Run, Piers!
Piers ran.
CHAPTER FIVE
Meanwhile, in the Magical Realm
Dhugach, the Capital City of the Kingdom of Tirra Neu
Prince Wycke woke alone, clutching at a rapidly fading nighttime vision. The same boy he always dreamed of, with startling eyes and traces of blue in his hair. He always seemed so sad, brightening upon seeing Wycke. Wycke’s heart ached at the pain on the boy’s face.
Then the dream ended.
No servant waited to help Wycke dress, waking him with news of the day. Instead, he bathed and dressed, combing out his hair as best he could on his own.
Why did he dream of this boy? Was there some hidden meaning?
For just a few moments, he hadn’t felt alone.
Nothing much had changed in the seven winters since Wycke left a castle for a palace. Though he didn’t remember much about his time there, things he’d done, he missed the imposing structure of Castle Bertillian. Dark stone towers and spires, taloned fingers jutting high into the sky. Palace Hanaran, his current home, lay flat and sprawling, pink and white marble gleaming in the near-constant sun. The incessant hiss of the sea created a constant background noise. He perched on the window seat of his room, staring out over ceaseless waves.
His small room at Myrgren Castle had contained a child-sized bed, a desk, and a chest for his clothes. Here, he’d filled an entire room with clothes and shoes. Another room contained matching chairs and a fireplace, a place to entertain visitors he never had. He slept in a bedchamber roughly four times the size of his old room, in a bed too big to fit into the tiny space he’d once called his.
He’d traded a cramped room for a spacious prison.
A ship sailed on the horizon. To distant lands? What marvels awaited the sailors in foreign ports? How he’d love to leave this place. Go on adventures. The palace servants called him a prisoner, kept to ensure his brother’s good behavior. By the king’s orders, armed guards followed him whenever he set foot out of the palace.
They even stood outside the privy! Of course, the more they followed, the more inventive ways Wycke found to slip his leash and cause trouble. A frog in the right noble’s chair at dinner or setting mice loose at a ball. He took his fun wherever available, excelling at making those around him cry,“Wicked! Drat the boy!”
He wrapped his arms around his knees. Home. He wanted to go home. To see snow again, gentle flakes of white covering the mountains, crunching under his boots. Kissing his face. Crackling fires in the fireplaces. Here, the heat made him sweat, sticking his clothes to his body. The fireplace in his rooms saw little use.
He remembered fairies, ogres, gargoyles. Once, he’d even spotted a centaur. Few of those lived here. They preferred mountains. Only the occasional elf, fairy, or other small beings appeared in Dhugach. He’d catch the brief flash of a merman or mermaid’s tail if he stared at the sea long enough.
Wycke didn’t miss his brother’s bullying and had rarely seen his father, let alone remembered shared moments. Few memories at all remained of the first four winters of his life.
But he remembered snow. Mountains. Tall spires. He’d seen a dragon once. Or maybe he’d dreamed of a wing-shaped shadow on the ground. Was the boy he dreamed of a half-forgotten friend he’d made at the castle? Wycke shook his head at his silliness. Just a dream. Nothing more.
A pair of fairies flitted by the window, holding hands. The roofs here weren’t high enough to house the gargoyles he’d seen gracing the roofline of his old home. Once, one made a face at him through the window and flew away, giggling.
Home. Where he’d been a prince, second in line to the throne. First now, with his father’s death, unless his brother sired a son he’d not yet heard of.
Not really knowing his father didn’t take away the sense of loss, especially when courtiers constantly referred to his orphan status.
Saris insisted Father’s death meant he reunited with their mother, and their parents were now happy. Reuniting after death? Sounded far-fetched to Wycke, but he’d never doubt Saris out loud.
Did life exist after death? Maybe. Maybe not, though he’d been told his ancestors watched over him, to help him in time of need. If thinking that something good came of Father’s death offered Saris comfort, why dash her hopes?
What had life been like before Mother died? Saris said she’d loved the snow too, piling her children in furs for a sleigh tour of the mountain roads. Then, they’d return home to warm drinks.
Wycke rubbed his hand over the silver cuff on his wrist. Remove the cuff, and he could bring snow, even here, if he but knew how. No. He couldn’t. Too many warnings from Saris.
The door opened without a knock. In strode his least favorite person: his warden, or rather, his governess. “Lying about again, you lazy thing,” she snapped. “If the old king were still here, you wouldn’t be treated as a pampered prince. You and your bitch of a sister ought to be in the dungeon where you belong.”
He never replied to the barbs anymore. Why did she continue? She'd broken out in boils the last time she’d said such a thing. Sometimes, even the cuff couldn’t defeat his magic when Wycke got emotional.
The maid bringing a breakfast tray tittered. How many times had Wycke’s bed gone unmade, or he’d found something foul hidden in the covers? They picked on him because they knew he wouldn’t burden his sister with petty gripes. Who’d believe him if he went to the king?
If only Saris were here.