It was midday when they reached the outer streets of Cyanthia. People bustled by, carrying odds and ends back to their houses or to the market to be sold. Diomedes kept the hood of his cloak over his face. Despite the time he’d spent in the lower part of the city, he doubted anyone would recognize him with the scruff that had formed on his chin and the dirt that covered him from head to toe. Still, he didn’t want to risk being seen by someone who might alert the royal guards. It would be better to walk into the castle of his own accord.
Armannii and Blanndynne had stopped at Forrest and Camile’s old shop, which had been completely abandoned since they’d left. In the few seconds it had taken to part with his companions, the smell of rotten produce had made Diomedes want to empty his stomach.
As he walked the streets alone, Diomedes ran over the words in his head. There is a deep-rooted lie around the beginning of the Split that needs to be addressed. It was as good a start as any. At least he was putting his thoughts into coherent sentences, something that had always posed a problem when he’d addressed the council in the past. It was too easy to let emotions control his words, but that would not help his case.
A man bumped into Diomedes, but he would not have noticed except that it’d been his bad arm, and the injury throbbed in response. Over and over again, Diomedes practiced the speech. He avoided puddles, imagining each face on his father’s council reflected back up at him. The only faces left to picture were his father’s and stepmother’s. What would their expressions be? How would his father react to the truth of his grandfather? A knot formed in Diomedes’s stomach when he glanced up to see how close he was getting. The castle of Cyanthia ate up his entire view.
He was nearly to the gates when the first royal guard spotted him.
“Halt. Reveal yourself.”
With a deep breath, Diomedes pulled back his hood. He recognized the guard, had trained with him for years. Daven. He was a bristly sort at first, but loyal and full of honor, not to mention an expert swordsman. He wore the red markings on his collar, indicating to the public he was a captain. Daven carried himself with pride more than most of the other captains. The marking on the collar matched his curly hair in hue.
“Prince Diomedes,” Daven said, inclining his head. “Your father has had men looking for you for over two weeks.”
Had it only been that long? It felt like a lifetime. “I’m sure he has. I must speak with him right away.” Diomedes tilted his chin upward, regaining his royal countenance within a few seconds.
“He’s in a meeting with his council, but—”
“Perfect,” Diomedes said, walking with Daven through the gates. “I’ll head there straight away.”
“Your Highness, if I may—”
“You may return to your post, Daven. I am capable of navigating my home alone.”
“But—”
Diomedes waved his hand dismissively, not bothering to watch what he assumed were confusion and hesitation crossing Daven’s face. Nodding toward the two guards outside the main doors, a smile crossed Diomedes’s lips as he entered into the threshold.
He was home.
All throughout the halls, maids and guards alike stopped to stare and bow as the runaway prince made his return. Part of Diomedes wished he could stop to clean himself. It seemed like weeks since he’d washed, even though it’d only been three days since Otto’s. And as much as he wanted to go straight to the third floor to bathe and shave, the timing was too perfect. His father was already in a meeting with the council.
Each echoed click of his boots sent another wave of adrenaline into Diomedes’s veins until he was vibrating with nervous energy. He kept his head high, unwilling to let any fear cross his face. He knew what he had to say, had practiced time after time on the way to the castle.
But somehow, when the guards opened the double doors to the meeting room, every precise and detailed sentence drained out of Diomedes, leaving him alone in front of eighteen pairs of eyes.
“So, the wayward son returns.” Clive glared at Diomedes from the king’s right-hand seat—Diomedes’s seat. He had been the one to speak first, and Diomedes’s stomach turned at the mere sight of him.
“Son.” King Butch rose to his feet, as did Queen Evangeline and several of the councilmen when the doors closed behind Diomedes. “You’ve returned.” His voice wavered, and Diomedes noticed his hands shaking.
He hadn’t expected the satisfaction in his father’s eyes, and it took him a second to regain the confidence he’d entered with. His father was almost smiling at him. A little farther down the table, Silas was grinning. He’d forgotten about Silas when he’d been mentally preparing. It was a relief to have someone he almost considered an ally in the council room.
Diomedes squared his shoulders, lifting his chin. “Clearly.” Frustration simmered under the surface as the words he had so expertly planned continued to evade him.
Silence filled the meeting room. All eyes focused on either the king or the prince. Afternoon light poured in from the windows on the second floor, bathing the room in an orange glow. It left one half of his father’s face shaded and the other visible. The knot in Diomedes’s stomach twisted tighter the longer he stared at the king. Just like he’d worried, his mouth felt dry.
Dark circles had collected under the king’s shiny eyes, which were locked on his son. The graying beard on his father’s face stood out in several places. It was normally well-groomed, and the change in appearance gave the king a haggard look. His mouth opened the slightest bit, like he was about to speak. Instead, the almost-smile faded from his lips, and the king clenched his jaw. Diomedes followed suit.
“Welcome back, Your Highness,” Silas said in the silence. The genuine smile on his face helped the air trapped in Diomedes’s lungs escape in a slow exhale.
“Yes, we’re glad you’re here,” Queen Evangeline added, though her presence had the opposite effect of Silas’s words.
“I have important information pertaining to the Split. It must be discussed right away.” Diomedes’s neck muscles tightened as soon as he finished the sentence, and it made it difficult to swallow.
King Butch lifted his face, standing taller. “We are in the middle of a meeting, Son. Whatever you have to say can wait until—”
“No,” Diomedes said, the word clipped. “It can’t.” He felt the fire beginning to burn in his chest. Taking a step forward, he clenched his hands into fists. “This is more important.”
“Son—”
“The war was started through Kylian’s lies and manipulation. He was not the king everyone thinks he was.” Diomedes spoke over his father. Whispers flooded the meeting room, where only a second before Diomedes could hear the creaking of the council members’ chairs. “He had his own daughter murdered.”
Several council members gasped while others glanced between the king and prince. He could hear one of the council members near his end of the table mutter something about foolish lies while another called him a traitor to the country.
“Diomedes, leave.” The king gripped the table with both hands, leaning forward. His cheeks were reddening, and Diomedes knew he had started his father’s countdown. There wouldn’t be much time before the king exploded, and the thought sent chills down Diomedes’s back.
But it was too late to stop. It felt like Diomedes’s veins were on fire as he took another step toward the elongated table. “King Kylian had his daughter, Raylee, and her unborn child murdered because he didn’t approve of her magic-bearing husband. And Prince Ewan’s death was an accident, not a murder.”
“That’s—”
“King Kylian spread lies surrounding his own children’s deaths to start the war that decimated our country and persecuted more people than can be counted over the last three generations, yet most of you wouldn’t hesitate to say he was a wonderful king. A good man. Does a good man murder his own child? Does a wonderful king manipulate his people into fighting a war he selfishly desired?”
The council members no longer spoke in hushed voices. They glared at Diomedes, and some of them hurled insults against him. A few stood up, their chairs screeching against the floor at the sudden friction.
“How dare you speak to your king in such a manner?” A man pointed at him, his face the same shade as a tomato, which was made even more vibrant by the light pouring down on him from the window above. “You are speaking treason against a great man.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” another said, shaking his head. “Spouting lies about your own ancestors.”
Diomedes turned his head when a man on his left slammed his fist against the table. “A disappointment to the Maudit line. You have brought shame upon yourself and spoken blasphemy against your own blood. Traitor!”
The chaos his words had created left him speechless, not that he could be heard over all of the shouting and hollering directed at him. His hands shook as he clasped them behind his back. He couldn’t tell if what he was feeling was humiliation or if it was because he was at a loss for what to do next. He hadn’t prepared for the storm he’d created.
“Enough!” King Butch said, and his voice boomed around the room. The council members who had stood up returned to their seats instantly like reprimanded dogs. “That’s enough.” His hands hung loosely by his sides, clenching into fists once before relaxing again. King Butch pressed his lips together as he looked over his council. He left Diomedes for last, but his eyes did not carry the same resentment as they had for the council members.
Queen Evangeline’s face was drawn, but every time Diomedes had happened to glance at her during the tumult, she’d remained silent. And Silas, while carrying a frown across his face, did not seem at all upset by Diomedes’s treacherous claims against King Kylian.
“If you—”
“I said enough, Son. We are going to finish our meeting while you rest in your room. Get cleaned up. I will speak with you later.” His eyebrows drew together in the center of his face, but while his gaze remained on Diomedes, it stayed soft. However, when Clive spoke next, the king directed a glare in the councilman’s direction.
“Your Majesty, if I may, I think—”
“You may not.” King Butch’s tone remained clipped. “Go, Son. Get cleaned up. I will speak with you in due time.”
Diomedes dug his fingernails into the palm of his hand, watching the smug grins on some of the council member’s faces. But when he looked at his father one last time, he thought—although it was only for a second—he saw a smile. And before he could stop it, hope bloomed inside him. With his father on his side, the council might just see truth.
It had not gone at all how he had planned it. Diomedes trudged down the corridors after being kicked out of a council meeting. Again. The difference, though, was he hadn’t meant to be removed. It had been one of the only meetings in which he had wanted to participate.
The walk to his room went on for ages; at least that’s how it felt. He ran his fingers through his hair, gritting his teeth when they got stuck again. The scruff on his chin scratched against his hands, and he wondered how terrible he looked. He glanced down at his hands, noting the collection of dirt through the creases in his palms and under his fingernails. No wonder his father had told him to wash. He probably looked and smelled like a farm animal.
But even when he had cleaned up and was freshly shaven, he couldn’t shake the weight on his chest. His plan to address the council had failed. In the heat of the moment, he had even forgotten to take Raylee’s royal medallion out of his pocket. It was the only physical evidence he had, and he had forgotten it.
With a little more force than he had meant to, he flung his filthy tunic and trousers into a pile in the corner. Diomedes had sent away every servant who had turned up at his door. What he needed was not an influx of people scurrying around him. What he needed was silence, to be alone.
Diomedes sat on the edge of his bed, surprised by the temptation it created, calling him to scoot back and fall asleep in its clutches. Instead, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He lowered his head, rubbing his newly clean hands first over his face and then through his damp hair.
The more he thought about it, the more he realized silence wasn’t the only thing he needed. He needed guidance. But with Armannii and Blanndynne out of reach somewhere beyond the castle walls, his options were limited.
Rubbing his bare foot along the floorboards, Diomedes tilted his head to the side. Not all of his options were unavailable.
With a glance over his shoulder, Diomedes crossed to the corner of his room. He pried out the loose stone, placing it to the side on his desk before pulling out the little wooden box. The lid hung crookedly, still damaged from the last time he had taken it out and broken off one of the hinges. But the box itself didn’t matter.
Leaning back against the side of his bed, Diomedes unfolded the first of three notes from his mother. The paper was fragile from where it had been folded and refolded for years. His gaze skimmed over her handwriting, and he mouthed the words as he read them silently. He knew every word of each letter, yet he read through them again, hoping to glean from them something he could use to fix his situation.
But his mother hadn’t known what he would end up doing years after her letters. There was no advice she could give that would be new to him. Still, he read.
Diomedes, my love.
You bring so much happiness to me every day. Your personality continues to shine, even at the age of four. I can only imagine the man you will become. There will be those who try to strip away the essence of who you are, who try to bend you to the form they want you to take. But listen to me, my love. Do not let them.
You possess more power than you know, and you have the potential of a hundred men. You will do incredible things; of that I am sure. I am so proud of you, my love. I am lucky to be your mother. I love you, Dio, and I always will.
Each note left him desiring more—more of her words, more of his mother’s love. The second letter was shorter, a quick message praising him for his bravery, though it had apparently led to a broken arm he didn’t remember having. By the end of the third note—which was filled with his mother’s pleas to not fall into the same pattern as his ancestors, hating a thing they did not even understand—his nerves were frayed, and he felt her absence more than he had in years.
What would she do if faced with the same situation he was in? He couldn’t begin to guess. She had left so early in his life, had abandoned him.
He crunched the paper in his hand but cringed a second later, frantically trying to smooth out the new wrinkles. It wasn’t his mother’s fault she’d left. And when he’d found out she’d left to join the sorceress in trying to end the war, he couldn’t even be mad at the sorceress. She had been trying to end the same war.
The mere thought of the sorceress had his mind reeling back to his conversation with Otto. Somewhere in the mountains, the sorceress had left behind an object with great power. His thoughts fixated on it, and he tried to imagine what his mother would say if she had the chance to gain magic. But that train of thought didn’t get very far.
A knock on his door had Diomedes hiding the box and his emotions faster than he could process. He covered the hiding space, taking a quick breath to wipe any expressions left on his face from his mother’s letters.
“Dio!” Ellayne said, wrapping her arms around him as soon as he opened the door. He flinched as she pressed into his side. “I heard from Daven you were back. I was so worried.” She didn’t resist when Diomedes pushed away from her, rubbing the bandage beneath his silk shirt. “Where have you been?”
“Away.”
“Well, obviously,” Ellayne said, stalking into his room without an invitation. “Last I saw you, you had completely destroyed my room and run off with that elf and some woman to find a way to end the war.” She paused, putting her hands on her hips. “Well? Did you? Find a way to end the war, I mean.”
Diomedes bit his lip as he closed the door, remembering the chaotic state of Ellayne’s room from Blanndynne’s spell. “Sort of.” He paused, scratching the back of his neck. “I thought I did.”
“I heard you barged into Father’s council meeting.” Ellayne crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s not the best way to get on their good side.”
“I found that out the hard way.” Diomedes crossed over to the bed and rested on the edge. “Father threw me out. Said he’d come speak to me after the meeting.”
“He hasn’t come yet?” Ellayne asked, sitting down next to him. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.
Diomedes shook his head. “Not yet.”
“What are you going to tell him? What did you end up finding?”
“I—”
Diomedes and Ellayne looked up at the same time when the door opened without a knock, and their father strode in.
“Laynie,” King Butch said, nodding to his daughter. “I didn’t expect to find you in here.”
Ellayne stood up, glancing from Diomedes to the king. “I heard Dio was back. I came to see him.”
“Of course. Well, I promised your brother a moment of my time, so if you would give us a moment alone.”
Squeezing Diomedes’s arm without the bandage, Ellayne offered him a small smile before leaving the room. Her touch was more reassuring than Diomedes had expected it to be, but he fought to keep his expression neutral as she left. The king watched her go, closing the door after her.
“Father,” Diomedes said, smoothing out his trousers as he rose to his feet. “I apologize for interrupting your meeting earlier. I—”
“Sit down, Son,” King Butch cut off Diomedes’s apology, gesturing toward the bed. “We need to talk.”