Hostage (2 page)

“The medics touch him,” grumbled Rowan.

“The only medic who has been allowed near him is Ragnor, who is your cousin, therefore of the royal bloodline and exempt from the prohibition.”

“Oh
all right,
I’m going.”

L
ORD
P
ROTECTOR
Charles Gabriel shook his head fondly as he watched his nephew stride from the conference room. He was a fine boy, soon to be a fine man and, despite what he’d just said, Charles had no doubt he’d make a fine king. Rowan had a keen mind, and like all scions of House Gabriel, he had a flair for diplomacy and negotiation. Unfortunately, he had a serious blind spot when it came to House Raphael and its ruling family—understandable but unfortunate.

Charles hadn’t been exaggerating when he told Rowan the kingdom could not sustain this war for long. It was tearing them apart and was devastating the Western Kingdoms too, although Hersten Raphael would never admit it. Rowan had to get over his foolish prejudice before he took over the crown, or his reign would ultimately end in utter disaster.

Charles had hoped setting Rowan to care for the captive prince would give him some perspective, some understanding that the Raphaels were people too, with the same weaknesses and frailties as any other human being. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to be working out that way. In fact it was serving only to foster bitterness and a hatred for the young prince that would not stand Rowan in good stead when they were both heading their respective Houses.

Tapping the table with his fingers, he came to a decision. He picked up the phone and dialed an internal line.

“My liege?” came a deep and sonorous voice from the other end.

“Ragnor, we have a problem. Things are not progressing as I would have hoped.”

“Indeed not, Cousin.” Ragnor dropped into the less formal mode of speaking the two usually adopted between themselves in private. “Rowan is headstrong. He feels that having to care for the young prince is demeaning and beneath him. It’s simply fueling the fires of his hatred instead of quenching them as we’d hoped. Instead of seeing Astrin as a vulnerable and helpless human being, finding common ground and respect, Rowan sees him as a pathetic weakling deserving of nothing but contempt.”

“What do you know of Prince Astrin?”

“Not very much. From what I hear, he’s an admirable and charming young man.”

“I am not entirely comfortable with this, Ragnor, but on balance I think we would be better served in letting the princes become acquainted. It is essential to the future welfare of both Houses that they at least tolerate each other. There is little point brokering a peace at this stage to have it torn to shreds as soon as two hotheaded boys take over the reins.”

“With respect, my liege, my understanding is that only one of them is headstrong and rash. Although Astrin is the younger by almost eighteen months, he has already taken over many of his father’s duties and is known as both an accomplished healer and a wise counselor.”

“Damn. It is more vital than ever that the boys come to some kind of understanding. I have to leave tomorrow for the final round of peace talks with House Raphael. No doubt Hersten will be looking for contact with his son as an indication of goodwill. It would be better if Astrin were able to speak to him. Do what you can whilst maintaining safety at all costs. House Raphael is more resourceful than any other House and therefore more dangerous. It would be disastrous should Astrin slip from our fingers now.”

“Are you sure, my liege? Do you have any idea what I would have to do to the boy to achieve what you are asking?”

“Would you need to permanently damage or change him?”

“Not permanently, no. But I would have to affect his mind, change the way he thinks, wipe his memory—effectively make him helpless.”

“Is it reversible?”

“It will reverse itself eventually unless I continually reinforce it.”

“In times of crisis, we do as we must.”

“Have no fear, my liege, I’ll take care of things here. You concentrate on what you do so well.”

“Thank you, Ragnor.” In a softer tone, he added, “I leave for the Heart of the West tomorrow morning, early. I was wondering if you would like to join me for a private dinner tonight.”

“It would be my honor, my liege.”

“Then come to my private chamber at seven.”

“As you wish.”

Both were smiling when they put down the phone.

R
OWAN
WASN
’
T
smiling. He was simmering gently and muttering to himself under his breath. He’d understood and fully appreciated everything his uncle said to him, but it changed nothing. He hated Astrin Raphael, hated him with a vengeance—vengeance for his parents, to be exact. When Astrin’s father had given the order to attack the armored convoy carrying Rowan’s parents back to the capital, he had shattered Rowan’s world. At four years old, the young prince had hardly known his parents, but he could remember the soft touch of his mother’s lips on his hair, the strong arms of his father cradling him and making him feel safer than he ever had since.

That was all gone now, wiped out in one round of intensive fire and a couple of old-fashioned rocket grenades. Gritting his teeth, Rowan pressed his thumb against a panel that checked his DNA. As Crown Prince, there was no security level for which he was not cleared, and almost instantly the panel changed from red to green, letting out a soft hiss as the seal around the door released.

Quite apart from his feelings for Astrin, Rowan hated coming to the infirmary wing. It was thankfully small, as it catered only for those who lived and worked in the Palace Complex. The door opened into a central lobby from which other doors led in three different directions. One led to the administrative center, another to the main body of the hospital, which was more often accessed through the main entrance at the other side of the building, and the third to the private royal apartment. This was used and accessed only by members of the royal family, their personal physicians, and retainers.

As usual a senior administrator sat behind the desk, working before a bank of computers. Because of the unusual circumstances, soldiers stood on either side of the door into the royal suite. They were elite bodyguards, eternally alert and ready to act in a heartbeat should the need arise.

Nodding to the soldiers but ignoring the administrator, Rowan again pressed his thumb against a panel and was admitted to a dimly lit corridor. At the end of the corridor was an administration chamber similar to the one he’d just left. This was manned predominantly by nurses, as it dealt with only a fraction of the information handled by the mainframe.

Today there were three nurses at the station. One was working hard on a keyboard in front of the monitor screens, apparently updating paperwork.

The other two nurses were lounging. They snapped to attention as Rowan entered. He ignored them.

Crossing the floor, he activated another thumb pad and pushed the door open when it hissed.

His first thoughts when he passed through the door were of utter contempt and disgust. If he hadn’t retained some sense of honor and decency, he would have spat on the sleeping prince. Fortunately, despite his complaints to his uncle, he realized it was necessary to treat the other prince with a degree of respect. It was vital the negotiations with his father were a success. Rowan therefore swallowed his feelings and went to work.

The boy was unconscious and completely helpless. As a Class One Prisoner, it was too dangerous to allow him any kind of freedom, even the freedom of consciousness.

For normal Class One Prisoners the overcrowded prisons had, over the years, developed containment chambers. Here, many men and women could be economically housed in pods, kept in a comatose state for however long their sentence might be, constantly played audio messages designed to precipitate rehabilitation. They were roused from their coma only during the last months of their sentence, when they had regular consultations with clinical therapists who assessed whether their minds had developed sufficient conscience to allow them to be released back into society.

Some prisoners had committed crimes so severe it was unlikely they would ever be roused. Their pods occupied a room all of their own, which was entered only to install a new pod or to remove that of a prisoner who had died.

However, no one was going to put Astrin, Crown Prince of House Raphael and The Western Kingdoms, in a stasis pod. Although he was a prisoner, he was still a member of the royal family of a major ruling House, and therefore deserving of special treatment.

Instead of a pod, he was reclining on a state-of-the-art bed, his head and shoulders propped up on white pillows. Although it was not possible to see from casual examination, his body was suspended from the shoulders down within an electrically generated field. No part of it was touching either the bed or the covering sheets, thereby preventing bed sores. In addition the field provided constant deep stimulation to his muscles, preventing atrophy and circulation issues.

Tubes inserted into the veins in his arms fed him a regular mixture of drugs, which maintained his perpetual coma, and another tube inserted into his stomach through his abdomen was used to feed him daily with a concentrated, thick liquid that contained all the nutrients needed to keep him alive.

It was Rowan’s duty to feed the sleeping prince, then disengage the force field and wash his body, making sure he stayed clean and there was no infection or irritation of the skin. Rowan hated it. He hated Astrin, and touching him repulsed him. Also the mixture of sedative drugs and the soupy liquid diet produced an absolutely foul waste that made him ponder at times whether it was deliberately engineered by his uncle as a rather basic lesson in humility.

It never occurred to Rowan that, if he found the whole thing demeaning and sickening, had Astrin been conscious enough to be aware of what was happening to his body, he would, no doubt, have found it even more so.

Rowan narrowed his eyes as he glared at the prince. It was hard to believe Astrin was only a little over a year younger than him. At seventeen, with flaxen hair, flawless, ivory skin, and delicate features, he could easily have been taken for a much younger teenager—even, in dim light, for a female. He was pretty; there was no doubt about that, but although Rowan refused to admit it, there was strength there too, evident even in sleep.

Gritting his teeth, Rowan moved to the side of the bed and lowered the rails. It was a little thing, but it intensely frustrated him—every day. Although Astrin was held entirely immobile by the force field, never mind being deeply unconscious, it seemed to be pretty much habit for doctors to carry on with regular routines, whether they were needed or not.

Approaching a panel in the wall near the bed, Rowan punched in the code that switched off the force field. There was a hiss, and the bed sheets sank, showing they were no longer held up by the shield.

In the adjoining bathroom, Rowan filled the waiting bowl with warm water and added a few drops of fragranced essence and antiseptic solution. A fresh towel and washcloth were laid out beside it. They were replaced by cleaning staff every day. He picked them up, with the bowl, and placed them on the bedside table. He then took a fresh set of loose white pajamas from the cabinet at the side of the bed and arranged them next to the bowl. Lastly he took fresh sheets from the linen cupboard and set them on the floor.

By now the smell was getting to him, and he sighed as he stripped back the covers.

He was startled when the door opened and Ragnor entered. Usually no one came near, and he’d not seen his cousin at all for a couple of weeks.

“Good afternoon, my prince. I have new instructions, so you are relieved of this duty for today. Would you please return this afternoon?”

“Why?” Pleased as he was that he wasn’t going to have to carry out the unpleasant task, Rowan was puzzled by what Ragnor said. What new instructions? What was going on?

“They are your uncle’s orders, my prince. If you wish to discuss them, perhaps you could do so with him.”

Rowan took one look at Ragnor’s inscrutable face and sighed. He left the room and went in search of his uncle. For some reason, he was completely unable to find him.

L
ESSONS

W
HEN
R
OWAN
returned a few hours later, Ragnor was still with Prince Astrin. It was immediately clear that something had radically changed. Astrin was reclining almost upright against the pillows, his hair spread out like a shining halo around his head. Despite not having been taken care of for so long, it was beautiful, like pale winter sunshine. Rowan growled low in his throat. He was
not
going to like this boy, no matter
how
beautiful he was. He hated him, had always hated him, and would always hate him. Astrin had a mother and a father, and because of them, Rowan didn’t. Reason enough to hate him, no matter what he looked like.

Ragnor turned to Rowan.

“Your uncle is concerned you are harboring hatred of His Royal Highness that might prejudice future relations between your Houses. He had hoped that in caring for him, seeing his vulnerability, you would have softened your opinions. Unfortunately, it seems the opposite has occurred. Therefore he has made a potentially dangerous decision and decreed you are to continue to care for Prince Astrin, more intensely than before, but with the opportunity to get to know him while you are doing so.”

Rowan stared. “You mean you’re going to let him wake up?”

“Not entirely but sufficiently to enable him to speak to you and you to him. You are to spend time with him thrice a day. You will be responsible for assisting him to eat and exercise. He won’t be in the stasis field anymore, so you will need to supervise walks and gentle exercise outside.”