3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Gray knew who Prince Emory was. He'd heard them talking of him in the village, last time he was there. How the Regent Queen seemed to grip the throne of Fontaine tighter and tighter, and the Autumn Prince, as they called Prince Emory, was still seemingly unaware because his head was always in a book. Gray had turned away when the shopkeeper continued speaking of the Autumn Prince, because he'd not wanted to hear anything about any of the kingdoms surrounding his valley. But Fontaine was at least not Ardglass, and it was hardly like he could storm out without his supplies or close his ears completely.

He'd wondered why they called him the Autumn Prince, but face to face with Rory now, he understood. He looked like a particularly beautiful autumn day in the valley with his wavy auburn hair, tawny eyes, and fair skin. Delicate, Gray would have called him. He definitely had the look of someone who buried his nose in a book and couldn't see what was going on around him. Naive, that was another term Gray might have used.

Rory seemed to be a particularly terrible choice to go after a pack of criminals and apprehend them, though his guard seemed both appropriately suspicious and also eminently capable of capturing whomever they wished. Probably, Gray thought, they'd just brought him along as a particularly useless figurehead. Gray couldn't see any other possible practical use for the pretty prince.

He'd been mildly intrigued by Rory's attractive looks, but once he'd revealed who he was, any curiosity Gray had held about the younger man had died. Royalty, Gray thought with an annoyed sneer, was all the same. A complete waste of air.

Gray did not care that Prince Emory's guard was currently searching the farm; they would not find anything of value to them. He just wanted them to complete their search, confirm what he'd told them was the truth, perhaps stay the night, and then be on their way. He had no use and no time for inept princelings, even ones who stared at him like he was the most compelling thing they'd ever seen.

He knew he'd grown tall and strong, like his father had always predicted. The bloodline of Ardglass always throws true, he'd say. Gray shook his head. He did not want to think of his father, ever, but especially not today, when faced with the mirror image of what could have been. If Sabrina hadn't needed his blood, if his father hadn't been so weak, and if he hadn't been forced to run from Tullamore, he and Prince Emory would likely have met across a banquet table, or in the marble-walled throne room. They would have exchanged useless pleasantries, and maybe even eventually found their way to each other's beds for a night or two of pleasure, but they certainly never would have met in a patch of squash.

But that was what could have been, and circumstances being what they were, could never be. Prince Emory would leave in the morning, none the wiser that he had met the lost Prince of Ardglass in a mysterious valley not found on any maps.

Maybe next time Gray ventured into the village, he would hear of Rory's exile, and the Regent Queen taking over the throne of Fontaine permanently. He had never met her, but based on Rory's appearance, perhaps she would be better suited to ruling.

"Do people often come here?" Rory asked, as Gray continued to tend his squash. Rory, probably accustomed to a castle full of courtiers honor-bound to answer, didn't seem to understand that he had no interest in actually continuing their conversation.

"We're all lost, a little," Gray repeated between clenched teeth. "Or do you disagree?"

Rory smiled, the sun streaming onto his porcelain-pure features as he tipped his head back to soak in the light. "Actually, I believe you, but you also didn't answer the question."

He was intelligent then, and definitely quick, and Gray found it harder to believe that his aunt had managed to essentially usurp him without him noticing.

"After all, there is nobody here in this valley except you," Rory continued, still smiling. Gray grimaced.

"And you, and your guard," Gray added.

"But we're not lost."

Gray gave a particularly vicious shove to his spade, thought of what he'd heard in the village, but decided it wasn't worth it. If Prince Emory thought all was fine in his kingdom, then who was Gray to enlighten him? The noble game of politics and royalty and all that blasted honor that ultimately meant less than nothing was one that he had washed his hands of a long time ago. Even if Rory died at the hands of his aunt—and it wouldn't be the first time a relative bloodied their hands to gain a throne—it wasn't any of Gray's concern.

"Is this what you do here?" Rory asked, another question after a blessed moment of silence.

"What I do here?" Gray knew he should turn and walk away, find shelter and quiet in the stables or in the far-reaching hay fields. There was undoubtedly work he could do in either of those places, but then again, it had been a long time since they'd had any visitors to the valley, and even longer since he'd been to the village. Conversing with someone, even this prince, was actually kind of nice.

He could always talk to Evrard, but sometimes it was easier not to talk to Evrard.

Rory gestured towards the earth he was turning with his spade. "Work in the garden, move dirt around, that sort of thing," he said awkwardly. It was clear that the excessively clean and relatively callus-free hands of Rory's weren't a mirage; he did spend all his time with books, never working with the golden sword he carried at his hip or ever in anything resembling dirt.

"I'm mixing manure into the soil," Gray explained, and couldn't help but smile at the way Rory flinched. "But yes, this is what I do. Do you see anyone else here?" When Rory shook his head, Gray gave a short bark of laughter. "Then there is nobody else here to do what needs to be done," he said. "Only me."

"You take care of all of this?" Rory asked wonderingly, gazing around at the farm.

Gray couldn't help but be proud of what he'd built, nearly from nothing. Everything had come from sweat and blood, and was learned the hard way, which was usually doing it wrong once or twice or many times first. Others in his place might have been afraid of so much hard work, but idleness terrified Gray. Boredom brought thinking, and thinking brought a bone- and soul-deep fury that he didn't always know how to contain. Sometimes exhausting himself was all that had kept him from saddling his horse and riding back to Tullamore and demanding satisfaction for the merciless, ruinous way he'd been treated.

He did not know if Sabrina still resided in Tullamore, or if she still advised his father. It would likely be a death sentence for him to return, and ultimately, likely advantageous for her. It was the latter more than the former that usually stopped him.

After all, what use was his life? What use was his strong pair of hands? He'd created this farm, and he helped those lost souls who happened to wander by, but nobody stayed. Evrard and he kept their company, and he swam occasionally in the stream that rippled by the farmhouse. He rode his old horse through the meadows. He tended the hay and the garden and cleaned the little farmhouse. Cared for the cows and sheep and chickens. Always put away far more food than he could ever eat for their mild winters.

It was a little like being King of this valley, but Gray wasn't dumb enough to truly believe that. If he'd become a king, he'd be doing more; he'd be useful.

He wasn't even a prince anymore, and even he knew just how stupid it was to keep thinking that way.

This was his situation now, and nothing could change that. Raging against circumstances out of his control was pointless. Just as pointless as expecting Rory to do something with the position he'd been graced with—or dirty those delicate, pale fingers.

"I do care for all of this," Gray finally said, turning towards the Prince. "There is nobody else to do it, and it keeps me occupied."

"My occupation is . . ." Rory hesitated. "Not as useful as yours."

That much Gray believed completely. He had to remind himself again that when he had come to the valley, he'd been as green as Rory. Not perhaps quite as soft, or as pampered, and definitely not as naive, but then Rory was also much older than he'd been. Rory had had the opportunity that Gray never did: to grow up in the secure enclave of the court, shielded and protected. If he'd been honest with himself, part of Gray was jealous.

But the other part of him, knowledgeable and world-wise, preferred the reality of what he'd lived through. He would never again be subject to the whims of someone else. It might be a very little kingdom, but it was still his.

"What is your occupation?" Gray asked, even though he already had an idea.

"I study," Rory explained quietly, his fingers rolling up a corner of his glove again and again, until the leather creased. "I speak ten languages and can read others. I translate important manuscripts and analyze them."

Gray made sure his voice was neutral when he said, "That sounds fairly useful."

But Rory's own was scornful as he answered back. "How can you say that? You manage this entire farm. You grow the food you eat, you repair the roof over your head. You and you alone are responsible."

"And you are subject to the whims of others?" Gray observed quietly. Maybe Rory was not quite as naive as he'd believed. Maybe he understood exactly what his aunt intended. "I understand that all too well."

"So you came here from someplace else, then?" Rory asked. "Where were your parents from?"

Evrard had cautioned Gray never to give a hint to any of the people who passed through the valley what his origin was, or his real name, or anything of value. He said Sabrina's spies were everywhere, and they were still constantly hunting for even the tiniest hint that he was alive.

Prince Emory did not look much like a spy of Sabrina's, but then he had also come here on a foolish, impossible errand. There were no brigands in the valley, or in the woods, or in the village beyond. And sending someone like Rory to dispose of them was even more of a fool's errand. No, someone had sent him here, had lured him here, specifically. Gray, who had let himself get carried away with talking to someone who wasn't just here for the night or a snob, like Evrard, went still. In the years since his escape, he'd clearly grown soft and lacking the suspicious instinct that had ruled the beginning of his time in the valley. One look at the pretty prince and he'd been so distracted that he'd let Rory and his five guardswomen—capable and deadly guardswomen—essentially invade his property and his valley.

"Nowhere you need be concerned with," Gray said in a hard, resolute voice. He picked up his spade and decided that it wasn't enough that Rory's guard wouldn't find anything here. They needed to be gone. They were all armed to the teeth, and while he had not gotten the impression from any of them that they wished to harm him, Gray knew he could not take on all five at once.

He'd tried to keep up with his sword forms and practiced occasionally on a straw dummy he'd set up in the back of the stables but finding ready and willing partners to spar with was difficult. Once in awhile someone with training would pass through and Gray would challenge them to a practice bout. But otherwise, like with all things, he was on his own.

It would not be enough to handle more than one or two of Rory's clearly well-trained guards.

Definitely not all five, and absolutely not all at once.

Gray leaned down and rested his hand against the leather holder he'd fashioned for his dagger, kept strapped around his calf. He never went without it, though these days he used it more to cut stalks of wheat or to pick squash for dinner. Still, it could kill if he needed it to. He kept it clean and sharp, cautioned always by Evrard that out beyond the valley, danger still lurked.

Now it was possible that danger had actually come to the valley.

"What's the matter?" Rory asked as Gray stalked off towards the stables. He needed to check on Evrard, preferably without his annoying—and attractive—companion. Because he couldn't exactly converse with Evrard, not in front of Rory anyway.

Evrard had been correct—nobody who expected to see a horse ever saw anything other than a horse, but as soon as Evrard opened his mouth, it would be obvious he wasn't just a horse.

"You should find your guard," he told Rory as they approached the stables.

"I'm sure they're fine," Rory said, clearly unconcerned. Gray supposed it made some sort of sense; after all, the only one with very little training, except in ancient languages, was Rory himself. Everyone else on this farm could handle themselves in a fight. The guard had obviously decided that Gray wasn't a threat either, as they'd been left alone together for the last ten minutes.

"Were you really sent here to capture criminals?" Gray asked. If there was a plan to capture or kill Gray, Rory was almost certainly not aware of it.

"Yes, yes, of course we were," Rory insisted, "though it does seem like this couldn't possibly be their hideout. Unless . . ." He hesitated and his face was so open, the thoughts easily read there, Gray knew exactly what he was thinking. Unless you are lying.

"There's nobody here but me," Gray ground out. "We've established that."

"True," Rory admitted.

"So why are you really here?" Gray demanded, and took a step closer to Rory, crowding him against the side of the stables. Was he hoping to scare him a little? Certainly. Rory seemed a much easier nut to crack than some of the women on his guard. They would never tell him the truth of their journey here, but Rory? If he knew, he'd spit it right out. "Tell me what your purpose is."

"I told you already," Rory spluttered, likely flustered by the fact that Gray's bare, dirty chest was pressed right up against his own butter yellow silk doublet and fine turquoise traveling cloak. He'd probably never seen a dirty man in his entire life.

Rory felt as small and lean as he looked, but he also didn't fold the way Gray was expecting him to. Instead, he stared defiantly into Gray's eyes with his unearthly pale gaze. A thousand colors in those eyes, Gray thought, in a daze. Gold and amber and citrine. How had this backfired so spectacularly?

Occasionally he slept with men and women who passed through the valley, and once or twice on trips to the village. But they were only momentary pleasure, a moment of respite in an otherwise somewhat drab existence full to the brim with backbreaking work. But he had never wanted anyone the way he found himself wanting Prince Emory of Fontaine.

Firstly, it was terrible timing, and secondly, Rory was absolutely the last person that Gray should be wanting. But Rory's soft, pink lips were right there, and his slim body was pressed tightly against his own. It would take but a moment to tip his head down and thread his dirty fingers through the silky, fiery strands of Rory's incredible hair. Then he might know if it would be hot to the touch, flaming like its vibrant shade, or cool and soft against his fingers. Maybe he'd even end up with a knife in his back for his trouble. But before that moment, the trouble would be dizzying and rapturous.

"What's wrong?" Rory asked in a soft voice. "Why are you worried?"

Gray took a step back and tried to clear his head. It was nearly impossible to do so when Rory kept staring at him, that hopeful, somewhat quizzical expression in his eyes, like he hadn't quite understood why Gray hadn't leaned down and closed the distance between their lips.

Gray was still trying to understand it himself.

"Why am I worried?" Gray repeated, annoyed. "You've shown up here looking for something that doesn't exist. And anyone with a shred of information would have known that. Your presence here . . ."

"Could be a trap," Rory interrupted him, proving his sharp-edged intelligence yet again. How had his aunt maneuvered him into such a terrible position? Gray still did not understand it. "I . . ." Rory hesitated. "It's likely that's a correct assumption."

Gray tensed. Rory's assessment and his own were strangely similar. "Your guard," Gray said, not sure how to phrase the question.

Where was his guard? Were they lying in wait for him? Planning to kill him? Capture him? Return him to Sabrina after all these years of evading her powerful magic? He would kill himself first—simply slit his wrists with his sharp dagger. She could not be trusted with him. He did not understand entirely how she planned to use him, but it was clear that his usefulness would end with his death. And after all, Gray thought bitterly, who was even left to mourn him? Certainly not his father, who had betrayed him. Perhaps Evrard, but then, Gray had always felt like he represented more of an idea than an actual person to Evrard. A pawn, in the battle between him and Sabrina. Between good and evil.

Evrard would return to the place he had come from, and dismiss the whole time from his mind as an unpleasant experience during which he'd been forced to share a stable with Gray's stupid horse.

"What about my guard?" Rory asked, a confused wrinkle appearing between his auburn brows.

Gray took a step closer, even though there was something about Rory that was even more terrifying than the prospect of death. He leaned down, and caught the anticipation on Rory's face, even as he shifted towards his ear, not his mouth. "Can they be trusted?" he murmured.

He kept underestimating Rory. It was easy, with his soft hands and innocent eyes and stunning face. It was so easy to forget that under all that gorgeously waving hair, he had a clever, astute mind. Gray had expected an automatic affirmative, without much thought put behind it. He knew what it was like—royalty always assumed they were unassailable. Gray himself had believed that, once upon a time. But instead of what he expected, Rory furrowed his brow and gave the question serious consideration.

"Marthe is not particularly ambitious," Rory said. "She has been in my guard almost since my birth, and captain for the last ten years. Also, she was originally appointed not by my aunt, but by my father, before his death."

It was the first evidence that Rory had some inkling that his aunt was not to be trusted.

"And the rest?" Gray asked, very aware his questioning seemed relentless, but not willing to sacrifice politeness for safety.

Rory frowned. "Anya has been with me almost as long as Marthe has been captain. She's from Ardglass, but I do think she can be trusted." Gray's heart skipped a beat at Rory's admission. Would this Anya recognize him as the lost prince? It was doubtful; the last fifteen years had wrought many changes in him, but the chance still remained. "As for Acadia, Rowen, and Diana, I picked them myself after extensive interviews, and all were desperate for a chance to serve, a chance they would not have been given otherwise. I do not trust them as much as Marthe or Anya, but I would still trust them with my life."

It was enough. Still, they needed to locate the five guardswomen. Gray no longer wanted them roaming his farm unaccompanied. At least not until he could trust them as much as Rory did. His conversation with Evrard would have to wait.

Gray found them grouped together outside the farmhouse, talking in low voices as he and Rory approached.

"My prince," Marthe said, separating from the group. "Something here is . . . not right."

From the way she spoke in front of Gray, he knew the problem did not lie with him personally or with the farm, but rather the complete lack of criminal activity. They had come here expecting to find one thing and had found something entirely different. Obviously a cause for serious concern.

Rory nodded, and Marthe continued, after giving him a long, searching look. "Perhaps we should discuss this privately," she said.

Ahhhh, Gray thought, there is the strategy I would assume from a captain of the Prince's guard. She doesn't quite trust me either.

But Rory's chin stuck out stubbornly as he shook his head. "No," he said emphatically. "I believe we can trust Gray. After all, this is his farm. He has a right to know our plans."

Marthe's expression made it clear she did not agree, but she did reluctantly speak anyway. Whether that was blind obedience to her prince, or a grudging acceptance of the point he'd made, Gray wasn't sure. "I think we need to stay here," she said. "I considered seeking out the next village, and potentially evading the trap that was set for us here, but I believe we can protect you here, and we could possibly learn something useful by letting the intended action come to pass."

It was a gutsy call, but Gray didn't disagree with it.

Marthe then turned her attention to him, asking many of the same questions Rory had, except she had a different purpose. "How often do strangers come here?"

"One a month? Perhaps less?" Gray answered. Understanding where she was going with her questioning, he continued. "But it would be difficult for a soldier or a fighter to disguise themselves as one of them. They are often running away from a bad situation, wanting not to be found. An unwanted betrothal, or a father with heavy fists. They find the valley because they need it, they never expect it to be here."

"Then how were we able to find it?" Rory asked. A question that Gray had been asking himself since they had appeared outside his garden.

"I'm not sure," Gray admitted. Evrard would know, but he could not exactly excuse himself to go discuss the problem with the King of the Unicorns.

"Perhaps because we knew it was here," Anya volunteered.

"Perhaps," Gray agreed. It did seem like the most likely of explanations.

"We will set a guard," Marthe said. "Two per shift."

She did not glance in Gray's direction, so he knew she did not intend him to be part of it, but even then, he very much doubted he would rest tonight. He would lie awake, as he did many nights, and wonder who was going to come for him.

Maybe tonight the unknown threat would be coming for Prince Emory, instead. Gray had believed earlier he wouldn't care if Rory paid for his own ignorant mistakes, but to his surprise, now this thought did not bring any particular relief.

"You may rest in the bunkhouse," Gray offered. "I keep it clean for the occasional visitors. There is a separate stable, as well, stocked with hay." He had built the additional stable, even though newcomers to the valley rarely came with horses, because despite Evrard's confidence that no one could ever identify him as a unicorn, Gray still worried. Also, it alleviated the occasional awkward question, about why he would spend any amount of time in the stables, seemingly conversing with silent animals.

Marthe nodded, and one of the guards walked off with their horses, to water and feed them.

Rory did not follow them, but instead continued to stare at Gray.

"Would you give me a tour of your farm?" he asked.

Gray had hoped to slip away, to visit Evrard, and get his impression of the situation, and perhaps clean himself, maybe even find a threadbare shirt to throw on. Rory hadn't seemed offended by his lack of dress—more like the opposite, in fact—but some rules went deep. He could hear Rhys still, yelling in his mind, that meeting another prince with only a pair of loose breeches on was not done. You're from Ardglass, not a barbarian, Rhys would have insisted. And even though Rhys had been dead all these years, and his guidelines regarding attire, etiquette, and polite behavior should have died with him, Gray found himself squirming in a place he'd believed long forgotten.

"I have work to do," Gray said awkwardly, definitely not used to making polite excuses. He tried to ignore Rory's disappointed look, but it was much harder than it should have been. "Perhaps afterwards," he tacked on. He doubted Marthe would let the Prince out of her sight, but then she had done so earlier, so she must not find him too much of a threat. Gray didn't know whether to be pleased or insulted.

Gray entered the stables, his eyes adjusting to the dimmer light. He'd installed two larger windows, filling the panes with precious sheets of glass he'd bought in the village. Evrard hadn't expressed any particular gratitude, but then that was Evrard's way; expectation and then very little to follow in the way of appreciation. Still, Gray knew he enjoyed the windows, as he often found Evrard looking out them into the valley.

He found Evrard in front of one now, his expression the unicorn equivalent of discontent. "There are visitors," he said.

Evrard's great jeweled eyes swung his direction. "I saw myself," he said, "and not the usual kind."

"No," Gray said, sitting down on a stool he'd placed in Evrard's stall expressly for their chats. "A prince, and his guard."

Evrard did not seem surprised. "From Fontaine, then?" he asked.

"How did you know?" Gray did not really expect an answer; there was still much about Evrard's knowledge and his magic that he liked to keep close. Gray was never sure if it was because his methods were truly secret, or if he just enjoyed the mystery.

Evrard, unsurprisingly, ignored that particular question, and asked another. "What is your impression of Prince Emory?"

He thought for a long moment. What did he think of Rory? "He's soft, but strong," Gray finally said. "He isn't particularly experienced or skillful in the real world, but he's intelligent, and he isn't easily intimidated, even in stressful situations."

"He has potential then." Evrard sounded very pleased with himself, as if he'd predicted this result.

"Potential for what?"

Evrard just stared at him, one of those inscrutable looks on his elegant features. "Potential to be someone you could . . . trust."

Gray didn't know what Evrard had been about to say but had thought better of it at the last minute. He almost asked, but again, that was useless. If Evrard had wanted to tell him, he would have. Another mystery in a long line of infuriating mysteries.

"What does Fontaine have to do with us?" Gray asked instead.

"Much more than you realize."

"Prince Emory and his guard were likely lured here, but for what purpose, I don't know," Gray pointed out.

"They are strong and capable of protecting him," Evrard replied, "but ultimately, that job will come to you."

"So he will stay here? Is it his aunt?"

Again, instead of answering, Evrard turned his head and looked out the window. When Gray glanced in the same direction, he saw Rory practicing against a bale of hay with the sword that had sat at his waist. Anya was directing him, and Rory was just about as bad with the weapon as Gray would have guessed. Still, Evrard was right, he showed potential. Only glimpses of it occasionally, but it was there all the same. It was useless to imagine what Rory would have been like if he'd grown up like Gray, on his own, paranoid and a little desperate, but Gray imagined it anyway. He'd have been a force to be reckoned with, Gray realized. Just as strong as himself, maybe even stronger. Smarter, for sure.

"Yes, his aunt," Evrard agreed. "She is not to be trusted."

A problem Gray understood all too well.