Something With a Prince

Chapter Seven: Silence For Your Thoughts?

Tallethea

Monson was the last to join us, unhooking his pack and letting it drop to the ground before stalking off into the forest for firewood. The Prince had taken to a tree near the inside of the clearing and, after pulling something from his saddle bag, he nestled down into its trunk. I could roughly see him sitting there now that it was officially dark, but his presence was unmistakable. As was his whistling.

The Scout returned just as I finished tying up the horses and pulling tonight's rations from my pack. At Lansing's whistling, Monson was made uneasy. Of course, Lansing noticed and asked why, and this was the Scout's response: "Calls bad things."

I snorted, snapping smaller branches for kindling, but Lansing was hushed into thoughtfulness. We made a fire quickly and before the cold could truly set in, heat began to lick at our faces. Flames danced and twisted with sparks shimmering out into the air. Contentment eased its way into my bones like a warm wash of water.

My mind went back to Mama, and how she was probably sitting by the window watching deer trying to creep into the garden or sipping tea to avoid getting ready for bed. The candle was almost burnt out before I left. I should have replaced it this afternoon so she wouldn't have to go to the cellar for more. Did I clean the fireplace before going? God, I hope so. She should not have to clean the fireplace too, not after spending her days tending to the Queen's chambers and the rest of the Castle. At least the Queen treated her fairly and with respect. If it were not improper on every level, I would almost dare to say my mother and Queen Audessy were best friends.

The insects had established their chorus by the time we finished our small meal. It was a pleasant sound, but I wished they weren't so loud. An ambush can be given away by a meager snap of a twig and at the volume these bugs were brushing, such a noise would not be hard to miss. My eyes took a turn around the perimeter, but it proved clear for now.

"I'll be turning in now." Monson rose from the log he sat upon and wiped some dirt from his pants, "Wake me when it's my watch."

I nodded, adjusting on my blanket, "I will."

He bid us goodnight, laying down a couple of feet away from the fire. A shifting drew my attention, and I rolled my eyes as Lansing approached me, sitting down on the log Monson had just abandoned. He only offered me a quick look before pulling something from his pocket, opening it up, and sticking it out toward the fire. I had to squint to make it out but, with the possibility of hallucinations aside, it appeared he was reading.

To be honest, it was a little shocking to see him just sitting there. Quiet. The light bubbled up around his face carving odd shadows against his features. His eyebrows were drawn in tightly as he squinted at the page. Curiosity bit at me, unable to see the title of what he was reading. After a moment of fruitless investigation, I huffed and settled against the tree behind me. Unhooking my dagger from my ankle, I took to flipping it between my fingers as I scanned the perimeter, keeping my ears open.

All I could truly hear was the repetitive whisking of pages.

"Shouldn't you get some sleep?" I broke the silence, holding the dagger still between my hands. I stared expectantly at the prince before me.

A prince he certainly was, but not the kind I would ever find myself admiring. He was just a face, pretty enough to pass as a royal, but ultimately lacking the material composition. Sure, he could smooth talk, but I had never seen him use it to benefit the kingdom. Every public celebration the castle hosts, he is nowhere to be seen and yet by the end of the night, he is all people are talking about. Where was that famous charisma when he got himself into trouble? Why was he running away instead of standing up to his opponents like Arlyn? But then again, maybe I am wrong in my judgment. Lansing has the composition of a prince, just not that of a king.

"I'm not tired." He didn't look up at me, and I nearly laughed at the appearance of despondency in his tone. Lansing Rikkar, despondent? After all that laughing and smiling earlier with Monson?

"Still, we are rising early and have a long day of riding tomorrow. You'll be tired."I tried again, watching his face carefully to see if he was actually reading. I don't know why I couldn't believe that he was, he used to read constantly as a child with my father and mother. I had seen him creep into the library enough times for it to be plausible. I suppose some part of me always imagined that, as he grew older, he went in there to cause trouble. Like to arrange a shelf in backward order or burn copies of the cleric's scriptures.

"You're up, aren't you?" His eyes broke from the page to peer at me, "I'm fine as I am."

A cord of muscle in my jaw grew tight, and I cleared my throat before muttering, "Must you insist on constantly vexing me?"

"Must you insist that everything I do is in the spirit of constantly vexing you?" He turned the page and continued his reading.

So much for muttering.

He continued to say, "I came over here to read which typically requires light. If anyone is annoying you, it's your own imagination."

"I don't understand why you like it so much. Reading? Of all things, Lansing. You and my fath—" I cut off my own sentence, then, before I knew why, I felt furious with him.

My broken words captured his attention, and he raised his chin upward, the book snapping in on itself, "I see, so now that our Scout friend is asleep you feel you can address me by name? Shouldn't 'Your Highness' be somewhere in there?"

"You called me Thea earlier. Don't you think that show about how closely we were raised was a tad bit overkill?" My fingers tightened on the dagger before I set to spinning it again, "I don't need Monson thinking I got this job because of you and your sentimental garbage."

"You did get this job because of me." He was watching me closely, darkness soaking around his body like an outline. "And we were raised together."

"Look, you don't know me, Lansing. No matter how close our quarters were as children, or how observant you are of my ears, you do not know me." I drew my eyes back to the book he held and added bitterly, "So leave me out of whatever story you think this is. Make a new one. I'm sure you're good at making up stories by now."

That last part was spoken under my breath as I thought of the numerous tales and times that Lansing's name was whispered in the square or behind buildings. The scandals he must have to talk himself out of. He was probably hunting for his next great line in that book. To worm his way out of trouble or to seek it out in some fool-hearted maiden as he pleased.

There was a thought filled pause between the two of us, the only sound being an exhalation of the fire. Not even the crickets dared to move.

"I wonder, what is it about me that gets you so worked up?" He was not smiling, but I didn't feel he was angry either. He was looking at me the same way he had been looking at that book. Squinty and intrigued.

Remaining silent, I focused on the fire instead. He waited, but after it was clear that I would no longer be participating in the conversation, he resumed reading. I bit my tongue, refusing to make another sound. You should have stayed. You should have fought and taken responsibility. You should have acted more like Arlyn.

He rose so abruptly, I feared for a moment that I had spoken my thoughts aloud. Instead, he closed the book over his thumb and cleared his throat, "Goodnight, Tallethea."

"Goodnight, Your Highness."