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THERE came an evening when taking care of a little girl was not enough for Prince Wendell.
King Sebastien was supping with Prince Willis, for Prince Wendell and Clarion were nowhere to be found when Cook clanged the supper bell. King Sebastien asked questions about their whereabouts, and Prince Willis provided him with unsatisfactory answers, such as, “I do not know” and “He and Clarion went to see the villagers, perhaps,” and “Perhaps they went swimming in the cove,” and King Sebastien was not a man much given to mercy or mystery. A son late to supper was intolerable. He stormed out of the dining hall, with his youngest son following.
“Father,” Prince Willis said. “Father, please. He will be home soon.”
King Sebastien turned on his heel and glared at his son. “You know where they are,” he said, and it was not a question. Prince Willis drew back into shadows. King Sebastien pulled him roughly out.
“No,” Prince Willis said. “I do not know.”
“You do,” King Sebastien said. He did not roar. He did not shout. What he did was worse, perhaps. He said the words in a quiet voice, one full of steel and thorns and threat.
For a moment it appeared as though Prince Willis would refuse to take King Sebastien to his brother, for of course Prince Willis knew precisely where his brother was and what he was doing. They were friends and not merely brothers. Prince Willis was forever begging his brother not to visit the village. Prince Wendell was forever begging his brother not to tell.
But King Sebastien tugged violently on a tuft of curls at the nape of his son’s neck. He drew his son’s eyes to him. “Tell me,” he said in that quiet, steely voice. “Tell me, or you will have worse done to you than I have ever done to your brother.”
Prince Willis was so overcome by fear that he could do nothing but point the way toward the village. King Sebastien did not have to guess at much beyond that.
But when he came upon Prince Wendell and Clarion, they were walking along the road back toward the castle. Clarion was holding Prince Wendell’s hand. They stopped when they saw King Sebastien on the bridge, Prince Willis several paces behind. Prince Wendell rushed forward, for even at this distance, he had seen his brother’s face. Moreover, he had seen his father’s face.
“Brother,” Prince Wendell said. “What has happened?”
Prince Willis only stared at his father, for he had no words to speak. Prince Wendell turned to his father.
“What have you done?” he said.
“The question is,” King Sebastien said, “what have you done?”
King Sebastien did not miss the look between Prince Wendell and Prince Willis, for he was an observant man when it came to wrongdoing. He could spot treachery. He did not miss, either, the way Clarion stared up at Prince Wendell, as if asking how much she should tell this man. Well. There was his way. He would get the child alone, and she would tell all. She would tell all simply because she was a child. “We were visiting our people,” Prince Wendell said. “They deserve to see their future king and queen every now and again. Is that not so, Clary?”
Clarion nodded. “We were visiting,” she said, though King Sebastien could see the lie her eyes held. She was not so very hard to read, after all.
But once he got her alone, he would discover the truth.
Later that night, King Sebastien stole into the girl’s room, though he had never crossed the threshold before. She startled and then bowed her head.
“My king,” she said.
“I only wanted to say goodnight,” he said. He stood at the foot of her bed.
“Is Wendell coming?” she said. “He usually tells me stories.”
“What kinds of stories does Wendell tell you?” King Sebastien said. The child looked small in the enormous bed, white-skinned against the red of her bedcovers.
“Stories of good kings,” Clarion said. “Good kings who take care of their people.” Her face grew troubled. “You do not take care of your people.” She looked stricken for a moment, as though her own words surprised her. Perhaps she had not meant to say them aloud.
“Is that what Wendell tells you?” King Sebastien said.
“Oh, no,” Clarion said. “He only says good things about his father.” She looked away for a moment and then back at him. “But the people are always hungry. A good king should feed his people.”
“Perhaps that is something only a bad king would do,” King Sebastien said.
“But people should not go hungry—”
“Hush, my child,” King Sebastien said. He sat at the foot of her bed. “Wendell is not coming tonight. I will tell you a story in his place. But first you must tell me a story.”
“But I do not know any stories,” Clarion said. “I do not know how to tell them as Wendell does.”
King Sebastien looked at her golden hair and then back at her face. “You do not have to make it up. You can tell me something that is the truth.”
She tilted her head at him, and he could see the indecision warring between her brows. Should she tell? Should she keep what she carried a secret? He made his move in this elaborate game.
“Tell me a story about what you and Wendell were doing in the village,” King Sebastien said.
The girl hesitated.
“We shall pretend you are telling a story,” King Sebastien said. “I will not know whether you are telling the truth or using your imagination.”
But he would know. Of course he would. She was only a child, after all.
The girl nodded.
It was so easy.
She told him of the village houses and the people they visited, one after another, and the clothes they gave away by turning a sack of dirt into a sweater that would protect a boy from the cold winds of night. She told him of the old shoes turned to food for the people who were nearly starving. She told him of the blankets they made from old castle curtains and the medicine from the castle storehouse delivered to the sick.
And every word of it was true.
King Sebastien, though the anger boiled and belted inside, remained perfectly calm until Clarion had finished her story. When she grew silent, King Sebastien nodded his head. He forced a small smile. “Thank you for telling me a story,” he said. “It was a very good one.”
And then he swept out of her room, not bothering with his own promise to tell a story. He barreled down the hall and into his son’s chambers. His thin veneer of calm was gone before he ever got there. He raged and screamed and said the words he could never, ever take back.
“Get out of my kingdom!”
Prince Wendell watched him, as if he expected his father to take back the horrible words. But King Sebastien did not. So Prince Wendell said, “But father. They are people, too.” Precisely what he had told his brother, for he understood, you see, that his father knew his secret, that King Sebastien had pried it from Clarion’s lips.
“They are not people,” King Sebastien said. “They are workers. They will not work if they have no reason to work. If a king gives them whatever their hearts desire.”
“But they are poor,” Prince Wendell said. “They do not have enough to eat. They do not have blankets for their beds, for their children. Everything they own is old and threadbare.” He took a step toward his father. “Please, Father. They work hard.”
“A king is not a wish giver,” King Sebastien said. “We do not grant wishes.”
“A king cannot idly stand by while his people slowly die,” Prince Wendell said. “Tell me, Father, is that what I should do?”
King Sebastien puffed up his chest. He tried to breathe through his flaming anger, but he was much too furious. Too wildly out of control. Too afraid. Why could not the other son, the one who did whatever his royal father asked, be the one born with magic? Why did it have to be this boy, who loved the people more than he loved his life? More than he loved the throne? This son would never listen to reason. He would never stop giving to the people.
Prince Wendell would lose the throne. He would make them all suffer.
King Sebastien would find another way.
So King Sebastien said the words, again, that he could never take back. “Get out of my kingdom.”
Prince Wendell watched his father. Prince Willis stepped into the room. King Sebastien did not see him until he spoke. “Father,” Prince Willis said. “Please. You cannot.”
King Sebastien held up a hand toward Prince Wendell. “I want you gone,” he said. “Do not ever come back.”
Prince Wendell stared at his father for a hundred heartbeats, and then he dipped his head. “Yes, Father,” he said. “As you wish.”
Prince Wendell took nothing with him. He merely walked from his bedchambers and out the castle doors. His father did not watch him go but slammed the doors and locked them tight against his return. He turned to his son who remained and the girl-child by his side, watching the king with wide eyes.
“You will let him return, yes?” Prince Willis said.
“Your brother has made his choice,” King Sebastien said. “He will not be king while I am alive.” He looked at Prince Willis. “Or while you are alive.”
“But I am a second son,” Prince Willis said.
“The kingdom does not know it,” King Sebastien said. “We will bring in a prophet who will spread tales of your magic.”
“But Father,” Prince Willis said.
“Silence!” King Sebastien said.
The girl began to cry.
Prince Willis glanced at her. “What about Clary?” he said.
King Sebastien waved his hand. “You shall marry her when she comes of age,” he said. “She will stay.”
The girl cried harder.
King Sebastien stalked out of the room, without another look back.
Had he looked, he would have seen his only remaining boy take the hand of the little girl. He would have seen the girl shake off his son’s hand and race down the hall, back to her chambers. He would have seen his boy’s eyes turn soft and wet and then, after they had emptied, he would have seen them turn hard. Dangerous.
Just as a king’s eyes should be.