Claiming the Prince: Book One (42 page)

Magda cracked open a walnut and tapped the meat out into her palm. The combined weight of Kaelan and Flor’s attention pressed heavy upon her.

“I can’t do it, Flor,” she said after a moment. “All of the parties and the visitations and the ass-kissing . . .”

“No, dear, of course not,” Flor said, leaning back again, folding her hands over her stomach. “You’ve obviously become a savage in your exile and to put him in those situations”—she flicked her fingers towards Kaelan—“would surely give him away. So this is what’s going to happen. That letter to my brother contained another letter, which he is to send to our family at the Spire.”

“Do you think that’s wise?” Magda asked, pouring herself more water from a crystal decanter. “Won’t Lavana be there?”

“Yes, of course, she will. Do you take me for an imbecile? Do you think that Damion is the only one in the family who has wanted to bring you back to challenge Lavana? Even I knew of the talk, secluded as I’ve been. The letter will be delivered discreetly to particular members of the family we know to be sympathetic. They will begin the process. I will write another letter tonight. If my brother followed my instructions, he should be sending some of his brownies to carry the letters. By the time we arrive at the Spire, those who support us will be prepared for what is to come.”

While Flor spoke, Magda ate and ate and ate. Kaelan picked at his food like a sullen child, watching Magda from the tops of his eyes.

“As prepared as they can be,” Magda said, shooting Kaelan an irritated look. His eyes fell, but then immediately rose up to her again.

“We will begin a campaign,” Flor went on. “My brother’s granddaughter lives at court. She is an attendant to the Crown’s own daughter. If the stories my brother has told me lately are true, then she is the worst kind of insipid little breeder, flighty and flimsy and concerned with nothing more than gossiping and currying favor. She will be perfect.”

“Perfect for what?”

“For spreading your story. Honey told me about what you’ve done. How you endured torture and escaped an iron prison. How you defeated an empusa and dealt with an oracle and a dwarf lord who had the audacity to steal the Enneahedron. How you faced the manticores and, once-again, bested the witch.”

“That’s not exactly what—”

Flor’s hand smacked against her own thigh. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “The truth is not important. What
is
important is the story. The exiled Rae, daughter of one of the most storied and respected Radiants to have lived in recent memory, returned from the human world, determined to bring the Enneahedron before the Crown and reclaim her rightful place amongst her kind. That will be the story and the simpering court-watchers will devour it. You will be the fallen daughter risen up, who fought her way back from the iron wastes of the mortal realms. And you,” she said, pointing a finger with a nail in need of trimming at Kaelan, “will make the story irresistible. For not only did Magdalena fall, only to rise again, she also found my son, who had been lost in the mortal realm all of these years, waiting to be called home by his Rae, thought dead”—her chin trembled slightly—“but not dead. Change now.”

Kaelan pulled his gaze away from Magda, as though his eyes were leaden and unable to move. “What?”

“I’ve shown you his portraits and those of his father and all of our relatives. Let’s see what you can make of him.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now!” Flor banged her fist upon the stone table, rattling her tarnished cultery. “Stand up.”

Kaelan rose, giving Magda one more long look. The green light in his eyes was at once brighter than ever and yet, somehow, hazy. Her face warmed under the intensity of his gaze and she curled back in on herself slightly.

Then he shut his eyes—thankfully.

The air shimmered around him. Slowly, his hair grew long and black and wavy. His face began to change, though his body remained much the same. When he opened his eyes, they were silver, but no less penetrating.

Magda shifted in her seat, chewing on another pear, not sure if she was uncomfortable because an older version of Cae was gazing down at her or because of the
way
he was gazing at her.

“No, that’s not quite right,” Flor said, pushing out of her chair to walk behind him, inspecting. “Magda?”

Magda took another drink of water, trying not to look too closely at Kaelan and, yet, needing to look.

“His mouth should be wider and his lips fuller,” she said, clearing her throat.

Kaelan closed his eyes again, changing slightly.

She nodded when he was done, rising from her chair as well. “And his nose . . . it had a slight width, right here.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, circling the table to come by Flor’s side.

Kaelan tracked her. “A bump?”

“But it didn’t rise up,” she said, “only out. You would only see it if you were looking at him straight on. And he had three moles, right here.” She pointed to her left cheek, just under the cheekbone. “And his jaw would be stronger. You have it too soft, like a child’s”

He changed again.

“And this ear,” Flor said, tapping the right one. “The lobe curled in at the top, more so than the other.”

They went on like this for some time, adjusting every minor detail they could think of, reshaping Kaelan into Cae.

Finally, Magda stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Flor, both of them facing Cae. Flor gripped Magda’s forearm, tears shimmering at the edges of her eyes. Magda’s skin prickled.

“It’s him,” Flor breathed.

Magda split open another walnut, popping the sweet, oily meat into her mouth.

“It’s him,” she agreed.

Flor hurried forward, picking up one of the silver trays that Magda had cleared of food. Though mostly tarnished, one gleaming bit of silver surface remained. Flor held it up for Kaelan to examine himself.

“Will you be able to remain like this?” Flor asked as Kaelan’s eyes finally left Magda, giving her a chance to breathe, and gazed down at his reflection.

“I think so,” he said.

“Good,” she said, taking the tray from him. “Don’t change back unless you have no other choice. It’s too risky. As soon as my brother sends his brownies, I’ll have them procure clothes suited to a Prince.”

And then she embraced Kaelan, tightly. He hung there, allowing it, but his eyes tracked back to Magda.

“I need to finish my armor,” she said, snatching the last bit of apple from the table.

“You need to bathe and change and rest,” Flor called after her. “And to cut my hair!”

“I’m sure Kaelan can do it,” she called over her shoulder, hurrying down the terrace steps, cramming the last of the apple into her mouth, jogging to the path that led back to the training shed.

All the way, the weight of Kaelan’s gaze pressed upon her.

A
S THE HEAVY SWATH OF
purple twilight fell over the gold eye of the sun, Magda was running through repetitive kicks and punches, crushing the weeds that had rooted in the sand of the old training ground.

The bushes rustled. She spun, tensing. When Damion’s weary frame pushed through the verge, her shoulders sagged. Only then did she realize that she’d been both hoping and fearing that Kaelan would find her.

“Good to see you haven’t forgotten everything,” he said, setting a basket down on the ground.

“What’s that?” she asked, snatching it up. Inside, she found fresh bread and a huge chunk of crumbly blue-veined cheese.

“Help yourself,” he said, dropping onto the stool next to the gleaming armor. “This looks better.”

“How was the trip?” she asked through a mouthful of bread.

“Aggravating,” he said. “Uncle Rahul has become a pompous courtier. I’m not even sure he’d fit into his armor anymore. But—”

“Oh, no, no, no,” a small voice said. “This won’t do.”

Magda stopped chewing. She turned to find a tiny woman in a prim gray suit. The brownie’s dark eyes were overly large and her little lips pinched in an critical pucker.

“Are you the Rae?” the brownie asked, looking her up and down. “No, no, no. What has happened to your hair? Is that all you have to wear? Is that your armor?”

Magda resisted the urge to boot the stiff-shouldered creature into the bushes.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Meer,” the brownie stated brusquely, placing her long, delicate fingers on her hips. “Master has sent me to serve you until you are able to establish a household of your own. I knew you’d been exiled from civilization, but I had no idea that I’d find this—” She shook her head. Her wild curls were drawn back severely from her temples, erupting again at her crown and tumbling down her back. They bounced with her every movement, as if seconding each disapproving shake of her head. She snapped her fingers and three smaller brownies appeared, two males and a female, all in trim gray suits with messes of brown hair framing their tiny faces.

“Yes, Miss Meer?” they said in unison.

“The house?”

All three spoke at once.

“It’s a disaster—”

“Dust up to my eyeballs—”

“Linens in tatters—”

Meer clapped her hands twice and they fell silent.

“The house is not as important as its occupants,” she told them. “We accompany the Rae to the Spire shortly. We must prepare the family for court.”

She pointed at the first young man. “Clothing.”

He nodded and disappeared.

To the next she said, “Kitchen.”

He, too, vanished.

She turned to the young woman. “Take the lady and her son in hand. I will see to the house and the Rae.”

“Yes, Miss Meer.” Then the young woman was gone.

Meer turned back to Magda, who had been cleaning out the food from the basket while the brownie had issued instructions to her staff.

“Obviously, you’ve been malnourished during your extended respite in the human wastes.” In a blink she was gone and then back again with another basket, twice as tall as she was. “I will prepare the west bedroom above the library for you, and a bath. Eat and then come up at once. A Rae must sleep ten hours each night or her acuities suffer irreparably. I suppose that explains the hair.”

Before Magda managed a retort, Meer vanished.

Damion smirked. “And there’s that.”

Magda crouched before the second basket. “Meer’s right—”

“About your hair?”

She threw a roll at him. He caught it before it smacked him in the head.

Plucking another from the basket, she tore into it. “We’re woefully unprepared for court.”

Her mind flitted from one thought to the next. The politics of court life were the least of her worries. She was no match for Lavana. Perhaps if she’d had the next year to train without interruption or fleeing for her life . . . but in a duel, Lavana would have all the advantage. She’d had the last seven years to prepare, and Magda had no doubt that’s exactly what she’d been doing. And then Magda had to worry about Flor’s campaign and that Kaelan would be found out, either as Cae’s impostor or, worse, as who he really was—an Elf Prince.

Thinking about Kaelan made the back of her neck itchy. Every muscle squirmed as though her skin had grown too tight.

“Where’s Kaelan?” Damion asked, as if he had read her thoughts.

“You didn’t see him?”

“No.”

“He’s Cae now,” she said.

“And?”

“And he’ll pass,” she said. “At least visually, I think. What about Honey? Do we really think she’s talking to the dead?”

“She put on another convincing show with Uncle Rahul,” Damion said. “His long deceased mother told him that he needed to help us and chided him about getting too fat and out-of-shape. You think Honey is lying?”

Magda sat back on her heels, already having consumed half the contents of Meer’s basket.

“I don’t know. I’ve never met anyone who could speak to the dead. My nurse used to tell me stories about necromancers . . .”

“They didn’t talk to the souls of the dead. They raised corpses and used them as soldiers during the Godwars,” Damion said. “Besides, there’s no such thing anymore. And that’s not what the nymph is doing.”

“In the human world there are people who claim to speak to the dead,” she said through a mouthful of cheese, “but I never believed any of them. Only the spirits of the tormented or cursed remain in this world.”

“Why are you so reluctant to believe her?”

“You think she can reach across the Bridge and communicate with those in the Godlands?” Magda asked. “Does that mean she could speak to the gods as well?”

Damion was grim.

“You see?” she said. “So much has already happened to her . . . if people start to think that she can communicate not only with the dead, but with the gods . . .”

“Are you afraid what the gods might say?” he asked.

“No. I’m afraid that Honey will be misused, kidnapped, even killed by the power-hungry imp-holes who populate the Lands. A power like that . . . whatever has happened to her, Honey is innocent in all of this. I know she wanted to come with us, but I can’t help but feel responsible for all she’s suffered.”

“She doesn’t seem to be suffering that much,” he said. “I think she’s quite happy, in her way. I think you feel guilty about Kaelan.”