Prince of Traitors

Jasper

The closer the caravan draws to the border, the testier Owin becomes.

She's downright short with me some days, though she persists in her reading lessons, even writing some shaky sentences of her own. Every lesson I give her, I'm enormously impressed by the progress she's made. She's tenacious and determined to learn.

I approached Owin about it a week into our voyage on Peter and Judeth's cart. She'd been fidgety and tense, and I'd gently offered to teach her to read and write—as much as I could—to give her something to occupy her time and dispel her nervous energy. She'd refused for another few days, but then quietly agreed.

I taught her the alphabet and pronunciation, basic grammar and writing. As she learned, she grew more and more confident.

I smile softly to myself on my bedroll, remembering how my Navaarim companion's face came alight when she finally, clumsily scrawled her own name on a piece of parchment with a nib of charcoal. Owin had grinned at me like I'd never seen before.

"Kieran," Judeth says, poking her head into the back of her cart. "Can you help me with something?"

"Of course," I say, and get up from my bedroll, exiting the cart. "What is it you need?"

"I'd like to get started preparing the meals for the next couple days," Judeth says. "I've a crate of potatoes that need peeling, if you'd help me."

I nod. "Lead the way."

She takes me to a wooden crate filled with large potatoes that sits on the grass. I hoist the heavy thing up, my hands grasping the sides. Judeth picks up a wicker basket with a pair of peeling knives inside and leads me outside the semicircle of carts, across the cobblestone road. She sets the basket down and we sit.

Judeth hands me a thin knife, and we get to work peeling the potatoes in the crate. The old woman hums a light tune, one I've heard commoners singing in the city. The melody climbs and falls merrily.

I find myself humming along here and there, to the parts that I know. I draw the knife carefully along the potatoes' rounded edges, peeling away the skin in thin strips. The skins fall to the grass, and we slowly fill the wicker basket with the peeled potatoes.

Judeth is much more dexterous with her peeling knife, her strips much thinner and smoother than mine. But after a bit, her humming trails off. Her hands still.

"Something wrong?" I ask. I raise my gaze to look at her, and find her eyes already pinned on me. Her expression is uncharacteristically hard, her wizened mouth pressed into a thin line. "Judeth?" I breathe.

"I know who you are," she whispers. "You're Crown Prince Jasper. The rightful king of Odrend."

My breath catches in my throat. I can hear nothing but my heartbeat in my ears. I scoff slightly, hiding the tremor in my voice. "I-I--that's not--"

Judeth sets a hand on my shoulder. "It's alright," she says. Her voice is soft but earnest.

I shrug her hand off and stand to face her. "You're wrong," I snap. "My name is Kieran, I'm not some prince, t-that's ridiculous—"

She steps toward me, holding her hands up in a calming gesture. "It's okay," she says, her face softening. "I know the truth, Prince Jasper."

I swallow, drawing a shaky breath. "How?" I breathe.

Judeth sighs. "I knew who you were the moment you stepped into my cart," she says. "I recognized you, even with a beard and your hair colored the way it is."

I open my mouth to speak again, but Judeth continues, saying, "Peter and I lived and ran a shop in Highcaster for a long time, my prince. I watched you and your brother grow up, racing through the square on summer days." She steps closer and smiles warmly at me. "I'd recognize those eyes anywhere. 'Green like mountain pine trees,' I always said."

I back away from the old woman and run my hands through my newly trimmed hair. My fingers dig into my scalp, tugging at it. Shit, I think. Shit shit shit shit shit. My breath comes too fast, too ragged. I squeeze my eyes shut. "Judeth, you can't tell anyone," I say, my voice hoarse. "Please. Owin and I, we—we've tried too hard to stay hidden."

"I wouldn't dare," she says. She presses a wrinkled hand to her chest, above her heart. "I swear it by the Saints."

I open my eyes to look at her. I nod silently, not trusting any words to pass my lips.

She gives me a small, mournful smile. Her wrinkled face is gentle, her expression softened. "For what it's worth, my prince," she says. "I never believed that you killed King Haris. Never. I only hope that you find what you're looking for out here."

*

"Owin," I whisper when she enters the cart for the night.

She's instantly on guard, noticing the tremor of nerves in my voice. "What is it?" She glances at me from where she sits on her bedroll next to mine, unwinding her hair from its braid. The silver is bright in the darkness.

"We need to leave, and soon," I tell her.

Owin frowns. "Why?"

"Everything's okay," I say hurriedly. "I think. But—" I lower my voice, and Owin leans in to listen. "Judeth knows who I am."

Her silver eyes go wide. "What?"

"I know."

"Who else knows?"

"I don't know. She didn't say. I'd assume Peter, but it could be more of them."

Owin leans back, bumping against the wood wall of the cart behind her. "Shit."

"Exactly my thought."

"How?"

I shrug. "She had a shop in Highcaster. She's seen me many times before."

Owin gnaws nervously on her lip. "We're close to the border. Maybe only a couple days away. The sooner we can leave the caravan, the better."