6 . 1 . 13

The news that Princess Amethyst had gone missing, and at the hand of none other than her rumored intended, spread like wildfire through Folall, radiating outward from the palace so that all towns within 20 miles knew the story before the rise of the moon. The story was always just ahead of the guards that came riding into town, ransacking inns and searching houses for the princess and her captor. Although the countrymen of Folall were relieved to hear that no spindle was found either in the palace or elsewhere — and was thus unlikely to be involved — they were still anxious about the fact that such a dreadful thing had happened so close to the advent of the princess' curse.

The two could not be unrelated, they told each other in whispers over trades and drinks.

Not a word was spoken of Prince Tyrillius unless it was accompanied by a disgusted spit or a curse. Normally a trusting and flexible people, the Folalli peasants latched onto the idea that Prince Tyrillius had something to do with the princess' disappearance with startling ferocity. Magic, they did not understand. Politics, they understood even less, but there was no denying its existence at least. A curse was nebulous and frightening, but a human could be caught and punished and the princess returned.

And so, usually on shaky terms with the royal guards, the townspeople wordlessly opened their homes for inspection and didn't complain (loudly) if some trinket was accidentally damaged in the shuffle. Despite all this extraordinary hospitality, however, the princess was not found. But, the prince was still being held prisoner so, in the minds of the townsfolk, it was only a matter of time before he divulged her location.

After hearing the accusations that faced his brother, it only took Simon ten minutes to argue his way out of the ballroom and bully the guard into telling him where his brother was being held; even a sword could not deter him when his family and reputation was on the line. Despite the protests of a particularly loud-mouthed guard — Simon thought he'd heard him being called Micah — the Crown Prince of Syndoc swept down to the vaguely dungeon-like hallway, where he could already hear his brother shouting with (rightful) anger.

"I swear by my kingdom and crown that I had nothing to do with this!" the man's voice echoed, from the inside of a heavy door.

"What is the meaning of this?" Simon said, his voice flinty and unrelenting. The guards at the door jumped to their feet and bowed at him, looking slightly embarrassed, but unrepentant.

"He's been accused of the murder — or at the very least, accomplice in the kidnapping — of Princess Amethyst," Micah said, coming up behind him and saving the guards from responding. "As you've already been told."

"You have no evidence," Simon said flatly. "He is a foreign dignitary; you cannot hold him without consent."

Micah had no reply for that, and Simon was about to order the guards to unlock the door when Major Greene joined them in the hallway.

"Step away from that door, Hitchins," he said without looking at the guard; the man stepped back. "MacLean, why is the prince not with the other guests?"

Micah opened his mouth to reply, but Simon beat him to it.

"Because you have no right to hold me there, just as you have no right to hold my brother in that room," he replied.

"It is for everyone's safety, Prince Simon," Major Greene said immediately. "Until we know more details of the princess' disappearance, no one is leaving the castle."

"Then let my brother out of the room, and we will both return to the ballroom," Simon said, his reply coming with no hesitation. "We will await questioning, together, with the rest of the guests."

"I think that's a good idea!" Tyrillius hollered from inside the door; clearly he could hear them.

Major Greene didn't even glance at the door. On the other side, Tyrillius was quiet, probably waiting to hear the Major's response.

"That simply isn't possible," Major Greene said, eyes narrowing.

There was an indeterminate shout from Tyrillius, which both men ignored.

"Then neither is it possible for the two of us to remain under your hospitality," Simon said. "I will thank you to show us both to our carriage."

"We will not release him until we are sure he has had nothing to do with this," Major Greene said. "And frankly, that's looking less and less likely as time passes."

Simon took a slow breath, reshuffling his arguments in his head until he found the most straightforward line of thought. Major Greene was attempting to stare him down, but Simon was unaffected. He reminded himself not to shout — the Folalli didn't like that — and threw his next barb.

"You are on the edge of committing diplomatic suicide," Simon said, his voice low and dangerous; his face was serious. "There is no war declared, and you cannot thus imprison him without my father's permission."

"He is suspected of aiding and abetting in the princess' capture or murder, and as such we cannot let him go," Major Greene said, his tone equally steely and face equally set.

"Suspected on what evidence?" Simon accused. "That he was found nowhere near the princess' bedchamber, and clearly had not kidnapped her?"

He had heard the guards talking quietly while he was in the ballroom. Eavesdropping was one of his many talents.

"He was the only guest who had left the ballroom, and the last to be seen with the princess, on word of MacLean, the princess' royal guard."

The guard in question shifted his weight slightly at the major's mention.

"Hardly enough evidence to hold him here rather than in the ballroom with the other guests. It is a disgrace to your country to treat a visiting prince with such indignity."

"We merely have the safety of the princess in mind," Major Greene said sharply. There would be an uproar throughout the country if their beloved princess went missing and nothing appeared to be done about it right away.

"I demand to talk to the king and queen at once," Simon said, brushing past the man and heading back toward the stairs.

"I cannot allow that," the major said smoothly, turning and keeping pace with the prince.

"You do not presume to say that I am under suspicion as well, Major Greene?" Simon said, sparing him a wilting glance which the man absorbed to no effect.

"Of course not," he said. "The royal couple is not taking visitors."

"This is not a visit," Simon said, knowing very well the political jargon that the major was trying to pose as explanation. He'd grown up in the royal court, and he'd thrived on the wordplay. Still, he steadied his temper with a breath so as not to yell, and continued. "This is parlay on behalf of my brother, a foreign prince who is being held captive in their kingdom — nay, in their very home! A fact which, I suspect, they have not even been made aware of, Major Greene."

The man now appeared a bit ruffled, but Simon interrupted him when he began to explain the situation again with more vague terminology. The prince had won, and they both knew it was only a matter of time before Simon got what he wanted. But Simon knew that in a case with high tensions and nasty rumors, time was of the essence. So, he pulled out his final weapon and sealed the battle.

"If I am not presented to the king and queen, or else my brother is released from his appalling and humiliating imprisonment, you will find the Syndocian army at your doorstep tomorrow. I'd like to see you explain that to your monarchs, sir."

After that thinly veiled threat of war, the major suddenly found the wisdom in letting Prince Tyrillius out of the room, especially since the investigation had not yet turned up any hard evidence linking Tyrillius to the crime. The two princes headed straight to the stables, not wanting to take any chances that the king might, in his crazed worry, demand that they be waylaid and thrown in the dungeon.

As much as Simon was willing to threaten war, it was the last thing that he wanted. The two countries had a petty and tempestuous history. (The royal families went through spurts of pleasantness, indicated by good trade laws and combined festivals, followed by years of irrational annoyance, littered with pointless raids and negative propaganda.) A skirmish would not be helpful for either country; the good spell had lasted for three generations so far, and the future was looking hopeful. The intended marriage of Tyrillius and Amethyst was meant to seal the peace forever.

When they arrived in the stables, however, they soon remembered their broken carriage. As Randall had suspected, the repair had barely carried them to the Folalli palace. When they'd arrived, he had gone to work on the carriage right away with the help of the castle blacksmith. The job was not completely done, however, and (probably on some whispered order from Major Greene) the blacksmith suddenly found himself in need of more time, as he unapologetically told the royal pair. If Simon wasn't, at this point, already inclined to disbelieve everyone in this godforsaken castle — country, really — then the roasting look Randall was giving the blacksmith would have been enough to confirm his suspicion.

Simon prepared to argue the man into a corner, like he had with the major, but soon found himself inexplicably stymied. Ten minutes of ferocious arguing and yelling yielded the princes nothing from the blacksmith. Unlike the major, the man had no political background or social training; he was simply stubborn and following orders. Simon wasn't as familiar dealing with people like that. Tyrillius, unfortunately, was of no help whatsoever. Whenever he opened his mouth, he made things worse, so he eventually just stopped talking. It was all for the better anyway; his mind was far too preoccupied with the sobering events that had just occurred, and the whirlwind of the preceding hours.

Eventually the argument was stopped by the arrival of the Stable Master, who had apparently not been reached by Major Greene. He offered them their pick of any of the royal horses and a promise that their luggage and servants would be returned to Syndoc with the royal carriage — or sooner, if they so desired.

The man probably just wanted them to stop yelling and get out of the stable. Still, it was a kind gesture. One that Tyrillius appreciated at least, because he was starting to jump whenever he heard an armored footstep. Simon grumbled about the carriage, but he was not seriously worried that they would sabotage it in any way. And if they did, Randall would kill them. Maybe not kill them. (But maybe he would. He took his job very seriously. And he liked that carriage. He'd helped to design it, in fact.)

The brothers set off at once, riding as fast as they safely could toward the border. Tyrillius soon became exceeding grateful for the more expeditious form of transportation. The citizens of Folall were giving him looks that would curdle milk at every town where they stopped to rest. He was grateful that they would be able to make it over the border and through the Pry before they had to stop and sleep. He was starting to worry that someone might kill him outright.

When Tyrillius confessed this to Simon, he looked unperturbed.

"Of course they're going to react that way," he said, giving a stony look to someone who had been staring at them for far too long. "You may have aided in the kidnapping of their beloved princess, and you're getting off scot-free."

"I had nothing to do with it!" Tyrillius replied angrily. "There isn't even any evidence against me! I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Aren't they all," Simon muttered, almost to himself, before taking a drink of water. Tyrillius was so taken aback by this that he didn't respond, and Simon continued. "That's enough evidence to garner suspicion, Tyrillius."

Something about this whole interaction was making Tyrillius uneasy. Now that it occurred to him, Simon hadn't really seemed quite himself since they'd left the castle. Tyrillius had initially blamed it on the frenzy of the evening, and all the arguments and hassle Simon had had to go through, but now he wasn't so sure.

"You don't think I'm involved, do you?" he said, the words sounding ridiculous, even to him.

He hoped his brother would laugh, or punch him in the arm, or something, but the man didn't even look him in the eye. Nor did he respond.

"Simon?"

"We should keep riding," Simon said, setting his glass down on the table and standing up. "The horses have had enough of a break."

"Simon, you don't seriously—"

"I don't know, Tyrillius," Simon said sharply, his eyes catching his for a moment before dropping away. "I don't know. But now is not the time to be having this conversation. Too many ears are keening toward us."

He gifted several other patrons of the small establishment with heated glares, then walked through the loosely-hinged door with a bang. Tyrillius followed after him, his mind racing. His brother would be on his side, he thought. Even if no one else was, Simon would be. Simon was always on his side.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked Simon as they saddled their horses; there was no one else in the stable.

"Because I don't know what happened," Simon said, tightening the girth. "All I know is that the princess went missing, and you were the only one not where you were supposed to be."

"I got lost!" Tyrillius cried, frustrated that no one seemed to believe him.

He wanted to spin all of them around, blindfolded, in front of the princess' chamber and then ask them to find their way back to the ballroom. In the dark. Without a map. Maybe then they would realize just how easy it was to get turned around. Every room looked the same! It was poor planning. Whoever designed that floor should have been fired; Tyrillius hoped savagely that he was. Perhaps living in a dirty village somewhere on the outskirts of town, scraping by in a house of his own design which was now falling apart.

"Then how do you explain the book?" Simon shot back, now climbing into the saddle. Tyrillius hadn't even finished saddling his horse.

"What book?" Tyrillius asked blankly.

"Just keep saying that, and you'll be okay," Simon said wearily. "I grabbed it before they found it, I think, but just in case."

Tyrillius finished saddling his horse and mounted it smoothly, racking his mind for any book he brought that could be incriminating. He'd only brought two, though: The Fine And Ancient History Of Calligraphy and The Gentleman's Sport, which was a book about jousting. Neither of them should have been worth any panic, unless the disappearance was somehow linked to a competitor in the Folalli jousting tournament, or a sinister calligrapher.

"I only brought a book about calligraphy and jousting," Tyrillius finally said and they headed out of the stable. "Which one did you take?"

Simon shot him a tired look.

"I'm not going to say anything to anyone, Ty. I want you to know that. All this same, I'm burning this book about spindles as soon as we cross the border."

"A book about what?!" Tyrillius shouted, causing several heads to turn.

"Shut up," Simon hissed, his face impassive to all passers-by, but his tone harsh.

Tyrillius waited until they were outside the city before he spoke again.

"Simon, I don't know how that got there. I don't even know what book you're talking about."

"Stop talking about this," Simon said, looking at him with an exasperated expression. "I don't really know what your angle is with this. I already told you I'm not going to tell anyone. I'm going to get us both safely back into Syndoc, and we can let this be behind us. I don't know whether or not you're involved, and I don't want to know."

Simon took a deep breath, and Tyrillius thought he looked suddenly very old. He didn't like it at all.

"All I know is that you're my brother, and I'm going to protect you," Simon finally continued. "Whatever it takes."

Simon's affirmation was meant to be encouraging, but it only added to the sickening weight in Tyrillius' stomach. His brother was acting on loyalty, not trust, and that realization hit him with the sting of betrayal.