Page 3 of The Crownless Prince

Of course, there was no one there to see or care. Except for Edwin, who wouldn’t judge him…much. Edwin sat across the table from him, eating his oatmeal and reading the same romance epic for at least the tenth time. His lengthy red-blond hair was already brushed and the top half neatly braided along the sides of his head and tied together at the back. Fastidious as ever, even though no one would see him, either.

Unless their monthly delivery of supplies arrived. It was late, again. That made four in a row. After the second time, they’d learned to ration the food, firewood, and water more carefully. Last time had been an entire two weeks late, and the supplies delivered had been less than usual and of lower quality. The servant and single accompanying guard had appeared skittish and worried. Of course, they wouldn’t answer any of their questions. Everyone was, after all, under strict orders not to tell them anything of the world outside their prison.

Today would mark twelve days late for that month’s delivery. Things were looking grim. They were down to one large wineskin of water and enough firewood for a few days at most—if they kept small fires going only when they were in the room, as they had been doing.

“Do you think he’s forgotten about me?” Marcus asked, breaking the silence.

It was a question that had plagued him these past months, as the quality and frequency of their supplies declined, but one that, until then, he hadn’t had the courage to voice.

Edwin looked up from his leather-bound book, but he didn’t answer.

“My father,” Marcus clarified. “Do you think he’s forgetting about me, and keeps remembering too late to send the supplies, and one of these months, he’ll forget entirely, and we’ll starve?”

His mouth tightening, Edwin slipped a ribbon into the book and set it aside. “Truthfully? I’ve begun to wonder the same.”

Some part of Marcus had hoped Edwin would offer reassurance, but that honesty was part of why Edwin was not only his servant but also his friend. Although, after almost four years stuck in the tower, Edwin was more like a brother.

“Or…” There was another possibility, one Marcus scarcely dared utter. “What if he finally got his war? And…he’s losing?”

Edwin’s solemn nod proclaimed he’d already arrived at the same possibility. “It would explain why the number of guards escorting the food dropped from four to one and why the condition and amount of food have fallen. Nothing more can be spared.”

“And my father and brothers would have more pressing concerns than whether I starve.” Marcus halfheartedly stirred the lumpy mash of oats before abandoning his spoon. Even if the food hadn’t been awful, he no longer had an appetite.

“At least being locked up here means you haven’t been called on to fight a war you never wanted to happen.”

“A small consolation when neighbors might be dying on each other’s swords right this moment for no reason other than the vanity of princes.” He clenched his teeth and turned his attention to a barred window and the oppressive gray of the sky above the pines lining the edges of the valley.

A lesser gryphon flew over the treetops, too far away to make out what kind. Perhaps a hawk and bobcat variety. A few specks of white drifted into the valley, teasing the possibility of the first snowfall of theseason. If Prince Arlius had gone to war, hopefully the fighting would end before winter began in earnest. A winter war would cause even more suffering…

No, it would be best if it was simply that his father had forgotten him. He didn’t want to imagine how a war between the three regnant princes was harming the people of Aedyllan. Didn’t want to wonder whether Adriana was spending her days waiting to hear if her father and brother had been killed in a battle for the kingship, as she’d always feared. He didn’t like to worry whether the other kingdoms in Miraveld were watching Aedyllan tear itself apart and waiting to snatch up the pieces.

He’d once asked his father if fighting the other princes would make Aedyllan more susceptible to conquest, but his father dismissed the idea. Eynlae was too busy feuding with Rethalyon, Talland mostly kept to itself, and Kilkreth’s current queen was focused on infrastructure. Marcus had begrudging admitted his father had a point, but that didn’t mean war was a constructive proposition.

Sighing, he turned back to Edwin. “Either way, whether my father is busy with a war or he simply no longer cares, I’ll make another attempt to escape before I lie down and die.”

The words tasted hollow. There was no chance of escape.

Despite the fae spell placed on the tower, in that first month, they’d still attempted to break out, but the tower was impenetrable. The bars in the windows would not break or bend. The mortar between the stones could not be broken. The floorboards refused to budge to allow them to tunnel out, and attempting to break down the door was likefighting the side of a mountain.

“I’d expect nothing less of you.” Edwin downed the last of his oatmeal, his expression serene, as if the coarse, bland food didn’t bother him. “Practice sword bout after breakfast?”

Saying no and spending the day in listless sorrow was tempting but would ultimately make him more miserable—almost certainly why Edwin had suggested a bout. He probably wouldn’t take no for an answer, anyway. “Sure. How about a wrestling match to warm up?”

“I maintain that is not a normal way to warm up, but at least I usually beat you at wrestling, so, agreed.”

As Edwin was a little bulkier, he was the better wrestler. His muscle-building regimen of exercises—and his novel-reading—kept him sane, while Marcus was more likely to run up and down the tower stairs to work out his excess energy. But Marcus had taught Edwin swordplay, and even with his extra lessons from the captain of the guard after he became Marcus’s bodyguard, Edwin had never surpassed his first teacher.

A hollow boast for a confined prince who might never have occasion to put his swordsmanship to the test. Although he’d rather a practice fight with his friend in this forsaken tower than a blood-soaked blade on a battlefield strewn with the bodies of his own people.

“Ready now?”

Edwin eyed Marcus’s half-eaten oats. “Finished already?”

“Oh, come on. It tastes like slush.”

“Eating much muddy snow, are you? That seems unsanitary. Besides, there might not be more for a while.” The corner of his mouthtwitched. “Oats or slush, seeing as it has yet to snow.”

The idea of throwing his oatmeal-covered spoon at Edwin momentarily enticed Marcus, but then they’d have to clean up the mess and Edwin would insist on doing it and make him feel terrible, so he refrained.

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