The Runaway King
Princess Amarinda of Bultain was the niece of the king of Bymar, our only ally country. Because of that, it had been arranged from her birth that she would marry whoever sat on the throne of Carthya, sealing the alliance. This was supposed to be my brother’s duty, one I believed he was happy to fulfill. Now the duty had come to me. The happiness over it had not. Amarinda had made it clear she was equally miserable over our betrothal. Compared to Darius, I felt like a consolation prize, and a poor one at that.
For the first time, Imogen noticed my wounded arm. She gave a soft cry, then moved closer to get a better look. Without a word, she crouched down and lifted her dress just enough to grab the fabric of an underskirt. She tore off a length, and used it as a bandage to bind my arm.
“It’s not so bad,” I said as she wrapped the injury. “The blood makes it look worse than it is.”
“Who did this?” I hesitated, and she said, “Let me get the princess.”
“No.”
Imogen’s eyes narrowed. “This is important. You have to talk to her.”
I’d talked to Amarinda plenty, with every polite phrase I’d ever learned, such as “That’s a nice dress,” and “This dinner tastes good.” But we’d both avoided any of the things that really needed to be said.
Imogen kept pushing. “Jaron, she’s your friend, and she’s concerned about you.”
“I’ve got nothing to say.”
“That’s not true.”
“I’ve got nothing to say to her!” An awkward silence fell, until I added, “Amarinda’s friends are already inside the chapel.” She courted friendships with the regents who disrespected me most. And she had laughed so much with the captain of my guard at supper last night that I finally went to my room so I wouldn’t be in their way. I wanted to trust her, but she had made that impossible.
After more silence, Imogen murmured, “Then talk to me.” She smiled shyly, and added, “I think I’m still closer to you than anyone else.”
She was, which was a tragedy. Because now that she’d put it into words, I realized someone else understood it too. Roden said he knew exactly whose death would hurt me most.
Imogen. If the pirates wanted to hurt me, they’d take Imogen.
I couldn’t imagine a day of my life without her there in some way. But if I failed to keep the pirates out of Carthya, then Roden would lead them straight to her. The thought of what might happen then was unbearable. A hole opened up inside me as I realized how dangerous it was for her to stay here. Allowing her to remain connected to me in any way was a potential death sentence.
As much as I hated the thought of it, I knew what must be done. Imogen had to leave the court. Worse still, she had to want to be as far from me as possible, so that nobody could ever suspect there was any benefit in harming her.
My stomach twisted, as if the lies I was about to tell were knives pulled from my gut. I slowly shook my head and said, “You’re wrong, Imogen. We’re not friends and never were. I only used your help to get back to the throne.”
She froze for a moment, unsure of whether she’d heard me correctly. “I don’t understand —”
“And you’re using me to stay here at the castle. Where you don’t belong.”
“That’s not true!” Imogen stepped away with a look of shock as if I’d slapped her. Once she recovered, she said, “When you were Sage —”
“I’m Jaron, not Sage.” My lip curled as I added the worst thing I could think to say. “Did you really believe I could ever truly care about someone like you?”
“You’ll leave at once. A carriage will be prepared to take you home.”
I turned away from her, so as not to betray my own feelings. “I don’t want you here. Gather your things and go.”
“I have nothing here,” Imogen said. “I will leave just as I came.”
“As you wish.”
She left without looking back at me and with her head held high. Watching her hide the pain I’d just caused was worse than if she’d let it show. I had never been so cruel to anyone, and I hated myself for it. She would hate me as well, and I’d never be able to explain that sending her away with such indifference, even hostility, would save her life.
A new sort of pain flared inside me, something different than I’d ever felt before. If there was ever someone I could one day give my heart to, I had just sent her from my life forever.
I wasn’t alone for long. Only minutes after Imogen left, King Vargan walked out of the chapel doors, holding his back as if in pain. He didn’t see me in the darkness behind him, so I had a moment to watch him. Vargan was tall and well built but slowly wilting. He had dark eyes and a graying face of deep lines. His hair was still long and thick but the color of coals on a dead fire.
As I watched him gaze over the courtyard with a hungry eye, my hands curled into fists. Here he stood, having played some role in the attempt on my life only an hour ago, and yet I was powerless to stop him. The pirates wanted my life, Vargan wanted my country, and my regents wanted to paint rainbows over reality and claim all was well.
Luckily, I was dry enough now that my appearance looked sloppy, but not soaking. I rotated my cloak to hide my bandaged arm, pushed my hair off my face, then stepped forward.
Vargan heard me coming and twisted around, startled, then grabbed his back again. “King Jaron, I didn’t realize you were out here. I had expected to see you inside.”
“It looked pretty crowded. I thought maybe nobody had saved me a seat.”
He smiled at the joke and said, “You could’ve had mine. Those chapel pews torture my spine. Forgive me for leaving your family’s funeral.”
“I’m not sure it is my family’s funeral. Other than their names, I don’t recognize the people they’re speaking about in there.”
Vargan laughed. “Such disrespect for the dead! I’d expect that of an Avenian, but I thought Carthyans were better than that.” His expression grew more serious and he added, “I’m told you passed yourself off as an Avenian over the past four years while you were missing.”
“I was never missing,” I said. “I always knew exactly where I was. But it is true that a lot of people believed I was Avenian.”
“Why?”
“I can do the accent.”
“Ah.” He put a finger to his face while he studied me. “You’re such a young king. I barely remember being your age.”
“Then clearly we’re talking about how old you are, not how young I am.”
His amused grin faded as he said, “You look more like your mother, I think.”
I had my father’s solid build, but I was far more my mother’s son. I had her thick brown hair that tended to curl at the ends and her leaf green eyes. More than appearances, however, I had her mischievous nature and sense of adventure.
Thinking about her made me uncomfortable, so instead I asked, “Are our countries friends, King Vargan?”