“So you have,” said the king, with some difficulty turning away from his son to regard the count.
“We have spoken of a match between my son and Lady Tallia.”
“You are frank with me, Count Lavastine.”
“I always will be, Your Majesty. You know what I want and what I have paid to gain it.”
“But do you know what I want,” responded the king, “and what I need from you in order to achieve it?”
“Nay, Your Majesty, I do not know, but I am willing to listen….”
The king glanced up at Alain. “A good-looking lad. I have heard great praise of his courage and skill at arms this day. That he held that small hill against such a tide of Eika is incredible. I have no objection to a marriage between him and my niece Tallia … if it is accompanied on your part by an oath that you and your heir will support me faithfully in all my undertakings.”
Before Lavastine could reply, the prince stumbled up from his chair and fled into the darkness. The king made to rise.
“Nay, Your Majesty,” said Alain, who had a sudden idea of what was wrong. “I’ll go after him, if you permit.”
The king nodded. Alain followed.
He had not gone six steps when Liath appeared beside him.
“What happened?” she whispered, as anxious as a hound in a thunderstorm.
“It’s nothing serious,” he said quietly, gentling her with a touch on the arm. “It’s best if I go alone. Do you think he would want you to see him when he’s not well?” Here he trailed off.
After a moment she nodded and returned to her post.
Alain and a few men-at-arms found the prince just beyond the edge of camp, vomiting. When he had done, he began to shake, resting on his hands. “Ai, God,” he muttered as if to himself. “Don’t let them see me.”
Alain ventured forward and laid a hand on his shoulder. At once the prince started up, growling, just like a dog.
“Hush, now,” said Alain firmly, as he would to his own hounds, and the prince shook himself and seemed to come to his senses. “If you’ve been starved, then you can’t put rich food in your stomach all at once, or at least, that’s what my Aunt Bel would say.” He still winced when he said the name. “She who used to be my aunt,” he added to no one except his smarting conscience.
“Who are you?” said the prince. He had an oddly hoarse voice which made him seem stricken with grief when in fact he was likely only exhausted and ill. But he had calmed enough now to wipe at his mouth with the back of a hand.
“I am Lavastine’s son.”
Dogs began to bark again, and the prince lifted his head to scent, then started back and became a man again. “God have mercy on me,” he muttered. “Will I never be rid of the chains Bloodheart bound me with?”
“It is the collar.” Why he spoke so freely Alain did not know, only that—unlike the king—this half wild prince did not awe him. “As long as you wear it at your neck, then surely you will not be free of Bloodheart’s hand on you.”
“As long as I wear it, I am reminded of what he did to me. I am reminded of what I was and what he called me.” His voice was so bitter. Alain ached for him, and what he had suffered.
But even Alain was not immune from curiosity. “What did he call you?”
The prince only shook his head. “I’ll go back now. I won’t forget this kindness you’ve shown me.”
They returned to where the king sat sipping at his wine and the company ate with the self-conscious assiduousness of people who chafe with curiosity but know that their regnant will not tolerate questions. The prince sat with exaggerated care and with even more exaggerated care sipped sparingly at the wine and ate the merest scrap of meat and bread. But sometimes his nostrils would flare, and he would lift his head and search into the assembly as if he had heard a whispered comment that angered him. The rest of the feast passed without incident. They ate lustily and drank without stinting on what was left of the wine.
“You acquitted yourself well, son,” said Lavastine afterward when they had retired to a tent commandeered from lesser nobles in Henry’s train. “I am proud of you. Ai, Lord, Prince Sanglant is more like to one of the hounds than to a human man. But I suppose it is his mother’s blood which stains him.” He scratched Terror’s ears and the old hound grunted ecstatically. Alain tended the gash that had opened up Fear’s hindquarters. He had already bound up Ardent’s leg and washed the cuts on Sorrow and Rage. Steadfast was asleep, while Bliss waited patiently for his turn under Alain’s hands.
