Chapter Text
By the middle of autumn, Caelan had learned that there were three reliable ways to tell when Lucien was about to do something foolish.
The first was silence.
The second was excessive politeness.
The third was when he appeared at Saint Orison’s carrying baked goods.
Caelan noticed the basket before he noticed the prince.
He was crossing the upper cloister after morning drills, still wearing his practice coat and carrying his gloves beneath one arm, when a familiar blond head appeared between two stone columns. Lucien leaned there as though princes routinely materialized inside military academies before breakfast, a wicker basket looped over one elbow and a pleasant expression on his face.
Caelan stopped walking.
Lucien smiled.
Caelan considered turning around.
“You’re thinking of fleeing,” Lucien said.
“I’m considering my options.”
“That hurts.”
“You brought food.”
“I frequently bring food.”
“You steal food.”
Lucien’s smile widened. “That sounds like an accusation.”
“It’s an observation.”
The academy had been awake since before dawn. Around them, cadets moved between the cloister and the eastern practice courts in groups of two and three, black training coats darkened at the shoulders from the morning mist. The old stones still held the night’s chill. Ivy had gone red along the walls, and the first fallen leaves had gathered in damp clumps beneath the arches.
Caelan had been at Saint Orison’s for nearly three months.
He still sometimes woke expecting someone to tell him there had been a mistake.
Master Corvin’s council had reversed its decision two days after the king ordered a review. The official letter had arrived with enough seals to suggest somebody expected Caelan to challenge its authenticity. He had read it three times before allowing himself to believe it.
Lucien had read it once, shouted loudly enough to frighten Caelan’s mother in the next room, and immediately tried to organize a celebration involving fireworks.
The fireworks had been confiscated.
Caelan had never discovered where he got them.
Now he eyed the basket.
“What did you do?”
Lucien placed one hand over his heart. “Why must friendship always begin with suspicion?”
“Because I know you.”
“You say that as though it’s unfortunate.”
Caelan’s expression softened despite himself.
Lucien noticed.
He always noticed.
That, Caelan had begun to realize, was becoming a problem.
Not a serious one.
Not yet.
Still, lately there were moments when Lucien would look at him and something in Caelan’s chest would forget how ordinary breathing worked.
He blamed the academy.
He had been sleeping badly.
“Where did you get the basket?” Caelan asked.
“Kitchen.”
“Which kitchen?”
Lucien hesitated.
Caelan sighed.
“The palace kitchen?”
“Yes.”
“Did they give it to you?”
Another hesitation.
“Lucien.”
“They would have.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“I left a note.”
Caelan pinched the bridge of his nose.
At the far end of the cloister, a pair of first-years looked quickly away when they realized the crown prince was watching them watch him.
Lucien had become a familiar enough visitor that the academy no longer went completely rigid whenever he appeared. That did not mean anyone had stopped staring.
Caelan lowered his hand.
“You cannot keep coming here whenever you’re bored.”
“I’m not bored.”
“Then why are you here?”
Lucien’s grin vanished with suspicious speed.
Caelan narrowed his eyes.
There it was.
Silence.
The first warning.
Lucien lifted the basket between them.
“I brought pear pastries.”
The second warning was apparently being skipped in favor of bribery.
Caelan took the basket.
“Tell me.”
Lucien sighed dramatically and fell into step beside him.
“I need a favor.”
“No.”
“You don’t know what it is.”
“I know you.”
“You use that against me constantly.”
“It saves time.”
They crossed into the small quadrangle separating the dormitories from the old armory. Saint Orison’s was quieter here. A bronze statue of some forgotten commander stood beneath a rowan tree, its shoulders permanently decorated by birds. Someone had wrapped a knitted scarf around the statue’s sword.
Caelan had not asked.
He suspected Lucien.
He suspected Lucien of many things.
“My mother is holding a reception tonight,” Lucien said.
Caelan glanced over.
“You told me.”
“I did?”
“At dinner last week.”
“You remember everything.”
“No. I listen when people speak.”
Lucien looked thoughtful, as though considering this exotic habit.
“The Bellisari delegation is still in Veyrhold,” he continued. “There will be ministers, three ambassadors, several dreadful old men who smell like rose oil, and at least one countess Mother has been attempting to introduce me to for the last year.”
Caelan’s steps slowed.
He knew where this was going.
“No.”
“I haven’t asked yet.”
“You want me to come.”
“I do.”
“I have evening study.”
“You can study tomorrow.”
“I have tactics at dawn.”
“You’re very clever. I’m sure you’ll continue being clever on less sleep.”
“Lucien.”
“Cael.”
Caelan looked at him.
Lucien had always been handsome in a way Caelan could acknowledge without thinking much about it. Everyone acknowledged it. Court painters had been documenting the fact since he was old enough to sit still.
Lately, though, something had shifted.
Perhaps it was simply that they were both getting older.
Lucien’s face had begun losing some of its childhood softness. His shoulders had broadened over the summer, though he still moved with the same restless looseness he always had, like there was too much life in him to fit neatly into posture.
His hair had been cut since Caelan last saw him three days ago.
Badly.
Caelan stared at it.
Lucien noticed.
“What?”
“Who cut your hair?”
Lucien’s hand flew to the back of his head.
“No one.”
“You cut it yourself.”
“That is a vicious rumor.”
“It’s uneven.”
“It’s fashionable.”
“One side is shorter.”
“Fashion is asymmetric this season.”
Caelan reached up before thinking and caught a pale strand between two fingers.
Lucien went still.
So did Caelan.
The moment became strange all at once.
They were standing close.
Closer than they needed to be.
Lucien’s eyes dropped briefly toward Caelan’s mouth.
Or Caelan imagined they did.
He released the strand.
“You missed a piece.”
Lucien cleared his throat.
“I became distracted.”
“By what?”
“A great many things happen while cutting one’s own hair.”
“Scissors?”
“Among them.”
Caelan looked away and resumed walking.
Lucien followed half a step later.
Neither mentioned what had just happened.
Caelan was grateful.
He was also, annoyingly, disappointed.
At the entrance to the armory courtyard, someone called his name.
“Veyr!”
Caelan turned.
Seraphine Vael came down the steps two at a time, carrying a practice spear in one hand. She had grown her copper hair long enough to require a second braid woven through the first, though the style had done very little to contain it during drills. Several strands stuck damply to her forehead.
She wore the expression of someone who had been awake for hours and had already developed opinions about everyone else’s competence.
Lucien brightened.
“Vael.”
Seraphine’s expression became immediately wary.
“Your Highness.”
“You still sound disappointed every time you say that.”
“I keep hoping you’ll stop appearing unexpectedly.”
“That seems unrealistic.”
Seraphine reached Caelan and looked down at the basket in his hands.
She looked at Lucien.
Then back at Caelan.
“What did he do?”
Caelan felt vindicated.
“Thank you.”
Lucien looked between them.
“This friendship has become hostile.”
“You brought pastries,” Seraphine said.
“Yes.”
“So either you committed a crime or you need something.”
“Why does everyone think so little of me?”
Seraphine considered him.
“Pattern recognition.”
Caelan looked away to hide his smile.
Lucien pointed accusingly at both of them. “You’ve been spending too much time together.”
“We attend the same academy,” Caelan said.
“That sounds convenient.”
Something in Lucien’s tone made Seraphine glance between them.
Caelan recognized the look.
He disliked the look.
He knew exactly what she thought she had noticed.
She had developed an irritating habit over the previous month of becoming extremely interested whenever Lucien visited.
Caelan had informed her that there was nothing to be interested in.
Seraphine had replied that she hadn’t asked.
That had somehow been worse.
“I’m asking Caelan to attend the reception tonight,” Lucien said.
Seraphine looked delighted.
Caelan immediately distrusted her.
“He should.”
“No.”
“You own formal clothes.”
“That isn’t the issue.”
“You know how to dance.”
“That is definitely not the issue.”
Lucien looked at him.
“You know how to dance?”
Caelan regretted speaking.
Seraphine’s grin sharpened.
“Very well.”
Lucien appeared genuinely wounded. “You never told me.”
“You’ve seen me dance.”
“When?”
“Your thirteenth birthday.”
“You stood against a wall for most of that evening.”
“Because you poured champagne into the duke’s hat.”
“It was an emergency.”
“There was no emergency.”
“There was once I poured champagne into his hat.”
Seraphine leaned against her spear.
“You two are exhausting.”
Caelan ignored her.
Lucien, unfortunately, did not.
“Tell him he should come.”
“He should.”
“Seraphine.”
“You’ve been studying every night for two weeks.”
“I have examinations.”
“So does everyone else.”
Caelan adjusted the basket against his hip.
He knew they were right.
That was not the same as liking it.
The academy had admitted him, but admission had not made everything easy.
If anything, it had made him more careful.
He was aware of every mistake.
Every late assignment.
Every lost bout.
Every instructor watching a fraction longer than necessary.
Some of the other first-years had begun accepting him simply because familiarity was difficult to maintain alongside suspicion. Others had not.
Caelan could live with that.
He could not bear the thought of giving anyone a reason to say the council had been right the first time.
Lucien seemed to read some part of that in his expression.
His teasing faded.
“You don’t need to earn tomorrow every single day,” he said.
The words were quiet enough that Seraphine pretended not to hear them.
Caelan looked at him.
Lucien shrugged.
“You’re already here.”
It should not have mattered as much as it did.
Caelan lowered his gaze to the basket.
“Until ten.”
Lucien’s face transformed.
“Midnight.”
“Ten.”
“Eleven-thirty.”
“Ten.”
“Eleven?”
Caelan considered.
Lucien clasped both hands behind his back and gave him an expression of angelic innocence so obviously false that it nearly deserved admiration.
“Half past ten.”
“Done.”
“You agreed too quickly.”
“Too late.”
Caelan sighed.
Seraphine lifted her spear.
“I’ll make sure he survives tactics tomorrow.”
“You are not helping.”
“I know.”
Lucien looked between them again.
There was something almost suspicious in his eyes.
Then he smiled.
“Excellent. I’ll send a carriage.”
“I can walk.”
“A carriage.”
“I live twelve minutes away.”
“You’re attending as my guest.”
“That does not make my legs cease functioning.”
Lucien looked horrified. “You want the court to see my guest arriving on foot?”
Caelan paused.
“Yes.”
Lucien thought about it.
Then he grinned.
“Actually, yes. Do that.”
---
By evening, Caelan deeply regretted agreeing.
The Sunspire was beautiful after dark.
He had known that since childhood.
He had never become accustomed to it.
The royal palace sat above Veyrhold like something placed there by a god with expensive taste. Nine narrow towers rose from a sprawling series of courtyards, halls, gardens, galleries, and older fortifications that had been swallowed by centuries of construction. Pale caldrine stone caught ambient magic from the mountain and released it after sunset, leaving the walls faintly luminous beneath the night sky.
Tonight, hundreds of glass lanterns floated over the eastern terraces.
No chains held them.
Each contained a tiny sphere of captive witchlight that bobbed gently whenever the wind moved through the gardens.
Guests passed beneath them in silks and embroidered coats.
Caelan stood at the top of the eastern stairs and resisted the urge to turn around.
He wore black.
His mother had insisted.
The formal doublet was cut close through the shoulders and embroidered at the cuffs in dark silver thread, understated enough that she claimed he looked dignified and Lucien would undoubtedly complain he looked funereal.
A narrow academy pin rested at his collar.
He had nearly left it behind.
Then he had changed his mind.
He had earned that.
The palace doors stood open.
Warm music drifted through them.
A servant recognized him and bowed.
“Lord Veyr. His Highness asked that you be taken directly to the solar.”
Of course he had.
Caelan followed.
He knew the palace well enough that an escort was unnecessary, but royal households were built almost entirely from traditions nobody dared admit were unnecessary.
They crossed the Hall of Maps, where enchanted cartography shifted almost imperceptibly beneath glass cases, rivers moving like threads of silver through painted countryside. Beyond it stood the eastern solar.
Caelan heard Lucien before the servant opened the door.
“No, Mother, listen. The blue one is objectively worse.”
Queen Marianne’s voice followed, patient in a way only mothers of difficult sons ever truly mastered.
“It is a waistcoat, Lucien, not a moral dilemma.”
“It has opinions.”
“It has buttons.”
“Exactly.”
The servant opened the door.
Caelan stepped inside.
Lucien was standing on a small dressing platform wearing black trousers, a white shirt, and no shoes. Three waistcoats had been arranged over a chair while a royal valet waited nearby with the expression of a man reconsidering every decision that had brought him to this profession.
Queen Marianne sat beside the fireplace.
King Edric stood near the window with a document in one hand.
All three looked toward Caelan.
Lucien smiled first.
His eyes swept over him.
Then stopped.
Caelan suddenly became extremely conscious of his clothes.
“You came.”
“You threatened to send a carriage.”
“I would have.”
“I know.”
Lucien stepped down from the platform.
He had evidently abandoned whatever battle was being fought over the waistcoat.
Marianne looked Caelan over with considerably more subtlety than her son had managed.
“You look very handsome.”
Caelan bowed his head slightly.
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“You do,” Lucien said.
Caelan looked at him.
Lucien appeared not to realize he had said anything unusual.
Or perhaps he did.
He reached for the dark green waistcoat instead of the blue one.
“The blue one is hideous.”
Marianne sighed.
Caelan glanced at it.
“It isn’t.”
Lucien looked betrayed.
“You're supposed to be on my side.”
“I frequently am.”
“Not when it matters.”
King Edric lowered the document he had been reading.
“Caelan.”
“Your Majesty.”
“How is Saint Orison’s treating you?”
“Well.”
Lucien made a skeptical sound.
Caelan ignored him.
Edric noticed.
The king’s mouth moved faintly.
“Master Corvin says your instructors are pleased.”
Caelan had not known the king received reports about him.
That thought was unsettling.
“I'm glad to hear it.”
“You sound surprised.”
Caelan hesitated.
Marianne rescued him.
“He sounds polite.”
“He always sounds polite,” Lucien said.
“That is because some people possess manners.”
Lucien stared at his mother.
The queen smiled.
Caelan noticed that Marianne looked tired.
He had seen it once or twice recently.
Nothing severe. Merely a faint darkness beneath her eyes and a habit of pressing her fingers to her temple when she believed no one was watching.
Tonight she kept looking at Lucien.
More than usual.
Caelan noticed that too.
She had always watched him fondly, but this was different.
Assessing.
Almost worried.
Lucien finally submitted to the green waistcoat and allowed the valet to fasten it.
He lasted perhaps twenty seconds before he began fidgeting.
“Can we go now?”
“You are hosting,” Edric said.
“I know.”
“You cannot disappear after fifteen minutes.”
“I have never disappeared.”
The king looked at him.
Caelan looked at him.
Marianne looked at him.
The valet looked at him.
Lucien frowned.
“This room is deeply unsupportive.”
The queen rose.
As she approached, her hand lifted toward Lucien’s collar.
Lucien ducked.
“Mother.”
“Hold still.”
“I am dressed.”
“You are almost dressed.”
She caught him anyway and straightened the clasp at his throat.
Lucien submitted with exaggerated suffering.
Caelan smiled.
Then Marianne’s hand stopped.
Her eyes had fixed on something beneath Lucien’s collar.
Caelan saw the change in her face.
It lasted less than a second.
“What?” Lucien asked.
“Nothing.”
Marianne moved her fingers against his neck.
“Hold still.”
Lucien did.
Caelan caught the smallest glimpse of something just above the collar.
A mark, perhaps.
No.
A line of gold.
It vanished beneath Marianne’s hand.
Lucien winced.
“Ow.”
The queen immediately pulled back.
“What?”
“Your ring scratched me.”
Marianne stared at him.
Her wedding ring was smooth.
Caelan knew that because he had seen it countless times.
Lucien rubbed the side of his neck.
When his hand lowered, the skin there looked perfectly ordinary.
Marianne's face did not.
“Mother?”
She recovered quickly.
“You're fine.”
Lucien gave her a suspicious look.
Then, predictably, allowed the existence of a ballroom to distract him.
“Come on, Cael.”
He caught Caelan’s wrist.
The gesture was so familiar Caelan barely thought about it.
Marianne did.
Caelan saw her eyes drop to their hands.
Something unreadable crossed her face.
Then it was gone.
“Try not to cause a diplomatic incident,” she said.
Lucien looked over his shoulder.
“No promises.”
“Lucien.”
“I promise to try not to cause a diplomatic incident.”
“That was not what I said.”
“I improved it.”
Caelan allowed himself to be pulled into the corridor.
Behind them, he heard Edric say something quietly to Marianne.
He couldn't make out the words.
When he glanced back, the queen was still watching her son.
The reception occupied the Hall of Stars.
Caelan had loved the room as a child.
The ceiling had been enchanted centuries ago to mirror the night sky directly above the palace, and tonight autumn constellations stretched from one end of the vaulted hall to the other. Tiny points of magical light moved almost imperceptibly overhead while musicians played beneath a gallery carved with winged lions.
The floor below was crowded.
Humans mingled with elves from the eastern courts and dwarven envoys in heavy ceremonial chains. A dragonborn ambassador from the southern principalities wore sapphires between the scales of one horn. Near the ballroom doors, a tiefling musician tuned a silver-stringed viol while two gnomish artificers argued over whether one of the floating chandeliers was listing to the left.
Caelan recognized perhaps a third of the people present.
Lucien seemed to know everyone.
Or behaved as if he did.
Within five minutes he had greeted an ambassador, insulted a duke affectionately enough that the man laughed, stolen an olive from a minister’s plate, and somehow convinced an elderly elven diplomat that Caelan was an expert on falconry.
“I know nothing about falcons,” Caelan whispered when they escaped.
Lucien handed him a glass of watered wine.
“You were convincing.”
“I said three words.”
“They were excellent words.”
“I said, ‘I’m not sure.’”
“Modesty. Very effective.”
Caelan looked at him over the rim of the glass.
Lucien smiled.
He was enjoying himself now.
That was obvious.
Lucien liked people in the abstract. He liked crowds, stories, gossip, music, arguments, discovering what embarrassed someone and pressing directly on it.
He did not particularly like ceremony.
He liked turning ceremony into something else.
Caelan watched him slip a sugared almond from a passing tray.
“You were supposed to be introducing me to people.”
“I am.”
“You told Baron Edras I breed falcons.”
“I said you understood falcons.”
“I don't.”
“He doesn't know that.”
“That is lying.”
Lucien popped the almond into his mouth.
“Socially.”
Caelan shook his head.
Across the room, Seraphine appeared.
He hadn't known she would be attending.
Her family evidently merited an invitation, because she wore formal academy black with the silver oak at her throat. Her copper hair had been unbraided and fell nearly to her waist.
She looked profoundly uncomfortable.
Caelan sympathized.
Seraphine saw him and visibly relaxed.
Then she saw Lucien beside him.
Something sly entered her expression.
Caelan immediately regretted being glad to see her.
She crossed the room.
“Veyr.”
“Vael.”
Lucien looked between them.
Again.
Caelan knew that expression now.
He disliked it.
Seraphine accepted a drink from a servant.
“Your Highness.”
“You're getting warmer.”
“What?”
“You sounded almost pleased to see me.”
“I was speaking to Caelan.”
Lucien pressed a hand to his chest.
Caelan quietly drank his wine.
Seraphine looked at him.
“Is he behaving?”
“No.”
“I am standing right here.”
“We know.”
A quartet began playing near the north gallery.
The first couples moved toward the center of the ballroom.
Lucien glanced toward them.
Then at Caelan.
Caelan recognized danger too late.
“No.”
“I haven't said anything.”
“You're about to.”
“I was going to ask if you'd dance.”
Seraphine nearly inhaled her wine.
Caelan stared at Lucien.
“With whom?”
Lucien's eyebrows rose.
“Me.”
For one terrible second, Caelan could not think.
Lucien looked entirely serious.
Then his mouth twitched.
Caelan's heart resumed beating with sufficient force to annoy him.
“You're insufferable.”
“I asked politely.”
“You're trying to embarrass me.”
“Only a little.”
Seraphine had recovered.
She was watching them with open fascination.
Caelan considered abandoning her friendship.
Lucien offered his hand.
“Come on.”
Caelan looked at it.
There were rules about this.
Probably.
He couldn't remember any of them.
“People are watching.”
Lucien glanced around the ballroom.
“People are always watching.”
There was no self-pity in it.
Just fact.
That did something unpleasantly tender to Caelan’s chest.
He looked at Lucien’s hand again.
“We learned the same steps.”
“Exactly.”
“You lead.”
“I’m the prince.”
“That has nothing to do with dancing.”
“It has everything to do with dancing.”
Seraphine leaned toward Caelan.
“If you don't go, I will.”
Lucien looked immediately alarmed.
“No.”
Caelan turned to him.
Lucien froze.
Seraphine smiled into her wine.
There was an entire conversation Caelan did not understand happening around him.
Or perhaps he understood too well.
He set his glass down.
Then he placed his hand in Lucien’s.
The prince’s fingers closed around his.
For once, Lucien had no joke ready.
They stepped onto the floor.
Caelan had danced with Lucien before.
Technically.
They had been children then, usually drafted into lessons together when someone needed an extra partner.
This was different.
Everything seemed to be becoming different lately.
Lucien placed one hand carefully at Caelan’s side.
Caelan settled his own against Lucien’s shoulder.
They began to move.
Lucien immediately stepped on him.
Caelan stared.
“You did that deliberately.”
“I was establishing expectations.”
“You've known this dance since you were eight.”
“I’ve forgotten.”
“You performed it at Midwinter.”
“Then I’ve deteriorated.”
Caelan hid a smile.
They turned with the other couples.
Lucien’s expression softened.
“There.”
“What?”
“You're enjoying yourself.”
“I am enduring you.”
“You're smiling.”
“That could be pain.”
Lucien laughed.
It was quieter than usual.
The room seemed to recede slightly around them.
Caelan could feel the warmth of Lucien’s hand through his coat.
He could smell cedar soap and the faint citrus oil used in the palace laundry.
He knew those things.
That was the problem.
He knew Lucien too well.
The exact way his left eyebrow lifted before a bad joke.
The tiny scar beneath his chin from falling out of an apple tree.
The fact that he hated boiled carrots but ate them when Marianne watched.
The way he became louder when frightened and quieter when truly angry.
Somewhere along the way, all those ordinary pieces had become something Caelan no longer knew how to name.
Lucien looked at him.
“What?”
Caelan realized he had been staring.
“Nothing.”
“You're doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“Thinking too loudly.”
Caelan looked away.
Lucien squeezed his hand.
“Cael?”
The music shifted.
They turned.
Over Lucien’s shoulder, Caelan caught sight of Queen Marianne standing near the edge of the ballroom.
She was watching them.
Her expression was gentle.
Sad, almost.
Caelan's stomach tightened.
Then Lucien stumbled.
Not playfully this time.
His grip suddenly tightened around Caelan’s hand.
Caelan caught him at once.
“Lucien?”
The prince blinked.
For a second his pupils looked wrong.
Too narrow.
Then he squeezed his eyes shut.
Caelan's hand moved instinctively to his arm.
“Are you all right?”
“Fine.”
“You nearly fell.”
“I know.”
Lucien tried to laugh.
It sounded thin.
Caelan guided him off the dance floor.
Seraphine met them near the column.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” Lucien said.
Caelan ignored him.
“He got dizzy.”
“I did not get dizzy.”
“You almost fell.”
“The room shifted.”
Seraphine stared at him.
“That is generally called dizziness.”
Lucien leaned against the column.
His face had gone pale.
Caelan stepped closer.
“Sit down.”
“Cael.”
“Please.”
That worked.
Lucien let himself be guided onto a cushioned bench beneath the gallery.
Caelan crouched in front of him.
“You've eaten?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Water?”
“Yes.”
“Any pain?”
Lucien's mouth curled faintly.
“You sound like the infirmary master.”
“Answer.”
“No.”
Caelan touched two fingers to Lucien’s wrist.
His pulse was fast.
Very fast.
Lucien watched him.
For once, he wasn't teasing.
“I'm fine.”
Caelan looked up.
“You don't know that.”
Something flickered in Lucien's expression.
Then his eyes shifted past him.
Caelan followed the gaze.
Queen Marianne was approaching.
The moment Lucien saw her, he pulled his sleeve down over his wrist.
Caelan noticed.
Of course he noticed.
Marianne reached them.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” Lucien said.
“Lucien.”
“I became slightly dizzy.”
Her face changed.
“How long?”
“Mother—”
“How long?”
Lucien looked embarrassed now.
“A few seconds.”
“Has it happened before?”
Silence.
Caelan stared at him.
Marianne did too.
Lucien rubbed the back of his neck.
“Once.”
“When?”
“Last week.”
“And you didn't tell me?”
“It stopped.”
Marianne's composure cracked at the edges.
Not much.
Enough.
“Come with me.”
“Mother, the reception—”
“Now.”
Lucien looked toward Caelan.
Caelan stood.
“I'll come.”
Marianne’s eyes met his.
Something about the offer seemed to trouble her.
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Caelan stopped.
The queen softened her voice.
“Stay. Enjoy the evening. I'll have the physician examine him.”
Lucien stood reluctantly.
He looked annoyed rather than frightened.
That reassured Caelan slightly.
He caught Caelan’s sleeve as Marianne turned away.
“Don't leave.”
Caelan looked at his hand.
Then at him.
“I won't.”
Lucien released him.
The prince followed his mother through the ballroom.
Caelan watched until he disappeared.
Seraphine came to stand beside him.
“He's probably fine.”
Caelan nodded.
“I know.”
Neither of them believed the other.
---
Lucien did not return.
An hour passed.
Then another.
Caelan remained at the reception long after he stopped pretending to enjoy it.
Seraphine eventually left with her family.
The musicians moved into slower pieces.
Diplomats began disappearing into private conversations.
Servants replaced candles that did not need replacing simply because standing still was frowned upon in royal service.
At half past ten, Caelan finally approached one of the Kingsguard.
Before he could ask, the guard bowed.
“His Highness asked that this be given to you.”
He held out a folded note.
Caelan took it.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
Cael,
Mother has imprisoned me with the physician.
Apparently I am dying of being fifteen.
Go home before you become unbearably responsible about this.
I am fine.
That is an order.
L.
Beneath it, in smaller writing:
Not a real order.
Please don't bow when you read this.
Caelan stared at the paper.
He had, in fact, almost bowed.
Annoying bastard.
He folded the note and slipped it into his coat.
Then he left.
The palace gardens were nearly empty.
Mist had settled over Veyrhold, turning the floating lanterns into blurred gold spheres. Somewhere below, the city bells marked eleven.
Caelan reached the eastern gate before stopping.
Something bothered him.
Not Lucien’s dizziness.
Not only that.
The queen.
The way she had reacted.
The gold mark beneath Lucien's collar.
The strange narrowing of his eyes on the dance floor.
Caelan turned and looked back toward the Sunspire.
One window high in the western tower was illuminated.
Lucien’s room.
A shadow crossed it.
Then another.
Caelan stood there longer than he needed to.
He told himself the royal physician was examining him.
He told himself Marianne had been frightened because mothers were frightened when their children became ill.
He told himself Lucien was fine.
Lucien had said so.
Eventually, Caelan started down the palace road.
He had gone perhaps thirty paces when something flashed behind him.
Gold.
Bright enough to paint his shadow across the stones.
Caelan spun around.
Nothing.
The palace stood quiet beneath the stars.
A few lanterns moved in the wind.
The western tower window had gone dark.
Caelan waited.
No sound followed.
No alarm.
He rubbed one hand against the sudden chill along his arms.
Then he continued toward Saint Orison’s.
He did not see Queen Marianne standing inside Lucien’s bedroom.
He did not see the physician packing his instruments with shaking hands.
He did not see the handful of golden scales resting in Marianne’s palm.
And he did not hear her ask the physician, very quietly, to swear that he would never tell the king what he had seen.
Caelan knew only that something was wrong.
And because Lucien had always eventually told him everything that mattered, Caelan believed this would be no different.
Three nights later, the alarm bells began to ring.