Rune just shook his head. “Wolves are clever enough not to drive their prey into a malsite, where it would be lost to them.”
Swan frowned, but didn’t challenge him again.
“Enough.” Opus’s expression clearly communicated his desire to talk about anything else, but Rune wouldn’t have it.
“Father, I would love to put an end to our discussions of another Incursion.” A headache pulsed behind Rune’s eyes. “But every week I receive letters from commoners describing strange anomalies. The threads of the world are weakening. I smelled the stink of malice. And the creature Lady Nadine described fits the old depictions of rancor.”
The grand priest’s fingers tightened around his bottle of obsidian. “I should like to speak to this Lady Nadine.”
Opus—and everyone else—ignored him. Instead, the king sat up straight, his commanding presence even more imposing than before, his glare fixed on Rune. “We do not need to worry about another Incursion. Stop listening to the paranoid masses. I’ve heard no trustworthy reports of malice or rancor or any other abnormalities whatsoever. People are safe, and you must stop encouraging their fears.”
None of that was exactly true. Opus Highcrown had discouraged people’s “fears” by royal decree, forbidding all public talk of Incursions, malice, and rancor. Rune was one of the few men of rank whose ears were open to the people, and they knew it. They sent letters, yes, describing shadows that began to speak, moments of uneven time, a day without full gravity—evidence of malice working on the foundations of the world as the Malstop weakened. But they came to him, too, petitioning him for help when their fields turned to glass or their houses to salt, and when he progressed through Caberwill, he met with them from horseback, listening—always listening.
A prince should care for his people. He should protect them, comfort them, feel for their terror. And he did. For two years now it had been clear that an Incursion was coming. If only he could get the council—or his parents—to burning open their eyes.
“There are many who worry that we are ill-prepared for the next Incursion,” Grand Priest Larksong tried again. “A princess trapped in a malsite will not help matters. Perhaps we could take small measures to assure the people that we have everything under control. If we could find the creature that chased her, prove it was nothing but a wildcat—”
“No.” Opus stood, and everyone hurried to rise. “This meeting is over. You have your orders. Put the Embrians where we can watch them. Ensure their communications are monitored. Prepare the army to march on Embria. I will leave nothing to chance. You are all dismissed. Except”—the king turned on Rune—”you.”
As the Crown Council filed out of the room, Rune held his ground, bracing for a storm he could not avoid. For a moment, he wasn’t the heir. He was merely their second, less-favored son—the one who’d failed the whole family, the one who’d had to step into his better brother’s shoes. They’d never quite fit, and his parents knew it.
As the chamber doors clicked shut, Opus rounded on him. “Why? Why are you like this?”
There was no way out of this fight, so Rune hardened himself. “Someone has to care about the next Incursion,” he said, his voice tense. “Someone has to try to prevent the world from falling to darkness.”
Grace snorted. “You think we don’t care? You think you, little more than a child, have superior insight into the next Incursion because you’ve read a few letters from peasants?”
“I think a rancor chased Princess Johanne into a malsite.” Rune swallowed hard. “I don’t care who I marry. Princess Johanne, Lady Nadine, or some cousin of theirs I’ve never heard of. I’ll do what’s right for Caberwill. But I cannot ignore the terrible things I’ve witnessed with my own eyes simply because you tell me I must.”
“Son.” Opus bared his teeth as he glared down at Rune. “We have been the reigning monarchs for longer than you’ve been alive. We’ve heard all the same stories you’re hearing. The common people have been blaming bad harvests and bad luck on the malice as far back as anyone can remember. But that’s all it is. Superstition and misplaced anxiety.”
“The Malstop is working, Rune. We have nothing to fear from the rancor or anything else within.” Grace took a long breath, as though clearing her head. “Please stop obsessing over things you cannot affect. Put that effort into your studies and relationships. You will be king one day. You’ll need the Crown Council behind you.”
The king nodded. “Son, you did well in your report today. You were clear and even-tempered. Everyone was impressed.”
Oh, how Rune had always longed to hear such praise, to feel as though he’d done something deserving of his father’s admiration. This, however, would not be that moment.
“But,” Opus went on, “you ruined it with your outburst. Rancor? Rescue? You must learn when to stop.”
“How can I stop when there’s more to be done?” Rune swallowed hard, because he knew what was needed—and what his parents would never allow. “We can save the princess. We don’t need to prepare for another two-fronted war. There is already someone who can destroy the malsites and ensure the Incursion goes no farther than this one rancor.”
Opus’s face paled, while Grace took a step back. Both of them seemed to stop breathing for a moment.
Then: “No.” The king’s voice trembled. “No, that is not an option.”
“It’s been four hundred years,” Rune pressed. “We need her.”
“No,” the queen echoed quickly. “You must accept that Johanne Fortuin is lost to us, that the alliance is lost.”
“This isn’t about just the alliance. There’s a rancor somewhere in Caberwill. This is bigger—”
“No, it isn’t. Put an end to these fantasies. We won’t entertain them any longer.” The king’s frozen stare left no room for argument. “Whether or not you were born to this position, you are now the crown prince. Try to behave like it.”
* * *
After his parents left the council chamber, Rune stayed where he was, face burning with shame and heart burning with anger. His father’s words echoed in his head, over and over, reminding him once again that he was a poor substitute for the true crown prince. The dead crown prince.
Rune did his best, of course. But he studied, trained, attended meetings, worked on this alliance, and strove for a better future only because preserving the line of succession demanded that someone fill the position of heir—and he had been the spare.
But that didn’t mean everyone liked the situation. Some had tried to fight it.