Chapter Text
King Conrad the Handsome wasn’t a fool but he could be soft-hearted, which is a dangerous flaw for a sovereign. He had no children when he fell in love with Liliane Ronceval, the pretty Baroness of the Pic aux Épines; the wisest thing would have been to restrain himself until his wife’s pregnancy, so as to ensure that his first-born would be the proper heir to the Chaînebris throne.
He didn’t, however. Liliane Ronceval’s husband recognized the affair as the opportunity that it was, and gossips claimed that he was even more elated than his wife when Conrad visited her for the first time. The King granted him an official charge as a Torch-Bearer, travelling to the Outside for negotiations and to guide special guests or trading partners, and promptly elevated him to the dignity of Count for his services, which was all the more deserved by the care he showed in returning home once a month so that any pregnancy might appear his.
A child was born, and it shouldn’t have been. But Liliane’s husband claimed paternity for the boy; the timing of his visits corresponded roughly enough; the King swore he hadn’t gone past the first stages of courtship. Perhaps some of his closest friends had heard otherwise, but they remained worthy of his trust.
Roscelin, Count of Ronceval, was born six months before Primat, Prince heir to the Carrion Crow lineage, future ruler of the Chaînebris. Not all nobles suspected Roscelin’s bloodline; Conrad had at least been sensible enough not to launch into the extravagant courtships of some of his forebears. Some dismissed the gossip as idle chatter, and some aristocrats lived too entrenched in their own domain to care about the tales of the court.
Roscelin grew up into a charming child, bright-eyed and quick-witted. He made friends easily, and he made his Seven-Years-Pacts without trouble; the Earth embraced him as one of the Fickle People, and the Mist bowed before him as it does before future Lords of the Chaînebris.
The Crows didn’t come – but they weren’t called.
Prince Primat grew up into an unsmiling boy, cold and clever, bereft of his father’s grace. His mind was sharp as a knife, but it was a weapon that hadn’t learned when not to cut; he had no friends, though he didn’t seem to mind, and he’d sadly inherited his eyes from his foreigner mother’s side – pools of darkness across which shone the twisted light of pupils shaped like intricate sigils. She was proud of it, as such traits were unique to her bloodline and its pact with star-borne Outsiders. Most, however, found it unnerving to stand his gaze. Normal eyes had black corneas, but they weren’t so utterly devoid of light; they had round irises, white slanted pupils, and they didn’t feel so starkly unnatural.
Still, he was well-learned, proud, and he made his Seven-Years-Pacts with the Earth, the Mist, and the Crows without any incidents. He was only fourteen when he mastered the hardest of their gifts: the call, the vision, and finally the shapeshifting.
He instantly knew how he wanted to use the latter.
***
“You have a bastard brother,” his mother had said. “He’s older than you. Your father shouldn’t have let the pregnancy reach its term, but he’s too soft-hearted.”
Léonore’s tone had borne nothing but cold disapproval. She didn’t care for her husband’s infidelity; they were spouses, not lovers. However, she loathed that his weakness would have brought him to such irrationality.
“His name is Roscelin, of the Pic aux Épines. Your father never claimed him as his own, but there’s little doubt that he’s his first-born. Of course, you will deny his parentage as well.”
Her eyes – unforgiving shards of light against the black canvas of her cornea – had held Primat's. Mother and son shared the same cold temper; despite the Prince's young age, Léonore already trusted him as an adult.
“In three years, he will be old enough to have his first Wild Hunt and he will be introduced to the Court. Study him then, and never forget what he is. Once your father joins the Mist, nobles might try to use him as an alternate heir. No matter what, he will always be a hindrance to you.”
Primat had wondered about his half-brother ever since. The Pic aux Épines wasn’t that far from the Pic du Corbeau where the Crow King resided: two hours of flight at most. It was a verdant mountain known for its cloying wine and extravagant flowers, divided in a few small Counties and Baronies. Ronceval was one of the lowest ones, whose inferior borders sank deep into the Mist.
The Queen would have disapproved of Primat's curiosity, or at least of his intent to act upon it. He planned his itinerary, then claimed that he wanted to spend a day practising flight; as he was a brilliant student, and already catching up to them in their respective expertise, his tutors easily agreed.
That matter settled, he transformed into a crow and left in the early morning.
Primat rose until the Chaînebris’ closest peaks turned into shards of land, green and brown and grey among the Mist. Some of them bore brighter shades: the countless colours of the flower-streaked Pic des Pétales, the blinding white of the snow-painted Pic Désolé, the yellow rocks of the Mont Safran… Hundreds of bridges hung between them, glowing with the magic that held them together.
Primat floated idly for a few moments, taking in the beauty of the scene, before he resumed his flight. As expected, he needed a little less than two hours to reach the Pic aux Épines. It was Spring; the peak’s flanks were covered with the briars that bore its famous wine flowers. Even the woods were filled with tree-tall specimens, soft blossoms and chiselled leaves hiding the sharpness of thorns. Most of the Pic aux Épines’s flora could draw blood from the careless.
Of course, there was no guarantee that Primat would catch a glimpse of the young Count. Perhaps Roscelin would spend the day inside the castle, absorbed in lessons and duties; perhaps he was visiting a cousin or a friend, or travelling across his land. It didn’t really matter. Primat was equally curious to see the place where his half-brother had grown up. He felt like this would give him a glimpse into the other’s personality, a piece to fit against the young man he would later meet at the Court.
He’d memorized the maps easily, but he still struggled to locate Ronceval until he recognized the shape of the river that crossed its land. The castle rose nearby, a tall building made from stone and briars. The plants had melded with the walls, flowers covering the roofs like colourful braids. Tender greens espoused white stones; the windows were wide and their sills painted bright. It looked both beautiful and vulnerable, a far cry from the deadly efficiency of the Crow’s castle’s design. Primat could see his father and his soft heart falling for a woman born and raised in such a place.
Flying closer, he noticed a small group near the riverbank, a few metres away from a briar wood: four servants and three youths dressed like nobles. The gold wasn’t a tell – any one of the Fickle People knew the spell to turn any metal or mineral to another – but this shade of pink, born from precious shells imported from Outside, or this azure blue, created by the Pic des Peintres’ best atelier, were above the means of commoners, at least without the use of illusions.
Primat swooped down. There were no guards nearby, only the weaponless servants. One of the nobles, a young girl who seemed no more than ten, was painting on a canvas. The two others, a small child still dressed in pactless robes and a boy, were climbing an apple tree.
The boy appeared to be between fifteen and sixteen. He was tall, solid, with features that promised to be singularly handsome in adulthood. His hair, tied in a haphazard ponytail, was stark white, and the irises of his slanted eyes shone, iridescent, into his bronzed face. He’d left his shirt, his vest and his boots on the grass and was climbing barefoot, the small child clinging to his back and squealing in delight.
Primat instantly knew it was Roscelin. There was no doubt to be had about his lineage; not when he’d so obviously inherited their father’s charisma.
He landed in a nearby tree. His limbs felt stifled and awkward; his heart beat wildly inside his chest. For a few seconds, his thoughts turned crow-like before he got himself back together.
He’d been luckier than he’d hoped; he’d found his half-brother and the latter’s sisters. The girls were not Conrad’s. They’d been born after his liaison with Liliane – perhaps there were even her husband's. Primat barely paid attention to them, focused solely on Roscelin.
He wasn’t passionate by temper, so he was at a loss about how to handle the violent impulses that made his heart trip over itself. Of course, his brother had to be handsome and charming, tall and grinning. Even the fact that he knew how to climb trees – a skill far too useless for Primat to ever pay attention to it, until now – seemed like another reason to loathe him.
He forced himself to calm down and tore his gaze away, trying to imitate a crow’s idle movements. He had seen Roscelin; there was no point in staying further. He would observe more of Ronceval itself and then return home.
A change in the noises below attracted his attention. Roscelin was leaving, though not in the direction of the castle: he was running toward the woods, throwing some comforting words to a worried servant.
Primat had no reason to follow him. The sensible thing was to stick to his initial plan.
Yet he didn't. Instead, he waited a few seconds and flew after Roscelin. The foliage quickly obstructed his field of view, impeding his pursuit; on the bright side, it meant Roscelin was less susceptible to notice him.
After a few minutes, Roscelin stopped. Primat slowed down so he wouldn’t get too close and perched onto a branch as he observed him. The other boy was standing close to one of the tall briars-trees, sliding his fingers down its trunk in a way Primat instinctively hated.
Primat was young and shaken, but he still smelled the trap; far too late, though, for the briars were already enclosing him in their wooden cage. A few ways to get out crossed his mind, none of them acceptable in his current circumstances.
Roscelin walked over, grinning. With each step, the colours of his eyes seemed to change and swirl ever-so-subtly. He had the smile of someone who’d never met an obstacle he couldn’t charm – the trustful arrogance of a child who’d never been bitten by the wild beasts he’d tried to pet. He climbed the tree while Primat glared at him.
Of course, the Ronceval nobles would have a pact with their briars. Primat had been so stupid.
Roscelin climbed next to his cage and reached out through the bar. He seemed so utterly confident that he wouldn’t get pecked that Primat debated doing so. Then again, he had no reason to draw blood. A Prince didn’t start attacking nobles just because he’d been trapped when spying on them in their own domain.
Warm fingers closed around Primat’s left leg.
“I knew I’d spotted you on that peach tree! They say that the Pactbearers of the Crow have to grant you a wish if you catch them in bird shape, right?”
Roscelin’s smile was blinding, his gaze bright and delighted. Primat forced himself to withstand it.
“They say,” the Prince retorted coldly, “that you must first guess who they truly are, lest they tear out your eyes.”
“I know who you are!” Roscelin exclaimed cheerfully. “You’re Primat, my half-brother.”
Something glacial and furious swept through Primat like a storm. He reacted out of blind rage, clawing at the other boy. Roscelin pulled his arm away, but he was too late to avoid three gashes across the side of his hand. Betrayed astonishment froze his handsome face.
“I’m Prince Primat, and certainly no brother of yours,” Primat hissed. “I should have your eyes!”
Roscelin glared at him, nursing his bloody hand. He was trying to hide his pain and making a poor job of it. He opened his mouth, seemed to bite back a few different replies and finally answered in a low voice.
“Certainly, you’re not my brother. Still, I was right about the rest. You’ve had my blood, and now I’ll have my wish.”
Primat bristled in spite of himself, angry with the frankness of his crow’s body. The ancient rules did hold: Roscelin was owed a wish. Primat had had no right on the blood he’d drawn, and he would pay a price for it.
“Name your desire,” he said sourly.
Roscelin grinned, but that expression was far different from his previous smile. There was an edge to it; a sharpness that hadn’t been here before.
“Give me one of your feathers.”
Primat’s heart slammed between his ribs. He shook his head.
“It would grant you too much power over me; that’s too heavy a price. Ask for something else.”
“Then I want your favourite ring.”
“That’s my seal as a Prince, and I would be lost without it. Ask for something else.”
“Then I want entrance to your chambers whenever I please.”
Primat's talons tightened over the branch they clung to.
“Fine,” he spat out.
Roscelin’s smile widened in a brief smirk of satisfaction. He was pale, sweating with pain, and his eyes were hard.
“It will be a pleasure to see you at Court, Prince Primat.”
The briar cage opened to free Primat. He flew away without another word, his blood thrumming with frustrated rage.
Of the two of them, though, he cursed himself the most.
***
That night, a crow visited Primat’s dreams – gigantic and dark as night, Mist-filled eyes staring at the Prince. He understood that it was the Crows’ judgement and offered his hand, knowing with dreamlike certainty that it was what was asked of him.
Pain tore him into wakefulness – three burning gashes across the side of his left hand, digging deep into its palm: the very same wound he had given Roscelin. He bit his lip not to scream and sent his jack, who’d been sleeping in his antechamber, to fetch the royal healer.
The king asked for explanations, of course. Primat gave him a half-lie – that a peasant had caught him, and addressed him so insolently that he’d lost his temper – and got away with a scolding.
The gashes healed slowly despite the healer’s talent. They left scars, too, three pallid lines digging into the flesh. Primat took to wearing gloves.
Three years later, Roscelin was introduced to the Court.