The Royals

Chapter 7

Kate went back inside, but the dwarf's visit had made her more edgy than before. Her brother accused her of being reckless these days and perhaps he was right. She didn't understand how he could have changed so much. He had transformed from a dragon without a care to a man full of worries - and he muttered fewer complaints than she did when breaking in a pair of new boots.

Such as those in the corner.

The unfamiliar luxury of extra clothing and fine bedding did not offset her own loss of liberty. She chafed under the constant requests for her presence. Requests, my left eye, Kate thought. A demand known by any other name smells just as foul.

That her lessons with Abadan were going so badly only added to her frustration. She was not used to accepting a charge she could not fulfil. Yet she'd found herself working tirelessly to develop her dubious magical talents. She felt like a river fish suddenly thrown into the sea with no hope of learning to breathe salt water.

She'd been indoors for too many days. She needed air, wind, to hear snow crunching underfoot. Kate yanked off the soft shoes Abadan had insisted she wear and threw them under the bed. She found the goatfleece-lined winter boots Maarcus had given her, thrust her feet in, and tightened the knee-high leather lacing. She stomped the stiff boots harder than she needed to be sure she'd tied them well. Satisfied she was capable of managing at least one small chore, Kate slowly straightened to work the tense knot out of her back. She snatched the new felt cape - another gift from Maarcus-from its peg by the door and headed outside without stopping to inform anyone.

It was full dark and the wind was up. The few palace guards stationed outside had found a nook to protect themselves from the weather. They did not expect anyone to be out on such a night and behaved accordingly. Kate slipped by them with no effort at all and went down into the streets of The Cliffs.

The cape took some getting used to. It kept her warm, but she was unaccustomed to the way it swirled about her legs and entrapped her arms. It distracted her and might have been a true hindrance if she'd known where she was bound. In the end, she decided to ignore it and hope it settled around her the way proper boots stopped pinching after a few weeks' wear.

No one was about and Kate preferred it that way. She ached for solitude. She had never in her life been around so many people for such an extended period of time.

Or if she must have company, let it be no more than a drunken mercenary shouting tales of glory to all the denizens of the Crisscross Inn while she swallowed a mug of ale.

A foolish wish. That was behind her. The Crisscross was gone. Most of the city of Twin Gates surrounding the inn was gone, surrendered to the elfwitch. The elfwitch. Always and ever after, the cursed elf witch. Kate let her feet take her to the cliff overlooking the sea. Since moving into the castle, the water called to her in a way she had not expected. It was in her blood no less than the mountains always had been. She strolled the path along the edge. The wind moaned in her ears and seemed to warn of death.

Snow crunched behind her, giving away someone stalk ing her.

She measured her steps carefully and listened as the other's faltered to match the pace. She hurried forward while coming in from the cliff's edge. Again her pursuer echoed her moves.

She bent down suddenly, pretending to pick up an object from the ground, pulling her knife from her boot instead. Holding her blade before her, she rose and spun in one move. The knife caught on her cape. She yanked it free just as he ran to meet her.

Running so hard that he could not stop.

Arms flung wide in an attempt to slow before he went over the cliff, the man impaled himself on her blade. He grunted once and slid to the ground.

'I was only trying to warn you,' he gasped out. 'He won't let you live. He dares not.

'She bent over him. 'He… who?'

'The . . . prince."

'The prince! That's absurd! How dare you accuse Henry of such a thing?'

But the man was beyond listening. Blood gushed from his mouth and his glassy stare could only be seen on the dead.

Kate checked for a pulse and warm breath to be sure Nothing.

She closed his eyes and studied his unlined face. He seemed very young. Finally she patted his pockets in hopes of finding anything to tell her who he was. She came up empty until she noted the ring on his right hand. It bore the royal crest. Had it belonged to her brother?

Kate didn't remember having noticed it before. Then again, what better way for Henry to deny any connection than to avoid wearing it?

Confused and genuinely frightened, she slipped the ring off the corpse's hand and into her pocket.

She considered wrapping her cape around him as a burial shroud but decided it could be too easily recognized as hers. Instead she whispered, "May the Sisters keep you,' and shoved him off the cliff. .

Princess Kate shivered as the body bounced against the rocks below. 'And may the Sisters forgive me.

'No ordinary elf notices when the clan's goatboy shivers in the depth of winter or loses fingers to frostbite. One Goatboy in particular had just a little tent to block the wind and his animals to provide warmth.

He did not despair. He only needed to recall 'Notti,' his long forgotten private name, and his mind conjured his exiled mother's face.

He thought the expression meant something like 'precious', 'adored' and 'mischievous' all braided into one. He'd never be sure, though, because no elven clan wove tales about goatboys.

Long before the child became Goatboy, his father had voiced his impatience over the kind pet names that spawned soft men. With waving fists and crashing pottery, he swore at the faithless woman who shamed him by using such frivolous terms when she thought he couldn't hear. The second time he caught her tending the boy with hushed giggling and conspiratorial whispers, he turned her over to the elfwitch. His wife's banishment grieved him no more than a fisherman might mourn a rejected minnow.

His wrath he saved for his son.

The child was sentenced to look after the goats. To the man's disgust, the boy defiled them both by perverting the punishment into his personal indulgence - or so Notti's father spat between gritted teeth. 'Any toddler under stands that the People are above such loud and smelly beasts. She meaning his expelled mother has done this. You are no flesh of mine!'

He left the boy to his debauchery, thereby formally disowning him - all because the child had wondered aloud why the goats were each as different as the elves themselves.

Whereas the father settled on ignoring his son, the man's second wife took her pleasure in degrading him. Goatboy endured. He let her jeers blow in the right ear and out the left; his bruises healed. She dared no more for no one else would watch over the goats so well.

No, the worst part to this day was the guilt over his mother's exile. Each glimpse of his father's stiff-jawed profile wrenched Goatboy to the core. Years had passed without word. No one knew how she and the other banished elves fared. None but Goatboy cared.

And yet, he was not unhappy among the goats. Huddled on the edge of the forest behind a windbreak, he patted his old friend's flank. They were all good fellows, who never caused him harm. Goatboy sighed and wished he could say the same. Death comes to all, elf and beast, but the boy hated to choose the time. This one's end would come in the morning.

With the winter so harsh and some near starvation, the camp was forcing him to sacrifice more goats than was wise. He was down to only a Sister's handful now, and Goatboy sometimes worried whether any would live come Spring. For tonight, they would keep each other warm and the boy would tell stories until he fell asleep.

His favorite was the ongoing saga of Dragon, inspired by the Dragon Prince himself. The tales always began and ended the same way, but the adventures in between were marvelous. The boy cleared his throat. 'I once knew a Dragon. He was a small, malformed creature, but he had the bravery of a bear and the wiles of a fox. No animal could best him for long.' In a conspiratorial whisper, he informed his audience, 'Some said he was a prince in disguise, but I don't think we'll ever know for sure.'

In full voice once again, he said, 'As it happened, Dragon had broken a wing when he tangled with that giant falcon. And remember, he was not big himself. His enemies thought, "Now is the time to show that misshapen thing its place." But Dragon knew just what to do…'

As Goatboy spoke, he ignored his own poorly mended hand. Thin bones had shattered in the beating he received last fall and he'd had to splint it himself. He ran his twisted fingers through the coarse fur and went on with the story until the close breath of the goat lulled him to shut his eyes. He forgot what happened next. 'And remember,' he finally said through a yawn, 'the dragon always wins.'

Away from the sea and back in the streets of The Cliffs proper, the wind spit snow into Kate's face. She pushed on. Another storm threatened to be one of the worst of the winter and she couldn't risk waiting it out among strangers. She had to get home, unwelcome as it was.

The lady's maid, the cook, the near poisoning, the dead man at the cliff's edge. Now this biting, bitter snowstorm. It seemed even the Sisters conspired against her.

Kate no longer knew how to ward off danger. Despite her years outwitting assassins, no one had ever bothered to make her a target except as a way of getting at the person she'd been paid to guard. Now common folk died for standing in her service.

Distracted and blinded by snow, Kate lost her way. She studied the buildings. They all seemed constructed of massive stone and she had trouble telling one from the other. There was a statue not far ahead, so she must be in one of the city's many plazas. She moved closer to see if she might distinguish this from others and thereby divine the right direction.

Close up, this one might have been the Great King himself with his sword raised high overhead. She tried to brush snow from the base to read the legend. Maarcus had once told her all the statues were originally laden with ornamental gems. Since then each set of corrupt twin-rulers had chipped away until the monuments freed their treasures.

The idea of defacing the statues offended Kate. To pilfer such precious stones was criminal, but worse was the attitude of the so-called kings who would parade such pettiness and need before the very people they were sworn to watch over.

For each brush she gave the inscription, the wind returned snow seven-fold. Kate gave up trying to clear it. Assume it is the Great King and choose your road from there, she told herself. East, the castle will be east. She strode across the square, praying to the Sisters she headed east.

Exhausted from struggling against the wind and pre occupied with her own thoughts, Kate had forgotten to monitor her surroundings. When someone abruptly separated from the shadows and came at her hissing obscenities, the dead man's warning suddenly came back to her.

A stray light glistened off the attacker's raised hand. He held a dagger aimed at her. Katelian's reflexes took over. The cape which had seemed such an annoyance served excellent duty as a soft shield. She swirled it about her to make herself a larger quarry while at the same time making it harder for the assassin to reach her vitals.

'Princess, my right eye,' muttered the man. 'I'll send you to the Sisters and let them decide your claim.'

He moved in close and swung wildly with the blade. She felt the sting as it scraped her cheek but ignored it as she retaliated with a knee to his groin. As the man doubled over she brought her fist under to meet his chin. He tried to get in another swipe and sliced air instead. Kate hammered the back of his neck with the side of her hand and the man went down.

'They had one thing right,' he groaned. 'You sure don't fight like a princess."

She kicked him in the gut for good measure. He grunted and lay quiet, watching her.

Kate pulled her own knife from her boot, the very knife she'd won from Maarcus on their first meeting. Waving it before his eyes, she said, 'You'll find I'm not afraid to use this.' She smiled with a hint of self-satisfaction. 'And you would do well to note that I'm much more skilful with it than you've demonstrated thus far.'