The Fugitive Prince Read online

  “Oh! Arthan wanted to see you. He’s in the library, being old I bet.”

  With another quaint turn and a skip, the duchess left Valente alone in the stone halls. Valente inhaled the lingering aroma letting in summon a slight smile. A warm and sweet tang of fruity fragrance danced under his nose. The lofty scent hoisted his spirit above the sorrow that filled the day.

  Like fresh berries.

  The prince exhaled returning to swallowing sadness. He looked towards the stairs leading down from the viewing balcony. He returned to the sulk he had resigned to for the day, and Valente made his path down the stairs towards the Liosian Library.

  The Liosian halls were full of desolate stone. Traffic had diverted for the funeral and coronation. Even patrolling guards were light on the prince’s path. Valente descended stairs in the castle’s depths. The cold rock echoed with a lingering loneliness. Few sought the knowledge in the deep holds below. Most in the courts of Lios had their eyes locked on improving status. Gaining respect had more weight than the knowledge collected among the grand shelves of books and scrolls. The stairs slowed their wrapping spiral. A small chamber met the lower landing and in it an old heavy door stood in a crooked doorway. The ancient wood was far out of repair and in its great disuse creaked under the prince’s vision. Valente pushed the heavy door open as its rasping hinges announced his arrival to the rowed pillars of tomes. The silence was their lone and familiar response.

  “Arthan? Are you here?”

  The books refused to answer.

  Strange. Arthan usually mumbles to my hails.

  Caught in a curious drift, Valente nimbly stepped onward looking along the rows of books in hopes to find his mentor.

  “Arthan?”

  Valente called down the “Economics and Finances” row. The silence persevered.

  “Thank the gods.”

  Valente whispered to himself. The burden of these subjects had often delivered hours of headaches. Valente continued to wade forth through the ranks of knowledge.

  “Arthan, please I am not in the mood to find you lost in some book.”

  Valente looked at the walls of books with disdain. His patience evaporated by the quiet, dusty bindings.

  “Fine. I’m leaving Arthan. You should’ve known today was a bad time to ask for a lesson.”

  A book fell to the ground breaking the silence’s ambition. Valente turned towards the end of a row. His eyes clashed in an instant against the sight. Crumpled and feeble among fallen books and scrolls an elderly man reached out towards the prince. Valente’s annoyance flipped revealing sudden and desperate concern.

  “Arthan!?”

  Valente surged towards the old man. He stepped over a discarded flask and fallen books. The prince fell into a kneel beside his fallen counselor. Arthan reached out, and the prince caught his hand in a tight hold. The old and experienced hands shivered under icy skin.

  “Arthan… what… what happened? Your skin it’s…”

  The worn voice weakly mumbled as his hand lost its grip.

  “My lord… you are no longer safe. You must flee.”

  Valente did not understand.

  “Arthan what are you saying?”

  The old man coughed and pointed to the flask at his feet. His finger slowly turned blue as it trembled to keep still.

  “They poisoned me. I learned their truth. The council wants you dead. They mean to start another war.”

  Arthan’s whispers strained. Valente clasped his other hand behind Arthan’s neck hoisting him up from the ground.

  “Old man… I don’t… But the treaty. They can’t, without dishonoring it.”

  Arthan shook his head.

  “I was hoping you would’ve learned by now… Liosians aren’t interested in honor. The little they had died with Leonin.”

  Valente bit down letting his voice raise between his gritted teeth.

  “They can’t. They brought me here because of that damn treaty. They can’t just disregard it. For all the—”

  Arthan shook his head again moving his trembling hand to the prince’s face. The old man gave the prince’s cheek two light pats. Their force stopped the prince’s angered speech. Arthan drew a ragged breath.

  “Calm yourself young Valente. How many times must you let yourself be controlled by that urge? Anger and violence are traitorous subjects.”

  Arthan pathetically coughed.

  “You must flee and find your father. Go to Tharia, head north. You have no time to debate this. You are the only heir to the Tharian throne. They will need you now more than ever if Lios truly plans to attack.”

  Arthan’s body shivered as his meager strength produce another cough. Reaching within his scholar’s cloak he fumbled. His hands violently shook as he searched his pocket. The painful movement projected itself to the prince as he looked at his dying mentor. Arthan brought forth a brass key embossed with a crow.

  “Ta… Take this and use it in my study behind my journals. Go… please…”

  Valente’s mind struggled to understand.

  “Arthan… I…”

  The old man squeezed Valente’s hand. Arthan’s desperate effort only provided the slightest of pressure, but Valente shook under its weight.

  “Please, my prince… I have seen you grow here: A Tharian flower among the Liosians thorns. You have learned much from them, but your pride and honor have kept true to your Tharian roots. Of this, I can have no more pride.”

  Arthan’s body twitched as he dryly swallowed.

  “You have a future. Not only yours but that of Tharia. Pl… Please take it. Save it.”

  Arthan’s eyes closed and his breathing slow and labored.

  “Go… Warn them.”

  The library door creaked.

  “Go… Now…”

  Arthan’s voice trailed off as his body slumped into the scrolls. The cold hand stopped its quivering in Valente’s grasp.

  Clash of metal feet against the stone floor burst into loud echoes throughout the library’s halls. The old door broke off its hinges retiring from its undervalued and underpaid job. The small squadron of guards preceding the noise appeared throughout the rows of books. All armed. All searching.

  “Foster Prince Valente. Your King requires your audience.”

  Valente was already halfway through sneaking towards the library’s study before the captain of the royal guard finished his proclamation. Behind the furthest reaches of books was a small oak door slightly ajar. The prince knew it well. Valente pushed it open with a gentle shove. It gave back an unruly groan. The sound bounced through the books towards the scouring soldiers.

  “Check the study!”

  The clinking of metal against metal resounded with each movement of the approaching regiments. The prince closed the oak door as it complained with a firm creak. He pushed passed the doors nagging and into the small room. He secured it with a loud and quick click.

  A meager cot lay in front of a desk lost among mountains of paper and books. Valente’s searching gaze passed over the mess towards a hopeful sight. On the far left of the room was a small and elegant cabinet holding various historical, political, and scientific books. They held very little interest to anyone.

  Arthan’s journals.

  Valente rushed the shelves tearing the books away into a ravaged and desperate mess. The collections of knowledge thumped against the floor. Their drops were drowned out by the violent crunch of wood buckling under the assault of the troops outside. The captain threw out his command letting his voice boom with authority through the new wooden cracks.

  “Get that damn door down!”

  With no desire to see the soldiers complete their task, Valente searched the empty shelf in a ramping panic. Arthan’s journals, books, and scrolls piled up on the stone floor around the desk. Valente touched the back of the shelf. The dark wood shelf was empty of its tomes, yet still lacked the answer of promised freedom. Valente’s grip angrily tightened on the key his mentor had given him.

&
nbsp; Arthan, you old fool, where? There is no keyhole!

  Splinters of wood tapped the floor of the study as the door continued to lose the battle. Valente looked at the key in desperate bewilderment. The tip of the key had a curve closely resembling a hook. It extended from the embossed crow’s foot as though it were a claw.

  No door could use this key.

  Valente’s eyes lit up as he frantically felt the backward edges of the shelf. His fingers shivered with adrenaline and excitement as his fingers hovered over a small slot on the side of the shelf. Larger pieces of lumber flew from the door as it quivered in its death throes. The prince shoved the brass lever into its slot. The mechanism connected with a distinct click. Valente pulled. The shelves collapsed inward heavily landing on the stone walls hidden behind them. A new opening revealed a dark corridor leading into the depths of the Liosian Castle. The dark held much animosity, but those that pursued the prince had considerably more. Valente did not give the time to turn to look back during his rapid descent into the darkness. The shadows swallowed him as the oak door shattered in defeat at the hands of the soldiers that pursued him.

  The creeping cold of the corridors grabbed at Valente’s royal vest. Its tightening grip closed around him during his rush into the unlit stone labyrinth. The echoes of metal followed behind him ever-spurring him on. His distraught hands stretched before him feeling out his way in the complete darkness. The chilled rock surface served as an emotionless guide harboring an indefinite destination, but his footing betrayed him. Valente’s heart thumped in fear as he tumbled into nothingness. The sensation of falling without bearing enveloped the prince in terror. The firm ground met him with a frigid indifference and a visceral crack. Valente’s thoughts danced like stars in the blackness.

  Why is this happening? I don’t want to die in this crypt.

  Light of torches licked at the darkness illuminating the ground before the prince. Turning on his side his mind continued to spin.

  I can’t die.

  A buzz flickered under his skin. He steadied his head with his hands. Valente’s eyes adjusted while the sparkles retreated from his sight. In the waning shadows, two lost eyes looked at him. Empty and devoid of feeling, a corpse wrapped in tatters gaped at the young visitor. The clang of metal bolstered the growing light of the stairway. Valente deeply inhaled and rolled to join the fallen host in a most unpleasant embrace. The old flesh clung in jealousy to the prince’s jacket. The resulting stench was even more invasive. Valente clenched his nose and muffled his gag. The light surged forward illuminating the walls of bodies. Each in an open coffin carved into the wall. Dozens all wrapped, unlabeled, and long forgotten. Valente wriggled and forced himself behind his deceased confidant. A stampede of iron boots marched past resonating their resolve through the stones of the catacomb. Valente’s mind reeled again sending his eyes upward into his head and pushing his eyes shut. As the light beyond his eyelid faded alongside the crash of metal, Valente’s heart cracked against his chest. Its powerful rhythm pulsed through him. Valente roughly exhaled letting his mind drift away and fall into his dreams.

  -2-

  Voices danced throughout his mind: strange and shapeless voices. They called through his dreams pulling him back.

  “Yeah… but did you hear about the old Tharian?”

  The light glinted off the metal heels of the soldier reflecting into the weary eyes of the prince.

  “The old man wasn’t breathing when we went for the prince. It looked like he was suffocated.”

  A different pair of iron boots emerged from the darkness. Their silvery metal caught the light as it turned towards the other soldier.

  “The foster prince murdered his own mentor? Wow… I guess he’s more Liosian than I gave him credit for.”

  “Well, what do you expect, being traded for a peace treaty and being forced to grow up among Liosian nobility would do that to anyone. I mean, look how you turned out.”

  The two soldiers’ laughs filled the decrepit halls echoing through the dark corridors. Their voices carried down the tunnels long after they had stopped. The iron boots paced a few steps in a half-hearted patrol.

  “I suppose you’re right, but then again none of it matters now. The king is planning to attack Tharia right?”

  Valente muffled his breathing as he blinked clarity back into vision. The glint of the boots flashed as the other soldier stopped the lazy patrol.

  “Hey keep it down. Nobody is supposed to know that until season’s end. Tharian ears could be anywhere.”

  The iron boots faced each other before laughter bellowed once more. One soldier leaned against the wall where Valente hid.

  “Don’t worry! Me and dead-face go way back. I trust he’s not a spy.”

  The other boots stepped closer. Their owner deeply inhaled.

  “Smells off. Can’t trust a man that doesn’t know how to bathe.”

  The boots pushed off the wall.

  “That’s why I don’t trust you!”

  The two laughed once more. Valente did his best to remain motionless as beams of light pirouetted across the corpse he hid beside.

  “By now, that prince is gone. It’s not like he’ll survive down here. Even if he ever got out of this maze he’d be as well off as my dead-faced pal here. He’s a royal after all: spoiled through and through. Without us watching out for them they’re like fish without fins.”

  “Well, just make sure you don’t say that too loud. You might have to learn to speak without a head if you keep talking like that.”

  “Well, you seem to manage fine without a brain.”

  The conversation died down as the minutes dragged forward. The two pairs of boots lethargically shuffled around the crypt.

  “This place doesn’t feel right. A whole crypt of dead under the castle? Come on. Let’s see if we can swap off watch yet.”

  “About time you made a good suggestion Lester.”

  The light drifted away. The boots and the banter trailed off leaving Valente alone in the heavy darkness. The prince’s head spun as it tried to wrap around what he had heard.

  Start another war?

  The prince’s jaw tensed grinding against his teeth.

  Lios would.

  Valente rubbed his eyes driving them to adjust to the darkness. Valente held his breath still to listen to the quiet dark. The crypt made no sound. Satisfied with the current lack of soldiers, he rolled out onto the tomb’s walkway. His dead companion gave him a parting smile and a kiss of rancid air. Brushing himself off, the prince freed himself from the floor. He muffled his gagging cough as he looked around. The silent blackness encompassed the prince once again. Valente leaned against the wall letting the cool stone return to guide his path. Valente extended his hand out and began his cautious creep into the depths of the crypt.

  The prince grabbed the scuffed Royal Tharian Crest pinned to his vest.

  I need to warn them.

  The stone maze whirled around the prince; its cold walls leading him in endless unseen circles. Everything was similar in the unerring darkness. The constricting tragedy of being lost and alone in an unlit and stony grave was not ideal for morale. Even with this, Valente crept on stopping every few moments and listening for sounds. The prince forced himself onwards. A misplaced step slid over the stone sending the prince to his knees with an unpleasant snap. A hidden crimson warmed his legs as it oozed from his new wound. Valente grunted as he rubbed his knee. He had not felt this much pain in some time. Though many in Lios would gladly insult, sneer, or laugh at the foster prince, few would have dared lay a hand on him. After all, the treaty was a royal decree. The tickle of agony was distant and familiar. It was almost welcome in the solitary darkness. Valente knelt as he looked into the dark in optimistic search of its wane. The darkness gave him no mercy as his eyes strained against the unmoving black. The prince got up and inhaled. He was used to the lack of compassion. The cold stone that wrapped itself in this dark glared at him like a Liosian noble. Valente bit back h
is pain and carried forward.

  An echoed plop fractured the silence. Valente turned his ear eager to scry the sound’s direction. The gentle rhythm of water patting the ground called to the prince. The cadenced dripping beckoned Valente forth. Its existence shooed away the darkness. The walls turned from dark and shapeless to grey and rugged. The delicate trace of light brought purpose back to his desperate eyes. As he turned the corner, the light danced across his soaked black bangs forcing him to squint. His hand flew up to shield himself from the spears of light. His eyes were weak by their recent lack of use, yet his vision focused as the dripping cheered him on. The grey walls here were thick with moss and cracks brought by an intrepid hole above. Water earnestly trickled down from the gap. Valente clambered to the wall. The soft moss dampened his eager rush. Looking upwards, the prince saw the orange glow of the sky peek back at him. The outside world gleamed with an expanding hope. Valente grabbed the top edge of the hole and hoisted himself upwards into the light of the setting sun. The cozy warmth was kind as he collapsed onto the grass. A friendly breeze licked at the prince’s tunic soothing his aching. Valente’s body recalled the meaning of satisfaction as it let itself relax. The gentle trickle of water and buffet of hopeful breeze lulled the prince. His mind yearned to sail away again.

  “Go… Now.”

  Arthan’s words ricocheted through Valente’s mind jolting him upright. Rest would have to wait. To find his bearing, Valente pushed himself up and looked around. To his east, the distant mountains overlooked the Farlosian Coast. The peaks glowed as they basked in the fading, brilliant shimmer. The sun itself cast large shadows towards the prince as it ducked behind the Liosian walls to the west. Valente grit his teeth.

  This will never be my home.

  The Liosian walls of Deloria stood in place of the sun draining away its light. Below these grey walls, Valente could see a small cemetery that lay on the outskirts of the main city. The grass swayed at the side of the cemeteries’ rusting fence. The small hole he had used for escape peered at him among tall reeds. Valente looked up towards the Liosian walls. His eyes widened. Fierce lights danced towards him their handlers armed to the teeth. Men with pikes and torches scoured over the cemetery towards the ragged prince. Some guards were quick to notice.