Ruenen

He’d spent his whole life running from this throne, but the moment he saw it, Ruenen’s emotions swelled. Twenty-two years and so many deaths to make it there. He thought of Amsco and Nori, and Master Chongan. His caregivers. His saviors.

I hope they’re watching. 

The exquisite throne itself was made of glossy wood, bone, and pure gold with a plush green cushion and upholstered armrests and chair backing. Empty. Waiting for him. And there he finally stood, transfixed. The throne beckoned to Ruenen like a siren’s song.

The room was not a hall, as Ruenen expected. It was a more intimate space, made from the same white marble and granite as the rest of the castle. Twenty steps, and Ruenen could reach the dais, where the throne was perched. An emerald green rug ran the length of the room from door to dais. Behind the throne stood a wall of floor to ceiling windows. Green and gold drapes and banners hung from the ceiling and columns.

Paintings of past kings and queens paneled the walls. Ruenen’s eyes rested on young King Vanguarden and Queen Larissa’s portrait nearest the throne. They’d made an attractive couple. Vanguarden and Larissa both had the Middle Kingdoms’ dark hair and eyes, sun-kissed skin, but Ruenen only saw himself in Larissa. Vanguarden’s face was longer, with softer features than Ruenen’s.

A long, polished table sat to the right side of the throne, surrounded by twelve chairs. Three of those seats were taken by men in formal black robes. The man at the far head of the table had a white and green collar over his robe, and a Nevandian broach pinned near his heart. His shoulders slumped forward slightly, lines etched his face, gray hair receding. His mouth sagged, as if the man lived life in a constant frown. Ruenen guessed he was the Steward.

As one, the three men stood when Ruenen entered, several guards still at his sides.

Commander Avilyard bowed to the Witenagemot, the formal title for the Nevandian royal council. “I present Master Ruenen and his personal guard.” Avilyard stepped back, but didn’t go far. He and his men retreated to the corners of the room, spreading out, watching with hawkish eyes.

Ruenen and Marai bowed to the Witan, who stared, faces impassive. Sweat dripped down the back of Ruenen’s neck.

“You’ve come with quite the declaration, young master,” said the Steward, his voice taut as a bow string. He was taller than Ruenen, and thin as a reed. His fingers trailed across an ornate wooden chest, decorated with carvings of the Nevandian sunburst, on the table in front of him. “Forgive us if we find this rather hard to believe. We take these matters seriously, for if there is actually a ‘lost prince,’ his arrival will affect the entire fate of our country. And we’re not deaf to the rumors of what happened recently in Dul Tanen.”

“I understand, my Lord Steward,” Ruenen said with another slow incline of his head, “and I respect your caution. A wise Steward of the Throne wouldn’t trust a stranger so readily. I do not come here with the intention of leading you astray. I’m not a liar. I do not seek fortune or glory. I’m here out of duty to my land and people. To my blood. I promise you, my Lords, that I am the real heir of His Grace King Vanguarden Avsharian.”

“Why come forward now?” asked the bald, heavy-set councilman on the right. His round face was all hard lines and judgment. “It’s been nine years since King Vanguarden died. If you were truly the heir, why not return at the news of his passing?”

“If I’m being honest, my Lords, I didn’t want to become king,” Ruenen said, heat creeping up his throat at such a shameful admission. “I admit that it was a cowardly, selfish thing to stay away for so long. Up until quite recently, I didn’t believe myself capable of running a country, especially one in a grueling war.”

“You believe yourself ready now?” continued the councilman, narrowing his eyes further. “Seems rather opportune.”

“Regardless, we are willing to hear your story,” said the Steward, giving the man on his right a subtle look. “I’m Lord Steward Koven Holfast.” He gestured to the wiry man on his left with long, dark hair pulled back in a plait. “This is Lord Councilman Fenir,” then the bald man on his right, “and Lord Councilman Vorae. Please, have a seat.”

Ruenen let the Witan members sit first, then he took a hesitant seat in the closest open chair at the table; Marai lingered behind him. Councilman Vorae examined Marai with brown, suspicious eyes.

“You may go, girl,” he said with a dismissive gesture.

“She stays,” Ruenen said, causing all three men to blink in surprise, then Vorae sneered.

“Very well. Do you not want to sit, then?” he asked, taking in Marai’s black cloak, crossed arms, and steely expression.

“I’m here to protect the prince, not to relax,” she said.

All three councilmen frowned deeper. Fenir shook his head.

Women of Astye were not employed as guards or knights, or much else, for that matter. They weren’t welcome in council chambers or meetings, except in Grelta where Queen Nieve ruled. Ruenen was surprised the Witan allowed Marai to remain inside the throne room.

“What’s your name?” asked Steward Holfast, not unkindly, but his wary eyes stared down Marai.

She pursed her lips. Her name was one of her most coveted secrets.

“That doesn’t matter—” began Ruenen.

“Marai.”

Ruenen glanced back at her. Her hard expression didn’t change as she met his gaze, but he hoped she could read the warmth in his face. The apology. The gratefulness.

“Commander Avilyard told us of his encounter with you on the road over a month ago,” Holfast said, moving the wooden chest aside and interlacing his fingers upon the table. “He explained how you were captured by Tacornian forces. The late Commander Boone was quite determined to have you. I’m curious . . . how did you escape the Tacorn dungeon?”

“And with all of your limbs intact?” added Vorae.

Ruenen didn’t appreciate this man’s sarcastic tone.

“Perhaps it’s better to start at the beginning of Prince Ruenen’s story,” Marai said, her voice edged.

Again, Holfast’s eyes lingered on her. “Very well, Master Ruenen. Why do you believe yourself to be the son of our great King Vanguarden?” Holfast gestured towards the painting of Vanguarden and Larissa.

Ruenen took in a breath. How surreal this defining moment was. To build up all these thoughts and assumptions over twenty-two years, to imagine this homecoming, and now here it was. How could he ever put it into words . . .

I can’t wait to write a song about this, he briefly thought.

“As a child, I was raised in a monastery by Head Monks Amsco and Nori outside the Nevandian border. They were the ones who told me King Vangaurden and Queen Larissa were my parents, and that I’d been sent to the monastery to stay hidden from King Rayghast. That my birth was a secret.”

If anything Ruenen said so far was familiar to the Witenagemot, they didn’t show it. They listened politely, faces blank.

“Tacorn soldiers destroyed the monastery when I was eight, killing Monk Amsco and Monk Nori, and I was once again rushed off to safety. I passed hands many times, from stranger to stranger, until I ended up in Chiojan with a blacksmith named Master Tomas Chongan. I lived there for several peaceful years, but Rayghast tracked me down and sacked the city. I escaped once again, and have been on the run ever since.”

The Witan exchanged looks.

“You believe King Rayghast knows you’re the lost heir?” asked Councilman Fenir. He had round, owlish eyes that openly displayed his anxiety.

“If he didn’t believe me to be the prince, why would he tell his people otherwise?” Ruenen posed. “Marai and I were paraded through the streets of Dul Tanen, then strung up in the Tacorn dungeons. Rayghast did not, for one moment, doubt me.”

“How did you escape?” pressed Holfast, staring at Marai again.

The hair on Ruenen’s arms rose as a prickle of fear spread over him. Did Holfast know what she was? Is that why he kept peering at her so intently?

“Why does it matter?” Ruenen asked. “We escaped, and we’re here now.”

“It matters, Master Ruenen, because no one escapes Rayghast and his dungeon. No one is set free. Unless you were released because you’ve been turned spy,” Holfast said, face darkening.

“I am not a spy,” said Ruenen, fear turning to frustration. He had to keep Marai’s truth a secret. They would attack her instantly if they knew she was fae, and everything would be ruined.

“Why can’t you tell us how you escaped?”

Ruenen nearly bolted from his seat. He was about ready to walk out the door and never return. His knuckles turned white on his chair’s arm rests. This was a bad idea . . .

“I got us out,” came Marai’s voice.

A hush fell over the room. The guards didn’t shift in their armor.