The Errant Prince (2 page)

He didn't even know why Tamsen had left the palace in the first place, and Myron was regretting not asking that question before he left. Tamsen had been gone for seven years, but seven years ago Myron had had much more important things to worry about than a prince who had run away from his responsibilities. There were rumors, of course, but Myron didn't give much stock to gossip, particularly court gossip.

The back door to the cottage opened, but Myron stayed where he was as Tamsen exited. He let Tamsen come to him, noting that Tamsen had braided his hair back neatly but made no other attempts to clean up his appearance for Myron's visit. He either wasn't as vain as most nobles were, or he didn't think Myron worth the effort.

"Why are you still here?" Tamsen demanded, coming to a stop a few steps from where Myron was sitting. He glowered at Myron, looking as though he'd love to turn Myron into a toad or something suitably small and squishy.

"I'm supposed to escort you to Rishaw, your highness," Myron said. He didn't smile, though he wanted to because he knew it would rile Tamsen further. That wasn't going to get him anywhere, though, so Myron kept his expression impassive.

"I'm not going," Tamsen said, his tone implying the 'and you can't make me.'

"I'm not going without you." Myron shrugged as though it didn't matter to him. The timing of it certainly didn't matter; he hadn't been given a deadline on this assignment, so he had time to convince Tamsen. His orders were simply to find Tamsen and escort him back to the palace, no matter what it took. If it took time, well, so be it.

Tamsen snorted, turning on his heel and stalking away. "Enjoy the rain," he called over his shoulder.

Myron looked up, unsurprised that Tamsen's parting shot was likely true. There was a dark bank of clouds coming in from the east, and it would reach them before the night was through. Tamsen was checking over his garden, and Myron made a face at his back. He briefly contemplated going to the little village nearby but decided against it. That would give Tamsen too much of a chance to slip away unseen, and Myron wasn't going to chance that.

He was banking on Tamsen not sneaking away in the night, which was a gamble. That was how the men who'd found him in the past had lost him again; Tamsen had snuck away, casting some spell or simply slipping away in a busy city. If Myron could get through the night without Tamsen disappearing, that would be a good first step.

Tamsen gave him a last dark look from across the garden before disappearing back into his cottage. Myron resumed his watchful silence, keeping an eye on the cottage and the approaching rain clouds and trying not to think of how long he was likely to be camping outside.

*~*~*

True to Tamsen's prediction, it rained. Myron was sheltered by the tree from some of it, and a poorly cast barrier spell kept most of the rest of it from soaking him. Barriers weren't his best spells, however, so he still got wet. Nothing stopped the ground from soaking up the rain that fell around him, either, which quickly made for uncomfortable sitting arrangements.

The temperature dropped over the course of the night, so that by the time the rain tapered off around dawn, Myron was cold, damp, and tired from a night of shoddy sleep. There was still smoke billowing from the chimney of Tamsen's cottage, so Myron was hopeful that Tamsen hadn't snuck off in the night. It could certainly be a ruse, but Myron wasn't going to press his luck by pounding on Tamsen's door at the crack of dawn, no matter how satisfying that sounded. He was aiming to
not
piss Tamsen off.

Dissolving the barrier, Myron watched its energy dance and spark along his fingers before sinking into his skin with a sharp tingle. The tree immediately dripped on him for his trouble, and Myron wrinkled his nose up at it in annoyance.

Climbing slowly, stiffly, to his feet, Myron shucked his traveling cloak. He hung it over a low-hanging branch of the tree, spreading it out so that the damp would hopefully dry out of it. The clouds looked lighter than they had the previous night, so with any luck Myron would have a reprieve from getting rained on.

Myron stretched his arms out, shaking out the worst of the aches from sleeping sitting up beneath a tree. That segued nicely into a round of exercises with his sword; he'd not had time to do much of that the past few weeks, given how much he'd been traveling.

He was halfway through the set when he realized he had an audience. Tamsen was leaning against the doorframe of the back door of the cottage, watching Myron without a hint of emotion on his face. Myron turned to face Tamsen in a smooth continuation of the move he'd been executing.

"Can I help you, your highness?" Myron asked, lowering his sword. He mopped at the sweat collecting on his brow with his sleeve. Was he imagining it, or did Tamsen's cheeks turn red?

"You could leave," Tamsen said, though he sounded less angry than he had the previous day. He sounded much crankier, like Myron was a minor inconvenience instead of a target for wrath.

"So you're ready to go, then?" Myron asked, playing willfully stupid for all he was worth.

Tamsen threw up his hands and disappeared back into the cottage, so that was a resounding no. Not that Myron had expected anything different. He turned away from the cottage, resuming his exercises. When he finished, Tamsen had returned. He was wearing clothing that was slightly nicer than the previous day's but was still in no way fit for a prince. His hair was neatly braided again, the tail of it draped over one shoulder to stop just above his heart.

"There's a well over there," Tamsen said, sounding grudging as he imparted that information. He gestured to the right, off where Myron hadn't quite reached in his explorations the previous day. "Bring a fresh bucket when you're done cleaning up." He didn't wait for Myron to agree before going back inside without another word.

Myron smiled wryly. Tamsen certainly issued orders like a prince—with no manners and every expectation they'd be carried out. Heading back over to his tree, Myron fetched fresher clothes from his pack and then went in search of the well.

He cleaned up quickly but lingered near the well, in no hurry to return to Tamsen's crankiness. Myron still had no idea how to attack the problem of convincing Tamsen to return to Rishaw. There was only so much stalling he could do, however, and eventually Myron hauled a bucket of water around the back of the cottage. Tamsen was nowhere in sight, but the back door was standing open. Myron headed for it, stopping outside to knock politely.

Tamsen gestured him inside impatiently, apparently willing to overlook Myron's purpose for being there in the face of free labor.

"Put it there." Tamsen directed him to the mostly-empty end of the counter near the door. "Don't touch anything."

Myron stepped inside, the faint wash of magic sliding over his skin. A simple, weak spell, though Myron couldn't figure out what it was for. It was slightly warmer inside, though, so perhaps something to keep the heat in? Blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light inside the cottage, Myron didn't miss the way Tamsen's eyes traveled the length of his body.

That was interesting. Myron doubted anything would come of it, but it was flattering nonetheless.

He set the bucket where Tamsen had directed, glancing around the cottage curiously. It was bigger than it looked from the outside. The front of the house was mostly given over to the bookcases that Myron had seen through his construct's eyes. There was a small bed in the left corner piled high with blankets. The back half of the room, where he and Tamsen were, was the kitchen and dining area, though Tamsen obviously did more work than dining at the little table. It was covered in books and papers but mostly plants, which were probably the source of the strong, sharp herbal scent in the air.

The bundles of herbs hanging from the ceiling only added to the smell, and Myron was surprised it wasn't stronger, overwhelming. It was a cozy little space, well-lived, and again, completely the opposite of what Myron expected from a coddled prince.

"What is a soldier of the King's Guard doing knowing magic?" Tamsen asked. He was fixing something together in a pot on the counter. A soup or stew of some sort by the looks of it. "What's your name, anyway?"

"Myron, your highness," Myron supplied. He stayed where he was, standing by the door, though he itched to do something. He'd never done well with being interrogated.

"And your magic?" Tamsen asked, giving him a pointed look. He picked up the pot and crossed the room to the fireplace. The fire was green instead of the previous day's blue, and Myron noted curiously that it burned without any source of fuel. It was obviously magic, given the color, but he'd never seen fire that didn't also need wood or something to feed on.

"I dally in magic," Myron said. That was true enough and didn't go into any of the details of his past.

"Creating a construct you can spy with isn't dallying," Tamsen said. He set the pot on a hook by the fire and swung it in close to the flames. He straightened, turning to scowl at Myron. "If Stirling thinks you can trick me back magically—"

"I don't think that was his intent," Myron said, cutting Tamsen off despite the rudeness of it. "I'm not the only one he sent, and most of the rest of my regiment are regular soldiers. No magic to them." He didn't bother to mention that the king had also sent out a regiment of King's Wizards to track Tamsen down.

Tamsen muttered something under his breath and stomped across the room to where Myron still stood by the open door. "So how are you going to get me back, then? By sword, not magic?"

Myron met Tamsen's gaze unflinchingly, wondering if Tamsen did anything other than throw fits left and right. Despite the surroundings, Tamsen was
acting
like a brat prince. "His majesty's orders were to find you and escort you back to the palace. There was no mention of
making
you return by force, magic or otherwise."

Tamsen stared at him, eyes narrowed as he studied Myron. Likely trying to figure out if Myron was lying. Myron wasn't, and he stared back, noting that Tamsen had faint freckles covering his cheeks and nose. "So your plan is to stay here until I agree to return to Rishaw with you?"

"Those are my king's orders," Myron said. He was stretching the truth a little… but it wasn't as though he was capable of forcing Tamsen to return, and if he left for reinforcements, Tamsen would be long gone by the time he returned.

"I'm not going back," Tamsen said. He looked away, breaking his intent stare, and for a brief moment, he looked incredibly sad. Then the expression was gone, and Tamsen moved to fetch a cup from the shelf above the washbasin.

"I suppose I'll be here awhile then," Myron said. He watched Tamsen as he headed over to the table. There was a teapot nestled among the plants and books and another cup perched on top of a stack of books.

Tamsen waved him over, and Myron went, curious as to what Tamsen was planning. Had he convinced Tamsen he was relatively harmless? That would be a good start to eventually convincing Tamsen to return with him to Rishaw.

"How does anyone of your magical strength end up in the King's Guard instead of the Tower or the King's Wizards?" Tamsen asked. The Tower was the training grounds and base for the scholarly side of the King's Wizards. Under different circumstances, Myron would have spent the rest of his life there. Tamsen poured a cup of tea and pressed it into Myron's hands when he got close enough. 

Myron shrugged, taking a cautious sip of the tea. It tasted like dirt and grass, and Myron thought longingly of the strong, rich flavors of the coffee he indulged in whenever he was in Rishaw. It wouldn't do to be rude, however, and Myron took another swallow of the noxious tea to be polite.

Tamsen scowled at him, apparently displeased by that answer. "Where did you learn?"

"Books and practice," Myron replied. That was mostly true. "Mostly whatever took my fancy, like constructs." He might have wanted to learn more, to learn magic normally, but after he'd defied his parents so thoroughly… well, there had been no going back.

Tamsen's scowl softened into a puzzled frown. "You have the skill. Why weren't you tapped for the Tower? All wizards as strong as you are."

Myron stalled, taking another sip of the dirt-and-grass tea. "I'll make you a deal, your highness. If you tell me why you ran away from the palace, I'll tell you why I didn't learn magic properly."

"You could have said you didn't want to tell me," Tamsen said. His expression hardened, and he jabbed a finger at Myron. "And stop calling me highness. I'm not a prince any longer."

"His majesty seemed fairly certain of your station," Myron said dryly.

Tamsen didn't reply to that, frowning down at the top of his table. He seemed more troubled by that than Myron would have thought, but Myron didn't know the first thing about Tamsen's history, so he couldn't even begin to guess what Tamsen was thinking. "How many more of you will be showing up here?"

"There's only one of me," Myron said, cracking a grin. He barely refrained from adding 'highness' and was amused when Tamsen rolled his eyes.

"How many of the King's Guard did Stirling send after me—and don't pretend you didn't know I was asking that," Tamsen said, unamused at Myron's attempt at levity.

"Two dozen," Myron said. Would it hurt or help to reveal that he doubted anyone else was close to finding Tamsen? "I believe most of them went south, though, so you have the chance to off me and move on before anyone else catches onto your actual whereabouts."

"That had better be a very poor attempt at a joke," Tamsen said. He eyed Myron, looking as if he doubted Myron's sanity. Or he was debating the quickest way to kill him.

"I have a terrible sense of humor, your highness. I apologize for inflicting it upon you," Myron said. He kept his face expressionless, even though he wanted to grin at Tamsen. He shouldn't speak so freely with a prince, but Myron doubted he'd make any progress with Tamsen by playing obedient and polite.

"Tamsen," Tamsen said, his cheeks going faintly red for no reason that Myron could discern. He pointed to the empty chair at the table and ordered, "Sit."