Page 13 of The King’s Man #5

I t’s as if I’ve returned to Frederica’s estate—as if it could be a year ago; as if I’d never left.

The manor is teeming with aklos and aklas, there’s murmuring and laughter, even a familiar tremor underfoot—short and sharp, just enough for leaves to rustle and blossom petals to rain over the courtyard where Quin and I stand, unnoticed.

Dozens of eyes pass by with not a single blink in our direction. I feel solid though, as if I must have a presence.

“Colours are sharp,” Quin murmurs, staring at the space where I’d once hauled him away from his aunt and pressed flowering soulbloom to his lips.

He snaps his head up and stares ahead, towards the archway leading to grassy fields and the black forest beyond.

“He’s recalled this day in vivid detail. ”

I turn, taking it all in, and pause at the rune door we came through. “Our way back out?”

“When the scene starts to fade, if the weather changes suddenly, get out as quickly as you can. ”

I nod, and take in the surroundings again. Somewhere in these memories there must be a clue. Knowledge to help me get through to King Yngvarr.

Quin strides ahead, silver hair gleaming, his cloak flapping gently behind him.

We pass through the arch and immediately I spy a flicker of movement behind the tree at the top of the grassy hill—the same hill where I would, many years from this memory, erect a plaque for River. The tree is just as beautiful. I can scent the woodsy bark on the breeze.

I sniff again as we near it, and Quin speaks. “Everything is from King Yngvarr’s memory. We’ll smell the scents he remembers, hear the things he did, see events as he’s reconstructed them.”

“Reconstructed?”

“This scene is so vivid. He’s been here a lot. I imagine he’s added more detail with every visit.”

“Does that mean what we see may not be the complete truth?”

“Truth is always subjective. This is the truth he’s created for himself. The way he recalls—or wants to recall—what happened.”

“He’s able to meddle with his own memories?”

“You and I, too. Anyone who visits has the potential to change things. Be careful not to leave behind signs—”

I slip on a muddy patch of ground, leaving behind a long and deep groove through the grass.

“—of our being here,” Quin finishes drily. With a wan smile, I hurriedly patch it up as best I can, ignoring Quin’s shaking head.

“Onwards,” I say, and Quin points ahead.

“There he is.”

I stall. “He sees himself in his memory?”

“As he imagines himself, then.”

King Yngvarr—here, the kronprins—is a picture of ethereal beauty.

He sits at the base of the tree, chiselling at a wooden mask in his hand.

One moment, his head is gently bowed over the wood, and the next he’s glancing up and looking down the hill, a soft smile playing at the corners of his lips.

I turn, following his gaze to a graceful, energetic young woman practicing archery.

Exuding fierce determination, she nocks an arrow and aims for the target at the other end of the field.

The arrow lands among others, littered around but not touching the bullseye.

She pivots slightly and on a sharp intake of air I move to grab Quin’s forearm, then quickly jerk my hand back again. Quin notices, staring at the space between us, the almost touch. “Your mother,” I whisper and clear my throat.

He slowly turns his gaze, and is quiet a few minutes as he observes her releasing another arrow.

It’s strange to see Casimiria, possibly only weeks before she’ll become pregnant with Quin, so full of life. She’s so full of youth; a free bird about to become caged. My stomach sinks at Quin’s reflective sigh and the twitch of his jaw.

Casimiria plucks the last arrow from her quiver and her body becomes taut with concentration as she aims and fires.

The arrow whistles through the air and smacks the target dead centre.

She jumps with an elated laugh and uses magical winds to yank the arrows free from the target and return them to her quiver.

Prins Yngvarr tucks an admiring smile back towards his mask.

A smile too short-lived as two young men saunter up the hill towards him with an air of wealth and arrogance.

It’s obvious the two are related, and it doesn’t take much to guess who they may be.

The gangly, slightly taller brother wears long boots and has a dark glint in his eye—a youthful echo of the tyrannical regent Valerian Aetherion.

And the one behind him—handsome, gaze keen as he takes in the prins under the tree and Casimiria below—Anastasius Aetherion. Here, the crown prince of Lumin.

Soon to be Quin’s father.

Prince Valerian snickers as he throws a bolt of magic into the tree, making it shake violently. Yngvarr barely has time to set aside his mask and knife before he’s buried in a mound of green, the tree left stark naked and shivering beside him.

Prince Anastasius swats his brother over the back of the head, and at his voice, Quin stiffens. “Too obvious. Father will punish you.”

“You told me to have fun with him.”

“I meant include him in your games,” Anastasius says smoothly, but there’s a satisfied glint in his eye that has me narrowing my gaze .

Valerian frowns, confused. He doesn’t understand yet that he’s the borrowed knife.

I take a step forward and halt as I stub my toe on a tree root. The zip of pain is a reminder I can—and shouldn’t—interfere with this memory.

I stick to glaring at the brothers. It’s Anastasius’s cunning that will get under Valerian’s skin. Get him into trouble with the king. Make him feel inferior. Lead to his warped need to prove he can be cunning too; he can be worthy of respect, love.

I feel Quin’s shadow land over me. “How on earth did you turn out so decent?”

“I wish your compliments wouldn’t always come out through gritted teeth.” He steps beside me and glances from his young father to his young mother, who is charging up the hill, arrow nocked to her bow and aimed at the brothers. “She’s the reason.”

Casimiria is a fiery figure of justice as she fires an arrow over the princes’ heads. She readies another as Yngvarr emerges from the mound of leaves, coughing, and he catches the moment she fires again, making Anastasius jerk himself sharply out of the arrow’s path.

“Leave him,” she commands.

Anastasius lazily tosses magic her way, a spiralling blast of wind that knocks Casimiria back a few steps. She recovers her composure, fighting back with her own magic—strong wind of her own. Surprise flickers over the crown prince’s face. “You must be the general’s daughter.”

“You must be the son of”—Prins Yngvarr tries to catch her gaze, a look of warning in his eye, but she doesn’t see it—“an arrogant prick.”

Anastasius throws out a furious wind and his laughter sails on it to smack into her face. When it dies down and she’s caught her footing again, he says, “Why aren’t you with the other ladies, wishing to be selected as my wife?”

Understanding hits her and she pales briefly, then roots herself to the ground and shoots a pummelling wind back at him. “I’m less willing to join them now.”

Anastasius’s eyes flash and he returns her gust. Their angry back-and-forth whips at their clothing and forces Valerian to hide behind the tree, while Prins Yngvarr attempts to yank Anastasius off balance. Leaves and twigs fly in the air like sharp missiles and—

Yngvarr sees it first. His mask, whipping around them in circles, and his carving knife hidden amongst the leaves, headed straight for Casimiria.

He lurches into the battling tempests and reaches the handle in time to jerk it away from her heart.

Instead, the sharp blade slices her arm and she yelps.

Magic ceases, and for a few breathless seconds, Yngvarr is frozen with the knife. He drops it, rips his cloak, and hurriedly ties a strip around the wound.

Anastasius shoves him aside and funnels a vitalian stitching spell into Casimiria’s arm.

Casimiria pulls away, turning her back to him, and helps Yngvarr to his feet. “Are you alright?”

Her kind words are drowned out by the urgent holler of an aklo rushing towards the brothers. “The king requests your immediate presence.”

Anastasius and Valerian swiftly follow, and Yngvarr glares after them.

Quin and I watch as the prins and Casimiria finally meet one another’s gaze and I can feel the tautness in the air. For long beats, they stare. Then the prins is bowing.

Quin is motionless beside me, his face cast in shadow. “Do you think she already knew?” I ask softly.

His lips press into a thin line, and for a long moment, I think he won’t answer. “She was never one to act without knowing the consequences.”

Yngvarr murmurs, “Thank you—”

Casimiria reaches out and urges him quickly upright, the loosened bandage around her arm slipping down to her wrist, to his arm where she holds him. They both look at the frayed fabric and Casimiria rips her hand back. “You’re the Skeldar prins. You should bow to no one.”

“Your injury came from my knife.” He pauses. “How do you know who I am, when you didn’t recognise your own Crown Prince?”

She laughs, flushing, and glances at the bandage that’s fallen to the grass between them.

Yngvarr frowns and pivots sharply away from her. He finds his mask and knife amongst the leaves, and picks them up.

“Wait,” Casimiria says, following him. “I didn’t recognise him because I only arrived last night. I recognised you because... because... ”

He pauses, his back to her, and stares at the mask in his hand.

He waits and, when she doesn’t continue, nods and starts to walk away.

Casimiria rushes around to his front, gripping the bow over her shoulder so hard her fingers are white. “They say the hostage prins is the most beautiful person they’ve ever seen. The ladies here for the marriage selection. So...”

Prins Yngvarr grimaces. “Ah.”

“You don’t seem surprised. Not a hint of bashfulness, at being so admired?” She leans in, eyes dancing.

“They like the allure. But would they like me as this?” He puts the ferocious-looking mask against his face.

Her laughter rings loudly, and she tips her head back with it. “Gosh, what a fright it would stir. You must wear it!”

Behind the mask, Yngvarr catches his breath as he stares at her.

“Your highness?” she says.

“Yes?”

“Forgive me.” Casimiria doesn’t wait—she grabs his arm and pulls him at a run down the hill, over the field, and into the black forest. He yields to her, knife in his belt, mask dangling between fingertips, eyes trained on the back of her head in wonder.

We race to follow and find ourselves quickly in shadows, the scent of moss churned up under our footsteps.

We walk, deeper and deeper into the forest, following Casimiria’s laughter as she pulls the prins along, and come suddenly to a clearing.

A glade filled with soulbloom, and across it, a familiar dilapidated cabin.

“This is . . .”

“Yes,” Quin murmurs. “Exactly the same, minus the rune doors.”

Casimiria lead Prins Yngvarr up the steps and swings open the cabin door. She waves a hand at the sudden cloud of dust, coughs and laughs, and steps inside.

The prins stands on the top step, hesitating. “What is this place?”

Casimiria comes back to rock her feet on the threshold, her bow and quiver set aside. “My father and I have been stationed on this estate many times. This is where I go to have some peace.”

“Why are you showing me?”

She plants her hands on her hips. “It isn’t obvious?”

He stares at her.

She continues, “You steal all the female attention. Those princes will only bully you more, out of jealousy.”

“It’s been many years. I’m used to it.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. No, just come here, and carve in peace.”

She turns her back to him and disappears inside again. After a pause, Prins Yngvarr follows her.

Quin and I slink to the open door and take a side of the frame each, awkwardly careful not to touch.

I glance fleetingly at him, but his eyes are trained on the scene with purpose, and I jerk my gaze to the room.

A dusty four-poster bed fills most of it, but Casimiria and the prins are tucked into a small corner behind an uneven table.

She pushes her quiver to the side and takes his mask, inspecting it. “Can I try?”

“Don’t you have challenges to fulfil at the selection?”

“Like I want to be there.” Her smile fades. “Besides, it’s only practice today.”

“You won’t get in trouble?”

She leans in. “My father is known as a god of war. They won’t mess with me too much.” She holds the mask up beseechingly. “Show me?”

Prins Yngvarr pulls out his knife. “Under one condition.” He leans in, meeting her in the middle of the table. “Tell me your name.”

Almost the instant after she says it, the room darkens.

Quin turns and I follow his gaze as he takes in the surrounding forest. The glade seems to shiver, its bright hues dimming. The leaves blur, edges smudging like water dropped on ink. The deep scents of soil and soulbloom, the sound of the creek babbling nearby—all wanes.

Quin’s voice is calm but urgent. “Cael, this is the sign to head back.”

The nearer we get to the estate courtyard, the less form our surroundings have.

When Quin reaches the rune door, he pulls it open and ushers me through first. We emerge once again to a glade of soulbloom with six large doors, surrounded by trees with the rundown cabin nestled in the fringes.

“That was tranquil enough,” Quin says and eyes the other rune doors warily. “The others, though... ”

I swallow and march toward the second door. “We don’t have time to worry.”

“What exactly are you looking for?”

“A way.”

“A way to what?”

To get on King Yngvarr’s side. To convince him.

To save you.

I push open the second door to Quin’s warning at my nape. “Be cautious. King Yngvarr’s danger lurks in this world, too.”