The Witan members regarded Ruenen with pitiable stares, and Marai bit back a growl of contempt.
“Because that is who I told them you were,” stated Holfast. “I know exactly who you are, Ruenen, because I placed you in that monastery. The monks were following my orders. They didn’t know you weren’t the prince. I lied, and they believed me.” Holfast walked down the dais stairs and approached Ruenen, hands clasped behind his back. “You are the son of Queen Larissa’s younger sister, Lady Morwenna, and her husband Lord Rehan Ashenby. You’re the prince’s cousin.”
Ruenen sagged in his chair. Marai wasn’t sure he’d remain upright much longer. She knelt next to him and grasped his hand tightly. It was cold and clammy, limp within her own.
“Lady Morwenna gave birth to you a few months after the prince. Many people thought Morwenna was the queen’s twin. They looked nearly identical, though they were only two years apart in age. Your birthmark is rather unusual and I remember it clearly on the day you were born. King Vanguarden and Queen Larissa feared for their son’s life, and I regret to say that the king and myself devised a plan to use you as a decoy.”
Marai couldn’t wrap her head around any of this. She tried to grasp the facts, but like water, they slipped through her fingers. Ruenen wasn’t the lost prince. He had no claim to the Nevandian throne. This was more difficult to believe than when Ruenen had first told her he was the lost prince. So many lies and deceptions . . . the game of kings was more complicated than Marai knew.
“Our hope was that if Rayghast ever discovered the birth of Prince Kiernen, he would be drawn to you, Ruenen. Your monastery was closer to our lands, and noticeably loyal to Nevandia. We hoped he would go after you instead of the real prince. It seems we were correct in our assumptions.”
“How do we know you’re telling the truth?” Marai asked.
Holfast lifted the lid of the wooden chest. Its hinges creaked open, revealing yellowed bundles of letters. “I saved all correspondence between myself and the priestesses at the temple, and your Monk Amsco. I wanted to ensure a record, should the need ever arise. You’ll find letters in here from Lady Morwenna to me, as well, asking after your well-being, Ruenen. Please feel free to read them.”
Ruenen stood on trembling legs. He slowly examined the letters, one at a time, eyes tearing across the parchment, until he couldn’t take anymore.
“My whole life has been a lie . . .” he stammered. His breath was shallow and rapid as he met Holfast’s gaze. “I’ve been running from Rayghast my entire life. So many innocent people died because of you!” He pounded his fist on the table, crumpling the letter in his grasp. “You sacrificed another child to protect a prince? You took a baby from his mother, the queen’s sister, knowing he might be killed?”
“It was no easy decision, Ruenen,” Holfast said. “One of the worst days of my life was when I stood in Morwenna’s chambers, and took you from her arms minutes after your birth. Many people knew she’d been pregnant, so we devised a lie that her child had died. Only our deceased king and queen, and your parents were aware of this scheme. All of us are to blame for the suffering you have endured. I’m sorry on all of our behalf.”
“Apologies can never fix what you have done,” roared Ruenen, moving away from the chest and table. “Apologies cannot bring back Monks Nori and Amsco, Master Chongan, and his family.”
“You’re a brave young man, Ruenen, to have survived all these years. Your parents would be very proud—”
Ruenen’s eyes flared. “Where are they? My real parents?”
For a moment, Marai’s heart lifted. Some good might come of this meeting, after all, if Ruenen could be reunited with his parents, if he had a family waiting for him . . .
Holfast stared down at the floor, the shame on his face deepening. “I’m sad to say that both Lady Morwenna and Lord Rehan are dead.”
Ruenen stumbled to the floor, grasping his head. He wore a tormented, grief-stricken expression beneath his arms.
Holfast put a hand to his heart. “I’m sorry to bring you such distress. We never expected to ever meet you—”
“You expected me to die,” Ruenen said.
“If it’s any consolation, your mother was the kindest soul I have ever known,” Holfast said, and Ruenen flinched, shoulders quivering.
“How did they die?” he whispered, arms still covering his head. Marai could barely hear him at all.
“Morwenna died during a second pregnancy from a wasting disease that tore through this area years ago. And your father, Rehan, was a valiant man, a great soldier, best friend to the king. He fought by his side in every battle. He lost his life during a skirmish with Tacorn a few years after King Vanguarden was murdered.”
Tears streamed down Ruenen’s face, and Marai didn’t know how to comfort him. Perhaps there wasn’t a way at all to remove the pain around his heart, not when every truth he’d ever known had been a lie. “I’m sorry” was weak and fragile. “Are you alright?” was an idiotic, near insulting, question.
Magic flickered at Marai’s fingertips. She could unleash lightning in that room and destroy the Nevandian Witenagemot. But would that help heal Ruenen’s wounds? No, such wild violence would add to his pain. Magic tugged at her, but Marai kept her composure and doused the sparks. She knew these next moments mattered more than anything. She wouldn’t take away Ruenen’s choice.
He stopped shaking and slowly got to his feet. Ruenen wiped the tears from his cheeks with the sleeve of his tunic and headed for the door.
“Let’s go, Marai,” he said, weak and distant.
This was wrong. Everything was all wrong. She couldn’t let Ruenen walk out that door. Everything they’d worked towards, all his years of running in fear, all the lives that had been taken . . . she couldn’t let it end this way. Ruenen deserved more. The people of Nevandia deserved more.
“Wait,” Marai shouted.
Ruenen halted, but didn’t turn. His legs trembled. His fists remained clenched at his sides.
“There must be a way to make this work,” she said.
“What do you mean, faerie?” asked Fenir, biting out that last word.
Marai shot him a glower and addressed Holfast, the only civilized one of the Witan. “You said no one but you three, Vanguarden, Larissa, and Ruenen’s parents knew the truth about Prince Kiernen, correct?”
“There was also a midwife and a few trusted servants, all of whom have since passed away,” said Holfast.
“Only the people in this room know Ruenen isn’t the real prince. Rayghast, himself, believes it to be true. His whole kingdom believes it because they’ve seen Ruenen. Word has undoubtedly spread across the continent that the lost Prince of Nevandia exists and has escaped Rayghast’s dungeons. There’s power in that.”
“What’s your point?” Vorae asked, drumming his fingers on the table.
“You need a king. Your people need hope,” said Marai, “so let Ruenen be your king.”
The room was so silent, so still, that Marai could almost hear the whispers of the guards in the hallway and the wuthering wind across the valley.
“You cannot be serious,” scoffed Vorae. “The throne only passes through the blood of our king. We cannot put someone on the throne who has absolutely no claim to it.”
“Ruenen may not be royalty, but he is nobility. He’s the son of the queen’s sister and the king’s best friend,” continued Marai, stepping closer to the table.
Fenir and Vorae inched away as she approached.
