Kingdom of Ruses Read online

  He watched her wordlessly, his golden eyes seeming to peer into her very soul. Then, unexpectedly, he shifted his attention to the opposite wall. “I think we started off on the wrong foot,” he said, “and it was probably my fault.”

  “Probably?” Viola could not stop herself from echoing that single word, her expression incredulous.

  “But I do assure you that I am here on friendly terms,” he continued seamlessly. “I bear your family no ill will and have no reason to betray your trust—and every reason to keep it.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, suspicious of his nonchalant manner.

  The stranger hesitated as he considered how best to answer this question. “Actually, I probably need your help as much as you need mine,” he said at last, and he spared her a tentative glance to gauge her reaction.

  Viola frowned. “Why do you need our help?”

  He solemnly lifted one hand to point to the balcony. “Some of those books are written in strange languages. I can’t make heads or tales of them,” he said in all seriousness.

  At first she could only stare, but when his serious expression did not break, her own dissolved into laughter. “They’re not written in strange languages! They’re just hundreds of years old!”

  “That’s not the old tongue they’re written in,” he argued, not understanding her source of mirth. “I can understand the old tongue quite well, and that’s not what they’re written in.”

  “No, it’s closer to the modern tongue,” she said, her eyes still dancing, “but the spelling is atrocious. There have been several spelling reforms since some of those books were written, you know.” The golden stranger still frowned, and she thought he looked very much like a pouting child. Part of her suddenly wanted to smooth his frown away. “Look,” she said in a placating voice, “maybe you’re right. Maybe we did start off on the wrong foot. Here.” At long last, she withdrew the velvet drawstring bag from her pocket and dangled it before him. “You are to have one of these, Father said.”

  His hands were full, the bucket in one and the glass flask in the other, but he carefully set these items on a low table and took the bag from her. Then, after wedging it open, he tumbled the contents out onto his palm. He studied the three brooches, turning them so that the cat’s eye of each one winked up at him.

  “Did my father tell you about those?” Viola asked, and he mutely shook his head. “The cat’s eye is the mark of the Eternal Prince. Since you are the Prince for the time being, it’s only appropriate that you wear one along with the rest of us. We’re putting a lot of trust in you by giving you one,” she added with a sniff. “Each of these is priceless—beryl is rare enough, and only a fraction of the stones discovered have that brilliant streak of light in them. If you’re really a thief, you could rob us blind.”

  He looked up, his eyes meeting hers easily. “I’m not a thief,” he said. “Which one should I wear?” Then, he extended his hand for her inspection. The three cat’s eyes were technically the same stone, but each had a significantly different color from the others. The first was a pale greenish gold and the second was a dark amber-brown. The third was a rich shade of gold, like ripe wheat or honey, a mid-tone between the first and the second. Viola picked this one up.

  “I’ve always preferred this shade,” she mused as she inspected it. “It’s such a warm color…” Her voice trailed off as she lifted her attention back to his face. With a pang of self-consciousness, she suddenly realized that his eyes were the same color as the stone she now held.

  A covert smile played along his lips as he slipped the other two brooches back into their bag. Then, he reached long fingers forward and plucked the chosen brooch from Viola’s hand. “Where am I supposed to pin it?” he asked.

  “You’re the Prince,” said Viola flippantly. “Pin it wherever you like, so long as it’s visible. Are those the Prince’s clothes or your own?” she added curiously. He was not wearing the same shirt and pants as the previous day.

  “I am the Prince, so I suppose they’re mine,” he replied with a grin. “It’s a fairly good fit, though a little long in the sleeves and the leg.” He had rolled the sleeves, she noticed, almost to his elbows, and the trouser legs pooled around his ankles. “I’m astounded that you keep a wardrobe full of clothing for a non-existent person. This ruse goes quite a long way.”

  “There’s quite a lot riding on it,” Viola replied crisply. She watched as he pinned the brooch just beneath his collar, keenly aware of the silence that stretched between them. Awkwardly she cleared her throat and asked, “So, what now, your Highness?”

  He looked up, amused. “Now comes a stealth spell. I told you we have to go to your well first thing, recall.” After handing her the bucket, he uncorked the flask and dipped his fingers in. Then, he deftly traced a pattern onto his own forehead and uttered something unintelligible.

  “Now you,” he said to Viola, offering her the flask.

  Annoyance welled up within her. “I already told you I don’t know the spell.”

  “So you did.” He immediately dipped his fingers again. “Come here. Yes, that’s right.” He traced the same figure upon her forehead. Viola felt the magic seep into her skin, somehow warm and cold at the same time.

  “Aetluta thu,” he intoned, and magic poured over her, icy like a waterfall.

  Viola shivered, and her breath caught in her throat. “What was that spell?”

  “It interprets to something like ‘hide yourself.’ It’s really very simple,” said the Prince as he replaced the cork in the flask. Then, before Viola’s curious gaze, he trotted into the study and returned the flask and the drawstring bag to their cabinet. He emerged empty-handed and cheerful. “Come along, then, and bring the bucket. The spell’s not foolproof, but we can probably sneak past the guards.”

  She snatched his arm and dragged him the opposite direction. “We’ll have an easier time sneaking past my mother,” she said. She deftly opened the panel to the hidden staircase and motioned him inside.

  “That’s quite handy, I must say.”

  “Especially when one needs to insinuate the presence of a nonexistent Prince,” Viola agreed.

  She tried to ignore the way his interested eyes darted about her family’s living space as they passed through it. The stealth spell had deadened their footsteps, and when her mother crossed right in front of them without giving them a second glance, Viola knew that it had done much more than that. Quickly she guided the Prince—for such she was starting to call him, even in her own mind—to the door that led outside, and they descended the outer stairs into the garden.

  “I do have lovely grounds here, don’t I,” the Prince remarked, hands in his pockets as he strolled.

  “You wouldn’t stand for anything less,” said Viola, “though it’s a wonder why—you hardly ever visit them.” She led him to the rose garden and the door in the hedge. As they approached, her mind instinctively replayed the events of the previous day, when she had first met the golden stranger.

  “What exactly are you to the Prince?” he abruptly asked. “His concubine?”

  In utter shock, Viola nearly dropped her key ring. “What? No!” she cried, blushing deeply. The Prince was laughing at her, she realized the next moment. “No,” she repeated with a fierce glare. “I’m supposed to be a secretary of sorts, though I’m more like his errand-girl.” She jammed the proper key into the hedge-door and turned it with a flick of her wrist.

  “My errand-girl,” the Prince said in her ear, and she jumped at his sudden nearness. “How delightful,” he added, but he did back up a pace to give her room once more. “I shall have to think of some errands to give you.”

  Viola’s eyes narrowed in a venomous glare as she mutely motioned him through the door, into the forest beyond. He stood and cavalierly waited as she closed the door and locked it again from this side.

  “That’s a bit fastidious, don’t you think?” he asked.

  “You don’t like people in this
forest,” Viola replied. “It’s supposed to be dangerous out here, remember? It’s only natural that the door is always locked.” She turned and started down the pathway.

  The Prince trotted to catch up. “I seem to be quite a fastidious person,” he said.

  “You’re an utter fraud,” Viola replied mercilessly, “but you’re also a necessity. If the people of Lenore ever discover that there is no Prince, that there are no magical creatures, then they’ll lose all faith in their government. If the people beyond Lenore ever discover that there is no Prince, then they’ll overrun us in a heartbeat. Melanthos has always been perched at our borders, looming over us like a vulture.”

  “They are vultures,” the Prince agreed. “I should know, since I was born there.”

  Viola stopped dead in her tracks and stared. He continued a few paces beyond her but then paused to turn a curious look back her way. “You’re from Melanthos?” she asked in a terrified whisper.

  His responding smile was cheerless. “Not anymore. I’d sooner die than return there. Don’t fear, Viola. Just come along as your Prince commands.”

  His words jarred her into action. She hesitantly resumed her path, wondering as she went if he was speaking the truth or if he was merely toying with her. He had told her nothing concrete about himself before now, so she didn’t know why he would choose to divulge this information. There had been a note of pain in his eyes when he spoke, though. It made her quickly dismiss the idea that he was lying. Of course if he didn’t come from Lenore, it only stood to reason that he would come from Melanthos, as that empire was their closest neighbor. There were other countries over the sea, and there were rumors of people beyond the vast northern forest, but Viola, out of habit, held most rumors as fiction. Somehow, she preferred the idea that he had come from the forest itself, because it at least seemed familiar to her.

  “And here we are,” said the Prince.

  Viola looked up to discover that they had already come to the well. She cast her eyes back up the path in confusion and realized that she had been so lost in her own thoughts that she had not noticed the walk here at all.

  “What now?” she asked.

  “Now you lower the bucket into the well,” he replied.

  She had her doubts about whether they would get much out of it. They hadn’t even brought another flask to fill, so she reasoned that he must intend to carry the magic back to the palace in the bucket itself. Much as she disliked that idea, she obediently stepped forward to follow his command. The bucket was quickly attached by its side-ring and she duly lowered it into the well. It hit the bottom with a plunk.

  “There’s not going to be very much, I’ll warn you,” she said with a dubious glance.

  “Just bring it up,” he replied nonchalantly.

  It would be too much to expect the Prince to help, she thought grimly as she turned the handle to wind the well’s rope upward again. The instant the bucket appeared, the Prince stepped past her and retrieved it from its hook.

  “Less than a quarter full,” he observed. “You are in dire straits, aren’t you?”

  “I told you—” Viola’s words broke off in a horrified shriek as the Prince suddenly poured the contents out upon the ground. The pale, precious magic soaked into the dust almost immediately. “What did you do that for?” she cried.

  “Lower it again,” he said in lieu of answering her, and he shoved the bucket back at her.

  “Why, so you can dump it out again?”

  He turned a stern glare upon her then. “You need to stop being so stingy, Viola. Where do you think magic comes from?”

  Her mouth shut with an audible click at his rebuke. Then, “It—it comes from the earth,” she said uncertainly.

  “Precisely. And how do you expect the earth to keep giving you magic when you don’t nurture it in return? That’s like milking a cow without feeding it, and expecting it to keep producing.”

  “You don’t feed a cow its own milk,” Viola shot back.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Well,” he said as though forcing himself to remain calm, “with magic, you have to give back a portion of what you take. It’s a matter of respect—a tithe, if you will. Now lower the bucket again.”

  Viola had never thought of herself as stingy. Come to think of it, he had accused her of being a miser, too, back in the library. As she hooked the bucket in place and lowered it once more, she thought back on her past actions. Of course she was a miser, she thought defensively. Magic was a precious commodity. Their supply was quickly dwindling. It only made sense to use it sparingly. And wasn’t that a sign of respect as well, not to go about wasting the resources they had?

  Her father had never told her to dump magic out on the ground. He told her to be careful with it, to use it in moderation and only when necessary. It wasn’t being stingy or miserly, she thought with a scowl. It was being prudent, thrifty.

  The bucket returned with approximately the same level of magic as before. This time the Prince did not step forward to confiscate it, so Viola unhooked it from the rope and waited for his instruction.

  His back was to her. “Set it down,” he said, so she hesitantly placed the bucket upon the ground. “Good,” said the Prince. “Now I’m going to teach you your first lesson in magic.”

  “Is it really my first when I’ve already studied for several years and can cast several spells?” Viola asked wearily.

  He spared her a dry glance. “It’s your first, because it’s the first thing you should have learned.” He turned to face her then, and in his hands he held a golden knife—polished bronze or brass. Viola gasped and stepped backward in alarm, terrified of what he might do to her in these isolated woods. No one knew that they had come here, she suddenly realized with a sense of utter foolishness. This stranger could do whatever he liked and then disappear.

  He saw her panic but ignored it. Viola’s shock increased when he suddenly dug the point of the knife into his fingertip, then extended that injured digit over the well’s opening. Red blood pooled along his fingertip and dropped into the well below.

  “What are you doing?” Viola asked breathlessly.

  “I am giving back,” said the Prince. “Hand me the bucket now.”

  Viola swallowed her misgivings and gingerly complied. He swished the tip of his knife in the magic there to clean it, then held out the weapon for Viola to take. With his hand still extended above the well’s opening, he poured part of the magic over it, back down into the dark depths below.

  “If there is one thing of utmost importance that you must know, Viola,” he said quietly, “it is the nature of a blood-bond. It is one of the oldest rites, and perhaps the most sacred of them, and it should be known to anyone who studies magic. There are two types of blood-bonds: the first enslaves. It subjugates one creature to another in a most humiliating and demoralizing way. It is a one-way bond that occurs when one creature steals and drinks the blood of another and thus absorbs its strengths as his own. It’s what you’ve been doing here, Viola.”

  “What?” she asked, bewildered. “I haven’t been enslaving anything—”

  “You didn’t know you were doing it,” said the Prince. “That is to your credit, and it gives you the chance to make things right. The magic from this well is the life-blood of this land, Viola, and you and your family have been taking it and drinking it, for generations it would seem. You’ve enslaved the land, and while you have not abused it—which, again, is to your credit, my dear girl—it still withers as would any creature under such enslavement. When this well finally goes dry, the land itself will fail. The plants will die, the animals will starve or move on, and Lenore will become a wasteland. Creatures of magic cannot live forever in captivity. It will kill them.”

  A chill crept down her spine at his words. Dull as it might have seemed at times, Lenore was her home, and home to thousands of others. If the land itself failed, they would have nowhere to go but to the principalities of Melanthos and the tyrants who ru
led there. Viola could not count the number of times she had come to the well, and she couldn’t even fathom the number of times her ancestors had done so. If what the Prince said was true, if they had enslaved the land and were slowly killing it…

  “How do I fix it?” she whispered, horrified at that possible scenario.

  He smiled softly. “You must form the second type of blood-bond. Take the knife you hold and do as I have done, Viola.”

  Her eyes traveled down to the gold-colored blade and its sharp point, and she hesitated. Fear took a firm grip on her, whispering of pain, of doubt.

  “You will never truly achieve anything if you are not willing to sacrifice for it,” the Prince said, as though reading her thoughts. “It will hurt. That knife is very sharp, though, so it will cut quickly. You won’t need to put too much pressure on it. Shall I help you, or do you refuse to perform the rite? You can if you wish, you know.”

  The entire forest seemed to hold its breath. Viola glanced around at the trees and noted the stillness of their branches, as though the wind itself withheld even the slightest of breezes while she made her decision. She loved Lenore, she realized. Perhaps a few drops of blood would do nothing, but she wasn’t willing to risk her homeland on that. She squeezed her eyes shut and resolutely pressed her thumb to the blade’s edge.

  Pain blossomed on the spot. She opened her eyes to a ribbon of crimson. Her breath left her lungs in a whoosh as she stared down, almost uncomprehendingly, at the blood that dripped down to her palm.

  The Prince snatched her wrist and dragged her forward over the well. “I told you not to put too much pressure on it,” he said as drops of her blood pattered into the darkness below. “Give me the knife.”

  Before she could comply, he snatched it from her loose grasp and, letting go of her wrist at last, he swished the blade in the bucket to wash it in the residue of magic there.