CHAPTER ONE

The Ill-Fated Prince

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“O’ hazy eye of the blue moon above,” sang the young bard who sat on a rickety wooden stool by the tavern’s lone hearth fire, “bestow me the fortune of lovers and gold~~d…”

Usually, bards wielded all manner of sorcerous illusions to accompany their songs. From conjured fog to colorful lights and even dancing spirits; the master bards of the Atlan Imperium turned every tune into a magical performance—but not him. Not this youthful, purple-haired bard who dared to entertain a gathering of the most dour-looking patrons he had ever encountered with only his voice and lute to woo them.

“And should your red twin fill the night with death and cold,” he strummed his lute with a skill that belied his young years, “keep these troubles far from my weary soul~~l…”

As the bard finished his ballad—one that told the tale of the sisters who straddled Aarde’s night sky—he heard no applause. He wasn’t disheartened though, for the silence permeating the old tavern was telling enough that he’d captivated his audience.

Earlier, before he began his tune, many of the tavern’s patrons—these hardened-looking city folk who’d fallen on tough times—were up in arms against the appointment of their new governor, who, in the two weeks since he’d taken up office, had already managed to cause friction between the northern and central regions of a kingdom that was already on the verge of civil unrest thanks to a decade’s worth of decline and misfortune. No one cared how he’d managed that in so short a time, only that the new governor was, as they all claimed, unworthy.

“Incompetent!” they’d complained.

“Coward!” they’d railed.

“Magicless!” they’d condemned.

They’d huffed and puffed—spewing treasonous ideas into the ether—until the bard who’d been quietly observing the crowd from a shadowy corner chose to step into the limelight to change the mood within the tavern. For personal reasons, he fancied himself a loyalist, but he didn’t want to scold the rabblerousers because he could see things from their point of view. So, instead, the bard chose to serenade them, trusting in the words of a wise man who once claimed; ‘Tis music that soothes even the most savage beast.

Now, finished with his song, the bard rose from his seat, but before he could leave the spotlight, a copper coin flew toward him, carried through the air by a glowing magical hand. The hand deposited the coin into the mug the bard had placed on the dirty floor and then vanished in a puff of colorful smoke.

To use an advanced spell like the Sorcerer’s Hand in such a common way… The bard’s gaze snapped toward a plump wiry-haired woman seated at a nearby table whose eyes glittered with the telltale signs of sorcery at work. Oh, how I envy your talent.

She sent him a flying kiss which he promptly caught with his hand so that he might place it on his lips.

“Much obliged, love,” he said in his best commoner’s drawl.

Two more coins followed, a fourth, and a fifth—enough imperial griffins to buy him a pint of ale.

The bard smiled.

He possessed such a charming smile that the womenfolk in the crowded tavern couldn’t help but swoon, their cheeks flaring crimson as he trained his smile on them. Indeed, even some menfolk blushed at witnessing such a handsome bard glancing their way.

Yes, be charmed by me some more.

He encouraged their admiration because it meant more coins fell into his mug and he enjoyed seeing them prove his point.

I can’t wield sorcery like you all, but I don’t need it to make you love me for a little while.

He did his best not to look smug though. Being on the other end of ridicule his whole life has made him sensitive to smugness.

“Sing us another song,” one patron yelled.

“A lively one this time!” a second patron chimed in.

“Sing about our ill-fated prince!” a third patron added.

Many heads nodded at this last suggestion, though the bard wasn’t one of them. He’d sang for them so they might forget about the prince, yet here they were asking him to join them in their treason. His disappointment was swift to vanish though, replaced by his charming smile.

“Once more for the people, yeah?”

So, he sang another tune, a lively one he’d learned recently from a fellow bard he’d met in the city’s midtown district who claimed she created the song in honor of the Forest Kingdom of Lotharin’s new governor.

“I hear we’ve earned an ill-fated prince…that sounds horrible,” the bard began in jest, and his audience laughed in response. “Though I think Lotharin’ll endure, it’ll be no thanks to him…”

Their merriment grew as he continued to mock Lotharin’s new governor in verse, and though he encouraged them to sing along, in his heart, he grew weary… It wasn’t easy for him to make fun of someone he knew intimately.

“My friends,” he rose from his seat, “you’ve been a delightful audience!”

He began tapping his foot against the floor.

“I hope you continue to be generous with your tips!”

His strumming resumed, wilder, more manic than before.

“Now, come and sing this chorus with me!”

“Quit!” they cried together. “Quit, Ill-Fated Prince, quit~~t!”

Yes, it was a new tune, yet strangely, everyone knew its words.

“Quit, quit, quit, quit, quit~~t…” they chanted.

“Or we’ll throw you out,” the bard strummed the last key, his voice lowering to nearly a whisper, “and leave you lying in filth, you magicless fool~~l…”

This time, his audience cheered.

They stomped their feet on the ground, smashed their fists against wooden tables, and clinked their mugs together, oblivious to the fact that they were celebrating with words that could’ve gotten them hanged if the prince himself had overheard them. Assuming, of course, that the prince was as villainous as they all seemed to think.

‘Ping!’

An otherworldly sound reached the bard’s ears, one only he could hear.

He chose to ignore it, choosing instead to pick up his mug full of griffins. Then, with a wide grin, he raised the mug high and thanked his audience, and they cheered for him.

This is why I prefer coming to Lowtown instead of spending my day in that stuffy bastion. The people here might be shameless, but at least their smiles are genuine.

The sound of coins clinking inside his raggedy purse helped to shoo away some of his ill feelings.

“There’s enough here to get me drunk,” he murmured. Then, as an afterthought, added, “And one last day of playing the fool…”

The bard left his post by the hearth and made his way toward a corner of the tavern. However, before reaching his destination, he felt a hand grope the back of his trousers.

“Here we go again.”

Reforming his charming smile, he turned around but found no randy, middle-aged seamstress ogling him. This ‘grabby hands’ was a man; an unsavory-looking fellow with a greasy face. He wore a stained, padded jacket the bard recognized instantly because this teal-colored gambeson was the new uniform of the city guard who manned the city of Bastille’s parapets and gates.

“Where are you heading off to, pretty lad?” he asked in a slurring speech. “Want some company?”

The guard’s cheeks were red from drinking, his eyes dazed and wandering.

Seeing this evidence of intoxication, the bard’s smile faltered. “Sorry, bruv, but I’m not interested.”

Too drunk to listen, the guard came forward and flashed him a grin of yellowing teeth. “Nights in Bastille can get cold without someone to snuggle with.”

That’s when the bard’s smile vanished, replaced by an exasperated sigh.

It wasn’t the man’s lewdness that annoyed him because he was used to such propositions. Over the years, he’d enchanted many of the high nobles in the Sovereign’s court with his looks, which the Sovereign’s courtiers claimed was his only redeeming quality. In exchange for lewd favors, they offered him things that were enticing for a boy without real power or influence. He declined them all though, the men and women both.

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No, the bard’s hackles rose not because the guard was a vulgar bastard but because he was disloyal to his liege. Surely, he’d done nothing while the tavern patrons sang their rebellious tune. He’d probably sang with them, and loudly too.

You wear the prince’s colors, take your wages from the prince’s coffers, but show no loyalty to your liege… Not that I want people to get arrested, but still…

“Come on,” the guard’s hand reached for the bard, “let’s get better—”

He stopped suddenly, his eyes widening in confusion…for the bard was gone. He’d vanished from sight, transformed into one who lacked the delicateness he’d shown earlier.

“What sort of sorcery—”

“There’s no sorcery here,” interrupted a man whose voice had lost its gentleness, “but one of simple misdirection.”

The purple-haired man who shrugged off his bard’s disguise stopped slouching like he’d been doing since stepping into the tavern. He stood to his full height, his shoulders widening, causing muscles hidden underneath loose-fitting clothes to expand, and revealed himself as a tall muscular youth who towered over the guard.

“Meaning no offense, bruv, but I don’t swing that way, yeah.” The young man placed a hand on the guard’s shoulder and then squeezed. “But, if you’re so insistent on snuggling, I know one or two moves that’ll take your breath away.”

“G-Gah!”

Despite the thickness of his gambeson’s padding, the guard felt growing pressure from the young man’s fingers tightening around his shoulder. Such monstrous strength sobered him quickly.

“I-I’m a guardsman,” he complained, but, still feeling the pressure, he rallied, “a-and I’ve got the ear of the Captain of the Watch!”

One of the young man’s eyebrows hitched upward. “Captain of the Watch…?”

“Y-yeah, that’s right… And the captain, well, he don’t like it when lowly commoners mess with his mates.” With each word, the guard’s confidence grew. It seemed he was used to name-dropping his captain’s name for situations like now. “S-So, you better stop—”

His voice faltered along with his courage.

“You talk as if you aren’t one of us, bruv.”

Eyes the color of molten gold gazed imperiously back at the guard, and for a moment, it felt like he was in the presence of a noble.

“But you stink of Lowtown same as me…”

This was a lie.

The young man enjoyed luxurious baths far too much to smell like the tavern’s patrons.

“Now, I value those who protect our fair city.” He slipped several of his hard-earned griffins into the guard’s pocket. “So, how about I pay for your meal, and we don’t cause a scene, yeah?”

Just in case the guard was too thick-headed to realize he’d been given an out, the young man pressed down on his shoulder, forcing the guard’s legs to buckle so that he fell back into his seat with a harsh thud.

Gazes around the table snapped toward the tall figure, and he, noticing they were all guards too, slapped several more griffins onto their table.

“Next round’s on me, gents.”

The young man placed enough coin on their table for them to send him off with cheers, and, while ‘Grabby Hands’ looked on in confusion, he slipped away before anything else could happen. He moved quickly through the crowd, dodging more unwelcome advances, and finally claimed his seat beside a table in a corner of the tavern that was half-veiled in shadow.

By the other side of this table sat a hooded man who expelled the smoke he’d inhaled from his long pipe, sending a musky aroma into the air that caused the young man’s nose to wrinkle.

“Why do you love cloud weed so much, Ser Anthony?” he asked, his voice changing, losing his practiced commoner’s drawl for the speech of a noble.

“It helps keep the aches and pains of old age at bay, Your Highness,” the hooded man answered in a voice that was barely a whisper.

“And you’re alright with reeking of wet grass and mud?”

“To smell of nature is the privilege of the old.”

“You’re not that old.”

The prince carefully placed his lute on an empty seat before returning to the conversation.

“I heard that cloud weed’s a calming herb.”

“It is.”

A wry grin flashed on the prince’s face. “Then why are you still holding your sword?”

It was true that Ser Anthony’s other hand had been holding tightly onto the sword resting against the tavern’s back wall.

“Stay your hand. The matter’s settled. No need to shed blood here and draw attention to us,” the prince insisted.

The matter is far from settled…” Reluctantly, Ser Anthony let go of his sword. “And you drew attention to yourself first.”

“A bard’s work is a different kind of attention,” the prince reasoned.

This was true, at least for him.

Song and rhyme, and sometimes even dance, were the prince’s coping mechanisms against the scorn often sent his way. They were his escape from the burdens of his ill fate. Fortunately, he wasn’t bad at it. Indeed, he proved a quick study when it came to the performance arts, though the Sovereign might have preferred the prince’s talent lay elsewhere.

“My ears wrung so badly from all their biting commentary that I thought a song might help keep them from calling me names,” he chuckled.

After exhaling another column of smoke, Ser Anthony asked, “And did you succeed?”

The prince glanced over his shoulder and listened in on nearby conversations. He could hear them clear enough, “Ill-Fated Prince this,” and “Ill-Fated Prince that,” though these surly tavern patrons seemed to be in a merrier mood unlike earlier.

“Let’s call it a draw,” he concluded.

Ser Anthony chuckled. “Hearts and minds aren’t won easily with just a song.”

“A magical song might have,” the prince argued.

He’d often heard it said that the master bards of the imperium could turn the hearts of men and beast alike with a performance infused with sorcery. If only he had just a bit of magic inside him, perhaps then…

The prince shook his head. There was no point in wishing the impossible was possible.

“Your singing may not be able to win them over just yet,” Ser Anthony appeased, adding, “though your mad plan just might, Your Highness.”

“Call me Bram. Just Bram.”

“I’ll do no such thing.” Ser Anthony took another long puff of his pipe, and then expelled the smoke while saying, “You’ve been insulted enough today.”

“I’m used to it.”

The contempt of the commoners was nothing new for Bram. He’d lived with contempt for as long as he could remember, and he remembered much. Even the first time he’d opened his eyes on the day his mother gave birth to him. The seventh prince of the Atlan Imperium was special, though not in the way those around him hoped for. Over time, their hopes dwindled, twisting into scorn, until finally, only Ser Anthony remained by his side.

Bram gazed fondly at the old knight who kept on smoking his pipe.

Underneath his hood was a weathered face with short-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair and a thick handlebar mustache. Even seated, the old knight seemed tall, with shoulders nearly as broad as Bram’s.

“They insult you because they don’t know how hard you toil for them.” Again, Ser Anthony reached for his sword, and again, he reluctantly withdrew his hand. “It’s taking all my resolve not to arrest these fools, not out of compassion — I’ve no mercy for those who defame your good name — but because I know your courtiers will find some way to blame you for any incident in the city…”

“The nobles of Bastille like me less than even the commoners do,” Bram chuckled lightly. “It’s as if I’d never left the Sovereign’s court… Only now I have a bigger target on my back and no ally to watch it.”

“You have one ally in this city.”

Bram couldn’t help smiling.

He never said it aloud, but Ser Anthony’s steadfast loyalty was one of the largest reasons he could shrug off the stress of being House Attilan’s ill-fated prince.

The ‘Ill-Fated Prince’…this was the title his older siblings bestowed on Bram after it became clear that he was a child whom the gods had cursed with a body that couldn’t become a vessel for the magical energies permeating Aarde’s western continent of Gaullia. He was magicless in an empire where sorcery was the dominant power, and though not a crime exactly, to be magicless was seen as the harshest of failings among nobles and commoners alike.

Bram hated hearing this moniker spoken aloud and hated it more whenever he thought it himself.

…And yet I sang it easily enough.

“You mentioned my mad plan…and you’re right,” Bram picked up the flagon of ale on his side of the table and breathed in its heady scent. “It is mad — positively insane… If I had more time, maybe, I’d try something else…”

Bram sighed.

“But time is a luxury I don’t have…” His gaze fixed on the frothy brown liquid spilling from his flagon. “I must show results by the beginning of the Conjuring Season, or I’ll lose my one chance to prove my worth…perhaps even my life.”

Ser Anthony knew his prince hadn’t exaggerated. For a royal to fail in their responsibilities, death was a likely consequence.

“Nine months is too short a time to change a kingdom’s fate unless you’re willing to make a risky gamble,” he conceded, “but at what cost?”

“If I can help make Lotharian lives better it would be worth the price.” Bram raised his flagon higher. “Making the failing Kingdom of Lotharin great again…it’ll be the greatest trick that’ll ever be sold — and for that, I’ll need the help of a master trickster.”

Even as he said the words, hope blossomed inside him—the hope that people would stop calling him by his hated moniker one day…that they would find him worthy.

“You’ve grown.”

That, Bram believed, was an understatement.

At seventeen, Atlan’s seventh prince was tall and muscular with wavy pale blonde hair and irises the color of molten gold—the physical traits that proved his bloodline—though he’d recently dyed his hair a dark purple to keep people from recognizing him. Bram’s sun-kissed face was oval, almost delicate, with long lashes complimenting almond-shaped eyes, a long pointy nose, and full lips that were the color of fresh blood.

The prince was said to be the perfect likeness to his mother. It was a fact Ser Anthony reiterated when he said, “How like the Sovereign you’ve become.”

“I’m nothing like her,” Bram laughed. “I have none of her wit, her strength, and possess only an ounce of her charisma…”

Embarrassed, he took a long swig of his flagon—and immediately spat out the strong ale that burned his throat.

“Fuck!” This word felt peculiar on his tongue as if it didn’t belong, at least not to any language known to the Imperium. Still, it was strangely comforting for Bram to bellow this alien curse aloud in times like this one. “What sort of gods-awful piss do they serve here?!”

“It’s called grog,” Ser Anthony answered distractedly.

He was busy wiping drops of spit and grog from his face.

When he was finished cleaning himself, the old knight added, “It’s cheap and packs a punch. The commoners love it.”

“Do they…?” Bram gazed at his flagon with a wary eye. “Grog, it’s a clever name…”

He took a breath, and another, and then, with resolve firm in his heart, Bram took a swig of grog, going so far as to down the whole flagon in one long gulp.

“Bloody hell that tasted terrible.” He breathed hard, trying not to gag, before slamming the empty flagon onto the table. “I’ll have another!”

He downed a second flagon of frothy grog quickly too, though his cheeks grew crimson from the effort. Bram bought a third cup, and when he finished it—slower this time—his head ached so terribly it was as if someone was banging a sword against a shield inside his skull.

‘Ping!’

Something shimmered in the air, though only Bram could see it. He chose to ignore this strange thing a second time for he knew exactly what it was, and he didn’t need it to tell him what he already knew; three flagons of grog were murder to one’s liver.

Ser Anthony eyed him with concern. “Why did you drink so much of it if you don’t enjoy the taste?”

“How could I ever hope to lead the people”—Bram wiped the grog from his mouth with a napkin—“if I can’t even understand them or their tastes.”

He was too busy trying not to puke to notice his knight smiling warmly at him.

“Honestly, though,” Bram rose groggily to his feet, “this is about as much understanding as I can manage…”

Bram’s head swam, and his vision blurred.

“Gods, you’re the only noble I know who gets drunk over a mere three pints of grog,” Ser Anthony teased.

“Not so. My younger siblings have yet to learn the art of drinking.” Bram raised a finger, though it looked to himself like he’d raised three. “And this grog is poison — it’s strong stuff I tell you.”

“It’s diluted with honey water actually.” Ser Anthony laughed. “Shall we stay a bit longer until you’re feeling better?”

“No, no, I’m fine.” Bram took several deep breaths and then dropped the last of the griffins he’d earned onto the table. “Come, Ser Anthony. The hour grows late, and the Loom of Fate is—”

He dove to the side and spilled grog and luncheon all over the floor…and it would be a while before Lotharin’s new governor felt better enough to go on his adventure…

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