I fall backward, tripping over a book, and land on my back. “You,” I say in shock and spastically get to my feet. I put my hand to my side and pull out my sword. But it’s not there. I’m disguised, and workers don’t carry swords.

“Now don’t get excited,” the assassin says, and walks over to me. I put my hands up to fight him but all he does is give me a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “More people will learn. And with your little speech, Prince Millar himself might have even heard about how people’s minds are changing. Sit down, have another drink.” He walks over and sits down on his stool again, taking another sip of his spirit.

He doesn’t recognize me. The clothes and the grease make me look so different that even he and my brother don’t recognize me.

“That grease on your face can’t be comfortable. Do you want a towel?” he asks.

Still standing speechless, I can only say, “No, thank you.”

“Sit down already,” he says after an awkward pause. I do, and take a reassuring sip from the spirit. It tastes a little less fiery now. Not good, but it doesn’t burn my tongue. “So tell me, why did you do it? Other than the fact that it needed to be said.”

“I, well,” I begin, “I wanted to stop the war with Nardor. And I figured that even if the prince decided to stop it, the only way to prevent it from ever happening again would be to make the people not want it.”

“The peoples’ power is greater than their rulers’,” the man says, and laughs. “Yes, that’s true.”

“But, I guess the people weren’t ready for what I had to say.” I take another sip. The burning in my stomach begins to mellow and give me a more relaxed mood.

“Maybe so, maybe so.” The man raps his fist on the table. “But maybe they were, and the message was just delivered incorrectly.”

“I saw a woman put her baby down just to raise her fists at me,” I say with a laugh. “I don’t think they liked the message.”

The man shakes his head and grunts. “If I tell a man that his wife is dying, he might strike me just for saying it. If I tell him his wife loves him, and that her last wish is that he be happy all his days till they’re together again in death, then he’ll most likely weep and want to go to his wife and leave me be. The message is the same; the method is different.”

“Is that why you wrote that book?”

“I never was much with words in front of a crowd. That’s why I wrote the book. But there was one thing I did that could have been disastrous.”

I take a sip. “What’s that?”

“I was going to kill Prince Millar.”

I cough into my mug and try to pretend it’s the spirit at work again.

“Let it go down on its own, don’t fight it,” the old man says.

I wipe my lips and stop coughing.

“That’s better. And try not to waste any more that’s my good stuff,” the old man says.

“Sorry,” I say.

“No big deal. I love Nardor, you see. I was a soldier back when the king’s father invaded past the mountains further into Nardor. I hated the Nardorish then, as all good Grundarins are supposed to. Long story short, I fell in love with a Nardorish woman and tried to live there. Neither of us found any happiness, Nardorish hating me and Grundarins hating her. We separated to save our lives after thirty years of marriage when Prince Millar announced his invasion.”

It was my father’s idea to attack Brill, but I did encourage it.

“And I came back to try and stop the war, hoping to return to my wife after,” the old man explains.

“And you thought that killing Prince Millar would stop the invasion,” I say, feeling terrible.

“That I did, that I did.” The old man takes another drink. “I wanted the over-proud fool dead.” He pounds his fist on the table, shaking the glass bottle till it wobbles and finally settles. “I had it all planned out, too. He’d be open and vulnerable, this one day when he would ride through Victory Square, and wouldn’t look to the Monument since no one can for long. I’d stand there, and as long as I could keep my feet, he was as good as dead. But then someone told me something.” He takes another drink, finishing off his glass. “Miss.”

He missed… on purpose? I suddenly realize that I owe my life to this man, and I grip the mug tightly, waiting to hear what he has to say.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

“It was an old man, much older than I, though I look more aged than I am,” the would-be assassin says. He laughs, and drinks. “I’m only fifty-one, can you believe it? Had a gray beard and all with a funny walk, this guy. He was the one who told me the dying woman metaphor, and that killing the prince would only make Grundar want to hurt the Nardorish more. He said that if I missed, I would influence the prince. I wanted immediate results, and this man told me that I had to be patient.”

He pours us another drink.

I shoot up out of my chair. “Eelian,” I say breathlessly.

“Yes, yes that was his name,” the man says, and noisily slides his mug over towards his side of the table. “He’s a crazy one, if you ask me. I don’t even know if he was right. The war’s still on and I’ve lost my chance at killing that war-hungry prince.” He shakes his head, then looks at me curiously. “How do you know him?”

I lick my lips and take a deep breath, wide-eyed with hope. “I’m, I’m the prince. I’m Prince Millar Grundarin,” I say. “I’m the one you wanted to influence and the man you chose not to kill.” I smile.

The man takes a slow drink and looks at me with sudden recognition. Pausing to look at the drink, he quickly stands and rushes at me with a shout, breaking the mug on the floor with a shatter.

I jump out of the way and he turns and punches. Not wanting to hurt the man, I let the punch connect and back away with a split lip. The man pulls out a knife and lunges at me with a thrust to my stomach. I dodge and grab the knife out of his hand. Insanely, the man grabs the bottle of spirit off the table and raises it to smash over my head. I drop the knife and put my hands up to stop him.

He has both hands on the bottle and pushes at my outstretched arm with a ferocity I’ve never seen in a man who looks so old. “You said so yourself,” I say, pushing against him. “This is your good stuff. Don’t break it.” I maneuver my hands to free the bottle from his grasp.

Desperately, he kicks and tries to bring the bottle down. I dodge and keep holding on.

“I have to stop you! This war is wrong!” he says.

“I want to stop it! But I can’t!” I say.

“Why? End the killing! You have the power!”

“I can’t just stop it. The people have to decide, and, and…” I say, and pull the bottle free. With the release, the man falls down and lands on the floor with a flump and a cringe of pain. “And I don’t know if peace is the answer.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, panting on his hands and knees in the spilled spirit.

“What’s your name?” I gently set the bottle back on the table.

“What do you mean?”

“What’s your name?”

“Haskins. Robert Haskins,” Mr. Haskins says.

“Well, Mr. Haskins, I want you to know that I’m the prince and the same person who gave that speech on the square. I don’t want this war, but you have to listen to me for a second. Will you be civil?” I ask.

Taking a few seconds to think, Haskins nods.

“Good,” I say, and put my hand out and help Haskins back to his stool.

“How can peace not be the answer?” he asks, slowly settling.

“It was in my speech. I was about to say what the better purpose in life is.” I get a new mug out of Haskins’s cabinet.

Haskins takes a drink as well. “You were doing well until then.”

“I know, but I couldn’t say what I wanted to. I wanted to say that peace was the higher purpose. But is it?”

“Of course.” Haskins grunts. “What else could it be?”

I shake my head. “It’s not war, but it can’t be peace, either. Because once you get peace, what then? Do you keep trying to find peace? Do you make more war so you can achieve peace again? How do you define peace? Is it just the absence of war?” I ask, spouting off these questions as in a mindless rant.

“You’re overcomplicating something very simple,” Haskins says.

This time I pound my fist. “Life isn’t simple,” I shout and stand up, frustrated. I pace around the room, throwing up my hands as I let out all my frustration at this screwed-up existence. “Life isn’t black and white. Life is complicated. To say that the meaning of life is one thing, peace or war, is inherently flawed. You’re just running toward a brick wall either way. Eventually you’ll crash and then where will you be? You’ll revert to whatever path you weren’t following just because it’s the only path left. I can’t bring myself to say that my purpose is one solid thing. I don’t want to follow one-way streets! I want to know the answer, but I have no idea how to find it.”

“You’re searching for the meaning of life?” Haskins asks.

“I’m searching for something more than peace or war! I’m searching for a way to lead a fulfilling existence without making others suffer and without going toward a dead end.”

I pant with exhaustion from all that I’ve done today. I’ve said too much and seen too much to be able to keep a logical thought going. I sit down again, putting my hands palm upward on the table. I let myself go and let my head fall with a crunch onto the round table. “I’m so lost I don’t know what to do,” I say into the wood.

Haskins pours another drink. “Will you stop the war,” he asks as he fills my mug.

“I want to.” I slowly lift my head and rub the red spot on my forehead. “But I want the people to want to.”

Haskins takes a drink. “It seems we’re both searching. I’m searching for peace while you’re searching for meaning. But can’t peace, temporary even, be a meaning?”

“Yes, but—”

Haskins interrupts me and says, “No buts. Listen, you’re searching for something that you’ll never find. You talk about peace as if it’s easily attainable but it’s not. Don’t bother about meaning and life, just try to make it so that people don’t get killed. Once you do that, then think about existence. Right now, there are more important things to take care of.”

I sit up and take a sip from my mug, staring into the face of my would-be assassin. As the burning comes back to my stomach, I suddenly wonder if this conversation ever occurred with the leaders of the Prophets. Cory’s efforts of peace led to death. Their unification of planets was through killing, and led to distrust with them. So why do they keep doing it? Are they clinging to that idea just so they can have an idea to cling to? With all their power, can’t they find a meaning to life?

The door downstairs bursts open and a dozen feet come running up the stairs.

“The window,” Haskins says, and we both run to the window. We look down and three grappling hooks go chunk into the wood outside. Three Elites begin climbing up. “This way.” Haskins leads me to a door. These apartments have doorways leading to the upper levels. Haskins opens the door and my brother walks in.

“Thank you,” he says, and punches me across the jaw.