He turned now to the man at his side. Much as Jared would rather be back indoors and under his bedcovers, if he was to be subjected to activity at this hour, at least Kai Jagger was an easy, undemanding companion. Jagger was not much given to small talk—or to any kind of talk really. Watching him now, Jared had the feeling that Kai’s senses were far more engaged with the plants and animals surrounding him than with his human companion. This suited Jared just fine.
He couldn’t help but feel intimidated by Jagger. Jared considered himself to be in reasonably good physical condition. At sixteen years old, his body seemed to be constantly evolving from that of a boy into a young man. With each day, he appeared to pack on harder muscle and notice gains in his strength and endurance—a metamorphosis that happened almost without conscious effort. Though perhaps all these training exercises had something to do with it. But, in spite of Jared’s growing strength, and indeed height, he always felt like a puny youth in comparison to Kai Jagger.
He was unsure of Kai’s age—and had never dared to ask him. It would seem somehow too intimate a question—even though he was a prince and entitled to ask whatever came into his mind. Surely, he must be in his forties now. For as long as Jared had known him, the hair on Kai’s head and beard had been bright silver. And yet his face, though ruddy from endless days exposed to the wind and sun, was smooth and for the most part unlined.
Kai was now one of the older members of the Twelve, having kept his life while others around him had been lost in the last war. It was no surprise that Kai Jagger had made it back from the battlefield unscathed. As a boy, growing up in the court, Jared had aspired to become something like Kai when he reached adulthood. But even now that he was sixteen, and in spite of his growing physical power, he sensed that he would always feel like a stripling boy in comparison to Jagger.
“He should make his way out any time now, sir,” Jagger informed Jared, raising his own crossbow. Jared knew that the onus was on him to make the kill shot. Jagger was only readying himself to fire a second if the entry was not clean or decisive enough.
There was a sudden noise and Jared tensed, preparing himself for action, but he swiftly realized that the sound had come not from the woodland but from above. He glanced up in time to see a falcon flying overhead.
“Nova,” he whispered. It wasn’t unusual to see one of her falcons on the wing at this hour, but there was something ominously purposeful about the bird today. Or perhaps he was only imagining it. The prince took in, with awe, way the bird climbed, with seemingly minimal effort, to a higher airstream.
Now he felt Kai’s breath, warm at his ear.“Don’t allow yourself to be distracted, Prince Jared,” the Chief Huntsman told him. “Stay focused on the woods. You may only get one chance at this.”
Obediently, Jared returned his full concentration to the woodland. The sun was growing stronger all the time and now a golden shaft of light struck a section of the trees. As it did, Jared witnessed a most curious—and impossible—sight; his father, Prince Goran, stepped out from between the trees and glanced toward him.
Utterly transfixed, Jared raised his hand in greeting. His father lifted his own hand, in mirror fashion. Jared found himself trembling. His father had been dead for two years now—slain on the battlefield before Anders had rallied the troops to the final, decisive victory. So how could Prince Goran be here now?
“Focus!” Kai Jagger told him, urgently. “Look! Here he comes. Take aim!”
When Jared looked again, his father had disappeared. In his stead, the sunlight now illuminated a stag.
The stately creature stepped out from the line of trees, as if drawn by the light. Their fellows had executed their part. Now it was down to him to finish the job. But the stag was such a fine, noble creature. And Jared was still in shock at the strange vision of his father. He hesitated, bow strung back.
“Now!” Jagger commanded him. “Do it now!”
No “sir,” no “Prince Jared.” No further pretense about who was in command here.
Feeling a cold sweat overtake him, Jared released the bow and sent his arrow racing toward the trees. And that’s exactly where it took root—in the trunk of a tree.
Before the stag could run, however, a second arrow had taken flight through the air. And, of course, this one made perfect contact with its target. Kai Jagger’s aim would never fail at this range.
The fatal arrow had plunged into the stag’s neck. The entry was deep and the creature reared up for a moment, then fell slowly backward as the tip of the arrow buried itself deeper still, slicing through the animal’s nervous system and almost instantaneously shutting down one faculty after another. Jared could see the waves of pain the stag was experiencing, until at last its ability to stand gave way and it crashed down to the wet ground, sending up a spray of dew. Jared was filled with a heavy sadness and was unsure if this stemmed from his own sense of failure or from such a close proximity to death.
Jagger sighed, resting a heavy hand on Jared’s shoulder for a moment. “Better luck, next time. You must not allow yourself to be distracted, sir. I believe I have told you this before.”
Without further conversation, they set off toward the dying prey. Their two fellows emerged from the woodland and made their way over to meet them. As the four hunters were reunited, the stag looked up wearily, then gave out its last tremulous, defeated breath.
“Well done, sir!” one of Jagger’s subordinates congratulated Jared. Evidently, she hadn’t noticed that it was not Jared’s arrow that had felled the stag.
Jared opened his mouth to correct her mistake but Jagger’s voice now cut across his own, rendering him silent. The Chief Huntsman gave brief instructions to his team and, in answer, they began stringing up the beast to transport it back to the palace. Jared averted his eyes.
Since being named as Anders’s Edling, his heir, Jared had been subjected to these hunting exercises every week. It was not something he naturally excelled at, unlike his older—and indeed his younger—brother. It seemed that the middle Wynyard brother lacked the killer instinct. But if the unlikely day did come when he was crowned Prince of All Archenfield, he would have to be as precise and ruthless a shot as anyone in the Princedom. That was the plan at least. But this morning’s outing had only proved how far from fruition that plan still was.
Jared knew that Anders wouldn’t have fluffed that shot any more than Jagger would. How much more rewarding Jagger must have found it to train Anders in princely pursuits. Not for the first time, Jared thought how little he had wanted his brother to choose him as his Edling. If only Anders had chosen Cousin Axel instead. Axel was dexterous enough with a bow and arrow. He seemed to enjoy all sporting endeavors—especially those ending in death.
His reverie was broken by the drumming of hooves. He looked up to see the Chief Groom on horseback, galloping toward the hunting party at breakneck speed. The fields were still cloaked in mist and Lucas Curzon’s horse seemed almost to be flying through the air rather than pounding over solid ground. Glancing to his side, Jared saw that Kai was standing alert. Did he know, or suspect, the Chief Groom’s purpose? If so, he was giving nothing away.
Lucas brought his steed to a stop right at the foot of the fallen stag. He swiftly dismounted and stepped closer still. Jared held his breath, seeing pain in Lucas’s expressive blue eyes. He could tell it was bad news, even before the Chief Groom fell to his knees before him.
“I’m so sorry, Prince Jared,” Lucas began, his voice unusually husky. He took a breath and resumed more forcefully. “Prince Anders is dead.” He paused, but only for an instant. “Your brother was found dead in his bedchamber. It looks like he was assassinated.”
Jared was dimly aware of Kai Jagger asking a question and of Lucas Curzon turning to him and beginning to answer. He could see the Chief Groom’s mouth moving, though as if in slow motion, though, and with no comprehensible sound emerging. Jared felt his body going through a sequence of convulsions. He remembered keenly the way the arrow
had buried itself in the stag’s flesh, causing deeper and deeper impact and chaos within. Now he was the stag and this terrible news was the arrow. His brother was dead. Now he, Jared, was not merely a prince. He was the Prince of All Archenfield; ruler over all the lands his forefathers had claimed for themselves and fought many wars to protect.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. His first thought was that it was Kai Jagger again. But looking up, he saw that Kai was still deep in conversation with Lucas. Kai’s two companions stood with them. In which case, whose hand was on his shoulder? He turned and found himself looking into his father’s face once more. It was a terrible shock. How could it be anything else? The ghost—if that was what it was—did not speak, but Jared knew that his father was trying to comfort him, to tell him to pull himself together. He nodded, discreetly, so the others wouldn’t see. Then he drew himself to his full height. As he did so, he realized with a fresh wave of sadness that his father had now faded from view again.
Jared felt giddy. Then nauseous. A deep churning sickness seemed to rise up from his entrails. Powerless to hold back, he opened his mouth and emitted a quite spectacular torrent of vomit all over his hunting boots.
THREE
The Palace
AS THE GROOMS LED THE HORSES OFF TO THE stables and the team of hunters dispersed, Prince Jared heard the three chimes of the Cook’s Bell. Archenfield’s sixteen-year-old new ruler strode alone toward the back doors of the palace. He was dimly aware of activity going on around him—of the members of the Cook’s team already out picking herbs and vegetables in the Kitchen Garden, scurrying to obey the forbidding Vera Webb as quickly as possible; of Emelie Sands, the Beekeeper, placing a cover on one of her hives. Such actions spoke of order and continuity. But how could it be so? With the news of Anders’s murder, everything within the Princedom was fractured.
Jared could feel his heart hammering with the anticipation of everything that awaited him inside the palace walls. He saw now that Logan Wilde was standing on the back steps, ready to receive him. Logan was another, important, member of the Twelve. His title—the Poet—could at first prove deceptive. Yes, he was capable of crafting fine poems and stories, but his position was as much political as ceremonial.
Logan now raised his hand. Jared nodded, looking with new eyes at the tall, slim man standing in readiness to greet him. As the Prince approached, Logan’s dark closely cropped head bowed down for a moment in respect. When he raised his face again, there was warmth in Logan Wilde’s hazel eyes. He was smiling at Jared, doing his best no doubt to offer reassurance. But Jared thought he could see signs of strain in the Poet’s face. He knew that Logan had been one of his brother’s most constant companions.
The Twelve were not simply the Prince’s retinue and the comrades with whom he ran the Princedom; they were each devoted to their ruler. Jared was keenly aware that his older brother had inspired a deep sense of devotion within everyone from his officers to his subjects. The ripples of his death would spread far and wide and deep. Jared already felt a heavy sense of dread at even attempting to walk in his brother’s golden footsteps.
“I need to see him,” Jared told Logan Wilde, as soon as the two young men were within earshot of one another.
“Yes, of course, your highness,” Logan said. “I’ll take you to him.”
It felt strange to be addressed as “your highness” rather than “sir”—as if Anders, the true Prince, was standing just behind him, or they were acting out some skit. But this was real and Prince Jared knew he was going to have to get used to it; that it was least of the changes he must swiftly acclimatize to. Logan pushed open the doors into the palace to allow Prince Jared entry. Together, they proceeded swiftly along the corridor.
“Who discovered him?” Jared asked, keen to marshal what facts there were.
“It was Silva,” Logan answered. “As you know, the Prince and his consort have—had”—he corrected himself—“separate but adjoining quarters. She heard him cry out in the middle of the night and went to see what was wrong.” Logan and Jared pushed through a heavy oak door, leading into the heart of the main palace building. “Needless to say, Silva is in a deep state of shock. Your mother and brother are with her now. I will take you to them—”
“I’ll see Anders first,” Jared cut Logan off.
“Yes, of course, your highness” Logan nodded. “Afterward, is what I meant. Prince Jared, you are aware that as Anders’s Edling, you now assume a host of new duties, even before your brother’s funeral and certainly before your coronation? Be under no illusions, from the moment Prince Anders’s body was discovered, to all intents and purposes, you became Prince of Archenfield.”
Before Jared could answer, he saw ahead of them a pair of servants turn a corner and come toward them. The man and woman looked surprised to see Prince Jared and, seeing the naked heartbreak etched on their faces, he realized they were looking to him to offer them strength and comfort. How on earth was he supposed to deliver that? He turned his head, feeling cowardly as he did so—as if he had failed the very first, small challenge presented to him as de facto ruler. He was relieved when they continued on their way.
Perhaps having witnessed his unease, Logan placed a reassuring hand on Jared’s shoulder. The Poet’s touch was fleeting, but still Jared drew some comfort from the gesture. They turned the next corner.
“Things will happen very quickly now,” Logan told him. “Much will be asked of you. You are going to need an office—somewhere to receive people. The obvious solution is for you to move into your brother’s quarters.”
Jared scowled and shook his head. “I have absolutely no intention of sleeping in my dead brother’s bed…”
“No, of course not,” Logan said. “Not yet. But I assume you don’t have the same reservations about sitting at his desk.” His eyes met Jared’s. “In a way, you could say it would forge continuity between the two of you, your highness.”
Jared knew when he was beaten into submission. “All right—yes, I’ll use his desk and his office. But I’m sleeping in my own quarters until I decide otherwise.”
That seemed good enough for the Poet, who nodded before continuing. “On the whole, I think it best we take one step at a time, but the big challenge will come tomorrow when you address the people from the palace balcony.” Already, Jared’s blood was running cold at the prospect. “You have two options. Either I can announce the news of Anders’s death and you can follow with some rousing words…”
Jared stopped dead in his tracks, wondering how exactly he’d find rousing words with which to address the people. Pausing beside him, it seemed that Logan had read his mind.
“Don’t look so worried, your highness!” Logan said, offering him two sheets of folded paper. “I took the liberty of preparing something for you. As a starting point at least.”
“Thank you,” Jared said, gratefully taking the papers and tucking them safely into one of his pockets.
They had almost reached the main palace staircase, which cut up through the hall in a vast Y-shape. The walls of the Grand Hall were lined with portraits of the royal family, past and present. Jared paused before a painting of his father, feeling the all too familiar jab of inferiority. He knew that his father had been no more than sixteen himself when the portrait was made. It was years before he came to the throne but you could see in the set of his eyes that he was ready, even then.
Looking at the image of Prince Goran, Jared was struck by how much Anders had resembled their father. It wasn’t only that they were both possessed of straw-gold hair and blue eyes, while Jared’s own hair and eyes were deep brown. There was something commanding about Goran’s and Anders’s faces, whether in life or in art. Each had possessed an unwavering certainty that he was born to rule. Jared had never felt that way and, now that he held the reins of the Princedom, he felt less qualified than ever.
He looked over to see Logan Wilde, a few steps ahead, watching him. Surely the Poet must be thinking the same thought—tha
t things had come to a pretty pass when someone like Jared was in command of the Princedom. But if the Poet was thinking such things, he gave no sign of it. Instead, he gave a warm smile and gestured for Jared to follow him up the stairs.
They were passed by more servants, who were weighed down with bundles of heavy black cloth. Jared realized that they had been given the job of covering all the mirrors in the palace. The same thing had happened two years before, after his father’s death. He remembered his uncle Viggo telling him that the mirrors might trap the souls of the survivors. They would be covered for a full seven days.
It might only be a superstition but it was a chilling one. Jared watched as two women cloaked a large, ornate mirror in black. In spite of the niggling sense of unreality he was experiencing, something about the sight of the mirror, in its mourning garb, drove home to him that all this was real. A nightmare, perhaps, but not one from which he was about to wake.
“You mentioned two options before?” he said to Logan, attempting to focus on practical matters.
“Yes.” The Poet nodded. “The second possibility is that you make the death announcement as well. But with some of the servants already aware of the news, it’s only a matter of time before word spreads beyond the palace walls.”
“What do you suggest?” Jared asked.
“I suggest we send messengers to the settlements,” Logan answered, decisively. “That way, when the people come here, they will arrive already knowing that Prince Anders is dead. They will come to see what you are made of and how you will ensure that the Blood Price is paid.”
“The Blood Price,” Jared echoed.