The Immortal Prince Read online

  “Frankly, my dear, I think if you spent a little more time being a wife, and a little less time doling out free meals to those mangy beasts in the slums, you’d gain a much better perspective on the matter of the lower races and the proper way to deal with them.”

  Lady Jimison’s voice was shrill and her comment fell into a momentary lull in the conversation. It was followed by a long awkward silence.

  Stellan came to Arkady’s rescue. The duke smiled and leaned back in his seat, sipping his wine as he surveyed his guests. “I think my wife’s efforts to help those less fortunate than us should be applauded, Lady Jimison. She sets an example we should all aspire to follow, don’t you agree?”

  Lady Jimison might be a bigot, but she wasn’t a fool. She barely even hesitated before nodding apologetically in Arkady’s direction and then smiling at Stellan. “Please, your grace, I meant no insult to your lovely wife. You’re right of course. She is an example to us all.”

  “Well said!” the Caelish Ambassador agreed, his face flushed with a little too much wine for a diplomat to consume wisely. “But aren’t you afraid of catching something in the slums, my lady? I mean, they’re pitiable creatures to be sure, and they’re not very…clean.”

  “Oh, the duchess has lots of experience in the slums,” Jaxyn answered cheerfully before anybody else could say a word. “She’s not afraid of catching anything. Besides, Arkady’s not really interested in the Crasii, are you, your grace? She just likes to dig up dirty little secrets about the long-lost Tide Lords, and apparently the Crasii know more about them than the rest of us.”

  “The Tide Lords? How quaint,” the ambassador remarked. “Have you discovered anything interesting?”

  “Like many others in my field. I’m working on the complete history of Glaeba,” Arkady explained, silently wishing there was a way to have Jaxyn’s drink laced with some terrible poison so she could watch him die a horrible, ugly death in front of the entire dinner party. “Not the Tide Lords, specifically.”

  “Like a growing number of our colleagues, Ambassador, we believe the Cataclysm that laid waste to the lost nations of Kordia and Fyrenne were not accidental,” Andre clarified, coming to her defence. “The destruction seems far too specific to have been an accident of nature. Given the long oral history the Crasii have and that it predates our own written history by several thousand years, our hope is there is a clue to what really happened buried somewhere in their lore.”

  “But your theory is rather controversial, isn’t it?” another voice added. “I mean, there’s no real proof Kordia ever actually existed, is there?”

  Arkady looked down the table to see who had spoken and sighed. Joal Dekerman. An old friend of Stellan’s. One of the Herino Dekermans; moneyed, bored and jaded. He’d moved to Lebec with his equally bored and jaded wife about eighteen months ago to take up the role of Prefect. It was an honorary title. The Duke of Lebec was the real power in this prefecture and everyone knew it. But as the official representative of the crown, the title gave Dekerman social standing and the right to be heard, even if nobody was particularly interested in what he had to say.

  “The idea that some almighty power brought down an apocalypse on Amyrantha,” the Prefect sniffed, “is not only mildly offensive, it’s absurd.”

  “But if we’re right, someday we might be able to determine what really happened during the Cataclysm,” Andre Fawk pointed out. “We may even be able to prevent it happening again.”

  Joal Dekerman studied Arkady curiously for a moment and then asked, “Do you think it was the Tide Lords?”

  Arkady couldn’t help but smile. “I deal in facts, Prefect Dekerman, not flights of fancy.”

  He smiled and raised his glass in her direction. “Then perhaps I have misjudged you, your grace. Please, forgive my ignorance.”

  In the brief silence that followed Dekerman’s apology, Tilly Ponting clapped her hands loudly and announced, “Well, darlings…I can’t tell if the Tide Lords caused the Cataclysm, and I can’t tell a Crasii from a Scard, but I can certainly tell you what the future holds! Who’s for having their Tarot read?”

  With a relieved laugh, half a dozen of the diners indicated their willingness to have Tilly tell their fortunes and the conversation moved to much less dangerous ground as the more enthusiastic guests rose to their feet.

  Dear Tilly, Arkady thought, idly moving her truffles and the rich cream in which they were smothered around her plate without actually eating them. She wasn’t fond of truffles but they were a delicacy and expensive so, of course, they were a must for any meal served in the palace. You’re worth every one of those diamonds you’re wearing. This was the reason—purple hair and all—that Tilly Ponting graced so many tables in Lebec Palace. She could always be relied upon to shift the discussion back to something inoffensive.

  At the other end of the table, Stellan smiled at her before turning back to his discussion with Jaxyn Aranville, who was looking decidedly smug. Arkady felt an unreasonable surge of hatred for the young man and the danger he represented, knowing full well there was nothing she could do about it.

  But for the time being, the danger was past and Arkady was able to resume her perfectly proper smile as she presided over her perfect table, in her perfect palace with her perfect husband smiling at her fondly. She was the envy of every woman present, she knew, because the Duchess of Lebec—to outsiders at least—appeared to have a perfectly wonderful life.

  A little later, when everybody had moved into the library to allow Tilly her chance to play fortune teller, Arkady followed her guests, having ordered supper to be served in another hour. She took a seat by the window and watched the fun. Surrounded by her admiring audience, Tilly was breathlessly informing a totally credulous Kylia Debrell that she would definitely marry a tall, dark and handsome stranger whom she would meet some time in the next five years.

  There’s a safe prediction, she thought, given Kylia will undoubtedly be married off to some Glaeban lordling by the time she’s eighteen.

  “I’m sorry about what Jaxyn said at dinner.”

  Arkady glanced over her shoulder to find her husband had come up behind her. Stellan Desean was only a little taller than Arkady, but he was a trim, attractive man, his caramel-coloured skin and dark, Glaeban eyes typical of his race and his class. They were a handsome people, the Glaebans; cultured, civilised, advanced…Not like the Caelum with their fondness for blood sports, or the Torlenians with their rigid morals, or even the Senestrans with their secretive religious rites. Arkady had only met a few people from places farther afield, so she couldn’t comment on their character, but she knew her own people well enough. Stellan was one of their scions; the Deseans one of the True Families. His bloodline was precious.

  Which, Arkady mused, is at the root of most of Stellan’s problems.

  “You don’t have to apologise for him, Stellan,” she said, turning to her husband. And then she smiled. “Make him come to me and apologise himself. Preferably on his hands and knees. That will do.”

  “Now, now…,” he scolded, good-naturedly. “Let’s not be petty, my dear.” A sudden burst of laughter from Tilly’s audience drew his attention. He glanced at the crowd around the table and frowned. “Should I be worried about what nonsense Tilly is telling my niece?”

  Arkady shook her head. “Apparently Kylia chose the Lovers, Cayal and Amaleta, when she dealt the cards. According to Tilly, it means Kylia will marry someone tall, dark and handsome.”

  “Well, as tall, dark and handsome describes more than ninety per cent of the likely candidates for the hand of someone as well connected as the Duke of Lebec’s heir, I doubt Kylia will be disappointed,” Stellan remarked. “But if you’re sure she’s safe in Tilly’s hands for the foreseeable future—no pun intended—could you spare a moment, my dear?”

  Arkady looked up at him, wondering at the request. “Is something wrong?”

  He shook his head. “There’s someone here to see you.”

  She rais
ed her brow questioningly. “At this hour? Who?”

  “Declan Hawkes.”

  Chapter 5

  Declan was waiting for them in Stellan’s study. It was a large, high-ceilinged room, built on the same grand scale as the rest of the palace, every surface gilded or painted by a master with scenes ranging from simple landscapes to stories attributed to the long-lost mythical Book of the Tides. The study was a work of art in its own right, each wall depicting the same scene painted at a different time of day. The west wall depicted sunset, the east sunrise, the north wall showed a bright and sunny aspect while the south wall was gloomy and overcast, the sky dark with storm clouds. Every piece of furniture had been chosen to complement the walls, even down to Stellan’s opulent desk with its legs carved from solid ivory. Arkady had been overwhelmed by the magnificence of this place when she’d first come here to live after she married Stellan. Now she barely even noticed it.

  “Lady Desean!” the spymaster exclaimed with a grin, turning from the fireplace to greet her. He’d been staring up at the stern countenance of Stellan’s great-grandfather Rocard, larger than life and dressed in gilded armour in the portrait; a severed head lay at his feet while fires raged behind him, destroying what Arkady assumed was some sort of crude village. The Bloody Duke, they used to call him. He was the one credited with hunting the Scards of Lebec into virtual extinction.

  Arkady hurried across the room and threw her arms around her old friend, hugging him tightly. “Tides, Declan, we haven’t seen you for ages. What are you doing in Lebec?”

  “Business brings me here. And your husband was kind enough to offer me a roof for the night.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me he was coming?” she asked Stellan over her shoulder.

  “I didn’t know myself, until he arrived,” Stellan informed her, taking a seat in one of the overstuffed leather armchairs facing the desk, which he moved to face the spymaster. Stellan tolerated her friendship with Declan Hawkes, but—for obvious reasons—her closeness with the King’s Spymaster made him more than a little nervous. She’d told Stellan any number of times that she’d not shared his secret with her old friend, but he still worried about it. He’d never said or done anything to indicate he knew about her husband, but still, deep down, Arkady suspected Declan knew the truth.

  Stepping out of his embrace, Arkady looked up at Declan expectantly. Rain pattered softly against the tall windows either side of the fireplace, not nearly as heavy as the earlier downpour that had come with the thunder and lightning.

  “Well, what are you doing here? It’s too much to hope, I suppose, that you’re simply here for the pleasure of my company?”

  “Actually, I’m here for your expertise.”

  Arkady looked at him oddly.

  “Do you remember a dreadful murder in the village of Rindova several months ago?” he asked. “A whole family—seven brothers—was slaughtered.”

  She was puzzled by the question. It certainly wasn’t what she’d been expecting. “I remember. The killer was a foreigner, wasn’t he? A Caelish tradesman of some sort? Didn’t they catch him at the scene of the crime, standing over his victims, still covered in their blood?”

  “They did,” the spymaster agreed. “He was a wainwright. His name is Kyle Lakesh. He was tried and condemned for the murders, too.”

  “Is there some sort of problem with his trial?” Arkady glanced at Stellan. “Is that the reason you wanted the Caelish Ambassador invited to dinner this evening?”

  “There is something wrong, Arkady,” Declan informed her, “but the ambassador has nothing to do with it. Not yet, at least. You see, they hanged the criminal several days ago.”

  “And the ambassador is upset because we’ve executed one of his citizens?”

  “He’s got nothing to be upset about,” Stellan remarked, brushing an imaginary fleck of dust from his trousers. “He didn’t die.”

  “Who didn’t die?”

  “Lakesh,” Declan said. “The murderer. They hanged him and he didn’t die.”

  “You mean the hangman botched the job?” she asked, not at all certain she understood what they were telling her.

  “No, as far as I can tell, the hangman did a fine job. The man just refused to die.”

  Arkady looked at her husband, hoping to detect a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, thinking this must be some sort of joke. But Stellan was quite serious. So was Declan Hawkes.

  “How could he refuse to die?” she asked, looking from one man to the other. “Don’t you people have some sort of arrangement where an officer delivers the fatal blow if an execution fails?”

  “You’re thinking of military executions,” Stellan explained. “This is a civil matter. The man was hanged. It’s ugly sometimes, but it’s difficult to botch it completely. There are no alternate arrangements because they usually don’t go wrong.”

  “So what happened in this case?”

  Declan picked up his brandy from the marble mantel and took a long swallow. The rain on the windows behind him had almost stopped while they were talking, Arkady noticed out of the corner of her eye.

  “According to Lakesh, his real name is Cayal and the reason he didn’t die is because he’s immortal.”

  Arkady laughed. “Cayal, did you say? As in Cayal, the Immortal Prince? The Prince of Tides? The legendary hero of ancient myth?” She shook her head, wondering if Declan had thought up this joke and her husband was just taking part in it to relieve the boredom. Maybe Jaxyn was behind it. It reeked of one of his pranks—except she couldn’t envisage any circumstance that might entice Declan to do Jaxyn Aranville’s bidding. “You don’t need me, Declan; you need Tilly Ponting and her blessed Tarot cards.”

  “I’m just as sceptical of his claims as you, Arkady,” Stellan agreed. “But this man’s no fool. He’s taken a lucky accident and turned it into a loophole.”

  “A loophole? But you said he’s already been tried and convicted.”

  “And he should be already dead,” Stellan agreed. “The problem we have now is that we can’t hang him again without going back to court for another execution order.”

  “He’s insisting he’s a Tide Lord,” Declan added, “and he’s begging us to try again…to kill him again, that is.”

  “So he’s suicidal? I wouldn’t have thought that was a major dilemma given the man is slated for execution.”

  “But the state can only execute a sane man, Arkady,” Stellan pointed out. “Master Hawkes suspects—and I agree—that this sudden bout of insanity is Lakesh’s way of avoiding a second attempt. If the Caelish Ambassador gets wind of it, he’ll start insisting the man be released.”

  “Why would he want a murderer released?”

  “Because under Caelish law, if an execution fails a man is free to walk away with all his sins forgiven. I refuse to allow that to happen in this case. I’m certainly not going to let some Caelish wagon builder play us for fools by manipulating the law to suit himself.”

  “How could he do that?”

  “If he’s proved insane, we can’t execute him.”

  Arkady shrugged. “I don’t see what this has to do with me. Why not just lock him away in an asylum somewhere and be done with it? It’s not as if you’ve never done anything unjust before.”

  “Well, for one thing,” Stellan said with a disapproving edge to his voice, “I have no intention of letting it get about that one can escape the noose in Lebec by pretending to be crazy.”

  “For another,” Declan added, “the Caelum Ambassador has been looking for an excuse to cause a diplomatic incident for almost a year—ever since the king refused the offer of a marriage between Prince Mathu and Princess Nyah. This mess is likely to give him one.”

  Arkady well remembered the incident Declan spoke of. While the idea of uniting Caelum and Glaeba in marriage had some political merit, the Crown Prince of Glaeba was a strapping young man of nineteen, who’d been more than a little disturbed at the prospect of being forced to accept an eight-year-old
bride, particularly as Caelish law required proof of a consummated marriage within a month of the exchange of vows. The king had sent Stellan to Caelum to explain—as tactfully as possible—that in Glaeba, such an arrangement was considered not just awkward, but actually immoral, however, if the queen would like Glaeba to consider the princess as a suitable consort for their crown prince at some point in the future, once she reached a more suitable age, then he’d be happy to consider the offer.

  It was a testament to Stellan’s skill as a diplomat that he had been able to refuse the proposal on behalf of the Glaeban king and walk away with both his head on his shoulders and Caelum still an ally of Glaeba. But there was still a degree of residual resentment among the Caelish who suspected King Enteny’s refusal had something to do with their Princess Nyah not being good enough for a sodding Glaeban, rather than the stated cultural differences that made such a union untenable.

  “And again I ask—what do you expect me to do about it?” she said, as it dawned on her that this was no prank, but a deadly serious matter.

  “You work with the Crasii,” Declan reminded her. “You know a lot about their lore and the Tide Lords.”

  “They’re a myth,” Arkady assured him. “There ends my knowledge.”

  “Your husband says otherwise.”

  Arkady glared at Stellan, wondering what else he’d told her old friend, before turning back to the spymaster. “Even if I knew everything there was to know about them, Declan—which I don’t, incidentally—I still don’t see what some child’s fairytale—which I know for a fact you don’t believe in—has to do with this madman.”