Chapter Text
Simon wasn’t unaccustomed to waking up with a mouthful of blood. In the dungeons, he found himself doing so more often than not, between beatings and fights and the food. He was missing half his back teeth, now, and his cellmate would joke that swallowing them was good for the bones. That cellmate had been hanged some months ago, as all of them were eventually.
What he was unaccustomed to, though, was waking up in a four-poster featherbed with a mouthful of blood.
He lay on his back in the dim pre-dawn light, staring up at the intricately painted canopy above him - tigers battling dragons, a baby on a lotus blossom, pink butterflies - trying to piece together how he’d ended up here. To say it was merely nicer than the straw they’d given him in the palace dungeons would have been an enormous understatement; it was nicer than any bed he’d ever seen, let alone slept in. His throat hurt, and his lips and chin were sticky, but the bed was so soft and the covers so warm that, had he not noticed the insistent metallic smell, he might have gone back to sleep and dealt with the trouble of being somewhere he obviously wasn’t allowed to be once someone found him.
He turned his head to the side, and noticed that most of the pillow, white, originally, was drenched in blood, with thick dark lumps of flesh.
Bolting upright with a yell, suddenly extremely awake, he touched his mouth and his hand came away bloodied. He looked, then looked again.
Examining his hand - slender dainty fingers, soft uncalloused palm, almond-brown skin and manicured nails - he realised he had two significant issues. The first was the copious quantity of blood he seemed to have vomited in his sleep. The second was that this wasn’t his hand.
“Your Radiance?” a voice came through the door, and Simon seized, caught trespassing. “Is everything alright? I heard a cry.”
“Yes,” he called back automatically, and the voice that came out of his mouth was not his either, smarmy, honeyed, with a lilt that made the word two syllables. They lingered at the door a moment, as if waiting for him to say something else, then padded away.
The moment he was sure they had gone, he sprang to his feet, pulling back the green velvet curtains of the bed. The rest of the room was so grand it gave him pause, enormous vaulted ceiling and carved painted marble and living plants. The huge windows let in the soft dawn glow past gauzy drapes, the view outside silvered fountains and rolling fields, and fat ripe grapes sat, dewy and ready to eat, on a low table beside a gold-and-glass carafe of water. With trembling hands, he poured himself a cup, for his throat, and found it curiously sweet. The bedchamber was twice the size of Simon’s entire childhood home.
He would, he was sure, at any moment be woken by Fool Bright’s absurd morning greetings - and, if it was a good day, some chicken Bobby had smuggled from the guards’ kitchen for him, which improved his usual gruel significantly - or by his cellmates trying to batter each other to death against the bars, and would forget this strange dream. Every muscle ached, as though he had been thrashed, and his steps came stiffly and painfully.
On the far wall from the bed was a vanity with a gold-framed mirror, which he headed towards, stumbling over the thick pile of the imported rug beneath his feet.
The face in the mirror was, even with blood on its full lips and a deathly, greyish pallor, young and ethereally beautiful, surrounded by a cascade of silky silver hair. Simon groped quickly to check - a man - and turned his face to the side, examining the jawline, the flawless skin glowing in the pale morning light. The eyes were glass-green, with lashes long and thick enough to rest on perfect cheekbones. The body was tall, but slender to the point of girlishness, delicate hip-bones on display when he lifted his embroidered white nightshirt. There was perfume, he noticed as he moved it, scenting the garment, and another perfume combed through his hair, and, he’d wager, a different perfume on his wrists.
It was a breathtaking face, and extremely familiar. He’d seen it depicted in temple paintings often enough, and had, at the time, thought the beauty of the prince must have been exaggerated. After seeing him, he’d found that the artists had if anything failed to capture his beauty, and his cruelty; haloed and gilded, the prince was drawn with warmth in his eyes, which poorly reflected reality.
Simon had only seen him in person once before: he had been giving the last rites for a man about to be publicly beheaded, and his eyes had shone with awful devotion, beautiful and terrible in his clean white robes. The commons loved him or were utterly terrified of him, which looked much the same on a crowd. When they’d all been sprayed with blood, he hadn’t flinched, eyes closed, perfectly tranquil face spattered with lurid red. That was the image of Prince Nahyuta burned into his head.
If Simon Blackquill was in the body of the prince, what had become of Simon Blackquill’s body? Was it in a heap on the floor of his cell, to be thrown onto a rotting pile the next day? Was the prince inhabiting it, and in for an exceptionally rude awakening? What had become of Prince Nahyuta? He thought of the blood-soaked pillow, and shuddered.
The voice came at the door again, this time accompanied by the round, worried face of a serving-woman, and he jumped guiltily, wiping his mouth. “Your Radiance? Your bath is ready.”
“Thank you,” he said weakly, throat raspy, forcing a smile. She blinked, opened and closed her mouth. Gods, did Prince Nahyuta not thank his servants, or did he not smile? Was there blood on his teeth?
“Are you feeling quite alright, Your Radiance? Her Eminence was asking after your health after you retired early last night.”
Simon wondered if she’d scream in horror at the state of his pillowcases, but recognised his supposed illness as the perfect excuse for any strange behaviour. “Tell her… that I am not much improved. That will be all.”
He was guessing, there, how a prince might speak to the servant drawing his bath, and it seemed correct; she nodded quickly, then scurried away. In his absence, would the room be scrubbed and swept, the bedclothes changed? Wary of the questions that might be asked about such a quantity of blood, he stowed the bloodied pillow beneath the bed.
It was not difficult to be terse with the servants attending his bath; he hadn’t realised they would be there, and was unpleasantly surprised at their expecting to wash his hair and scrub his body for him. When he dismissed them, they murmured among themselves, one telling the others that the prince was not well. He experimented with all the soaps and creams by the side of the bath - in the dungeon, he hadn’t washed in months - trying to guess their scents and functions; honey-scented, thick and waxy, a moisturiser? The water was steaming hot, which was the way he liked to bathe. Something he and the prince had in common, apparently.
By the time he was done, someone had lit all the lamps in the bedchamber, and opened the windows to allow the fresh green smell of spring in. A steaming tea set had been placed on the low table, which he sniffed suspiciously. It smelled bitterly herbal in a way he had never known tea to be, and was far too hot to drink. He dismissed the dressers, too, and selected the only black clothes in the prince’s peaches-and-cream silk and gauze nightmare of a wardrobe, heavy velvet, high-collared. The prince’s hair dried far quicker than his own would have, into one silvery sheet of silk over his shoulders. He considered braiding it, as the prince wore it in all the portraits, but decided that a shoddily-done braid - even with his best efforts - would appear far stranger than wearing it loose.
When he left the bedchamber, he went striding with false purpose down a hallway, then across a sun-drenched courtyard with intricately painted columns and archways.
Free, he thought, half-drunk on the idea, free to go anywhere or do anything. He could breathe the scent of the flowers, feel the breeze on his face, the sun on his skin. A world away from life in the dark damp cell he’d been rotting in, though that cell was, even now, only a short distance beneath his feet, below the palace. Halfway between here and Hell.
A cherry tree, in blossom, stood in the centre of a pattern of raked stones, and beneath it lay an enormous tiger. As he stopped to stare, it cracked an eye open, then started padding, at alarming speed, towards him, head low. He stumbled back, even as it came in close, nuzzled its huge head against him, licked him with a tongue twice the width of his arm. Tasting him? It was making a rumbling noise. Should he swat it away? Would he lose a hand?
“Nahyuta?” The woman behind him spoke coolly and regally, though there was genuine surprise in her voice. “We had not expected… to see you about so early.”
He spun, and made a slightly unseemly noise when he saw it was the queen herself, staring at him with slightly raised eyebrows. She was tall, impossibly graceful, in layers of rich robes. Her eyes flickered down to his clothing, and he wondered if it was now covered in white fur.
Queen Ga’ran was a contentious figure: the Holy Mother’s avatar in the realm and a beacon of beneficence, by the royal family’s own insistence, or a tyrant and a witch to the rebels, prone to bouts of mad laughter as she burned and beheaded her enemies. Simon doubted the whole truth of either, though his experience in her dungeons had rather biased him towards the latter. There were enough torture chambers in that grim place to house half the kingdom.
Her expression was calm as she approached him, her walk a stately glide, and cool calculation, not warmth or concern, in her green eyes.
“We had heard you were ill. We see now that we heard true. You look deathly.”
“I feel awful,” he said, truthfully. He attempted a smile, saw her eyes widen, then stopped smiling. “I had thought the sun might do me more good than lying in my bedchamber all day.”
“We had cancelled your appointments for the day after reports of your continued illness.” He hoped his sigh of relief was not too obvious. “We could not have the court catching anything from you. Why are you playing with Kee’ra at this hour? Is there something the matter with your prayer chamber?”
“Not at all. I was walking there now.”
“This courtyard is rather out of your way, then, is it not?” She glanced towards the left passage; the direction of the prayer chamber, Simon surmised.
“It is. I was simply confused,” he put the back of his hand to his forehead, as though he might swoon into a faint, “your concern for me is most touching, auntie.”
Her head whipped around at that; gods, was she the prince’s aunt? Had Simon misremembered? Yes, she was, that was right, he remembered the song now, the poor captured queen and her mad dashing lover and the blaze he’d set to kill her. More romantically inclined maids wept over how tragic a start that was for the prince, how sad it must make him, how in need of comfort from them, as though the prince was looking for a bride in the peasant alehouses.
He had already started towards the left passage, with what he hoped was a convincingly impaired-seeming stumble. The tiger followed him a few paces, then lost interest and collapsed back under the tree.
“You must pray for your swift recovery,” she did not raise her voice even slightly as he left, though it would have been impossible to miss a word, “we would be loathe to see you disgrace yourself before the Fey Clan.”
Her gaze burnt into his back all the way down the hall.
The prayer chamber was private; it was a large space, perfectly orderly, with scrolls piled neatly on a shelf against one wall, mats on the floor, and an elaborate, beautiful altar at the far end. The candles were of a sweet-smelling wax, golden yellow, the pink and white flowers were fresh, and the walls were carved with life-size painted friezes of Khura’inist deities: Simon recognised several aspects of the Holy Mother, Lady Kee’ra, the hideous galuun who tortured souls in Hell, though many of the others were unknown to him. He was not a Khura’inist, or even Khura’inese, and had come across the sea to the kingdom.
He was still unclear exactly what one did during prayer; he sat cross-legged in front of the central figure, the faceless Holy Mother, until he felt enough time had elapsed to say he had finished praying, and to escape back to the bedchamber.
His serving-girl, at his command, brought a cup of sweet gold wine, placing it on the vanity table beside his hand. When he smiled at her, she stopped and stared, and he felt suddenly self-conscious. “Leave me.”
He examined his face in the mirror, forcing himself to unfurrow his brows; that was a distinctly Simon scowl, worn on a different face, and the sight unsettled him. He smiled and found that it transformed his face entirely, absurdly perfect, angelic, lighting it from within, and then dropped his face to a frown again. That explained the reactions he’d been getting: he had never once seen the prince look like that. A tranquil smile, barely there. He practiced curving his lip slightly, keeping his eyes blank. The smile shouldn’t reach them. Something about the set of those eyebrows and lips lent his face a haughty character, even at rest, which was good.
“Nahyuta!” The voice at the door was shrill; he had been so frequently addressed as Your Radiance, it took the girl storming into the room and tugging irritably at his sleeve for him to remember that he was Nahyuta. She was a young teenager, with a complex hairstyle and the same smarmy expression as the prince, worn on a face that had not yet lost its puppy fat. A bevy of servants behind her brought game pieces, a plate of dates and some powdered, translucent pink sweet.
“Stop ogling yourself! Yesterday you said you would play Kachu'demahl with me again tomorrow. It is tomorrow! This time, my skill shall bring you to your knees!”
The girl was Princess Rayfa; he battled to keep any emotion off his face, as he’d gathered the prince would do. Up close, she looked a lot younger, and a lot angrier. Simon had never heard of Kachu'demahl in his life. “I’m sure. Set it up, then.”
She paused, looked at him askance, and then huffed and started unfolding the board, with overdramatic care, on the low table.
Without looking up from her work, she said, “I heard that you were ill today, so I, thoughtfully, brought the game here to you. And Mother thinks you look ghoulish in black. She thought you might wear the white silk today.”
“Shows how much your mother knows,” he said, and she stared at him, mouth agape. He coughed. “Is the game ready?”
“Of course. Are you?”
“Naturally.” He let her move first, then copied her. She scowled, and moved again. He moved a different piece at random.
“What are you doing?”
“We’re playing Kachu'demahl, clearly. It’s your turn.”
She moved, then he moved, and she slammed a fist down on the table, red-faced. “Do not let me win, Braid Head!”
“My hair is not braided. Perhaps you simply do not understand my strategy?”
There was a sound like a sigh in his ear. It was his turn again, and he copied her.
“Move the piece in front of your left hand three spaces forward.” He startled as the voice in his ear chimed in, irate. Rayfa glared at his hesitation, so he crammed one of the pink sweets into his mouth, chewed, swallowed. Moved his piece. The pink sweet had been rose-flavoured, and he had another. The princess made a noise of frustration.
“I brought those because I know you don’t like them. Those are for me, the dates are for you!”
“How rude of you. I’m developing a taste for them.” He put a date in his mouth as well, speaking with his mouth full. “Are you, perhaps, putting off your turn, Rayfa?”
She huffed, staring at the board a moment, before moving.
“You can win from here in two moves.” The voice was soft and low. “Far left piece back one.”
Taking another sweet to irritate the princess, he moved his far left piece back one. He won in two moves.
Feeling a bug crawling on his ear, he brushed it off, and wondered why the princess looked so alarmed by his doing that. Without thinking, he pulled a face, as he would have at Athena, and she stood up abruptly, pointing at him. “Stop acting so strangely! I do not wish to play with you anymore!”
As quickly as she had arrived, she was gone, though it took the servants rather longer to clear away the game. One of them tried to grovel and apologise to him, but he waved it away. The moment they were done, he collapsed onto the bed, finding the sheets pleasantly cool, though he could have done without the scent on them.
His head hurt; sleep came on him in a moment, and he wondered, as his eyes closed, if he would wake with a chill in his bones again, staring up at the damp stone walls of his cell.