Disclaimer: I don't own any part of the Young Wizards universe; all the characters (and most of the settings and a lot of other stuff as well) belong to Diane Duane. Neither do I own The Prince; I have no idea who has rights to it now, but it was originally written by Niccolo Machiavelli (and I am only including this in the disclaimer so as to be spared the ordeal of being accosted by the ghost of an Italian politician over literary rights).
An Explanation on the Behalf of the Author (also known as an author's note): The following story will be a set of small tales involving everyone's favorite Prince Not-So-Charming, Roshaun of the many names. Each chapter will be a small story within itself, based upon each of the chapters in Machiavelli's work of the same title, and there will not be any real connecting plotline, other than the continued references to The Prince by Machiavelli. I am being forced to read The Prince against my will, but so many parts of it make me think of Roshaun that the idea for this story came to mind. This is my way of making Machiavelli fun. That said, it will be updated sporadically at best, and probably not done until well into the school year (seeing as The Prince has twenty-six chapters, plus the introduction and dedication, and I will be writing about them all). And I think that's it. On to the story!
The Prince
Introduction
Roshaun was bored. This by itself was not at all extraordinary. What was extraordinary was that there were no frightened palace staff trying desperately to alleviate the boredom of their esteemed prince.
King now, I suppose, Roshaun mused. He had received word—had it been only days ago?—that his father, who had been the Sun Lord of Wellakh for so long, was rescinding his claim to the throne. When the time came for him to leave Earth, Roshaun would be welcomed back with all of the pomp and pageantry befitting one of his exalted status as ruler of an entire planet. Somehow, oddly, he did not find himself looking forward to this event in the way he might have, earlier. His mother had been right about one thing when she'd insisted he take place in this wizardly exchange program: it had been a worthwhile experience.
In more ways than I think even she could have imagined, Roshaun thought as he looked around the Callahan living room. Before the events that had occurred here on Earth, Roshaun would have never even considered admitting his mother had been right about anything—even if she had been. But now, he saw that this visit had done him a great deal of good. And it wasn't even over yet.
Still, none of this did anything about his current less-than-entertained state. And if I want something done about it, Roshaun thought, I'll have to do it myself. It was an odd notion, but one he thought he could manage. His old self would have laughed at it. Now, he knew better than to suppose that Dairine or her father would cater to his every need in the way he had been accustomed to back home. So it was up to him to amuse himself.
He got up from the easy chair he'd been lounging in and looked at the bookshelves that lined one wall. Perhaps there would be something interesting for him to read, and he could pass the time until the rest of the house was awake in that manner. Dairine had not come down from her bedroom since the night before, and Filif and Sker'ret had not, to Roshaun's knowledge, left their pup tents. They were all undoubtedly worn out from the effort they had so recently made to save Earth's star, Sol, from destabilizing and possibly frying the planet, if not worse. Oddly, Roshaun did not feel the same weariness that they did; a normal night's sleep had been enough for him. He thought it might have had something to do with the energy he'd encountered within Sol, when he'd had to enter the tachocline to correctly position the worldgate. Whatever the reason, he felt vigorously awake.
But he knew that the others would not be functioning as well for at least a little while, so he looked at the titles on the spines of the books, using his wizardly abilities to read the language that he would not have otherwise understood. They varied greatly. There was one book that, from its title, might have been about balancing the affairs of some militant kingdom. Though vaguely interesting, the mere size was enough to dissuade Roshaun; the book could have doubled as a doorstop. There was also a collection of theatrical works by someone called Shakespeare, and a book about handling large fire-breathing lizards (or fiercely vigilant and intractable people; Roshaun wasn't quite sure which meaning of "dragon" the author intended). Then he saw another volume, smaller than the rest by far, and with a title he couldn't possibly misconstrue: The Prince, by someone called Niccolo Machiavelli.
This could be interesting, he thought, removing the book from the shelf and returning to his favored chair. Though I am no longer a prince, it should be informative to see what this prince of Machiavelli's is like. And so he leaned back in the chair and, with his wizardry abilities making the words on the page intelligible, began to read.