PRINCE REYN
After Osira’h left Theroc, Prince Reynald felt different. The light in the worldforest was changed. He had drawn strength from her, and now that extra support was gone.
With Osira’h near, he had been able to resist the encroaching weakness from his disease, and maybe it was only his imagination, but now Reyn felt unsteady. He noticed more frequent neural misfires that slashed and skittered through him.
He realized just how much he had been keeping himself strong for her. He had been masking his symptoms, trying to keep himself steady so she wouldn’t worry, and now the disease was making up for its enforced remission.
His tremors were bad this morning, and he took a long time to get dressed. His fingers shook so much that he could barely fasten the buttons and clips, but his mother and father were counting on him to join them in the throne chamber.
He closed his eyes, drew deep breaths, and commanded his nerves to obey. The exercise—which Osira’h had taught him—did not decrease the pain, but he was better able to endure it. He moved slowly about his room, and every sound seemed intense, like razor blades slashing through his ears. Bright lights hurt his eyes and his skin. But he was Prince Reynald of Theroc, and he did not have the luxury of weakness. He could not hide from his duties, even if they were mostly ceremonial.
His parents had sent out repeated calls to medical researchers, but Reyn would not be a pathetic weakling who demanded sympathy. He wanted to fight this battle himself, not that he ever expected to win it. Both Arita and Osira’h had scolded him for his pride, for hiding his symptoms. They insisted that he accept help, and he had agreed … which now made him a specimen. His samples, DNA maps, cellular scans, tissues, nervous system, and brain patterns were an open book—every tiny and private corner of his body. It felt like a violation, but he accepted it because that was what his parents needed, what his sister needed … and what Osira’h needed.
He had also received messages of support and understanding from countless subjects across the Confederation. Rlinda Kett had returned to her fancy restaurant of Arbor and made one of her famous sloppy cheeseburgers for him, even though it was not on the menu.
Now, he finished fastening his insect-carapace epaulets before inspecting himself in the reflecting glass. He definitely looked like a prince, a son of Theroc to sit beside Father Peter and Mother Estarra.
As ready as he could be, he took a step toward the door, swayed, then steadied himself against the soft fungus-reef wall. He took deep breaths, felt black static swirl behind his eyes before he finally sharpened his focus again—along with a fond memory of Osira’h that he held on to as an anchor—and he made his way to the throne room.
A crowd had gathered outside the chamber: green priests, Confederation traders, Theron villagers, even two retirees from the old Earth Defense Forces who had settled in the worldforest years ago. Inside, Estarra and Peter waited for him. Arita was busy preparing her own trip out to the Wild, which she had just announced to everyone’s surprise. She would work on her naturalist research while the Onthos settled in the pristine wilderness.
Dredging up strength, Reyn took a seat in his chair, which was ornamented with jeweled and lacquered insect wings, beetle casings, and polished bloodwood agates. He intended to smile at the audience, but it required all of his attention to quell the tremors and to keep the pain from his expression.
Estarra said in a low voice, “You look pale, Reyn.”
“Just tired. It’s been exhausting and stressful … for a very long time. Especially now that Osira’h is gone.” He slumped back in the hard, ornamented chair more heavily than he meant to.
King Peter announced to the audience in a loud, strong voice, “As always, our son’s health poses a challenge for medical researchers across the Spiral Arm. Once again, we express our hope that someone will find a way to defeat this insidious malady, and in so doing find ways to help other ailing humans.”
Estarra added her own voice. “In addition to the reward we offer, our gratitude will be substantial.”
Embarrassed, Reyn took charge, as a prince was supposed to do. He called out, “Let’s hear what these people have to say. They came to speak to us, not hear about my aches and pains.” He tried to give them all a reassuring smile.
The two military retirees came forward first. One had a scar on his face, while the other moved with a limp but forced his way through it. “Majesties, both of us fought in the last battle of Earth twenty years ago. We defended against the Klikiss and the turncoat Ildirans and the black robots. Lost many of our comrades—but we stayed alive. We saved a lot of people.”
The scarred man looked at his companion. “Piers and I moved here years ago, never wanted to bother you—but we did appreciate your leadership, King Peter.”
The other man added to Estarra, “And yours too, ma’am … um, Majesty.”
The first man was alarmed by his faux pas. “Well, of course, they’re a set—I meant both of them.”
Piers continued, “For a long time, Rutger and I have just wanted to say thank you … but now we hear that the bugbots have returned. I don’t know how much good two old relics will be, but if you need fighters again, we’re willing to help.”
“That’s good to know,” Peter said. “And I hope we won’t need to reactivate your service. You have earned a quiet retirement.”
Reyn fought back a thrum of pain. “It’s encouraging to see such devoted citizens.” He doubted he would survive long enough to take over after his parents.
The next speaker was Tristan Cove, the town leader of Shorehaven, who arrived carrying a large case. “My village has recovered from the wyvern attacks, Father Peter and Mother Estarra—thanks to the two warrior women from Ildira along with our green priest Beltrias, who became a hunter in his own right.”
Estarra nodded. “Anton Colicos told us the story. It’s so outlandish I thought he must have embellished some parts, but we should probably believe what he says.”
“Believe him,” said Cove. He proudly opened the box to display a hemispherical multifaceted jewel wider than his handspan in diameter.
“What is that?” Reyn asked.
“This is one of the smaller eyes of the slain wyvern. Its head was far too enormous to bring as a trophy, and even the larger eyes are a meter across or more. But we wanted to deliver this as a reminder that there are threats right here on Theroc, as well as great threats out in the cosmos.”
Impressed, King Peter stepped down from his throne to look at the wyvern eye. “Reynald, come receive this with me.”
Reyn lifted himself off the chair and took a step forward, but suddenly a dark dizziness flooded through him, and static blurred his vision. It was more than pain—it was confusion and oblivion. He collapsed into it, lost.
His mother shouted, “Bring the physicians! Now!”
With his last flickers of sight, Reyn saw Tristan Cove scramble backward and lose his grip on the case, which fell to the floor just as Reyn sprawled forward. The wyvern eye tumbled out, staring at him with its countless segmented facets, before he vanished into unconsciousness.