The Errant Prince (10 page)

Despite his rush to bathe and dress, he still paused at the door to the receiving room, fussing with his jacket. Myron wouldn't care what he was wearing, Tamsen reassured himself, but it took him another moment of fussing before he forced himself to open the door.

Myron was sitting by the fire, still as breathtaking and compelling as he had been the first time Tamsen had seen him. He looked up at Tamsen, his short, dark hair falling in his eyes. He gave Tamsen a slow smile as his gaze traveled Tamsen from head to toe.

"Good morning, your highness," Myron said, his smile widening as he added, "You're looking well."

"I thought we'd been over this," Tamsen groused, crossing the room. His cheeks were too warm, but he couldn't help but be pleased at Myron's comment. Myron was wearing civilian clothing, not a hint of 'guard' in his sky blue jacket or dark blue breeches. "My name is not 'your highness.'"

"Are you sure?" Myron asked, grinning. "You look like a 'your highness.' One of those fancy compound names."

Tamsen snorted, amused despite the ridiculousness of that. "Tamsen."

"Yes, highness," Myron said, and he was definitely aiming to be a brat that time.

Rolling his eyes, Tamsen sat down on the sofa adjacent to Myron's chair, the closest he could get without sitting in Myron's lap. He poured himself a cup of tea, and then poured a second for Myron. The kitchen had included four cups, and Tamsen hoped they didn't know something he didn't.

"Have you eaten?" Tamsen asked, eyeing the plate of pastries that had come with the tea. His favorite, a cream-filled variety that he hadn't been able to find anywhere else. Stirling had gotten to the kitchens, then, or the kitchen remembered him, though Tamsen was doubtful of that. Tamsen piled a small plate with three of them, more than willing to indulge.

"I did before my meeting with your brother," Myron said. He stopped, sipping at his tea and letting that declaration hang in the air.

"How did that go?" Tamsen prompted. He bit into one of his pastries, trying not to appear too curious.

"I lied," Myron said, cheerful and unrepentant, as though it was unimportant that he'd lied to the king. "I figured I should let you know so we could keep the story straight."

"What did you lie about?" Tamsen asked, mystified. There wasn't anything for Myron to lie about, so far as he was aware. Tamsen wasn't caught up in anything illicit.

"I told him I caught up to you in Traversin," Myron said. His fingers tightened on his tea cup, though he kept his light-hearted tone. "I convinced you to take me home with you instead of disappearing, and you shifted us there, so I don't really know where you live."

Tamsen slowly ate the rest of his pastry. He hadn't expected that—hadn't even expected Myron would be that considerate of his privacy. It meant he could return to his cottage if everything went sour, that Stirling wouldn't easily find him again, or at least, not immediately. "You shouldn't have done that, but thank you."

"There's plenty I 'shouldn't' do," Myron said, grinning. "Never stopped me before."

"Lying to your king could see you executed," Tamsen pointed out, though he doubted Stirling would go that far. It was a small lie, in the scheme of things. He might strip Myron of his commission in the King's Guard, but that was probably the worst, and he wouldn't do that if Tamsen had anything to say about it. "What else did you tell him?"

"Not much," Myron said, shrugging. "Just that it took several days to convince you to come back. He seemed interested in what you were doing, and I told him about your magic but left out the herbs. That'll make it harder to track you, if necessary." Myron paused, looking briefly sad before he smiled again. "He wanted to know if you were happy."

"I was," Tamsen said. He had been content, and that was close enough.

Myron smiled again, his expression harder to read than usual. Tamsen stifled his questions with another bite of pastry, hoping that Myron had someone, somewhere, who worried about
his
happiness. "Did you get your marriage business sorted out?"

Tamsen scowled, reminded all over again that he had to deal with Hartley. "Yes and no. Stirling doesn't want me to marry a Sumiran princess. Says he doesn't want a war with them."

Myron snickered, and Tamsen made a face at him. It wasn't nice to agree with Stirling on that, even if Tamsen also privately agreed. "But?"

"He wants me to marry Hartley," Tamsen said. He probably shouldn't have been confiding that in Myron, but he didn't have anyone else to tell. Anyone else who would care. Stirling was for it, and Tamsen didn't care to talk to anyone else.

He hated even thinking about it. All he could remember was the way Hartley had snapped when Tamsen had refused the first time. How much of their time together had been real? Tamsen had no idea, and he was in no hurry to repeat his mistakes to see if he could be fooled a second time.

"Are you considering it?" Myron asked.

Tamsen almost pitched his pastry at Myron's head, except it was a valid question from Myron's standpoint. Tamsen had implied the matter wasn't settled yet, after all, and Myron had an interest in seeing it finished.

"No, but apparently saying that isn't enough," Tamsen said, scowling at the fire. "I have to 'hear him out.'"

"That sounds like it will be a pleasant conversation," Myron said dryly. "It will be a good opportunity to hex him."

"Do you know any good hexes?" Tamsen asked, wishing he could get away with that. He probably couldn't, as tempting as it was. He didn't want to undermine his already shaky status as a mature, capable adult. More importantly, Hartley had always worn anti-curse spells in the past, and Tamsen doubted that had changed.

"A few, but nothing I can admit to outside this room," Myron said, giving Tamsen a grin. Tamsen bet he'd been a holy terror when he'd first joined the King's Guard. Which reminded him, he needed to pester Stirling about why he'd let such fine magic go to waste.

"Have you figured out what spells you want?" Tamsen asked, changing the subject. He started in on another pastry. He licked the cream from his lips, flushing when he caught the way Myron's gaze lingered on his mouth.

"Shifting, definitely," Myron said. "That was never something I wanted to mess with on my own."

"Smart," Tamsen muttered. That was a tough spell—to teach and to learn—but Myron would probably pick it up quickly. "And the other?"

"I'm going to hold over your head a little longer," Myron said. Tamsen liked the sound of that; it meant Myron had plans to stick around. "Mostly because I don't know what I want yet."

"I can deal with that," Tamsen said as he set aside his plate. "Do you want to work on shifting now? It will take a few days to teach it, maybe a week."

"Sure," Myron agreed easily. "I've got nowhere to be for a few weeks, so I'm entirely at your disposal, Tamsen."

Tamsen was blushing again, he knew it, but Myron was the first person in a very long time to say his name like that, as though they shared some special secret between just the two of them. "Come on, then. If you screw it up, I don't want the mess in my room."

"Where, then?" Myron asked, standing up. He set his half-full cup on the breakfast tray, straightening his jacket.

"The wizard yards, since they're built to contain it if anything goes wrong," Tamsen said, though he suddenly wondered if he'd be allowed entry. The wizard yards were guarded to keep curious people from being caught in the cross-fire of training wizards' spells. Tamsen had had access before he'd run away, but would seven years' absence keep him out?

"I've never been," Myron said, falling into step beside Tamsen as he headed for the door.

"They're not much different from your practice yards." Tamsen opened the door, stifling his anxiety as he let Myron lead the way into the hallway. He could be rude, he could ignore people, and he didn't have to talk to anyone. "They're just shielded with a magic barrier to keep errant spells in."

"So how do I learn it?" Myron asked. He stayed close to Tamsen as they walked, and Tamsen got a small thrill every time their arms brushed. "I assume trial and error like with the light spell is a bad idea."

"Very bad," Tamsen agreed. He reached the end of the hallway leading out of the royal wing. A servant who had been polishing a vase saw him and almost immediately slipped down a side corridor. Tamsen scowled after her, wondering whether Stirling or Hartley had set the watch on him. Myron was watching him curiously, and Tamsen forced himself back to topic. "You start with shifting small objects. When I learned, the wizard yards had little wooden blocks that I used."

"How many did you splinter?" Myron asked, giving him a sly grin that banished thoughts of spying servants from Tamsen's head. "So that I know what record to beat."

Tamsen rolled his eyes. "Seven. And a half."

"A half?" Myron asked skeptically. "How do you half-splinter something?"

"It held together through the shift but fell apart after," Tamsen said. "There's three stages to shifting: deconstruction, shifting, and reconstruction. Splintering usually happens in the first or last stage. I splintered it in the middle, but it got through the deconstruction and reconstruction. The flaws in it only showed up at the end."

"I don't really understand what you just said," Myron said, but he didn't seem too upset by that.

"You'll pick it up." Tamsen hung a left, taking them through the major courtyard of the palace. The six buildings that made up the palace ringed the courtyard, and the wizards' practice yard was on the far side of the wing that housed the King's Wizards, opposite the royal wing. "Do you know anything about shifting at all?"

"I looked into it a time or two. Shifting always seemed useful," Myron said, shrugging. "The books I found on the subject weren't very helpful, though. They were mostly theory, and contained plenty of warnings about how it could go wrong. I figured better safe than splintered and focused on other things."

Like constructs
. Tamsen swallowed those words, recalling all too vividly the way Myron had promised to show him the real reason he'd learned constructs. By Myron's grin, Tamsen wasn't hiding his thoughts very well.

"You'll splinter the props more than seven times," Tamsen said, redirecting before Myron could say anything to make his blush worse.

"Seven and a half," Myron corrected. He nudged Tamsen with his elbow. "You don't think I can handle it?"

"You can handle it," Tamsen said. He was sure of that; Myron had every indication he'd be a great wizard if he weren't so lacking in training. "Just not without screwing up eight times first."

"Wanna bet?" Myron asked, his grin going sly. "No cheating on the teaching like you did with the light."

"Your guardsman is showing," Tamsen said. The King's Guards bet on everything possible, he swore. Myron only grinned at him, holding open the door to the wizard's wing. "Fine, stakes?" Tamsen hoped he didn't regret agreeing. There was every chance Myron would beat the seven-and-a-half mark.

"Loser has to do one thing of the winner's choice," Myron said.

"Oh, is that all?" Tamsen asked, startled into laughter when Myron started clucking at him like a chicken. "Fine, fine, but you'll regret it if I win."

"I doubt it," Myron said, smiling that slow, wicked smile of his that made Tamsen wish he could drag Myron somewhere private and do something wicked to him in return. Tamsen couldn't remember the last time he'd been inclined to pursue his attraction to anyone, but something about Myron made it easy and fun in a way he hadn't experienced since… well, since Hartley, seven years ago.

Myron opened the door for him on the side of the wizard's wing, letting Tamsen lead the way toward the wizards' practice hall. The yards, despite the name, weren't an open design. Tall walls cut through the yards, segmenting the space into separate practice rooms to keep each wizard's magic separate. The walls were lined with walkways, from which instructors could view the proceedings without getting in the way of the wizards.

Tamsen earned a double-take from the wizard at the entrance to the maze of rooms—which Myron snickered at because he was no help at all—but thankfully got no resistance to procuring a room. He led Myron into the maze, heading for the last practice space along the first corridor. He fitted the door charm into the lock, opening the space.

Myron stepped inside, looking around curiously. The practice space was square and mostly empty. The floor was packed dirt, like the guards' practice yards, and the walls were a thick, heavy stone that had been carved with protection spells that were at least four times as old as Tamsen was. At the far end of the square sat a squat bookcase filled with dozens of small props, mostly scraps collected from throughout the palace, with a disposal bin next to it. Wizard practice sessions were often messy.

"Shifting is a high-energy spell," Tamsen said, shutting the door behind him. The protection spells hummed quietly, settling back into place. "You'll probably only get a handful of tries today."

Myron nodded, wondering around the space. He peered curiously at the walls, running a hand over the protection spells. He glanced up, taking in the walkways that ran along the top of the wall. Myron moved confidently, fluidly, as though he carried a sword despite not having it with him. Tamsen watched Myron move, lingering by the door until Myron turned toward him with a smile.

"So how do we start?" Myron asked. "No cheating, remember."

"I won't cheat," Tamsen said, rolling his eyes. He wasn't sure whether he'd prefer to win or lose their wager; either way had its benefits. Crossing the yard, Tamsen fetched a small, charred block of wood. "Come over here."

"Yes, highness," Myron said, a teasing note to his voice. Tamsen scowled at him anyway because it wouldn't do to seem like he was encouraging that behavior.

Tamsen tossed the block toward the door. It landed a few feet away from it, which would do well enough. "So, three stages. Watch the block."

Myron turned attentively toward the block. Tamsen focused on it as well, frowning as he pulled up his magic. He wrapped it around the block, scrutinizing the whirlwind of light that swirled up as he deconstructed it.