title, not my familial one.”
“Of course, Prince Jared,” Axel resumed, calm as ever. “I’m sorry to cause unintended offense. I just want you to see that this is actually a very sound idea.”
“Thank you, Axel.” The unflinching voice from the dais once more. Jared glanced across at his mother, her hands now resting on her narrow hips. “Perhaps it is worth reminding everyone that I have crossed the borders many times before.”
As fresh voices resumed around him, Jared lost track of the individual cut and thrust of the debate—all he heard was babble. The members of the Twelve—his own mother too—might as well be speaking a foreign language. And in a way, he supposed, they were: they spoke the language of experience. He was their ruler, and his place at the ancient table was demarcated by the glinting words “The Prince,” while this time tomorrow would see his formal coronation. But, as he glanced around the table, he suspected that even the placement of a crown on his head would do little to increase his grasp on authority.
I am their leader, he thought, as the voices grew in strength around him. But I may as well be invisible.
THREE
The Gardens, the Palace, Archenfield
WHAT THE PRINCE NEEDED MOST WAS SLEEP. AFTER the fresh traumas inflicted by the dying day, and all that awaited him on the other side of sunrise, he should have been in his bed. Instead, he was trudging around the palace gardens with his trusty wolfhound, Hedd, close by his side. Jared’s boots were caked in earth, his mind whirling with thoughts of the Paddenburg Ultimatum.
The message had been only a few lines long, but it had been written in a hand as elegant as its import was vicious.
Prince Jared had held the terrible note in his own hands and experienced a strange sensation, as though the parchment had been burning the pads of his fingers. It would certainly not have been beyond the twisted minds of Henning and Ven to soak their missive with poison or even to summon a supernatural power to taint it with a curse, but the burning had ultimately faded and Jared had been forced to accept that it was the words alone that had imbued the note with its horrible power.
It might as well have been dispatched from Hell as from the Black Palace of Paddenburg.
Jared slowed his pace, aware that his heart was racing once more. The taunting words of the note refused to leave his head; instead, they repeated and repeated there.
Your Princedom is irredeemably weakened. Paddenburg is ready to take over full control. You have seven days to surrender your lands and people to us.
Seven days. It was no time—no more than a breath, a heartbeat, in the history of Archenfield. The first seven days of Jared’s reign had been packed with incident, beginning with the discovery of his brother’s body and swiftly followed by the arrest and execution of the supposed assassin, then a second murder—that of the Prince’s pregnant Consort—and then a fres
h assassination attempt, mercifully, miraculously, unsuccessful, on the Falconer and, at last, the unmasking of the true assassin, who had plunged a dagger perilously close to Jared’s own heart.
It had taken the next seven days of his reign to plant his feet solidly upon the palace grounds and allow himself to say, “All these horrors are behind us now. The assassin is under lock and key. Our wounds are healing…” When he spoke of healing wounds, he meant not only the painful knitting together of the fibers in his punctured chest and the equally torturous realignment of the fractures in the Falconer’s spine, following her flight from the top of her tower, but also those deeper wounds that had been inflicted upon the court and the Princedom at large.
And now this fresh assault, the very day before his coronation…
Enjoy your coronation and the fact that yours will be the shortest reign of any Prince in the history of Archenfield.
He was to be denied even the illusion of hope in the first faltering steps of his reign—it was scarcely worth the effort currently employed by the steward tasked with polishing the Prince’s Crown for the morrow.
Jared paused from his circuit. He smiled to note Hedd instinctively halting his own movement. Stroking the hound affectionately under his chin—just where he liked it—Jared glanced up. They were not alone in the palace gardens. The Prince was rarely, if ever, alone these days. Hal Harness stood at a respectful distance, lighting a fresh cigarette and affecting to be casually enjoying this taking of the night air. Jared lifted a hand to acknowledge Hal. He knew that the Bodyguard must be as needful of sleep as he was, but when the Prince could not sleep, neither could Hal.
Hal lifted his own hand in salute, then let his arm fall, sheltering his smoke from a gust of autumnal breeze.
Jared sank onto a seat at the end of the gardens—Hedd slumping down at his feet—and gazed back at the palace. Darkness had long since laid claim to the Princedom and this night was painted in a deep, vivid blue, the crenellated outline of the palace buildings seeming somehow fringed in gold against its cerulean backdrop. It was a deceptively peaceful sight.