Mercy's Prince (3 page)

Why
couldn’t you have died instead of Waryn
? It took a moment for Valerian to realize the
words had not been spoken aloud. Still, they took his breath away. Valerian was
able to focus instead on one of the flickering candles.

“We
were ambushed. Everything happened so fast we didn’t have time to properly arm
ourselves.” He swallowed. Then, stammering, he gave a brief account of the
battle and Waryn’s death. Valerian tried to downplay his role in it, but his
cowardice was laid bare. He might as well have murdered his brother.

“And
what shall I do with you, Valerian?”

“I—I
do not know, Sire. I feel quite unprepared to take Waryn’s place.” His throat
constricted, and he could not continue.

“Take
his place? You?”

Valerian
flinched and instinctively looked up again. Orland’s face was terrible with
grief and anger. When Valerian met his gaze, the veil parted again, and his
father’s thoughts pummeled him like fists:
Waryn was perfect in every way.
You have always been a dreamer, a misfit, not worthy to touch the hem of your
brother’s robe
.

After
grimacing, as if he wrestled within himself, Orland spoke aloud.

“Our
line has been unbroken since Alden the Great. I will not let it end with
Waryn.” He shook out the folds in his robe. “You will become the warrior prince
Levathia expects you to be and stay away from those priests and their accursed
parchments. A warrior king needs expertise in spear and bow, in battle tactics,
not history and philosophy.”

Valerian
swallowed the lump in his throat. His father leaned so close his hot breath
touched Valerian.

“If
you do not apply yourself to learning the arts of war, then I will condemn you
as a traitor, personally cut off your head, and give the crown to one more
worthy.”

Valerian
closed his eyes and swallowed again.

“Yes,
Your Majesty,” he managed to whisper. One more worthy. Who could be more worthy
in the king’s eyes than Caelis?

***

Caelis drained his goblet of wine and slammed
it to the floor, denting the rim of the cup.

Why? Why?
Why
had Waryn died instead of
his worthless brother? He slumped in his chair and dropped his head to his
hands.

“Sir Caelis?” asked his page. “Can I get anything
for you?”

“No,” Caelis groaned. He jerked upright. “Yes.
You can bring me the head of Prince Valerian on a platter.”

“Sir?” The boy’s eyes widened in horror.

“Never mind.” Caelis waved his hand. “Just
leave me in peace.” He laughed bitterly. There was no such thing as peace.

“As you wish, Sir Caelis.” The page bowed and
left Caelis alone in his room.

Caelis stood and began to pace. His grief
focused on his anger, on his contempt for Valerian.

“How unfair,” he snarled. “How utterly unjust
that the whelp survived while the greatest prince and knight in Levathia died.”
All their plans, all their dreams for the future were now gone. Waryn had
promised, when he eventually became king, to make Caelis Lord High Constable or
perhaps even Lord High Chancellor. Now Waryn’s useless, monkish brother would
become heir to the throne, and what would happen to Caelis’ ambitions then? His
hands curled into fists as he sank to his knees, and a sob escaped him. “Waryn!
My brother in every way but birth—”

Before the hot tears could flow, Caelis
stumbled to his feet. He found the dented goblet and refilled it from the
wineskin over and over until all the wine was gone.

Mercy’s
hands trembled while she set the table. Her apron bore the stains of the long
day’s work to make sure everything was perfect for Gabriel’s visit. She knew
Papa would be more critical than usual when he surveyed all her preparations.
Thankfully Rafael had been mostly cooperative and now sat in a corner of the
room making a pen with sticks and rocks to contain his clay sheep.

Papa
entered the cottage in the black mood that had fallen on him ever more
frequently since her mother’s death. His eyes narrowed at her.

“Daughter,
make haste. Brother Gabriel is on his way.” He scanned the table and then the
rest of the room.

If
he found a single cobweb Mercy would never hear the end of it, but fortunately
she had managed to make the cottage as clean as possible. Papa sniffed the air,
only now noticing the aroma coming from the iron pot hung over the fire in the
pit.

“What
is that?”

“Savory
potato pie. Isn’t that Brother Gabriel’s favorite?”

“It
does smell good,” he admitted reluctantly. Then he examined her appearance.
“Turn around.”

Mercy
slowly pivoted. Her heart thumped unevenly. Why was Papa so determined to find
fault?

“Your
apron is stained. Can you not make sure you are pleasing to your future
husband?”

Mercy
faced Papa. His face was set in hard lines, like chiseled stone. It did no good
to argue with him. He only became more unreasonable.

“Yes,
Papa.” She removed the apron and put on her good one, the one she only wore on
holy days. Mama had embroidered the hem with tiny balmflowers to match the
design of their family’s hair clasps. What if she spilled something on it? She
never wore this apron when cooking or serving food.

There
was a knock at the door, and Mercy’s gut twisted. When Papa opened the door,
Brother Gabriel stepped inside. He was taller than Papa but not much younger.
His brown woolen cap was one shade darker than his face, and when he turned to
shut the door, his waist-length braid came into view. Gabriel greeted Papa and
then faced her.

Mercy
trembled. Gabriel reminded her of a hawk she’d seen up close, and she was his
helpless prey. He never smiled, and his dark eyes, hooded like a hawk’s, bore
into hers. Mercy always dreaded the moment when he
Saw
her thoughts.
Thankfully she had nothing in her mind other than worry over supper and Rafael’s
behavior, for Gabriel’s Sight cut open her mind, exposing her innermost being
and looking for flaws.

“Do
I smell savory potatoes?” he asked in his deep voice. Though the words were
pleasant, there was no smile in his eyes.

She
dipped her head, breaking eye contact and so escaping his Sight. “You do,
Brother Gabriel. Won’t you be seated, please?”

He
and Papa sat at the square table. Mercy had already placed two trenchers and
wooden goblets of spring water. She willed her hands to still their trembling
while she filled the trenchers with potatoes for each man. Then she stood
nearby while Gabriel blessed the food and their home.

Home?
This
cottage had not been a home since Mama died, no matter how much Mercy tried to
make it so. She opened her eyes when she heard the end of the blessing and
stood quietly while the men ate, in case they needed more food or water.

“Did
you send our response to the king’s summons, Brother Gabriel?” Papa asked
around a mouthful of potato pie.

Gabriel
nodded and finished chewing his smaller bite. Mercy couldn’t help but notice
his table manners were much more refined than Papa’s.

“The
king’s messenger returned as scheduled and added it to his pack.” Gabriel’s
face appeared thoughtful. “If his horse is as fast as he boasts, the king will
receive our answer within the week.”

“And
everyone signed it?”

“Yes,
Brother Joel. Not one was reluctant.”

Mercy
remembered yesterday’s conversation with Michael.
Perhaps one was reluctant
.
Gabriel must have written that the men could not fight for the king in his war.
If she knew how to write her name, and if she were allowed to sign, would she
have agreed to disobey the king? She’d heard the whispers, the frightening word
treason
. Wasn’t the punishment for treason a terrible, painful death?

“Daughter!”
Papa’s shout made her jump. “I said more water.”

“Yes,
Papa.” Mercy grabbed the clay pitcher of water too quickly, and some of it
sloshed onto the table.

“Must
you be so clumsy?” Papa glared at her.

“I’m
sorry, Papa.” Mercy used her apron, her good apron, to wipe the spill.

Gabriel
held up a hand. “No need to scold her. ’Tis water only and will shortly dry.”
His piercing gaze met her eyes.

Mercy
broke the contact and carefully refilled the men’s goblets. Fortunately they
didn’t linger over the meal, and Papa left with Gabriel to consult with the
other men. Then she and Rafael ate what remained of the potatoes.

            *         

The
next morning Mercy arose, earlier than usual, from her pallet on the floor.
Papa and Rafael slept soundly. Mercy crept past them, grabbed her bucket, and
slipped out the door without either of them stirring. By the waning moon’s dim
light, she walked to the gate and with a grunt lifted the bar that locked it
each night. Usually she didn’t leave to fetch water until the gateman arrived
just before sunrise. But that was an hour away, and Mercy didn’t want to wait.

She
hesitated just outside the open gate, wondering if her punishment would be
worth the extra hour of solitude.
Yes
, she decided,
it would
. An
hour in the pillory was nothing compared with Papa’s daily discontent.

Mercy
hurried down to the river and turned right when she reached the bridge, her
bare feet hugging the winding dirt path she knew so well. She held the wooden
bucket close to her chest, which slowed her pace a little. A low branch slapped
her head, knocking her kerchief askew.

She
pulled off the cloth and thought of flinging it into the brambles, but
practicality prevented her. It might feel good for the moment, but if she lost
it, Papa would insist she make another before she could leave the house again.

“I
understand about the braid,” she said aloud. “But I don’t understand why our
heads must always be covered. In winter, yes. On rainy days, yes. But when it’s
hot, the scarf is binding and uncomfortable.” Just once, she’d like to unbraid
her hair and run as fast as she could to see if the long tresses, which fell
below her knees, would fly behind her like a piece of cloth.

Mercy
reached her favorite spot along the river, a quiet secluded bend. Here the
village was hidden from view up on the bluff, not even a glimpse of the log
wall encircling the buildings as protection from wild animals.

“I
don’t understand that, either.” She dropped the bucket on the path. “I have
never seen a dragon, large or small. Perhaps they no longer exist.”

She
leaned against the trunk of one of the willows, her eyes adjusted to the near
darkness. The water rippled over the rocks with a cheerful sound. The willow
branches whispered in the breeze. Their outline grew clearer where they hung
over the water. Below them lay a fallen tree trunk she and Serene used to climb
on, daring one another to jump into the river. Of course neither of them ever
had.

Mercy
sidled out along the rough trunk and sat down, dipping her toes in the cold
water. Here she could forget there were other people in the world. No angry
Papa, no exhausting little brother, no suffocating village rules, no impending
marriage to a joyless man old enough to be her father. She kept her place on
the fallen tree until the sky began to lighten. As tempting as it was to
reflect on Michael’s doubts as well as her own, she had been trained from a
young child to do her duty, and she would do it if for no other reason than to
honor her mother’s memory.

With
a sigh Mercy moved back to the bank and jumped off the tree. She filled the
bucket from the river and lugged it back up the bluff. She might as well accept
her punishment for leaving the gate open and get it over with. She had another
long day ahead.

***

The funeral for Prince Waryn lasted all the
following day. In the Keep’s chapel, there was first a private service,
followed by a ridiculous spectacle in the great courtyard. Valerian found them
intolerable, both from having to sit and think about his guilt in causing Waryn’s
death and the certain knowledge his brother would have found the spectacle
ridiculous, too.

Everyone in the Keep was present in the
courtyard. Even Valerian’s mother, Queen Winifred, made one of her rare public
appearances, though she was scarcely recognizable in her black gown and
thickly-draped veils. The more Waryn’s prowess as a warrior and his leadership
abilities were praised, the smaller Valerian became. He could never be
one-tenth the prince his brother had been, not if he had fifty more years to
prepare.

Lord Most High
, he silently prayed.
Have
mercy on me
.
Show me the way I must take, and be my strength, for I have
none
.

Valerian’s prayer was interrupted by a loud
choral anthem, martial in tone rather than funereal, jarring him back to
reality. People flowed into the great hall, probably anticipating the drunken
festival that would follow the somber occasion. King Orland came toward him,
the blackness of his gaze matching his mourning attire. No doubt he would tell
Valerian his presence at the feast was expected. There was only one possible
way to avoid attending.

“Sire.” Valerian bowed, speaking before his
father could. “I would like to request the privilege of standing vigil with my
brother tonight.”

Orland frowned. Valerian was sure his father
had not expected such a request from him.

“I see no reason why you shouldn’t be the one
to stand vigil, Valerian, as we will lay Waryn in the family tomb tomorrow.” He
held out his dragon signet ring for Valerian to kiss.

Valerian bent over his father’s hand and
noticed Sir Caelis standing behind the king. When Valerian straightened and met
the knight’s gaze, he clearly
Saw
Caelis’ raw grief for Waryn along with
dismay that Valerian would usurp his rightful place beside his friend’s body.
Valerian pitied Caelis and almost retracted his request, but Valerian needed
that time with Waryn more. After all, Caelis had Waryn’s companionship in life
and did not need to seek his forgiveness, as Valerian did.

“Then may I have your leave, Sire, to retire to
the chapel for the night?” Valerian stared at the hem of his fathers’ black
robe so as not to risk
Seeing
his thoughts.

“You may.”

King Orland moved slowly toward the great hall,
followed by Sir Caelis and many courtiers. Breathing a prayer of thanksgiving,
Valerian left the public gathering for the blessed privacy of the Keep’s
chapel, where he might finally grieve in peace.

            *         

Valerian entered the chapel and quietly shut
the door behind him. Many of the candles had been snuffed, but enough remained
lit to cast a soft glow on Waryn’s frozen form atop the bier, now covered with
a white linen shroud. Valerian advanced toward the altar and knelt at the rail,
close enough to reach out and touch the bier if he wanted to.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, but whether to
Waryn or the Most High he wasn’t sure. For as long as he lived, he would never
escape the guilt and consequences of that one moment of inaction.

At first Valerian was able to focus on
prayer—for his brother’s soul, for the king and queen that they might be
comforted in their grief, and for himself, that he might somehow find the will
to step into his new role with a whole heart. Later, as the hours wore on, his
knees began to pain him. He thought of looking for a cushion, but pushed that
notion aside. Sore knees were the least he could suffer for Waryn’s sake.

The noise of the revelers in the great hall
grew loud enough he heard snatches of drunken singing and laughter, which made
it difficult to concentrate. At one point he heard the door to the chapel
quietly open, then footsteps, and he glanced over his shoulder. Drew approached
with a small gourd.

“Drew? What are you doing here?” Valerian stood
up, grateful for the excuse to allow circulation to return to his legs, albeit
painfully.

The squire bowed and handed Valerian the gourd.

“I know you’re not permitted to eat, but I
discovered you are allowed water.”

“Thank you.” Valerian took a long drink and
handed the gourd back to Drew. “You’d best return to the great hall. The—king
may have need of you.” He caught himself before he said, “the prince.” Although
Drew must have known what Valerian meant to say, he gave no sign.

“As you wish, Your Highness.” Drew bowed again
and left the way he came.