“We’ve tried all the other ways, Joe!”
If the pair of nobles by the dais hadn’t already had Len’s full attention, they certainly did then. Joe? If that was Joseph West, then...
“Your parents didn’t want this for you.” The Lord Regent’s voice was low and urgent. “If they were here to see this—”
“Yeah, well, they aren’t, are they?”
The young man turned sharply, allowing Len a fleeting glance of the Lord Regent’s stricken look, and then he was face to face with the crown prince.
Words died on Len’s lips. The prince had a serious expression, and a dark sweep of hair at odds with his pale skin and paler eyes. He was taller than Len had expected, standing a couple inches above the Lord Regent, and striking in the crimson half-cloak draped over one shoulder.
When Len had heard stories of the mage prince, once a sickly child, he hadn’t expected to be confronted with such a striking young man, let alone one who was of a height with him. There was no mistaking him, even without the thin gold circlet gleaming there among his dark hair; something in Len stilled under his gaze, a prey instinct that had nothing to do with the crown and everything to do with the stark white stave held carelessly in the prince’s left hand.
Len swore he could feel power creeping over his skin, lifting the hair on the back of his neck. It was impossible; even a mage of considerable strength couldn’t project that kind of energy unless he were actively casting.
“Thank you for waiting, Sir Leonard.”
It was enough to break Len out of thoughts of fleeing, or worse still, burying his dagger in the prince’s chest. One of Len’s eyebrows twitched up of its own volition. “If you’ll excuse the liberty, your Highness,” he said, “I'm not a knight.”
“Oh!” The prince looked remarkably wrong-footed, all wide green eyes. Then he asked, “Would you like to be?”
“Barry.” The Lord Regent’s tired reprimand was quiet, but the acoustics of the hall had been designed to carry sound.
Len noted the nickname and filed it away for future reference. Barry. Cute.
The prince gave Len a sheepish smile. “You serve King Harrison, of course,” he said. “I’ve spoken out of place. Forgive me.”
It was the first time a member of the royalty had ever smiled at Len. He blamed that for his nerve when he replied, without thinking to check himself, “And here I thought boons were a king’s work. Am I to grant you forgiveness, and you to feed the horses?”
The prince—Barry—stared at him, and the Lord Regent’s eyes flashed as he looked sharply around at him. Len has just enough time to think, grimly, that it had been nice having a tongue while it lasted. Then Barry blinked, and a wide smile broke over his features.
“I don't think you want me in charge of the horses.” He shifted his weight onto one foot, slouching easily out of his strict posture and into a relaxed stance that matched his crooked smile. “My quartermaster tells me I lack a firm hand.”
By the grace of the gods, Len managed to bite back the offer of a firm hand that leapt reflexively to the tip of his tongue at the curve of those soft lips. The Lord Regent was still watching him with unflinching suspicion, and Len suspected such brazen insolence would've cost him more than his tongue.
When he glanced back at Barry, he was startled to find him watching him with an unmistakably playful glint in his eyes. The prince knew exactly what he'd been about to say, Len realized. More than that: he'd set him up for it.
Len tilted his head as he regarded Barry, a faint smirk tilting at his lips as he adjusted his initial evaluation. For better or worse, Len could already tell the trip was going to be much more interesting than he'd counted on.
“Your royal highness,” the Lord Regent said. “I hoped you might spare me a moment of your time before you began your journey, if you could forgive me the delay.”
Len had to work to keep the amusement out of his expression. No matter how formal the language, he recognized an imminent dressing down when he saw one. Barry tipped his head to the Lord Regent, and flashed Len a rueful grin.
“I’ll join you shortly, Leonard,” he said. “You’re welcome to wait in the front hall.”
While the most polite dismissal Len had ever received, the clear command under the words still chafed. Len inclined his head, not quite managing a proper bow, and withdrew from the room. A page opened the door for him as he approached, and shut it behind him with a studiously neutral expression. Len had no doubt that he'd relay the entire conversation to the kitchen staff by sundown.
