Prince of Traitors

Owin

"Are you insane?" Jasper growls once we're out of earshot of the guards at the outpost. He stomps after me through the trees.

I press my sleeve to the cut across my left collarbone where the guard slashed me, the wound dully pulsing with pain. It slowly leaks blood, staining the faded blue-gray fabric. I ignore the prince.

"Hey!" He shoves one of my shoulders from behind me hard enough to make me stumble.

I whirl and bare my teeth at him. "Don't touch me!"

"You killed that guard! What the hell were you thinking?" Jasper shouts.

"He tried to kill me!"

"Saints, Navaarim, the guards could have caught us! You could have gotten us both killed!"

I jab a finger in his face. "Do not pin this all on me. You're the one that needed a damned sword."

"What, so it's my fault that you killed a man?" the prince snap.

"It's your fault that we had to sneak in there in the first place," I growl. "I suppose you'd have preferred it if that guard had killed me."

He crosses his arms over his chest. "That's not what I meant," he grumbles.

I glower up at him. "Then enlighten me, Your Highness," I grind out.

He stiffens at the title. His hands grip his crossed arms so tightly his knuckles are white. "Just—that guard was my countryman," he says. "You didn't have to kill him, is all."

I turn away from him, pulling my quiver to the front of my body and running my fingers over the mismatched fletching of my arrows. "'Countryman,'" I repeat under my breath with a scoff. "Says the traitor."

I know the prince hears me, because he glares at me. "I am not—" Jasper snaps his mouth shut. His jaw is tight. "Never mind."

I sigh, my temper beginning to cool. "At least no guards saw you. They don't know their prince was the one robbing them." I turn from him, stalking off into the woods.

*

A few days pass. No one from the outpost follows us, as far as I can tell. The prince scrubs his face and hair clean as he kneels before a stream. The water flows clear as glass over rocks worn smooth. The sun is bright and warm overhead, bird calls trilling through the trees around us. I was able to bring down a doe this morning; strips of venison dry in the sun at our campsite within sight of the stream where we have decided to wash up.

Bent over the stream, Jasper cups water in his hands and splashes it over his head. The grime smears off of him under his hands. His beard is on the edge of scraggly, overgrown and uneven on his jaw. It creeps down his neck, enveloping the knob of his throat.

"Ugh," he groans. "I wish I had something to shave with."

I peer at him from where I sit at the stream's bank, combing my wet hair with my fingers. My weapons and boots lay in a pile on the grass, next to Jasper's boots and sword scabbard. "You have a knife," I tell him.

He stares at me like I have three heads. "What?"

I wave a hand to the thigh sheath where his knife rests, on the pile with his things. I watch as he frowns at it, quirking his mouth. I snort, stifling a laugh. "Don't tell me you don't know how to shave, prince."

He rolls his eyes. "I do, I just—uh, usually servants do it for me."

I smirk and stand, my hair wet and falling over one shoulder. "Well, figure it out. I'm not helping you and you look like a damn savage."

He gapes at me, but a smile plays along his lips. "Was that a joke, Navaarim?"

I only smirk and toss him his knife in its sheath.