A chill went down the Prince’s back. It was impossible; his Mother’s soldiers would never even dare to….
The memories of the events since he’d been attacked in the Fortress rolled through his head in a rush that made his ears rings. The false slaves that had inexplicably gained access to the anteroom of the Hall of Glories. The soldiers who had left him to die by the stream… soldiers that had been dressed in the uniforms of the Imperial army.
No. No, it was a ruse. They were traitors; it was easy enough to change clothing. His anger rose. Did they truly think he’d fall for a trick like that?
“I’ve seen markings like those before, Tomaz, and he’s a Bloodmage, old enough for it or not. And if he was beaten like you say, he’s healed remarkably quickly!”
The Prince had seen and heard enough. He was the rightful son of the Empress, and these Exiles were nothing. It was time to put an end to this farce.
“I am not a Bloodmage,” spat the Prince, silencing them, “I am the Prince of Ravens, Child of the Empress, Seventh Son of the Diamond Throne—and you will release me, now!”
For a moment there was no reaction. But then they fully took him in, and the truth seemed to click into place. Their eyes grew wide, and their bodies became tense and ready, as if he would at any second leap forward, shooting fire from his eyes and cursing them into a thousand pieces. The Prince allowed himself a small smile at the pleasure of knowing the name of one of the Children still struck fear into the hearts of the Empire’s enemies.
“Release me,” he said, his voice snapping out like a whip.
The girl took an involuntary step forward, watching him with superstitious horror and awe. But the big man shook his head like a bear dislodging an annoying fly, and the Prince watched in surprise as he stepped forward, lifted the greatsword from where it had been resting, unsheathed it, and held it up, threateningly.
“Do not lie to us,” he said. The Prince looked from the bared sword to the man’s eyes. Eyes as hard and flat as dark chips of stone.
“I am not lying,” he said calmly. Slowly, very slowly so as not to frighten the Exile and make him do something stupid, the Prince took a step forward. He held the man’s gaze with his eyes as he had seen Symanta do when she was reading someone, watching for the slightest hint of emotion. The man began to relax, and the Prince was certain he had won.
But then the man shook his head once more and actually stepped forward to rest the point of his blade against the Prince’s chest.
“Stay where you are,” he rumbled.
“We need to leave,” the girl said. “We need to leave now!”
“No,” the big man said. “No, something is not right here.”
“He’s a Child of the Empress, Tomaz. Shadows and fire, he’s the Prince of Ravens! Those markings are the Talisman of Death! If he’s here, the Empire is not far behind!”
She moved toward the door, panic and terror clear in both her voice and her manner, but the big man remained where he was. There was something stirring behind his eyes, in the depths of those black chips of stone. This was a hard man, the Prince could tell, hard by nature but hardened by a life of exile, a life lived in the shadows. As he watched, the big man’s eyes seemed to light up as he contemplated the Prince, and small bits of fire and life sprang into being where there was nothing but coldness before.
The moment passed, and the big man took a deep breath and spoke.
“I found him in a clearing at the far end of the mountains. He was lying on the ground with only the barest hint of a pulse. I almost didn’t check. That was nearly a week ago, the day after you left.”
The girl stopped in the doorway, then slowly turned back. The Prince could tell her mind was suddenly working very quickly. She looked at the Prince—and not just at his face, but at his clothing, his chafed wrists, his dirty hair. Hereyes roved over him, from head to toe, and he had the distinct impression that she was cataloging every detail of his appearance. Her demeanor changed completely. She took a few steps back into the room.
“What do you see?” the big man asked, almost ritualistically.
“His shirt,” she said. “It’s certainly finer linen than most of what even the Most High would wear, but it’s torn and dirty. His face is dirty—there’s dirt in his hair, too. His wrists look as though they were recently bound together with a rough material. He’s favoring his left side, but only slightly, so the ribs you said were broken have healed, which means accelerated healing that could come from a number of different blood magics.”
She looked over at the big man. “How many times have you seen the Children?”
“More than I’d like to remember,” the man, Tomaz, responded darkly, “and more than once up close in person.”
The Prince’s head jerked to him in surprise.
“Have you ever seen this one?”
“No,” said Tomaz, “but he was born after my time.”
“Have you ever seen one of them looking anything less than immaculate, though?”
The big man shook his head, his bearded face drawn in concentration.
“You said he was left over a week ago? There’s been no activity here, not even a hint of any. Have you seen anything?”
