The Thief King

36 | Whispers in Hurricanes

Barrett pressed his cold nose to the back of Logan's palm, drawing him out of a Hobbleby account and reminding him he still sat in a frozen garden on a cold stone bench. Sticking his thumb in the book's spine and closing the pages, Logan stroked his dog's head and watched the snow fall. The pavilion sheltered him somewhat, if not completely from the wind and cold, then at least from the damp snow—and palace.

His father had gotten his way, a hanging had been organized, and to his knowledge was busy being executed—literally. Men were dying as a palace prepared for an evening of celebration and abundance. Tears fell as roses were preened and crystal polished. What world saw it fit to place such opposing emotions in such proximity? Hobbleby was correct in one of his opinions, life in the palace was insulated, safe, and calm. A cave to hide in while a storm raged; Logan was not sure he wished to continue hiding, but less sure if he wished to show his face. What good could he do with facts and history if he wasn't able to voice any of it? He was a prince. He had a duty to King and kingdom, to the people of Lethilian and the allies that helped prevent war, but none to himself, and so he'd attend his father's Moon Ball smiling—a gesture of peace some scholars claimed.

The palace air had been laden with flustered maids and butlers readying the banquet hall, lobby, gardens, and ballroom. The smell of the kitchens working overtime on decadent platters and dishes that would satisfy even the most particular of palette could be smelt if one were to walk down certain halls or past specific doors.

Logan had run from it all, finding solace and peace in a small courtyard garden on the south side of the palace grounds. A part of him wondered what was happening beyond the palace grounds, what was being said? What was being done? Hate brews hate, vengeance invites vengeance—justice forgotten.

As if to answer his question, a large figure strode out of the grounds, fur coat billowing in his wake. The hood fell away, resting against the broad, warrior shoulders. Lord Dorian looked angered. Without knowing of Logan's presence, the ambassador marched towards the pavilion, his eyes trained on the dirt path. It was only when Barrett growled that the man look up and came to an abrupt halt.

"Prince Logan" —he bowed— "I did not see you there. Please forgive me if I have disturbed you."

Logan waved away the apology. "It is not necessary. My own thoughts disturbed me long before you arrived. Please" —he indicated to the seat opposite his own— "join me. I assume you have returned from the...unfortunate display in the city?"

Dorian's dark eyes seemed to flash. "Indeed." His lips pursed together suggesting an end to the conversation, but the Cylindalean continued. "It may not be my place to say...no...it's not my place to say, but I cannot help but feel your father has struck a hornets nest. Death is not done with Lethilian."

Logan set Hobbleby's journal aside and leaned onto his knees. "You speak my own thoughts, Lord Dorian."

"Please, call me Dorian."

Logan smiled. "Either way my father rules as he deems fit, and I should trust in his decisions, for who am I to question his authority? He has ruled for over two decades, fought in two major wars and been victorious." Logan snorted. "He deserves far more respect from his son who barely knows a shiv from a dagger."

"It is true, your father is a great warrior. My people speak of his victories with great envy and respect." Dorian stroked the cuff of his furred coat, smiling to himself. "But a warrior sees power through the reflection of his sword, his strength reaches as far as his blade and his strength is founded in the men he leads to battle. But what does a warrior do when his weapon has no more use?"

Logan frowned, stroking large circles along Barrett's neck. "I imagine a warrior is always a warrior, and so new purpose has to be found. It is something I often think upon."