The Errant Prince (14 page)

Hartley smiled again, crooked and not entirely happy. He gave Tamsen a formal bow, and then left the room without another word. Tamsen waited until the door shut behind Hartley to relax. He sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face. That had been both better and worse than he'd anticipated. He waited another moment, letting Hartley have plenty of head start to get out of the hallways, and then stood to go report to Stirling.

*~*~*

Myron was late. Tamsen stared out his window at the royal gardens below. They'd arranged to meet for breakfast, but it was a full bell later than the time they'd picked. Tamsen was trying to think of a good reason why Myron might not show up and wouldn't send a note. Had he changed his mind about associating with Tamsen now that Tamsen was no longer held by the constraints of sorting out his ties to Hartley?

He'd be signing the abdication papers in a few days, though he still wasn't sure what Stirling's plans for telling Sumira were. It wasn't his problem though; Stirling had reassured Tamsen he'd handle it and that Tamsen wouldn't need to be involved at all. That suited Tamsen perfectly well. Still, that was a minor detail, and for all intents and purposes, Tamsen was a free man.

Walking away from the window, Tamsen headed for the door. He'd go find Myron before he went stir crazy. Perhaps they'd misunderstood each other and Myron was waiting for him at the wizards' practice yards. He kept his pace quick and his face angry—not a stretch, though he was still hoping that Myron wasn't standing him up—and no one tried to stop him on his way through the palace.

According to the wizard assigning rooms—the same one he and Myron had dealt with the last two times they'd practiced—Myron wasn't at the wizards' practice yards. Tamsen thanked the man, worry and anger kicking up again. It wasn't like Myron not to send a note. He'd sent a note when he'd been detained at his sister's house, which meant there was something wrong.

After a moment's hesitation, Tamsen headed for the wing of the King's Guard. Hopefully he could find Myron there and figure out what had gone wrong. With any luck, whatever was wrong was minor. Myron could have overslept, could have forgotten, or even been given orders that kept him from sending a note or going to see Tamsen in person.

He could be injured or ill, and he might have sent a note, only for it to get lost before it reached Tamsen. There was absolutely no reason for Tamsen to jump to the conclusion that Myron was avoiding him or had decided that their relationship had gone as far as it should. There was no sense dwelling on it without more information, but Tamsen couldn't help running their last conversation over in his head, searching for anything he might have said or done to put Myron off.

Tamsen came up blank. He bypassed the main wing of the King's Guard—it was filled with offices and meeting rooms, and from what Tamsen had gathered, Myron wasn't high enough in the ranks of the King's Guard to warrant an office. The guards' practice yard, much like the wizards' yard, was directly behind the wing, with the guards' barracks on the far side of the yard.

Practices were in full swing, Tamsen found, and he hesitated on the edge of the yards, not sure where to look. Unlike the wizards' yards, the guards' yards were wide open. The different yards were split only by lines of stones embedded in the ground to demarcate each practice area. Tamsen knew Myron lived in the barracks, but so did hundreds of guardsmen, so that was no help.

"Can I help you find someone, your highness?"

Tamsen nearly jumped out of his skin, so lost in thought he hadn't seen the young guardswoman approach. She grinned at him, showing off a missing front tooth and a set of dimples. "Excuse me?"

"You look like you're looking for someone." She shrugged, then seemed to belatedly recall her manners. She dipped a bow, one hand holding her sword as she moved. "Your highness."

"I am, actually," Tamsen said. He approached her, reminded of Myron in the casual way she addressed him. "Do you know where I can find a guardsman by the name of Myron?"

She raised a single eyebrow elegantly, a smile curving her lips. "Yeah, that's easy. He's the one trouncing anyone stupid enough to get near yard two."

Tamsen's stomach sank. Had Myron forgotten, then? Somehow, Tamsen doubted it. He could always leave, return to his room and see if Myron would eventually come to him… But Tamsen was tired of running away. The guardswoman took his silence for confusion, jerking her head off to the left. "Over this way. Come on, I'll show you."

"Thank you," Tamsen said. She was already moving, and Tamsen hurried to follow after. He earned more than a few curious stares, but Tamsen didn't care. His thoughts were only for Myron and why Myron hadn't even sent him a note.

"There you are," the guardswoman said, gesturing ahead of them. She flashed him another gap-toothed smile before slipping away.

As she'd said, Myron was currently in the middle of a practice bout. He was sparring two men at once, both of whom were taller and wider than him. The guardswoman had also been correct in her assessment: Myron was, despite his shorter, slighter stature, running circles around his opponents.

Myron was shirtless, as he'd been at Tamsen's cottage when he'd chopped wood. His breasts were bound, and the cloth strip—and his skin—were soaked with sweat. Tamsen could easily recall Myron's smooth, fluid movements from his practice at the cottage, but that had been child's play compared to the way Myron danced around actual opponents.

It was mesmerizing, and Tamsen was almost disappointed when the bout ended—in Myron's favor, as he disarmed one opponent and then the other with a flurry of movements that Tamsen could barely follow. The guards watching the bout murmured, and Tamsen definitely saw money change hands on the far side of the yard.

Myron was saying something to the closer guardsman, demonstrating with his free hand, sword hanging loosely from the other. The guard nodded, then headed off to retrieve his sword. Myron turned, and Tamsen could pinpoint the exact instant Myron saw him.

He'd never seen that flat, angry look on Myron's face before, but Tamsen supposed that answered the question of why Myron hadn't shown up to their meeting. The real question was, what had Tamsen screwed up? Myron turned on his heel, putting his back to Tamsen and stalking across the yard. So he didn't think Tamsen deserved an explanation, then.

Tamsen was about to leave, to return to his rooms—he could easily stay hidden away until Stirling let him leave—but Myron stopped at the far end of the yard. He scooped up a shirt and a small towel, and then headed back toward Tamsen looking no less angry. Tamsen hoped his face was as impassive as he was trying to make it; he certainly wasn't going to engage in a discussion—a fight?—in the middle of the guards' practice yards.

Myron didn't say anything when he reached Tamsen, just tersely gestured for Tamsen to follow him. He didn't slow down, so Tamsen followed. He ignored the way everyone seemed to be watching them as Myron led the way across the practice yards. His own anger flared as Myron headed for the barracks—he deserved better than no word, no matter what it was he'd screwed up.

He had no idea what had gone wrong. Myron hadn't seemed unhappy when they'd parted ways the previous day, and Tamsen hadn't done anything since. Nothing that would directly affect Myron, in any case. Myron led the way into the barracks, striding through several long, open rooms filled with beds. He barely slowed at the stairs, leading the way up two flights.

Tamsen was slightly out of breath by the time they reached the third floor, but Myron didn't slow. He headed down a long, narrow corridor. It was lined with plain, solid doors, each with a number painted on the front in faded black. Myron stopped at door 384, eschewing the knob to press his palm against the door just under the painted-on number.

Magic, subtle and sweet, washed over Tamsen. Myron's door magically locked, apparently. The door clicked, swinging open an inch, and Myron pushed it all the way open and stepped inside. He held the door for Tamsen, shutting it firmly once Tamsen had entered. The magic lock settled into place with another gentle wash, sealing the room again.

The window on the far side of the tiny room was open, but though it let in a faint breeze, no sound came from it. So the lock likely kept noise out as well. Clever. The room was plain, with what Tamsen presumed was standard-issue furniture: a small bed was set against the far wall under the window; a dresser with a washbasin was to Tamsen's left; and a tiny writing desk sat to his left. The desk was stacked high with books and letters, but there were otherwise no personal touches that Tamsen could see.

Myron was cleaning up at the washbasin, still silent. Unsure of his welcome, Tamsen hovered by the door, wishing Myron would stop prolonging the torture and tell him what had happened.

"I was called to the king's offices this morning," Myron said finally. He dried his face with a small hand towel, bending over the washbasin.

"What?" Tamsen asked, frowning. Stirling hadn't mentioned any such thing. Had Hartley said something about their practice together? "Why?"

Myron pulled on his discarded shirt, setting his hair askew. His face was red from the scrubbing he'd given it, and he turned to Tamsen, his scowl fit to match Tamsen's worst. "I follow one rule in my life, your highness."

Tamsen flinched at Myron's address. There was nothing teasing or light-hearted about the way Myron said his title, and it hurt. He didn't say anything, certain there was nothing he could say without making Myron angrier. His own anger burned hot and low, but Tamsen wasn't going to let loose with it until he knew what exactly had gone wrong.

"That rule was to remove myself from anyone who tried to force my life to be what
they
think it should be," Myron continued, crossing his arms over his chest.

Tamsen tried to make that make sense with the context of a meeting with Stirling. What had Stirling been up to? "I don't—was this to do with Hartley?"

Myron stared at him flatly, and Tamsen scowled, wondering if he should take the initiative and leave. Myron didn't seem to be willing to tell him anything past that he was done with Tamsen for something that Stirling had done.

"No, it had to do with my magic," Myron said, the edge of anger still in his voice.

"Oh," Tamsen said, feeling like ten kinds of an idiot. He had brought up Myron's magic to Stirling, and he really should have expected Stirling to do something about it. "I'm sorry, that wasn't what—" Tamsen stopped because Myron had been extremely clear: he didn't want anything to do with Tamsen any longer. One rule, and Tamsen had broken it, even if it had been inadvertent. "I'll tell him to leave you alone, and you don't need to worry about me, either."

Turning, Tamsen tried to open the door. It didn't budge, however, and Tamsen twisted to scowl at Myron.

"It's either locked, or it's not," Myron said, shrugging.

"Then unlock it and let me go," Tamsen snapped, frustrated and upset. He wanted to be gone, to get back to his room so he could hide away until he could go home. He didn't want to fight, to drag it out and have a screaming fit. He'd rather limp away and lick his wounds in peace.

"Is that what you want?" Myron asked, his voice quiet.

"It's what you said
you
wanted," Tamsen said, his frustration getting the better of him. "You made that perfectly clear between standing me up this morning and your one rule. Open the door."

Myron sighed, rubbing at his forehead tiredly. Dropping his hand, he took a step toward the writing desk. He hooked a foot under the lowest rung of the chair and pulled it out. "It's not what I want. Sit?"

"Unlock the door," Tamsen said, refusing to be forced on the issue.

"If you leave, I won't go after you," Myron said. He was pulling down the spell, the gentle wash of magic almost soothing as it dissipated. "It also takes down the soundproofing, so whatever you say will be heard. And I don't doubt my neighbors are listening."

"I can soundproof," Tamsen said, calling up the proper spell. Myron's face relaxed slightly, and he sat on the edge of his bed. Tamsen set the spell, cutting off the noise from the practice yard below Myron's window. Taking two steps forward—Myron's room was really small—Tamsen gingerly sat in the offered chair.

"What did you tell your brother?" Myron asked, not a trace of his usual flippancy in the question.

Tamsen frowned, trying to remember. He wasn't sure he should stay, but he didn't want to give up what he had with Myron. "I asked him why he'd let your parents force you into the guard. He said he hadn't known, that he'd thought you'd chosen it."

"I
did
," Myron said, angry again. He looked away, visibly composing himself. "I
like
being a guardsman, Tamsen. My parents may have started me on it, but I could have left at any point. Shaylin offered me a place in her practice if I wanted it, but the guards—it suits me, far better than magic ever would have."

"What did Stirling say?" Tamsen asked, though he could guess.

"He wanted to pull me, to throw me into full-fledged wizard training," Myron said. He paused, a faint echo of his usual grin flickering across his face. "Under the head of the King's Wizards, not the Tower, of course."

"Hartley is a good teacher," Tamsen said. Myron raised his eyebrows at that, but Tamsen shook his head. That wasn't relevant. "I wasn't trying to make you do anything. I just—it wasn't fair that you couldn't pursue magic if you wanted to. I didn't mean for Stirling to force the issue."

"If I cared, I would have pursued it myself. My parents have resources, but I could have raised a fuss. With my magical strength, they couldn't have kept me from it forever," Myron said. He grimaced, rolling his shoulders.

"How did Stirling not know? He didn't even seem to know you and your parents aren't on speaking terms." Tamsen frowned, wishing he knew how to fix this. He didn't—he'd screwed it up, just like when he'd been younger. He'd never been good at seeing the consequences of simple conversations, the way information could be used. It was one of the reasons he'd been so terrible at politics.