Loving the Forbidden Prince

ETAN

As soon as they broke through the crowds and into the courtyard of the Palace, Etan slumped.

The staff and guards had gathered, but in the tradition of mourning the King, they stood in silent lines, holding gifts and ribbons. Some of them wept openly. Others held themselves so stiffly Etan was afraid they were doing themselves harm.

They were all there—his guard, the Cavalry, the servants from the Royal Quarters—right down to the scullery maids and stablehands. Everyone who could be spared had been gathered in the courtyard, some of them standing on the small islands at the center of the water features at each edge of the large, round space that had been used so many times in his life for the more informal celebrations, or family gatherings.

These were his people. The court, the friends, the servants who had been at his family's side since he was a boy.

And now they looked to him as King.

When he reached the center of the courtyard, he halted his horse and dismounted. A few of the ribbons fluttered to the ground, but he stooped to pick them up and return them to the tired beast's neck.

He turned to look at his people, and his throat closed as they all dropped to bow or curtsey.

"The King is dead. Long live the King!"

There was no celebration here, only acknowledgment. His father and mother had been well-loved and would be missed. No matter how certain they were that Etan was the strength for their land, they would not smile while they grieved. And he was glad because smiles felt like they might crack his skin.

"Thank you," he called hoarsely, the roar of the citizens in the City still loud like storm rains on a tin roof. "You honor my parents and you feed my heart. Thank you!"

One by one, the Court and servants stepped forward, some placing gifts at his feet, others laying more ribbons over the horse's neck, still more simply bowing or curtseying and conveying their grief.

To his great relief, everyone ignored his wife and the two warriors that stood to either side of her.

Once everyone had taken their moment with him, Etan cleared his throat and blinked back the tears that made his eyes ache.

"I and my traveling companions are in need," he said hoarsely. "Please allow us time to wash and change and eat. I will join you for the meal at dinner, and we will remember them together. But until then..." he turned, scanning the crowd until he found the sharp chin and eyes he was looking for. "Quwan, attend me. And will my mother's maids please join us at my quarters? Thank you."

He strode forward, trusting Borsche to bring Ayleth and Falek within him, as the staff he'd named hurried to follow, and the others edged back so the stable boys could take the horses.

It was a well-oiled machine, though they'd never done this before.

He'd never been King.

They'd never had to greet him formally or hurry to assist him when they were grieving.

He was so grateful for them.

As soon as he stepped inside the Palace and the familiar scent of stone and tapestry, candlewax, and lamp oil washed over him, Etan felts his knees wanting to give with relief.

He was home. He was finally home.

If only the cost hadn't been so very, very high.

Ayleth appeared at his elbow as they turned a corner in the grand hall, and he put his hand to her lower back.

"You need to let yourself grieve with them, Etan," she murmured, her eyes deep with concern.

"There's no time. I need to make sure you're safe before I do anything else. And then I need to secure my people. My land. My throne."

She looked irritated, but nodded, squeezing his hand when he withdrew it as Quwan leaned in to murmur in his ear. "Is this the wife that I have heard about?"

Etan nodded, wishing he could smile. "What have you heard?"

"Rumors abound. Some say she is the Zenithran heir. Others that she was from their court. One suggested she is the illegitimate offspring of the King... but all agree, she is the catalyst for this war."

"She is the heir," Etan said. Quwan's brows rose, but Etan didn't stop. "I need your aide immediately. The Queen claims to have placed a spell upon her—using her hair and blood—which would allow the Queen the control to... stop her heart. Even from a distance. Does this spell exist?"

Quwan cursed. "Yes, it is real, though not always successful. But the Queen is a powerful wielder and has those stronger among her teachers."

"Then it wasn't an empty threat," Etan said through his teeth though he hadn't really hoped that it was. "The question is why she is still alive."

"Is she under the protection of the Father of Lights?" Quwan asked carefully.

"No."

The man took a deep breath. "Then it can only be the choice of the Queen herself not to kill her."

Ayleth, overhearing their conversation, made a frustrated noise. "I cannot understand your love for a God that would not protect unless the person is solely surrendered to them. And how would you presume to know my position with this god of yours? I have spoken to him!"

Quwan nodded his salute to Ayleth. "It is an honor to meet you, my Queen," he said without a hint of sarcasm. "But to answer your question, I am skilled in identifying the... gifts of others. You possess power only the Goddess gives. Are you aware of that? Of using it?"

Ayleth's mouth dropped open as Etan looked at her sharply. "You said you never worked with magic

—that, you weren't—"

"I didn't! I'm not! I don't know what he's talking about!"

"He can see that you've touched this... this power that your mother wields—"

"Touched by it, I told you that! I participated, but I have never attempted to wield it myself!"

Etan turned to Quwan, praying that he hadn't been deceived—or worse that Ayleth hadn't somehow been roped into this hellish practice without her own knowledge.

Quwan's eyes burned brightly, but he raised his hands for calm.