Chapter 20

Mailot reacted instantly. He pulled Kosha toward himself just as Lucien released his grip, shoving the mage aside so forcefully that Kosha stumbled into the retainer’s chest. Mailot immediately tucked the young man behind his back and pressed a firm hand against the rear of his head.

“Bow,” Mailot whispered urgently. “Do not raise your head, no matter what happens.”

Caught off guard and forced into a deep bow, Kosha remained perfectly still. He had no intention of causing trouble, yet his ears pricked with curiosity. He desperately wanted to know who possessed a voice rough and powerful enough to roar the prince’s name with such casual familiarity.

“Lucien! My damned brother. You have wandered rather far, have you not?”

“Your Highness, my brother,” Lucien replied smoothly, turning toward the man descending the cloister steps.

The knights who had been keeping their distance quickly closed ranks around their lord.

“Still dragging that pathetic excuse for an entourage behind you, I see!”

Bastian, Duke of Aramor, stood upon the stairs overlooking the courtyard and sneered. His large frame cast a long, imposing shadow that swallowed the sunlight. His black, curling hair had been shorn short and lay carelessly across his forehead. Though rugged and utterly lacking in refinement, he possessed a handsome face. Contrary to what Lucien’s more imaginative insults suggested, Bastian was not obese. He simply lacked his younger brother’s meticulous, sculptural elegance. Most of the King of Izeland’s sons were broad-boned and imposing to begin with.

“The way everyone comes running to tattle to you whenever something happens,” Bastian continued with a chuckle, “it is a miracle you still have both ears attached. Could this court function at all without you?”

Lucien answered with a light chuckle of his own. “You are too kind. Is our father not still hale and hearty?”

“Hale? That old man is rotting from the inside out.” Bastian spat the words as he lumbered down the stairs like an enormous bear.

He settled one broad, heavy hand firmly upon the shoulder of his slightly taller half-brother.

“I hear you opposed my northern expedition.”

The easy atmosphere sharpened at once, acquiring a sudden, biting edge. Facing Bastian, Lucien lowered his gaze slightly and curled the corners of his mouth into an overtly theatrical smile.

“To say I opposed it would be somewhat less accurate than saying you failed to satisfy the requirements for approval,” Lucien murmured.

He paused, allowing the silence to stretch between them.

“Please submit a military financing plan first. An army, after all, ultimately comes down to money.”

The hand gripping Lucien’s shoulder tightened with sudden force. The corners of Lucien’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.

“You dare tell me what to submit, you little…” Bastian began, but Lucien calmly cut across him.

“I understand your impatience. You likely need a military victory soon.”

Lucien bowed slightly, keeping his voice low and insinuating.

A vein swelled at Bastian’s temple, while his jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumped. “You lowborn bastard.”

Lucien’s brows drew together faintly. He placed his own hand over the fist clamped around his shoulder, humoring the duke with a gentle expression.

“Please calm yourself, Brother. Do you truly believe I am doing this out of personal spite? We simply need to handle the fundamentals properly. Furthermore, my territory shares a border with the Ithah barbarians, separated from them by only a mountain range. Naturally, I cannot help being concerned.”

Their hands slowly fell away from Lucien’s shoulder. Bastian clicked his tongue, his contemptuous gaze raking over the prince.

“Your words are always so damned slippery.”

“I shall take that as a compliment,” Lucien replied with a slight bow.

Waving him off as though there were nothing left worth seeing, Bastian turned away. He had realized that his usual methods of threats and cajoling would prove useless against this insufferable half-brother. He was preparing to leave in a fury when a voice laced with laughter caught him from behind.

“Oh, Brother. Come to think of it.”

At the unexpected change in subject, Mailot regarded his lord with razor-sharp wariness. Lucien tilted his head slightly.

“How is your wife?”

“What?”

Bastian stopped so abruptly that his boots ground against the stone. His already prominent eyes widened, blazing with barely restrained rage.

“Why the hell are you suddenly asking about your sister-in-law?”

“Does one require a special reason to inquire after the welfare of family?” Lucien delivered the claim without blinking, though no one present believed him.

He hesitated, deliberately drawing out his next words.

“And Sir Marsas.”

Bastian’s expression froze completely.

Lowering his deep-gold lashes as though deeply troubled, Lucien sighed. “No. Never mind. It would be improper to discuss such things here.”

Bastian’s face twisted into a furious snarl. He immediately reversed course and marched back toward the prince.

“Duke of Aramor!” Mailot shouted, alarm mounting in his voice.

As Lucien’s knights reached for their swords, Bastian’s men mirrored the motion. Blades slid halfway from their scabbards and caught the sunlight, while the air in the main courtyard pulled taut with the promise of imminent violence.

A broad hand seized Lucien by the collar, crumpling the silver-stitched antlers embroidered across his chest, yet the prince did not move an inch.

“Did he run whining to you too? Huh?” Bastian hissed like a serpent.

Somewhere overhead, a crow cried, deepening the ill omen settling over the courtyard.

“How could that be?” Lucien smoothly laid one elegant hand over the fist twisted into his collar. “There are many eyes upon us, Your Highness. Brother.”

The crow called again. Although the birds were common in Osterbrache, they seemed unusually noisy that day.

Thud!

Something hard struck with a brutal, hollow crack.

“Argh!”

The sharp scream followed instantly, making Lucien’s shoulders jerk in surprise. The hand gripping his collar went slack. Bastian’s heavy body folded downward and collapsed into a heap upon the ground. Guards drew their weapons on pure instinct, the metallic scrape of steel ringing through the courtyard.

Lucien took a cautious step backward. Bastian sat hunched at his feet, clutching his bleeding head. Beside the fallen duke, a flat stone roughly the size of a man’s palm rattled against the ground before wobbling to a stop.

Looking up automatically, Lucien spotted a crow soaring across the empty sky, seemingly showing off its accomplishment. Even the prince needed several moments to comprehend the sheer absurdity of what had happened.

Caw!

The bird’s raucous cry shook the main courtyard after it somehow dropped a heavy stone directly onto an unsuspecting man’s head.

Then Lucien heard something else.

Hic.

It was no more than a short, sharp intake of breath, yet his heightened senses caught it with unnatural clarity. He turned at once, his eyes settling upon Kosha’s half-concealed form.

The sight was almost painfully vivid. A pair of enormous eyes seemed to occupy half of the mage’s hidden face, carrying an unfamiliar light that glimmered within the green irises before fading like soft mist.

Lucien stared.

The young man’s lips hung foolishly apart, proving him even more shocked than the prince himself.

***