He looked down at the vase in his hands. It was made of glass, blown so that it had bubbles within it, and the colors were the blue-green of the sea. It was beautiful. Edyon hated it. He threw the vase out over the terrace, and it disappeared onto the rocks below.
That evening there was a banquet hosted by Regan in a magnificently decorated hall. The food was as beautiful and plentiful as it was delicious—and so was the wine, which Edyon sampled generously.
The next morning Talin woke Edyon at dawn and dressed him. This day would be the same as the one before—a journey to the next castle and another assessment of the defenses there. However, today was different in that Edyon’s buttocks were sensitive from the previous day’s riding and his head was sensitive from the previous evening’s wine. He managed to mount his horse with some assistance, though he was horribly dizzy. He’d just got his reins untangled when a trumpet blared in his ear, and he almost slid out of his saddle in shock. Trumpets, Edyon had discovered, were a large part of royal life and one he’d happily get rid of.
The sun was blinding, his jacket too hot, and his mouth was as dry as a baker’s oven. The trumpet blared behind Edyon again and he thought he couldn’t feel any worse. But then, just as the procession set off, his stomach began to revolt.
Do not throw up. Puking is not princely.
Edyon couldn’t turn his head or open his eyes more than slits. The only way to get through the morning would be to somehow ride and sleep at the same time, but the noise around him was unbearable.
“May I ride with you, Your Highness?”
It was Byron, the lord’s son who had taken part in the smoke demonstration.
“If you get rid of that man with the blasted trumpet, then perhaps we could talk.”
“It shall be done, Your Highness.”
Byron had a word with the trumpeter and returned in relative quiet to ride beside Edyon. Byron was broad-shouldered, dark, and handsome; his beautiful long plait, which was woven with a silver thread, was hanging down his back. At the smoke demonstration Edyon had discovered he was also empathetic and brave, but, sitting on his black horse, Edyon could see that Byron’s thigh muscles were even more impressive.
“How are you finding the tour so far, Your Highness?” Byron asked.
“Better without the trumpet. I’ve got a stinking hangover, truth be told,” Edyon said. “And I can’t stand riding; I’d much rather walk. My buttocks feel like dough that’s been pummeled by a master baker.”
Byron laughed. And it seemed he had a full set of perfect white teeth.
“I’m afraid there will be much more riding before the tour is over,” Byron said. “Probably a hunt or two as well.”
“I will not hunt anything. I might watch, from a distance, and cheer for the deer or the boar or whatever poor animal has to flee for its life.”
Byron flashed a smile. “Then I shall join you and eat no meat, only turnips.”
“No turnips. Ever. I have an aversion to them.” Edyon recounted his arrest in Pitoria just a couple of months earlier. “We’d fled across the Northern Plateau, fought demons and Brigantines, and then I was arrested and dragged in chains behind a horse very like this one by a sheriff’s man and had turnips thrown at me.”
Byron laughed and frowned and squinted at Edyon. “I never know if you’re serious, Your Highness. Your speech last night amused us all, though most thought you were exaggerating your experiences.”
“They did?” Edyon frowned. He vaguely remembered Regan boring on about pride in Calidor and the coastal defenses, though Edyon couldn’t remember much and could remember even less of his own speech—he had a feeling he’d spouted something about friends and neighbors, Calidor and Pitoria. He asked Byron, “Which parts in particular did they think I was making up?”
“Well, I think sleeping with the body of a dead demon was the most surprising, but then you talked about other places you’ve slept—your vast experience of prison cells. You compared the merits of each.”
“Oh shits, did I?”
“King Tzsayn’s was the most comfortable and Lord Farrow’s the most disgusting.”
“Please, don’t say any more.” Edyon wondered if he’d mentioned March, but surely he hadn’t.
“Perhaps I would be allowed to speak if we chose a different subject?” Byron asked.
“Please. Take my mind off my awful hangover. Tell me about yourself, Byron.”