“This is boring,” Prince Hedrick complained, one morning. “Can’t I go out for a walk?”
“Not unless you want to die,” Lady Barb said. She’d teleported to Dragon’s Den to collect the post and a handful of supplies, then returned. “The rebels are just waiting for you to step outside.”
Emily nodded. She’d heard a handful of speakers calling for Hedrick’s head, preferably not attached to his body. The prince had been accused of a string of crimes, from raping innocent peasant girls to incest with the queen, the princesses and even his brother. And... Emily was fairly sure half the charges weren’t even remotely true, but it hardly mattered. The moment the mob saw the prince, they’d tear him apart and dump the remains in the river. It was far better, for all concerned, if he stayed safely inside the house, out of sight.
She winced as she drank her tea. Prince Hedrick had every right to feel trapped. He was trapped. There was nothing to do in the barren house, but pace the rooms and flirt with Silent. The maid hadn’t shown any sign of interest, as far as Emily knew, yet... what would Hedrick care? Emily had found a handful of books for him, but he wasn’t much of a reader. She would have felt sorrier for him if he hadn’t managed to get on her nerves.
“You could disguise me,” Hedrick pointed out. “A couple of spells...”
“You could always wear a dress,” Emily suggested, mischievously. “If you looked like a girl, you might be mistaken for me...”
If looks could kill, the look Prince Hedrick gave her would have blasted her into dust and ashes. Emily felt a twinge of guilt, mingled with the grim awareness the prince had agreed to come with them despite the risk. He’d insisted on it... she shook her head as Lady Barb shot her a reproving look, reminding her she probably shouldn’t taunt him. The prince knew he was caught in a trap. He didn’t need her making it worse.
And yet, no one would imagine him in a dress, she thought. No wonder Aiden had gotten away with wearing male clothes for so long. It’s unthinkable.
She finished her drink as she heard a knocking at the door. Silent went to answer it, then returned and dropped a curtsey. “My Lady, a messenger has arrived,” she said. “You’re invited to the Palace of the People.”
“My father’s palace,” Prince Hedrick snapped. “Those scum have...”
“I’ll be along in a moment,” Emily said. She stood and grabbed her coat. “And I’ll be back as soon as possible.”
She wondered, as she hurried along the corridor, if the rebel council had finally made its decision. Aiden had been talkative about everything but the deliberations over what terms to offer the royalists. The others had been even less willing to talk. Sergeant Oskar had discussed military tactics with her, but little else. She had a feeling, as she spotted the messenger waiting for her, that they hadn’t been sure of the answer themselves. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had started a revolution without a clear idea of what they wanted to do after they won.
They haven’t won yet, she reminded herself. The Crown Prince is still out there somewhere.
The messenger was a different young boy, barely entering his teens. “Lady Emily?”
Emily tried not to flush at his blatant hero worship. “Yes.”
“Please, come with me,” the messenger said. “I’ll take you there directly.”
He chatted, loquaciously, as they walked up to the palace. Emily did her best to answer his questions, keeping her eyes open for signs of trouble. There were more bodies hanging from lampposts, some of them seemingly killed only a few short hours ago. The placards beneath them blasted profiteers, traitors and naysayers. Emily shuddered as she saw a young man, no older than her escort, hanging from a rope. What had he done to deserve to die? How many grudges were going to be paid back, in blood, as the revolution gathered speed? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
There were more troops in the palace grounds, moving endlessly through a series of exercises. They were as mismatched as ever, although they all wore the little cloth cap that seemed to define the rebellion. She watched them for a moment, then the messenger cleared his throat and led her into the palace. Someone had done a great deal of work, clearing up the mess and stripping anything useful out of the building. She wondered, idly, if the palace’s former servants had returned to serve the rebel leadership.
“Emily.” Althorn greeted her with a nod. “Please. Come with me.”
Emily nodded and followed him into a smaller chamber. It looked like a comfortable sitting room, although there were marks on the floor that suggested a handful of minor pieces of furniture had been dragged out and taken somewhere else. A large painting hung on one wall, depicting a brown-haired young woman leading an army, a gun in one hand and a green flag in another. Her eyes narrowed as she realized who the woman was supposed to be. She supposed, rather crossly, that the artist had - somehow - managed to actually paint a near-accurate picture of her. Some of the paintings she’d seen hadn’t even got the hair color right.
“You are an idol to many of us,” Althorn said. “What do you think?”
“I think you didn’t bring me here to discuss artwork,” Emily said. She took one last look at the painting, then sat. “I have never been comfortable looking at paintings of me.”
“The paintings are often idealized,” Althorn agreed, dryly. “Why, there is a painting of Hedrick himself that depicts him as a true hero,
