The Princess's Servant

19. The Goal

It was a sunny morn at the Wardian palace, but the trickling rays appeared only as pale illuminators of disaster to the prince. He poured over papers and scrolls as he sat at his dark desk and took notes furiously with his white quill pen. A knock at the door promised welcomed relief.

"Come in, quickly," the prince said.

His servant obeyed. "Your highness," he greeted. "You called for me?"

"Yes, fetch me my brother. I've some very important wedding protocol to go over so he doesn't make a scene like he did at the feast."

"But... The prince is in Lailoy," the servant replied.

The prince stopped his scribbling and looked up at the blonde boy with mad eyes. "Come again?" He asked.

"He's in Lailoy, Your Highness. Has been for a few days."

The heir's fingers curled against his forehead and his eyes squeezed shut.

"I believe he said something about wanted to meet his bride-to-be before the wedding. Only natural, I suppose," the servant said.

"What?!" The prince slammed the table with his writing hand. The ink jar tumbled and dumped its contents all over his manuscript. But the prince stared dead ahead. "How could you let this happen?!"

The servant glanced around at the space. "Let... what happen, Your Highness?" He asked.

He stood from his chair. The servant took a step back. "The prince and the princess cannot meet," he said. "The prince will learn what a nightmare she is, and she will learn what a mud-sucking twat my brother is. And the two will never marry," he said, taking a step forward. The prince approached his servant, his long legs bowing towards him, his dark hair bouncing with his step. "And all of this will have been for nothing," he said.

The servant felt his skin prickle with his prince so near. His eyelashes fluttered and he averted his gaze from the pale man.

"Bring him back to me," he said. "Before I'm forced to take Lailoy by force, rather than by forced marriage. Understood?" The prince asked.

The servant nodded. "Understood," he said.

The prince gave a curt nod and stepped away.

"Oh, and Sebastian?" The prince said, not looking behind him.

The servant froze.

"Be sure to let my brother know how I feel about his little escapade. A few days is far too long for a little pre-wedding date, wouldn't you agree?"

Sebastian lowered his head and smiled. "Yes, Your Highness," he replied. And with those words, Sebastian strode out the door.

*****

There was only one thought on Holden's mind as he awoke in that dank cell: "Escape."

He had tried to play by the Princess's rules; attempted to oblige himself into her good favor. But even after risking his own life to spare her some embarrassment, the prince found himself still looked down upon and despised. No matter, he thought. He would leave this place and never think on the princess or this little side quest ever again. The only question in Holden's mind that remained was "How?"

A boot landed in the standing water in front of him. Holden looked up to its source. A tanned woman with ragged blonde hair stared down.

"The princess requests your presence," Marcus said.

Holden sat up from his scrunched-up sleep, dripping wet from the puddle water. "'Requests?'" He asked. "Or 'demands?'"

Marcus took out a slender key and unlocked Holden's door, and he watched this act with great interest. She pulled open the bars and beckoned him near her.

"I like you, Marcus," he told her as he stood. "I respect you. But I don't like that you're a part of this."

"This?" She asked.

He gestured around at everything — the dungeon walls, the murky standing water; the candlelight that flickered off of them.

Marcus lowered her head. "The way it is with the princess, you're either with her or you're against her. The sooner you learn that, the better chances you'll have."

"Is that what you did?" Holden asked. "Abandoned your morals and chose to hurt others so you wouldn't be hurt?"

The pair walked through the carpeted hall and out the castle gates. "No one said you had to hurt others," Marcus said. "Besides." They passed through the inner wall, and then the outer wall of the great castle. "Morals are for the rich," she said. "It's survival that's for me and you."

The two of them descended down the cobblestoned hill. Holden folded his arms. "Well," he said. "I think I'd rather die than become the type of person that sides with tyrants." He gave his admonishment with a slight shrug.

Marcus's gaze floated his way before settling again on the road before them. "Then you'll probably die" she said. "That's what happens to all the good men."

Holden looked up at her, but her face was solemn and fixed upon the edge of town. Holden looked to the sword at her hip and listened to the clanking of her armor. He felt his own puddle-wet clothes against his skin and heard the squishing of his socks. No, he thought. He would not think it. He need not think it. Soon he would not need to pick 'death' or 'tyrant.' Soon, he would be free.

Holden moved his gaze to the edge of the wood and tried to enjoy his trip down that hill — he would not make the trip back.

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