The shadows in the alley melted away, the reflected light that hid Arthur shifting to reveal the Prince. He gave me an uneasy smile, looking like a child caught with sticky fingers next to the honey pot.

  “I meant no disrespect. I didn’t want to interrupt your performance and didn’t know how to reveal myself afterwards.” He held his hands up, palms bright in the fading light, showing he held no weapon. He wasn’t lying.

  I let out a long sigh. This conversation was long overdue, and in fairness, there likely wasn’t a better time. I was in a good mood from playing, and even Arthur’s general Arthurness wasn’t enough to bring me down. Would I have chosen this moment to speak? No, but it seemed as if I didn’t have a choice.

  “You still haven’t answered my question. What did you think of the performance? Be honest.”

  I set off, and Arthur followed me through the now silent streets. We were close to Spendlove’s little manor, and I was in no hurry, so I left him to his thoughts.

  We arrived at the fence marking the edge of the manor. Despite the premium on space within the town’s walls, Spendlove had a small garden. I swiftly jumped the fence and took a seat on a stone bench facing an ornamental tree. Even in the dark, I could see it was starting to bud, soon to blossom.

  “Your playing on the lute is competent but not exceptional. I have listened to enough to recognise that much, but I don’t know what it is that you’re missing. I will say, though, that your voice is of rare quality. It is most enchanting, in the way that all good music is.” Arthur’s response was clipped, his tone neutral.

  “I thank you for the honest feedback.” I appreciated that the Prince hadn’t made up some lie to spare my feelings. I was under no illusion that my music was of the highest quality, but the sincere compliment to my voice was unexpected. “So, what can I do for you?”

  “I thought it best that we talk.”

  “About what, pray tell?” I asked, spreading myself across the seat, taking in the simple view. I quietly hoped it had nothing to do with my astronomical practices with Sephy. Arthur wore his emotions on his sleeve, and given his calm manner, I could only assume he was still unaware of our relationship.

  “I have some secrets I must tell, an apology to offer, and some questions to ask of you.”

  “Must they be in that order?”

  “Not necessarily. Unless you are feeling particularly forthcoming in this moment?”

  I shrugged in response.

  “Then the secret is first. I shall set up some privacy runes.”

  I watched Arthur move about. He was far more practised than I was at setting up the runes. For a noble prince, he was clearly used to keeping secrets. Grimacing, I pushed that thought down and sought to mute the chattering mob of critiques, complaints, and conspiracies that came to roost in my mind.

  To calm myself, I took the time to appreciate my surroundings. Even in the thin moonlight, the garden had a certain charm. It wasn’t garish or over the top, and I had to assume it was Squire Lucan’s work. I couldn’t imagine Spendlove out here—the gravel paths weren’t wide enough.

  The warmth my performance had instilled within me calmed me further. I suspected I would’ve already been looking for reasons to escape this confrontation without it offering me an anchor. A sense of being whole—something I hadn’t even realised I’d been missing.

  Thanks to that pleasant mood, I could admit that even if I didn’t like the prince, my thoughts towards him were too much. I couldn't go around twisting everything he did into a new reason to dislike him. I was going to be questing with him for a while, and it wasn’t professional.

  As he finished the runes and turned to me, I was once again struck by how noble he looked. Not just noble, which technically included people like Spendlove, but like he’d walked out of a legendary tale of heroes. It wasn’t just the too perfect blonde hair or the blue eyes—they certainly helped—but how he carried himself. He radiated a sense of refined patience and respect. Not awkwardly uptight like Gawain, or even like Lance’s purposeful stride. It was friendly but firm.

  Same as in the meeting, I could sense that there was another level beyond his looks. It had the edge of aura and must’ve stemmed from his intent. If I thought the pressure was intentional, I’d have called him out on it, but it was so weak and consistent. It felt more like the effect was a lantern he could, at most, shutter. For whatever reason, my intent clashed with it. I tried to ignore that, plucking at the strings of my lute.

  “I have a question to ask, and with it, a secret to reveal. One that is long overdue.” He regarded me formally.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Is there a reason my mere presence makes you so incredibly angry? Have I done some great slight to you in the past that I am unaware of?” His voice was still neutral, but I could hear the emotion he failed to fully restrain.

  “Apart from insulting me in front of Maeve?”

  “Yes. For that, I apologise. That was indeed the apology I mentioned before. It was ignoble of me not to give you the opportunity to explain.” He didn’t give me a chance to linger on that and just pushed on. “Despite that, I am confident you didn’t like me even before then.”

  “I know I am better at hiding my mood than most, yet you sound awfully confident that you stir such emotions in me. Why is that?” I replied sharply.

  “My second gift is the Gift of the Heart,” Arthur said, watching my face.

  Only years of experience stopped me from recoiling in shock at the unexpected revelation. That gift, much like my own Gift of Death, was often considered cursed. The emotions of others fuelling it could twist the user, and even their own emotions could turn them into a monster.

  “You mean the power otherwise known as the Gift of the Berserker?” I asked, careful to keep my tone flat.

  “I would rather not be compared to those monsters. I would hope, given your gift, that you’d appreciate we are all more than our gifts.” Arthur’s face was stern, almost challenging.

  I mirrored his face and tone as I replied. “I will not judge you by your cultivation, but by your actions.”

  I scowled as I picked at the next point. “Speaking of actions, it seems you’ve been spying on emotions? I thought that power struggled to easily pick up the emotions of others?”

  “It is not deliberate. An interaction between my two gifts means I find myself prone to reflecting how people feel towards me specifically. It’s not something I can turn off. If I am not careful, I find myself mimicking those emotions. It is something that tends to only happen for those at Iron and when they harbour strong feelings towards me.”

  He wasn’t lying, and it made sense to me, especially given what I’d learned of my own aura sense.

  Even ignoring aura, gifts often worked like that, empowered where they intersected. I knew that Sephy’s shield was made almost entirely from iron pulled from the blood of monsters. As for me, I’d not told anyone, but the ash stored in the hilt of my knife was from a cremated monster’s remains.

  I looked back to Arthur, who was watching me with a calm, professional air. Apart from a couple of times, he’d rarely been overly hostile towards me. He was sharing this because we were comrades, and it was something I needed to know before we saw real battle together. It also made sense why it was a secret.

  People mostly thought of cultivators like Frothy, that minion of Roland Fos I’d slain weeks ago, whenever the gift was mentioned. The berserkers were the simplest—using enhanced strength and a reduced sense of pain alongside strikes empowered with raw glamour to bully their opponents into submission. With the Ray of Sacrifice using them so publicly in this manner, it was no surprise many had forgotten the true power.

  The classic users of the gift often served as the bannermen of their armies. A talented cultivator could bring calm, suppress fears, and ensure focus for both themselves and their allies if they were willing. That was something that required trust—a factor often missing among the cultists.

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  I didn’t know what to say. I was pleased he had shared the insight, but I didn’t know what to do with it. Nor did it change how I perceived him, even if it did make me feel a little guilty that I was partially responsible for his behaviour towards me.

  It did, however, answer a question I’d had for a while, and I decided to lead with that.

  “The initial choice for stealth makes more sense now. I thought it strange that Sephy ruled out politicking through the various challengers, but now I can picture why she avoided that. Put you in a room with enough angry foes with fake smiles, and it might’ve gone poorly.”

  Another thought struck me. “Is that why you have Bors?”

  “Pardon?” said Arthur, looking genuinely confused.

  “If I were travelling with someone with this challenge, I’d see having someone like Bors to pick fights before they could as a boon. He acts as a first line of offence. Someone to throw down the gauntlet before you can.” I stated plainly.

  Arthur was about to reply but stopped himself. He paced back and forth across the gravel path. Then I saw his shoulders slump.

  “It might be. I didn’t realise it, but it’s the kind of decision Percy would make, and my family would approve of. It is not how I have ever seen Bors, but now you say it… That’s why she was so against the bridge!” He slammed his hand into his palm, his face crumbling as the realisation set in.

  “Shit, I was being a prick.”

  I couldn’t help it—I laughed.

  Arthur’s face whipped to me, and for a split second, the noble image cracked. The face was a grotesque mix of sadness and anger. The bared teeth and wild eyes were pulled so unlike the Prince it shocked me.

  I looked away, not out of fear, but guilt. It felt invasive to see those emotions so vividly painted, like I was peering into his soul.

  I stared at the stars, pretending to ignore him, even as all I could hear was his rough breathing and the sound of his intense pacing. The small sounds were as loud as a concert in the otherwise silent garden. To fill the air, I played on my lute for a short while until I heard his breath draw more calmly and he came back to stand near me.

  “I’m sorry. It just never occurred to me that you could swear.”

  I was almost surprised when the words left my tongue. I’d not expected to apologise to Arthur tonight, even if it was over an escaped chuckle.

  “I have to be careful with my emotions. I am not afforded the same luxury with my feelings as you are.” His voice was cold and harsh. “I at least appreciate you aren’t wasting that privilege in pitying me.”

  “I wouldn’t insult you with pity. You make me angry, but honestly, you have done little to deserve the intensity of my ire.”

  “Then why?”

  “I don’t know,” I would've liked to say, but I was just a little too aware of myself for that. I hadn’t put the words to it, but on some level, I knew the problem. “Think of all that has happened to me, all that is implied but not said. You’ve heard I can tolerate the Evil Eye, that I stunted my cultivation, that I know the vile secrets of these cults, and that while I seek the life of a bard, I don’t for a second shy away from confronting Divine Cultivators.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  “I suggest you don’t. If your imagination gets you anywhere close, you’re likely to pull a face. Now remember that it’s been, what? Three months or so since I escaped? In which time I’ve developed a Death Gift, been the subject of assassination attempts, personally slain my foes, helped kill scores of men, encountered multiple fae, powerful witches, scions of multiple Houses, and found myself hitched to prophecy. Given all that, I think I’m doing shockingly well to suffer from some minor irrationality.” I was growling by the end.

  “You’re angry at the world, then? I’m just collateral damage.”

  “I don’t like you, in part due to how you treated Bors and your clear distrust of me despite my actions. At the core, though, it’s because we’re opposites as near as I can tell. I deal with my problems chaotically. You seem the type to impose order. Is it fair how I feel? Possibly not, but I’m a deeply petty man at times.”

  “Petty?” A single regal eyebrow was lifted.

  “I kept myself sane by plotting the downfall of the Harkleys. I even kept notes on what fucking dances they were terrible at so people could embarrass them at parties. That’s petty.” I laughed to myself. I wondered what the Chox Matriarch thought of that tidbit.

  “Besides my personal challenges, it’s clear you have your opinion of me, and it’s hardly radiant. I can tell.” I said, deciding to change the subject, not wanting him to probe that aspect of my identity too deeply.

  “I will admit,” his voice wavered as he sought the right words, “I do not understand your path.”

  “I preferred it when you swore.” I grumbled as he plastered on a false grin.

  I knew then why Arthur annoyed me so much. At least in this conversation.

  He reminded me of the people I disliked most in the courts. Those whose disdain was clear but who still pretended like they didn’t hate my guts. Not the clever acting that left you doubting their actual feelings, but a simple veneer of civility that left you in no doubt of their true disposition. Professional enough to distance their emotions and words, yet unable or unwilling to hide their actual opinion of you.

  I envied them. They could be open with their thoughts, while I had to coat my words in honey, even if all I could taste was bile.

  “Is there no way we can get along? I have to admit, it is challenging conversing with you sometimes.” Arthur spoke to me professionally again.

  Now I knew to look for it, I could hear the strain as he fought with his emotions.

  I played a little on my lute, thinking while also calming myself.

  “For that challenge, you have my genuine sympathy. My disposition towards you is like a seething cauldron. I should be able to bring it down to a simmer, though, thanks to this discussion. It would help, though, if you would apologise to Bors. Also, I would like to know why you were so keen on switching plans? I find it difficult to understand what made you so keen on the Order.”

  “I will speak with Bors.” I didn’t like that he didn’t say apologise, but that was royalty for you.

  “As for switching to the Order, I find it surprising that someone who survived in the Harkley household for so long can’t understand.”

  “You’re on thin ice, and unlike Maeve, I’m not sure I’ll be inclined to fish you out.” My eyes narrowed, but the slight hint of a smirk on his face didn’t fade.

  “I am the eighth and youngest son of my father. That’s just his sons, mind you. I will never inherit, and despite this, I must always be perfect. Balancing a position where a loose comment or my failure in a tournament cost my family power and prestige. And yet, if I dared to gain real power, the knives would be out in a moment.” He sounded bitter, and again I felt the shift of glamour. He turned his face away from me.

  I cursed my stupidity.

  I’d got so wrapped up with the idea that Arthur was a prince—a person of authority and order—that I’d accepted his public persona without thinking. Just because he wasn’t surrounded by creepy cultists ready to kill and had grown up in a palace didn’t mean he was free of constraint.

  Just like me, Arthur could only afford to be a certain level of special. It didn’t make me like him, but some of my hostility melted away. I doubted we’d ever be true friends, but being allies was now a possibility.

  “You don’t want power, do you?” I asked, checking my understanding.

  “All I want is for my efforts to matter. Just to matter.” He said, his voice a whisper by the end.

  “That I can empathise with. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try.” I stood from the cold stone bench and offered him my hand.

  “Thank you.” He shook it, letting out a long sigh of relief.

  Our business done, I could tell he was about to leave. This conversation hadn’t magically made us friends, and with no reason to speak, we were done. Before he could go, I did have one question that needed answering.

  “I do have a question about your cultivation, though.”

  He pulled himself up, no doubt expecting some interrogation about how he might behave in battle or some old wives’ tale about biting through shields.

  I had a slightly more important question—something that had started to bug me as I’d thought through the implications of his power.

  “From my reading, I know those with your gift tend to be unable to use others’ emotions unless it’s a mood shared by many, or an exceptionally raw and potent mood. Can you not identify these emotions?” He seemed to relax before he hunched up and looked me in the eye.

  “I already said I wasn’t spying on you.”

  “And I believe you.” I soothed, hunting for a way to ask the burning question that I didn’t dare put voice to. “I am confused about the power and would like to know more.”

  “Fine. I sense the glamour of emotion, but the type of emotion is all held in the attached will. So unless it’s directed at me, or I try and cultivate the glamour, I won’t know what emotion it is. I make a point of only cultivating glamour from those who know, or public places where it tends to be such a mix that I can’t hear any particular emotion over another.”

  “So, without cultivating, all you do is get a sense that people are or were feeling something intense.”

  “Indeed. It can be worrying at times. I have no idea if it’s mortal fear or great joy. Rather than cultivate and find out, I find myself drawn to check on these bursts of glamour, especially where my friends are concerned. It’s not spying, I just can’t ignore it, as you wouldn’t be able to ignore a sudden death.” He still seemed wary, likely concerned I was about to suggest he do some spying or make some accusation.

  Instead, I fixed a smile on my face. “It’s noble for you to be worried for your friends and to respect their privacy. Thank you. That has helped me understand. Now, I must bid you a good night.”

  I waved him off. He was stunned that I didn’t follow up—watching me for tricks as he collected his privacy runes and left the garden. I let him get inside the house before I slumped into a pile on the bench, stretching my legs out across the gravel path.

  That had been exhausting.

  Not only did I hate dredging up my past, but being open enough to change my opinion of the man was taxing. At least, though, I now had an answer for one of the great mysteries.

  I sighed and pulled out one of the stones inscribed with privacy runes. “I really hope Sephy knows a way to improve the privacy wards before our next astronomy session.”