CHAPTER ONE

  The Ill-Fated Prince

  “O’ hazy eye of the blue moon above,” sang the young bard who sat on a rickety wooden stool by the tavern’s loh fire, “bestow me the fortune of lovers and go~~old…”

  Usually, bards wielded all manner of sorcerous illusions to apany their songs. From jured fog to colorful lights and even dang spirits; the master bards of the Atn Imperium turned every tuo a magical performa not him. Not this youthful, purple-haired bard who dared to eain a gathering of the most dour-looking patrons he had ever entered with only his void lute to woo them.

  “And should your red twin fill the night with death and cold,” he strummed his lute with a skill that belied his young years, “keep these troubles far from my weary soul~~l…”

  As the bard finished his bald—ohat told the tale of the sisters who straddled Aarde’s night sky—he heard no appuse. He wasn’t disheartehough, for the silence permeating the old tavern was telling enough that he’d captivated his audience.

  Earlier, before he began his tune, many of the tavern’s patrons—these hardened-looking city folk who’d fallen on tough times—were up in arms against the appoi of their new governor, who, iwo weeks since he’d taken up office, had already mao cause fri between the northern aral regions of a kingdom that was already on the verge of civil uhanks to a decade’s worth of dee and misfortune. No one cared how he’d mahat in so short a time, only that the new governor was, as they all cimed, unworthy.

  “Inpetent!” they’d pined.

  “Coward!” they’d railed.

  “Magicless!” they’d ned.

  They’d huffed and puffed—spewing treasonous ideas into the ether—until the bard who’d been quietly the crowd from a shadowy er chose to step into the limelight to ge the mood withiavern. For personal reasons, he fancied himself a loyalist, but he didn’t want to scold the rabblerousers because he could see things from their point of view. So, instead, the bard chose to serehem, trusting in the words of a wise man who once cimed; ‘Tis music that soothes even the most savage beast.

  Now, finished with his song, the bard rose from his seat, but before he could leave the spotlight, a copper flew toward him, carried through the air by a glowing magical hand. The hand deposited the into the mug the bard had pced on the dirty floor and then vanished in a puff of colorful smoke.

  To use an advanced spell like the Sorcerer’s Hand in such a on way… The bard’s gaze soward a plump wiry-haired womaed at a nearby table whose eyes glittered with the telltale signs of sorcery at work. Oh, how I envy your talent.

  She sent him a flying kiss which he promptly caught with his hand so that he might pce it on his lips.

  “Much obliged, love,” he said in his best oner’s drawl.

  Two more s followed, a fourth, and a fifth—enough imperial griffins to buy him a pint of ale.

  The bard smiled.

  He possessed such a charming smile that the womenfolk in the crowded tavern couldn’t help but swoon, their cheeks fring crimson as he trained his smile on them. Indeed, even some menfolk blushed at witnessing such a handsome bard gng their way.

  Yes, be charmed by me some more.

  He enced their admiration because it meant more s fell into his mug and he enjoyed seeing them prove his point.

  I ’t wield sorcery like you all, but I don’t to make you love me for a little while.

  He did his best not to look smug though. Being oher end of ridicule his whole life has made him sensitive to smugness.

  “Sing us another song,” oron yelled.

  “A lively ohis time!” a sed patron chimed in.

  “Sing about our ill-fated prince!” a third patron added.

  Many heads this st suggestion, though the bard wasn’t one of them. He’d sang for them so they might fet about the prince, yet here they were asking him to join them ireason. His disappoi was swift to vanish though, repced by his charming smile.

  “Once more for the people, yeah?”

  So, he sang aune, a lively one he’d learned retly from a fellow bard he’d met iy’s midtown district who cimed she created the song in honor of the Forest Kingdom of Lotharin’s new governor.

  “I hear we’ve earned an ill-fated prihat sounds horrible,” the bard began i, and his audience ughed in respohough I think Lotharin’ll e’ll be no thanks to him…”

  Their merriment grew as he tio mock Lotharin’s new governor in verse, and though he enced them to sing along, in his heart, he grew weary… It wasn’t easy for him to make fun of someone he knew intimately.

  “My friends,” he rose from his seat, “you’ve been a delightful audience!”

  He began tapping his foot against the floor.

  “I hope you tio be generous with your tips!”

  His strumming resumed, wilder, more manic than before.

  “Now, e and sing this chorus with me!”

  “Quit!” they cried together. “Quit, Ill-Fated Prince, quit~~t!”

  Yes, it was a une, yet strangely, everyone ks words.

  “Quit, quit, quit, quit, quit~~t…” they ted.

  “Or we’ll throw you out,” the bard strummed the st key, his voice l to nearly a whisper, “and leave you lying in filth, you magicless fool~~l…”

  This time, his audience cheered.

  They stomped their feet on the ground, smashed their fists against wooden tables, and ked their mugs together, oblivious to the fact that they were celebrating with words that could’ve gotten them hanged if the prince himself had overheard them. Assuming, of course, that the prince was as vilinous as they all seemed to think.

  ‘Ping!’

  An otherworldly sound reached the bard’s ears, one only he could hear.

  He chose to ig, choosing io pick up his mug full of griffins. With a wide grin, he raised the mug high and thanked his audience, and they cheered for him.

  This is why I prefer ing to Lowtown instead of spending my day in that stuffy bastion. The people here might be shameless, but at least their smiles are genuine.

  The sound of s king inside his raggedy purse helped to shoo away some of his ill feelings.

  “There’s enough here to get me drunk,” he murmured. Then, as an afterthought, added, “And o day of pying the fool…”

  The bard left his post by the hearth and made his way toward a er of the tavern. However, before reag his destination, he felt a hand grope the back of his trousers.

  “Here we go again.”

  Ref his charming smile, he turned around but found no randy, middle-aged seamstress ogling him. This ‘grabby hands’ was a man; an unsavory-looking fellow with a greasy face. He wore a stained, padded jacket the bard reized instantly because this teal-cambeson was the new uniform of the city guard who mahe city of Bastille’s parapets and gates.

  “Where are you heading off to, pretty d?” he asked in a slurring speech. “Want some pany?”

  The guard’s cheeks were red from drinking, his eyes dazed and wandering.

  Seeing this evidence of intoxication, the bard’s smile faltered. “Sorry, bruv, but I’m not ied.”

  Too drunk to listen, the guard came forward and fshed him a grin of yellowih. “Nights in Bastille get cold without someoo snuggle with.”

  That’s when the bard’s smile vanished, repced by an exasperated sigh.

  It wasn’t the man’s lewdhat annoyed him because he was used to such propositions. Over the years, he’d ented many of the high nobles in the Sn’s court with his looks, which the Sn’s courtiers cimed was his only redeeming quality. In exge for lewd favors, they offered him things that were entig for a boy without real power or influence. He deed them all though, the men and women both.

  No, the bard’s hackles rose not because the guard was a vulgar bastard but because he was disloyal to his liege. Surely, he’d dohing while the tavern patrons sang their rebellious tune. He’d probably sang with them, and loudly too.

  You wear the prince’s colors, take yes from the prince’s coffers, but show no loyalty to your liege… Not that I eople to get arrested, but still…

  “e on,” the guard’s hand reached for the bard, “let’s get better—”

  He stopped suddenly, his eyes widening in fusion…for the bard was gone. He’d vanished from sight, transformed into one who cked the deliess he’d shown earlier.

  “What sort of sorcery—”

  “There’s no sorcery here,” interrupted a man whose voice had lost its gentleness, “but one of simple misdire.”

  The purple-haired man whed off his bard’s disguise stopped sloug like he’d been doing siepping into the taverood to his full height, his shoulders widening, causing muscles hidden underh loose-fitting clothes to expand, and revealed himself as a tall muscur youth who towered over the guard.

  “Meaning no offense, bruv, but I don’t swing that way, yeah.” The young man pced a hand on the guard’s shoulder and then squeezed. “But, if you’re so insistent on snuggling, I know one or two moves that’ll take your breath away.”

  “G-Gah!”

  Despite the thiess of his gambeson’s padding, the guard felt growing pressure from the young man’s fiightening around his shoulder. Such monstrous strength sobered him quickly.

  “I-I’m a guardsman,” he pined, but, still feeling the pressure, he rallied, “a-and I’ve got the ear of the Captain of the Watch!”

  One of the young man’s eyebrows hitched upward. “Captain of the Watch…?”

  “Y-Yeah, that’s right… And the captain, well, he don’t like it when lowly oners mess with his mates.” With each word, the guard’s fidence grew. It seemed he was used to name-dropping his captain’s name for situations like now. “S-So, you better stop—”

  His voice faltered along with his ce.

  “You talk as if you aren’t one of us, bruv.”

  Eyes the color of molten gold gazed imperiously back at the guard, and for a moment, it felt like he was in the presence of a noble.

  “But you stink of Lowtown same as me…”

  This was a lie.

  The young man enjoyed luxurious baths far too muell like the tavern’s patrons.

  “Now, I value those who protect our fair city.” He slipped several of his hard-earned griffins into the guard’s pocket. “So, how about I pay for your meal, and we don’t cause a se, yeah?”

  Just in case the guard was too thick-headed to realize he’d been given an out, the young man pressed down on his shoulder, f the guard’s legs to buckle so that he fell bato his seat with a harsh thud.

  Gazes around the table soward the tall figure, and he, notig they were all guards too, spped several mriffins onto their table.

  “ round’s on me, gents.”

  The young man pced enough oable for them to send him off with cheers, and, while ‘Grabby Hands’ looked on in fusion, he slipped away before anything else could happen. He moved quickly through the crowd, dodging more unwele advances, and finally cimed his seat beside a table in a er of the tavern that was half-veiled in shadow.

  By the other side of this table sat a hooded man who expelled the smoke he’d inhaled from his long pipe, sending a musky aroma into the air that caused the young man’s o wrinkle.

  “Why do you love cloud weed so much, Ser Anthony?” he asked, his voice ging, losing his practiced oner’s drawl for the speech of a noble.

  “It helps keep the aches and pains of old age at bay, Yhness,” the hooded man answered in a voice that was barely a whisper.

  “And you’re alright with reeking of wet grass and mud?”

  “To smell of nature is the privilege of the old.”

  “You’re not that old.”

  The prince carefully pced his lute on ay seat before returning to the versation.

  “I heard that cloud weed’s a calming herb.”

  “It is.”

  A wry grin fshed on the prince’s face. “Then why are you still holding your sword?”

  It was true that Ser Anthony’s other hand had been holding tightly onto the sword resting against the tavern’s back wall.

  “Stay your hand. The matter’s settled. o shed blood here and draw attention to us,” the prinsisted.

  “The matter is far from settled…” Relutly, Ser Antho go of his sword. “And you drew attention to yourself first.”

  “A bard’s work is a different kind of attention,” the prince reasoned.

  This was true, at least for him.

  Song and rhyme, and sometimes even dance, were the prince’s g meisms against the s ofte his way. They were his escape from the burdens of his ill fate. Fortunately, he wasn’t bad at it. Indeed, he proved a quick study when it came to the performas, though the Sn might have preferred the prialent y elsewhere.

  “My ears wrung so badly from all their biting entary that I thought a song might help keep them from calling me names,” he chuckled.

  After exhaling another n of smoke, Ser Anthony asked, “And did you succeed?”

  The princed over his shoulder and listened in on nearby versations. He could hear them clear enough, “Ill-Fated Prihis,” and “Ill-Fated Prihat,” though these surly tavern patrons seemed to be in a merrier mood unlike earlier.

  “Let’s call it a draw,” he cluded.

  Ser Anthony chuckled. “Hearts and minds aren’t won easily with just a song.”

  “A magical song might have,” the prince argued.

  He’d often heard it said that the master bards of the Imperium could turn the hearts of men a alike with a performanfused with sorcery. If only he had just a bit of magiside him, perhaps then…

  The prince shook his head. There was no point in wishing the impossible ossible.

  “Your singing may not be able to win them over just yet,” Ser Anthony appeased, adding, “though your mad pn just might, Yhness.”

  “Call me Bram. Just Bram.”

  “I’ll do no such thing.” Ser Anthony took another long puff of his pipe, and then expelled the smoke while saying, “You’ve been insulted enough today.”

  “I’m used to it.”

  The pt of the oners was nothing new for Bram. He’d lived with pt for as long as he could remember, and he remembered much. Even the first time he’d opened his eyes on the day his mave birth to him. The seventh prince of the Atn Imperium ecial, though not in the way those around him hoped for. Over time, their hopes dwiwisting into s, until finally, only Ser Anthony remained by his side.

  Bram gazed fondly at the old knight who kept on smoking his pipe.

  Underh his hood was a weathered face with short-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair and a thick handlebar mustache. Eveed, the old knight seemed tall, with shoulders nearly as broad as Bram’s.

  “They insult you because they don’t know how hard you toil for them.” Again, Ser Anthony reached for his sword, and again, he relutly withdrew his hand. “It’s taking all my resolve not to arrest these fools, not out of passion — I’ve no mercy for those who defame yood name — but because I know your courtiers will find some way to bme you for any i iy…”

  “The nobles of Bastille like me less thahe oners do,” Bram chuckled lightly. “It’s as if I’d never left the Sn’s court… Only now I have a bigger target on my bad no ally to watch it.”

  “You have one ally in this city.”

  Bram couldn’t help smiling.

  He never said it aloud, but Ser Anthony’s steadfast loyalty was one of the rgest reasons he could shrug off the stress of being House Attin’s ill-fated prince.

  The ‘Ill-Fated Prihis was the title his older siblings bestowed on Bram after it became clear that he was a child whom the gods had cursed with a body that couldn’t bee a vessel for the magical energies permeating Aarde’s western ti of Gaullia. He was magicless in an empire where sorcery was the dominant power, and though not a crime exactly, to be magicless was seen as the harshest of failings among nobles and oners alike.

  Bram hated hearing this moniker spoken aloud and hated it more whenever he thought it himself.

  …A I sang it easily enough.

  “You mentioned my mad pn…and you’re right.” Bram picked up the fgon of ale on his side of the table and breathed in its heady st. “It is mad — positively insane… If I had more time maybe I’d try something else…”

  Bram sighed.

  “But time is a luxury I don’t have…” His gaze fixed on the frothy brown liquid spilling from his fgon. “I must show results by the start of the juring Season, or I’ll lose my one ce to prove my worth…perhaps even my life.”

  Ser Anthony knew his prince hadn’t exaggerated. For a royal to fail in their responsibilities, death was a likely sequence.

  “Nine months is too short a time to ge a kingdom’s fate unless you’re willing to make a risky gamble,” he ceded, “but at what cost?”

  “If I help make Lotharian lives better it would be worth any price.” Bram raised his fgon higher. “To make the failing Kingdom of Lreat again…it’ll be the greatest trick that’ll ever be sold — and for that, I’ll he help of a master trickster.”

  Even as he said the words, hope blossomed inside him—the hope that people would stop calling him by his hated moniker one day…that they would find him worthy.

  “You’ve grown.”

  That, Bram believed, was an uatement.

  At seventeen, Atn’s seventh prince was tall and muscur with ale blonde hair and irises the color of molten gold—the physical traits that proved his bloodlihough he’d retly dyed his hair a dark purple to keep people frnizing him. Bram’s sun-kissed face was oval, almost delicate, with long shes plimenting almond-shaped eyes, a long pointy nose, and full lips that were the color of fresh blood.

  The prince was said to be the perfect likeo his mother. It was a fact Ser Anthoerated when he said, “How like the Sn you’ve bee.”

  “I’m nothing like her,” Bram ughed. “I have none of her wit, her strength, and possess only an ounce of her charisma…”

  Embarrassed, he took a long swig of his fgon—and immediately spat out the strong ale that burned his throat.

  “Fuck!” This word felt peculiar on his tongue as if it didn’t belong, at least not to any nguage known to the Imperium. Still, it was strangely f for Bram to bellow this alien curse aloud in times like this one. “What sort of gods-awful piss do they serve here?!”

  “It’s called grog,” Ser Anthony answered distractedly.

  He was busy wiping drops of spit and grog from his face.

  When he was finished ing himself, the old knight added, “It’s cheap and packs a punch. The oners love it.”

  “Do they…?” Bram gazed at his fgon with a wary eye. “Grog, it’s a clever name…”

  He took a breath, and another, and then, with resolve firm in his heart, Bram took a swig , going so far as to down the whole fgon in one long gulp.

  “Bloody hell that tasted terrible.” He breathed hard, trying not to gag, before smming the empty fgon onto the table. “I’ll have another!”

  He downed a sed fgon of frothy grog quickly too, though his cheeks grew crimson from the effort. Bram bought a third cup, and when he fi—slower this time—his head ached so terribly it was as if someone was banging a swainst a shield inside his skull.

  ‘Ping!’

  Something shimmered in the air, though only Bram could see it. He chose to ighis strahing a sed time for he kly what it was, and he didn’t to tell him what he already khree fgons were murder to one’s liver.

  Ser Anthony eyed him with . “Why did you drink so much of it if you don’t enjoy the taste?”

  “How could I ever hope to lead the people”—Bram wiped the grog from his mouth with a napkin—“if I ’t even uand them or their tastes.”

  He was too busy trying not to puke to notice his knight smiling warmly at him.

  “Holy, though,” Bram rose groggily to his feet, “this is about as muderstanding as I manage…”

  Bram’s head swam, and his vision blurred.

  “Gods, you’re the only noble I know who gets drunk over a mere three pints ,” Ser Anthony teased.

  “Not so. My younger siblings have yet to lear of drinking.” Bram raised a fihough it looked to himself like he’d raised three. “And this grog is poison — it’s strong stuff I tell you.”

  “It’s diluted with honey water actually.” Ser Anthony ughed. “Shall we stay a bit longer until you’re feelier?”

  “No, no, I’m fine.” Bram took several deep breaths and then dropped the st of the griffins he’d earned onto the table. “e, Ser Anthony. The hrows te, and the Loom of Fate is—”

  He dove to the side and spilled grog and lun all over the floor…and it would be a while before Lotharin’s new governor felt better enough to go on his adventure…

  KEEP GOING — SEVEN CHAPTERS ING OUT TODAY!

  GD_Cruz