He sat up, thought better of it, but persevered. He swung his naked legs over to the floor, wondering where his pants had gone. He scratched his privates, attempting to dig out a couple of biting nits. It was a futile battle. Only a steamy lyeleaf bath would win this war.
With a groan, he stood up and shoved open a shutter above the privy to let in fresh air. The brightness stung, but he suffered it as punishment. It was already hot. The skies were blue, with a few fingers of rosy fire-clouds smearing in from the east. Contrarily, lower down to the west, dark storm clouds stacked at the horizon. They had blown off the seas and towered over the grain fields on the far side of the Tallak River, inevitably heading toward the city.
He pictured the twin sky-rivers that Alchymist Frell had tried to describe to him. The scholar claimed that a hot river coursed over the sky, carrying the fiery heat from Urth’s sun-blasted side over to its frigid half—then returned again in a colder stream that hugged closer to the lands and seas, flowing in the opposite direction, west to east. It was said those twin rivers—forever flowing in two different directions—blessed the lands of the Crown with a livable clime. Hieromonks believed it was due to the twin gods, the fiery Hadyss and the icy giant Madyss, who blew those rivers across the skies, while Frell and his order insisted it was due to some natural bellows of fire and ice. The debates continued across the divide of the ninth tier of Kepenhill.
Kanthe sighed. He could not care less—even when he should. He himself was due to climb to the ninth level in less than a fortnight. Not that he had earned such a lofty position. But he was the king’s son. The Council of Eight could hardly deny him his Ascension.
Until then, he intended to use the last of his midsummer break to enjoy his freedom. Of course, he hardly needed any excuse for such carousing. By now, all knew his reputation. Kanthe had earned his many nicknames, often snickered across a scarred bar while he hunkered in disguise over a tankard: the Sodden Prince, the Tallywag, the Dark Trifle. But the most apt slur was simply the Prince in the Cupboard. He was a prince whose only use in life was to be a spare in case his older twin should die. His lot was to sit on a shelf in case he was ever needed.
He turned and searched for his pants. He found them crumpled in a corner and quickly donned them. He felt no shame in those slanders, having well earned them. In truth, he had purposefully done so. As the younger of the king’s two sons, he would never sit on the throne. So, he played his role well. The more he lowered himself, the higher his twin shone.
It’s the least I can do for you, dear brother Mikaen.
He scowled as he finished dressing, hopping on one foot while he tugged a boot onto the other. Maybe I shouldn’t have tarried so long in our mother’s womb. Instead, Mikaen had shouldered his way out first, squalling his lofty place with his first breath. Destined for the throne, Mikaen had been doted upon and cherished. At seven years, his brother had been sent to the Legionary on the castle grounds. Over the past eight years, Mikaen had been trained in all manner of strategy and weaponry, polishing himself for his role as future king of Azantiia.
On the other hand, Kanthe had been shoved out of Highmount and into the school of Kepenhill. It was not unexpected. The royal families of Azantiia had a long history of twin births, some born with the same face, others with different appearances. Mikaen looked as if he had been sculpted out of pale chalkstone, sharing their father’s countenance, including his curled blond locks and sea-blue eyes. Girls—and many a woman—swooned as he passed, especially as Mikaen’s years at the Legionary had layered his body with hard muscles. Not that any of it went to waste. Many nights, Mikaen practiced a different type of swordsmanship at Highmount’s palacio of pleasure serfs.
Nothing could be further from Kanthe’s life. As a second-born son, he was forbidden to touch a sword. In addition, with the exception of one rushed, embarrassing, flustered attempt, he was all but a virgin. It didn’t help matters that Kepenhill prohibited such pleasures—and Kanthe certainly didn’t stir the desires of women as soundly as his older twin did.
While Mikaen was all brightness and boldness, Kanthe took after their dead mother. His skin was burnished ebonwood, his hair as black as coal, his eyes a stormy gray. His manner was quieter like hers, too. He certainly preferred his own company.
To that end, while he was forbidden to wield a sword, he took up a hunter’s bow instead. His father had even encouraged this pursuit. Over the many centuries of his family’s rule, the Kingdom of Hálendii had carved a foothold across the breadth of the northern Crown. The expansion of their lands had been achieved less with swords and warships and more with plows, wood axes, and scythes. Taming the wilds was as important to securing their territory as fortifying its walls or building castles. Nature was as much an enemy to be conquered as any foreign army.
So, whenever freedom permitted, Kanthe took off into the rolling hills and patchwork forests of the Brau?lands to hunt and hone his skills, both sharpening his aim and heightening his ability to track and stalk. He entertained dreams of one day climbing the cliffs of Landfall to reach the misty forests of Cloudreach—and maybe even up to the jungled highlands of the Shrouds of Dalal??a, where few dared tread and even fewer returned.
But that’s likely never to be.
In fact, of late, such escapes had become harder and harder, especially the higher he climbed up Kepenhill’s tiers. His studies consumed more of his freedom. Because of that, he had grown to resent the school for keeping him trapped in Azantiia. To compensate, he discovered a new distraction. He learned that escape could be readily found at the bottom of a tankard.
It was how he found himself here, beset by lice and his head pounding.
Once dressed, he pulled a threadbare traveling cloak over his thin shoulders and ducked his head under its peaked hood. He headed out the door, down a crooked stair with several loose steps, and into the inn’s common room. A handful of fisherfolk occupied a table closest to the kitchen, ensuring they got the hottest meal.
The innkeep swiped a greasy rag across an oaken bar. “What about a bit of tucker?” he called over to Kanthe. “Got porridge with boiled oxfoot and griddled oatcake.”
Kanthe groaned. “As tempting as that sounds, I think I’ll beg off.” He jangled free his coin purse, pinched loose a silver ha’eyrie, and flipped it through the air. The coin bounced once and landed near the innkeep, who made it vanish with his rag. “For the night, with my thanks.”
“This be more’n enough, lad. Too much even,” the innkeep said with rare honesty.
“Ah.” Kanthe placed a palm on his belly. “But you’ve yet to see the state of the room you lent me.”
This earned a few knowing chuckles from the table of fisherfolk.
“Best imbibe what you can, laddie,” one of them called over, while gnawing on an oxfoot. It appeared more porridge had made it into his beard than down his gullet. “With the lordling’s fancy carousal coming up, Highmount’ll be draining us dry down here in the Nethers.”
Another nodded sagely. “You wait and see. They’ll be rolling all our bestest casks up into their castle.”
“Leaving us swill and dregs,” a third concurred.