Page 2 of The Rebel and the Rose
The start of the Second Coming.
Lightning struck, casting the courtyard in stark silver light. The storm was getting angrier. The prince quickened his steps. Down one flight of stairs and then another, the door at the end of the long hall giving way to the sodden quadrangle. Rain kissed his cheeks and slicked his hair as he jogged across it.
Dimly, he was aware of faces watching him from the windows.
At the north end of the courtyard, the door to the clock tower was swinging on its hinges. A sign from Saint Oriel, great diviner of fate! On the large moon-white clock face, the smaller hand was inching towards midnight. Heart thundering, he took the spiralling stone steps three at a time, winding up towards the bells.
His mind reeled with thoughts of what lay beyond tonight. The possibilities…
Thepower.
The prince’s father – the king’s only brother and once-revered commander of Valterre’s royal army – had long scorned his son’s fanatical interest in the saints. He thought himself cursed with a weak, distractible heir, this boy born for greatness on the battlefield but who had instead lost himself to tattered scrolls and half-forgotten murmurings. A stain on the family crest. A cause for Maud, Saint of Lost Hope.
Ever the contrarian, and a royal princess of neighbouring Urnica in her own right, the prince’s mother had welcomed her son’s academic preoccupations with relief, gladly nudging her only child towards books instead of war. And so, when he’dasked, at sixteen, to go to the Appoline, she had prised open the royal coffers and made it so.
His father couldn’t wait to get rid of him, of course.
Many years had passed since the day they’d bid farewell on the steps of the Appoline. The prince had not seen his father since, learned only of his exploits in the missives that came regularly from his mother. And then of his death on the battlefield in the Sunday penny papers.
Good riddance.
Panting now, he reached the top of the clock tower. The narrow door there was unbolted – for what scholar in their right mind would think to climb out in a storm, or indeed at all?
The prince stepped onto the narrow walkway. The clock face crowned him like a halo as he looked west towards the Aurore Tower. It flickered like a candle in the night.
Overhead, lightning forked.
Using the metal hands as footholds, the prince climbed up the clock face.
Shouts reached him from below.
Andreas, you fool, come down from there!
Andreas, you’ll fall!
The prince has finally lost his mind!
Andreas! Andreas!
Scholars were gathering on the green of the courtyard. Andreas kept his eyes on the sky, climbing hand over hand and foot over foot until he heaved himself onto the steepled roof of the clock tower. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed the Aurore exploding into a golden blaze. It was brighter than it had been a moment ago – brighter than he had ever seen it.
Magic.
Magic sung in the rising wind.
He stood on trembling legs, planting a foot on either side of the sloping roof.
Below him, echoes of his name gathered in a shrieking chorus.
Andreas!
Andreas!
Andreas!
The sky lit up, a fork of lightning shearing the clouds in two. The prince flung his hands up, reaching for the storm.
‘ORIEL, BLESS ME!’ he roared as loud as the thunder. ‘I GIVE MYSELF TO YOU!’
