The Phoenix Prince Read online

  Several hours later, the design was only partially finished. Peirte was exhausted to the point where he’d finally just passed out in the middle of his work. He’d known he wasn’t going to finish this hexagram in one sitting, but he’d tried.

  On his desk, the demon within the bottle stirred and slammed against the glass with enough force to make the vessel rock and tip onto its side. Peirte lifted his head, finding the source of the sound. Seeing the bottle knocked over made his heart skip a beat. If the demon inside got out now before he was ready, it would most certainly attack him. Though his body ached badly from the position he’d dropped off to sleep in, he moved with remarkable speed to get up and grasp the bottle from the desk before it moved again and rolled off.

  The bottle jostled in his hands, growing momentarily hot and then going silent. Whatever was inside seemed to know it wasn’t going to manage an escape yet. Peirte frowned and decided that he needed to lock it back in his cabinet where it wouldn’t be able to fall to the floor and break.

  Once it was put away, he looked out his window. The weather looked bleak again, but he had things that needed to be done. Peirte pulled on a full black cloak and left his room. Though he was leaving the castle, he didn’t call for his carriage. In fact, he slipped out without much notice at all, retrieving a single horse from the stable and leaving upon it.

  The rain during the previous night and throughout the day had left the road down into the town a muddy track. By the time he hit the paving on the outskirts of Tordan Lea, the edge of his cloak was heavily caked. The councillor gave no mind to this, however, knowing he’d be burning the garment after returning to the castle later. He rode with his head down, and no one that saw him pass had any clue as to his identity.

  He stopped only when he reached one of the many rustic taverns in the town, and he tied up his horse out front. Stepping inside the small building, he looked around and saw that it was vacated except for the owner.

  The barkeeper lifted his head and stopped wiping down the counter when the councillor entered. Immediately, he felt uneasy, knowing who it was even though the man was cloaked. He dropped the rag he’d been holding to the bar top and stood tall. Like the huntsman Ivan, the barkeeper was a large man. His sand-colored hair was pulled back, and he sported a beard that was more gray than not.

  Peirte walked straight between the tables and up before the other man, lifting his head enough to show his face. “Hello there, Marcus.”

  He gave a slow nod and leaned a hip against the bar, knowing that the teetotaling councillor wasn’t there to drink. Marcus had been living in Tordan Lea since the same time Peirte had moved there from the coast, and it hadn’t been a coincidence. The tavern owner knew a long-standing debt was coming due. He tried to keep up his outward calm, despite the rise in his blood pressure. “Peirte, what can I do for you?”

  He moved around the end of the bar and stood next to Marcus, keeping his voice low. Though Marcus was a massive specimen, the councillor wasn’t intimidated in the least, keeping up his assertive tone and attitude. “It’s time for you to do something for me so that we can be even.”

  Back when Peirte had been a priest, Marcus’ youngest daughter had fallen ill. As she lay on what would have been her death bed, Marcus had gone to Peirte begging for something to be done. Peirte was reluctant to do anything that might show the outside world the types of magic he’d been studying. However, the knowledge that Marcus had been a professional assassin hadn’t been a secret to him. This gave Peirte leverage over the man. For healing his daughter, he demanded that Marcus not only keep the magic a secret but that he always be available to him should he someday need his particular skill set. He’d assured Marcus that if he ever tried to renegotiate on the deal that his daughter, now a full grown woman with a family of her own, would drop dead.

  The tavern owner tensed his jaw and lowered his gaze, knowing that he couldn’t possibly refuse. Instinct told him that nothing Peirte asked for would be good. “All right, I figured it had to happen sooner or later. What are you in need of?”

  Peirte looked a little self-satisfied, glancing around to confirm they were alone. Thanks to the tavern’s simple décor, there wasn’t really anywhere for someone to be hiding unseen. Locking gazes with Marcus again, he offered a faint shrug. “Yes, it regards a certain person who is about to be promoted to the highest of posts.”

  The man’s weathered face twisted up and he quickly reached out, grabbing Peirte’s arm and dragging him into the back room. Alone or not, this was clearly going to be a conversation that was best held behind a locked door. Once he’d thrown the latch, he turned and faced the councillor, the color gone from his complexion. “The prince? You want me to kill the damn prince?”

  “You make it sound so pedestrian,” Peirte said, rolling his eyes. He brushed off his arm where he’d been touched, a clearly annoyed expression crossing his features. “I want Keiran killed, yes, but I don’t think you have the steady hand anymore to do what I need done. I’m willing to bet you know someone that does, however. I know your kind run thick, and one never really leaves the trade.”

  The bartender seemed to relax a little bit, and he rested his hands on his hips. He still had his contacts with men of questionable character. Peirte had assumed correctly. Being a purveyor of alcohol made him a fairly popular person to the town’s shadier people. The idea of being able to refer the job seemed like a fantastic idea to him, though. He wasn’t emotionally invested in Keiran, and the prince’s death wouldn’t really affect him in the long run. Hiring it out would give another level of detachment to it, leaving Marcus with little blame. At least, those were the immediate justifications he gave himself.

  “I have contacts, aye, but knowing exactly what sort of skills you’re envisioning for this project will let me pick out the most appropriate, uh, contractor,” Marcus said.

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Peirte fought the urge to pace. The storage room they were in was little more than a closet, and there was no space for it. He opted to lean back against the wall. “I need an archer, preferably one skilled with a crossbow for the sake of impact force. One that can hit a man in the heart in one shot. There will be no room for error.”

  Marcus’ eyes narrowed and he tipped his head forward slowly. A sudden question laced with fear crossed his mind. “Is what they say about the prince really true? Is he honestly a vampire? If so, will a simple arrow actually be enough?”

  The councillor sighed, not in the mood to answer questions from ignorant people. He opted to, however, supposing that this knowledge might come in handy for the archer that ended up ultimately being hired. Besides, there was something in Marcus’ tone that hinted the man had reservations about vampires. Any angle that could be played to help encourage the retired assassin to aid in this process was worth pursuing.

  “Keiran was bitten by a vampire as an infant, yes. But he’s never taken human blood, so he has no ability to heal himself from physical trauma. If we can hit him in the heart, he will die. Even if we just get him in the chest, it would probably kill him as well, but I want his death to be instant and certain. Everything I’ve studied on his kind over the years seems to point to his heart as the easiest kill point. Decapitation, total cremation, or destruction of the heart are the only apparent solutions. The third is by far the easiest, able to be done from a distance. It will require someone with impeccable aim. I don’t delude myself into thinking that there will be more than one good chance at this. You only have a few days to hire someone.”

  Marcus grunted and lowered his gaze to the floor. Though it was a dent to his pride, he knew his abilities no longer would have been up to snuff. He’d always been more of a knife-in-the-back type, anyway. “Aye, my eyesight isn’t all it used to be anymore. You’re right. I’ll need to contract it out. Luckily, I already have someone in mind. Only thing is, he isn’t cheap, and I don’t make enough here to cover his fees.”

  Peirte reached up and ran a hand down his face, grimacing
for a second. All these lesser people ever thought about was money, but it did make them predictable and easier to manipulate. Regaining his composure, he reached down and untied a pouch from his belt, tossing it down at Marcus’ feet.

  “Consider that an advance. Whatever his fee is, I’ll be able to meet. In fact, if he actually pulls this off, tell him his unknown benefactor will double the price he quotes. He will not know that I’m involved, though. That’s why you’re going to be serving as the intermediary. If I find out he knows my identity at any point, not only will your daughter drop dead, but so will you. Are we clear on that? Don’t doubt that I have the means, Marcus, because I do, and you know it.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said quickly, nodding in agreement. Being from the town where Peirte had originally ministered, he’d witnessed his exorcisms of parishioners more than once. That, combined with healing his daughter from what surely would have been a fatal illness, made Marcus certain that Peirte was capable of all sorts of magic.

  “Good, I thought so. Now, I need this man of yours in place in the next two or three days. He’ll need to be prepared and out by the old Maris Trading Post. I will have an agent of mine arrive in the area shortly thereafter. They will be able to sort out the minor details of positioning and the like between themselves. Keiran will have escorts when he arrives out there, but his hunting party generally only consists of four to six men. I don’t need the others killed. They need to be alive so they can get Keiran’s body back to the castle as soon as possible so that the proper arrangements can be made,” he said, eyes glazing over a bit at the prospect.

  “As long as there is a good enough place to set up out there, it shouldn’t be an issue for him. Arrows are quiet enough not to give away the position of the archer.” Marcus turned to the side and picked up a bottle from one of the shelves next to him. He quickly tugged out the cork, needing a drink badly. He took a long pull, and it gave him a few moments to think. “The guy I have in mind comes in nearly every day. I’m half expecting him this evening. I’ll talk to him and get it arranged. How should I contact you if anything arises?”

  Peirte scoffed and turned away, unlocking the door. He spoke back over his shoulder, eyes narrowed and glinting with unforgiving malice. “If he can’t, you better have a backup plan, because this is going to happen. Your life, and those of your loved ones, depend on it. Just remember, he must not be able to be traced back to me, no matter what. I will know if you tell him.”

  Marcus set the bottle back down on the shelf, not bothering with the cork. He stooped and picked up the bag Peirte had thrown down earlier, feeling that it was considerably heavy. After shoving it into a pocket, he moved to follow the councillor back out into the main room of the tavern. He didn’t ever bother to ask who would be taking over if Keiran was successfully killed. Marcus knew Peirte at least that well. “Aye, I’ll see to it.”

  * * *

  As the day progressed, Keiran started to show signs of anxiety. He grew restless, uncomfortable with being in the throne and getting consulted by the never-ending string of people that wished to see him. His body was aching, and he had a nagging sensation in his stomach. The longer he remained there, the more his mind drifted off, as he gave consideration to drinking. Not alcohol in that case, but blood. He hadn’t been on a hunt and had fresh blood in a long while, and the prospect of doing so was tearing at the edge of his mind. As the feeling of dryness burned in his throat, his hands began to shake, and the prince grew unable to concentrate.

  It got bad enough that he finally had to politely excuse himself from consulting with anyone else for the day. He moved off to the dining hall early, and he sat at the head of the table for the first time. Corina quickly issued orders for him to be served dinner, and the table was soon set with a few assorted dishes.

  Keiran worked on making himself eat, knowing that Corina would be on him again mercilessly if he didn’t. He tried to distract himself from his blood thirst, and he diverted his mind toward his other vice of wine and ale. The prince desperately wanted more than just the one cup he’d had with dinner.

  Jerris quietly entered the room and sat to Keiran’s right, instantly helping himself to the leftovers that remained on the table. He eyed his friend casually, gnawing on the bone from a chicken leg. “Did all those people bore you to death today?”

  “Uhm…” Keiran cocked his head to the side, and put his left hand against the side of his neck for a few seconds, looking thoughtful. “No, not quite to death it would seem.”

  Well, at least the vampire is up to not being serious, Jerris thought. It got him smiling. “I suppose they didn’t try hard enough, then. Anything good come out of it?”

  “Picked out my seal design, and then after that, it becomes all one horribly dull blur,” Keiran said honestly, pushing his plate back and tossing his napkin onto the table. He folded his hands over his stomach. Though he’d eaten a decent amount, the feeling of being unsatisfied lingered, and stung a little sharper than it typically did. He needed a distraction, badly. Looking over at Jerris, he gave a lopsided grin, leaning forward. “I’m thinking we should go out. One last, good hurrah for my alterego?”

  Jerris shook his head and set his elbows on the table, looking directly at Keiran. They had slipped out of the castle and gone into town incognito more than once in the past. During those outings, Jerris had dubbed Keiran with the alias Saoirse, which the prince detested.

  Sneaking out of the castle and around the town wasn’t really that hard. Since Keiran had rarely ever been publically seen in any official capacity, most were utterly oblivious as to what he looked like. Unrecognizable and able to drop his aristocratic accent to sound identical to the average Tordanian, Keiran could move around freely once beyond the castle walls. As far as the townsfolk were concerned, Saoirse was just one of Jerris’ cousins who sometimes came to town for a visit.

  The guard averted his gaze to the side and sighed. “I think the time for our teenage galavants has passed, Keir. It’d be hard to get through the gate with the situation like it is. Besides, with things up in the air as they are, it’d be pretty damned irresponsible.”

  “Jerris,” Keiran pleaded, “this is probably the last time we’ll ever be able to get away with it. After the coronation, everyone in town will know what I look like. I might not officially be the king, but I think I hold enough authority and gold to get us through the gate if it comes down to it. The evening-watch sentries have never ratted us out in the past. I really could use the distraction. Please? Just for tonight. I won’t ask again. You’re the only person I’d consider leaving the castle unannounced with. For old time’s sake?”

  “Damn it, you are such a pain in the ass. You do know that, right?” Jerris slid down into his chair and closed his eyes momentarily. “My father will kill me, you realize, if he finds out. Painfully, I might add.”

  “He’s never found out before. We’ve been doing this since we were boys, Jerris. I think we have a pretty good system down for it by now. Besides, I’ll personally pardon you from execution should he find out.” Keiran gave him a wink and a grin. “Perk of being the king.”

  The guard grunted and shook his head, before pushing back his chair and standing up. The idea that he was being the voice of reason between the two of them struck an odd chord. Jerris wasn’t sure he liked the feeling of being the responsible party—that was generally Keiran’s job. “Fine, you just want to go out and get drunk around people that won’t snap at you for talking like a commoner when you do. Let’s get it over with.”

  Keiran got up and narrowed his eyes at his friend. “Well, that might be part of it, but not the whole thing. I really am feeling pretty confined right now, and there is more than just a little stress on me at present. I know you might not be able to exactly relate, but surely you can empathize.”

  Jerris turned and started for the door. “Oh, just come on and stop trying to rationalize the irrational. Empathize. Poor little Keir has to suffer the horrors of becoming the mos
t powerful guy in the country. Alas, Keiran.”

  “Shut up,” the prince snorted, following along in short order.

  They moved out to the stable to find it vacated for the night. They grabbed two old riding cloaks from the tack room and started to prepare the horses. No one gave them any trouble as they saddled their own mounts, and then rode out into the courtyard, pulling their hoods up.

  The castle gates were open, as they generally were during times of peace. Though several men stood guard on the walls above and on either side of the gateway, no one gave them any real attention as they moved out. The sentries didn’t care who left the castle. Their area of concern was with screening travellers that were entering.

  There hadn’t been much rain since that afternoon, and the road’s surface had started to set up again after the earlier muddy conditions. They went along at a leisurely pace down toward the town. Keiran and Jerris ended up only encountering one other traveller on the road away from the castle. He was going in the opposite direction and was cloaked like they were. Keiran paid him absolutely no attention, but Jerris couldn’t help but wonder who it was.

  Peirte, however, knew exactly who the two other men were as they neared him, hearing their chatter before they thought he was in earshot. Both of their voices were distinct enough for him to recognize. Besides, it was no secret to the councillor that these two had a nasty habit of going out when they shouldn’t. Alone. Without permission.

  Peirte grit his teeth and kept his head down as they passed, lifting a hand slightly in a casual gesture.