With a final look around, he allowed his heart to stop pounding, feeling certain he had escaped the thieves. As he continued, he dodged his way upward through the growing throngs. Wagons and carts—the ever-flowing blood of the city—plied streets and alleyways, pulled by ponies or dehorned oxen.
A shout burst behind him, accompanied by the snap of a whip. “Aye! Out the way with ya!”
Kanthe ducked aside as a huge wagon laden with wine casks, doubly stacked, headed toward the glare of Silvergate, the towering ornate doors into Highmount. He watched the horses rush past him and remembered the fisherfolk’s words at the Point’d Blade.
Seems those men had been right to be concerned about their future drinks.
Kanthe also noted how these upper streets were festooned with hundreds of flags, adorned with the sigil of the House of Massif: a dark crown set against the six points of a golden sun. In fact, the walls of Highmount had been patterned after that sun on the sigil, constructed when his family’s house had assumed the throne four hundred and sixteen years ago.
Long may we rule, he thought sourly. Not that I ever will—or even want to.
Still, a twinge of loss pained him. When he was much younger, he would often return heartsick to his rooms at Highmount. It was the only home he had ever known. He and Mikaen had once been inseparable, the best of friends as only twins can be. But even such bonds could not withstand the destinies that pulled them in opposite directions.
Over time, Kanthe’s visits grew less and less.
Which certainly suited their father.
As the king’s pride in his bright son grew, his tolerance for his darker son lessened. Cold-shouldered rebuffs became fiery affronts or accusations. And maybe that was part of the reason Kanthe had found himself at the Point’d Blade, with his head aching and his stomach churning. Maybe it was to validate his father’s disdain of him.
To spare them both, Kanthe had learned to avoid Highmount. But in eight days, he would have to pass through Silvergate once more.
A fierce gust blew through the streets, pushed by the approaching storm. Flags snapped overhead. A few were now emblazoned with the horned head of an ox, marking the House of Carcassa, who secured their wealth from a hundred ranchholds throughout the Brau?lands and the Aglerolarpok territories. While wagons might be the blood of the city, Carcassa put the meat on the bones of all these lands.
He scowled at the bright flags of the two houses. With each snap of cloth, they signaled that Kanthe’s days as the Prince in the Cupboard were coming to an end.
A week ago, his brother had made the surprising announcement of his betrothal to Lady Myella of the noble House of Carcassa. They were due to marry in eight days. Supposedly the quick date had been picked to match when Mikaen had been born, marking the prince’s seventeenth birthyear. Though whispers—like those in the tavern—wondered if such a hasty marriage might have another explanation, that perhaps Lady Myella was already with child. Of course, to speak such a rumor aloud risked getting one’s tongue cut out.
Either way, it seemed Mikaen’s march to the throne—with maybe a new heir apparent on his way—was assured. From here on out, Kanthe’s role in life was at best counsel to the king. It was why he had been sent to Kepenhill, to be properly schooled for his future position on the king’s council. And he should be grateful for the opportunity. From his historical studies at school, he knew many royal twins were not granted such a boon. Often cupboard-born princes found themselves shoved off their shelf, with a dagger in their side as a parting gift, lest there be any question of lineage that could bolster a future insurrection.
Though no one seemed to place such ambitions upon Kanthe.
Just as well.
He turned off Silverstreet and headed south, where a tall mound had been carved and sculpted into the ancient school of Kepenhill. Its nine tiers climbed to the height of Highmount’s walls, with the ninth peering over its top. Twin pyres burned at the school’s summit, ever smoking with incense and alchymies, beckoning him back to his home in exile.
Resigned to his role, he headed back to school. Upon reaching Kepenhill, he hurried through the school gate and began the long climb to the eighth tier. He kept rooms at that level—or, at least, for another twelve days—then he would advance to the ninth and last tier of the school.
But what after that?
He shook his head, deciding to leave such mysteries to another day—when hopefully his skull did not feel like it was about to break at the seams.
By the time he reached the eighth tier, he had sweated away the worst of his carousing. Even his sour stomach growled demandingly. He considered skipping past his rooms and going to the commons to see if he might grab a bit of cold larder, but he thought better of it, remembering the state of the room at the inn.
Best not risk fouling another bed.
He ducked out of the sun and into the eighthyear dormitory hall. His rooms dwarfed most of his fellow students’ austere cells. His bedchamber’s window faced Highmount, as if taunting him in his exile. Upon arriving at this level, he had shuttered that window and never opened it again.
Finally, he reached his door and found a sealed scroll tacked to its frame.
He sighed, wondering what trouble plagued him now. He snatched the parchment from the door, ripping it slightly. Out of habit, he made sure the blood-red wax seal was intact. In the hall’s torchlight, he recognized the sigil—a book bound in chains—hinting at the forbidden knowledge locked in the ancient tome.
The symbol of Kepenhill.
The knot of tension between his shoulders relaxed. Better this than the sigil of a dark crown against a golden sun. Any word from Highmount was bound to be bad for him.
He broke the seal and unrolled the scroll. He recognized the tidy hand of Alchymist Frell. The man had been his tutor and mentor since he had first entered Kepenhill. For such an esteemed scholar, it had to be a frustrating and—more often than not—fruitless task. Still, Frell persevered with a bottomless well of patience.
Or maybe it was pity.
Holding the scroll closer to a torch, he read what was written there.
Prince Kanthe ry Massif,
There be a matter of some import that I wish to address in confidence. If you would be so kind to join me in my private scholarium at your earliest convenience. It is a subject of some urgency and requiring an equal measure of discretion. Alas, I believe the resolution thereof will require a man of your status and circumspection.
Kanthe groaned, picturing the soothing lyeleaf bath he had been dreaming of during the long climb here. It would have to be put off. While the note’s wording was genteel and one of invitation, he had no trouble gleaning the order written therein. As one of the school’s Council of Eight, Frell was not to be ignored. Even worse, the summons had been posted yesterday—well after Kanthe had already started his slow slide down to a lice-ridden bed in the Nethers.
He crumpled up the parchment and turned his back on the door. He wondered what this summons could possibly be about. But from experience, he could guess the answer.
Nothing but trouble for me.
12
KANTHE STOOD AT an ironwood door branded with the sigil of Kepenhill. The only additional adornment to the mark was a silver mortar and pestle, representing the alchymists. Across the eighth tier was another locked door with a similar symbol, only its book bore a gold star, representing the hieromonks.