The Prince

  THE PRINCE

  The Jester King Fantasy Series:

  Book 3

  K. C. Herbel

  Epic Books Press

  RICHMOND, VIRGINIA

  Copyright © 2016 by K. C. Herbel.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Epic Books Press

  P.O. Box 358

  Quinton, Virginia 23141

  www.EpicBooksPress.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Cover Artist: © Andrey Kiselev – Fotolia

  (use licensed through stock.adobe.com)

  Ordering Information:

  Quantity sales. Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the “Special Sales Department” at the address above.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017940783

  The Prince / K. C. Herbel. -- 1st ed.

  ISBN 978-1-944314-12-5

  Contents

  No Peace unto the Wicked

  Introductions

  The Gallant Fall

  Eleanor’s Enchantment

  When Faith is Lost

  Condemned

  The First Leaf of Autumn

  The King’s Disease

  Sir Who?

  Apprentice

  Captive

  A Stitch in Time

  Return of the Gyldan Mene

  The Dogs of War

  The Proposition

  Dead End

  Challenge

  Sacrifice

  Hanging On

  Ominous Sky

  The Storm

  The Jester King Fantasy Series

  The Innkeeper’s Son

  The Jester

  The Prince

  The King

  To my dearest, Mary Anne,

  whose patience I have stretched beyond human limits.

  Book Three

  THE

  PRINCE

  “Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them.”

  ―WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  PROLOGUE

  No Peace unto the Wicked

  “You cannot have it! The throne is mine!”

  Ergyfel, King of Lyonesse, shot up in bed, awakened by the same nightmare that had plagued him for a week. His body trembled as he looked into the darkness and tried to orient himself. Before his eyes could focus, a cold shiver replaced the tremor. Sweat soaked his skin and nightclothes. A cool draft from the window tickled its way across his flesh, bringing his attention to the warm, gentle hand on his arm.

  Ergyfel looked to his side. Lady Maeven, barely visible in the dim light, lay raised up on one elbow, her silky brunette hair draped loosely around her alabaster shoulders. Even now, with most of her delicate, pleasing form covered by bedclothes, her full dark lips were enough to make him hunger for the feel of her. He would have forgotten his troubles, willingly lost himself to instinct and her natural feminine wiles, had she not spoken.

  “The same nightmare, my lord?”

  “Yes.” He pulled away from her and sat on the edge of the bed. She shifted position, and again the warmth of her hand fell upon him. “It’s not enough that the king hid his crown and deprived me of a proper coronation?” He struck his leg with a fist. “Now the boy’s got to deprive me of my sleep as well?”

  “Billy?” Caution flattened her tone.

  “Yes! Who do you think?”

  “It was not your fault, my lord. How could you know that he was the king’s son?”

  “He’s as much a burden to me dead as he was alive.”

  “My King.” She squeezed his arm. “The guilt is not yours, but those who plotted against King William.”

  Ergyfel remained silent.

  “Come.” She tugged gently on his shoulder. “Lay with me for a while and forget. We have time before we are needed.”

  Ergyfel resisted her persuasions until her warm body pressed against his back, and her mouth brushed the side of his neck. Her silken hair, like wind, flowed onto his chest, and he fell back into her embrace. Even though she had shared his bed for a short time, she had come to have a hold over him. A hold more powerful than any succubus could hope for. For in her glance, her voice, her touch, there was a kind of magic that was beyond Ergyfel’s prodigious knowledge of sorcery to define. It was like nothing he had experienced before, for he had a place in her heart, and she had a place in his.

  Ergyfel’s mind drifted with the gentle caresses of Maeven’s hands. His thoughts strayed from the current turmoil of his heart and kingdom, and snuggled into a warm, comfortable place in his memories. He sifted lazily through the events of the past years.

  He had come to Castle Orgulous a mere youth, whose only assets were his distant relation to King William and a secret talent for sorcery—the only gift mother ever gave me. Yet, by use of his keen intellect and his birthright, he had landed himself on the throne.

  He marveled at how easy it had been to manipulate people and events with words and a little magic. Ergyfel smiled, feeling very satisfied, and mulled over his blackest triumphs. The masterstroke had been contriving to have his uncle murder his beloved wife, Queen Eleanor, with his own hands. It had worked so well, in fact, that Ergyfel had used it as a model for his other endeavors. Not that it was flawless; after all, their heir Billy had escaped. A sore point to be sure, but then in time Billy too became one of his shadow puppets.

  A spell here, a word there, an assassination or two. A propitious accident to augment a handful of betrayals and lies. They all wove together to form the dark tapestry of his rise to claim the throne. He replayed the events in his head for amusement. He reveled in his deeds, watching with great pleasure as the little shadows of his play combined into one great shadow: his. He felt warm and safe within his darkness.

  A figure emerged from the comforting darkness of Ergyfel’s mind, growing larger as it approached, and bathed in light of an uncomfortable intensity. At last, it was directly before him. Two eyes stared back at him with icy intent. The eyes of King William—but no—they were those of the late king’s son. Ergyfel brought his gaze away from the penetrating blue eyes and saw Billy’s visage. The little man was somehow different. His habitual smile and cheerful demeanor were gone, replaced by hatred and determination. Without warning, the luminous form of Billy held up a long curved knife and slashed at his throat. Ergyfel gasped and awoke, his hand grasping his throat.

  “My lord!” Maeven tensed, but still cradled him in her bosom. “What is it?”

  Ergyfel looked up at her soft brown eyes and caught his breath. The first light of morning warmed her features. His thoughts turned and his eyes narrowed. “You!” He pointed at Maeven as he rose and stood beside the bed.

  Maeven looked into his black eyes and froze, struck dumb by unknowable fear.

  “You.” Ergyfel shook with anger. “You harlot. You have weakened me.”

  The king struck his concubine with the back of his hand. Pain tore through the flesh of his left arm like fire on oil and exploded in his
brain, consuming his anger. He fell to his knees, gripping his wrist as if he could choke off the pain and isolate it in his hand.

  The pain ebbed, and Ergyfel opened his eyes to look across the room. Lady Maeven still lay on the bed, the side of her face red from his strike, and tears streaming down her cheeks. She sobbed and stared at her love, a mixture of concern and confusion in her eyes.

  Ergyfel caught her eyeing his left hand. She had seen the odd burn on its back only once—a horrible, festering wound that turned the flesh grey—and yet her revulsion was plain. It had been several weeks now, and still Ergyfel wore a glove over it, even in sleep.

  “The same wound, my lord?”

  “Yes,” he gasped.

  She edged forward. “It still has not healed?”

  “No.”

  “Perhaps it needs air, my lord.”

  “No.”

  “But in that glove—”

  “No!” he roared at her.

  Maeven fell silent and covered her still burning cheek with her hand.

  Ergyfel rose to his feet and started for his wardrobe. Maeven left the bed and poured water into a basin. She applied the cool water to her tight, hot cheek. In the costly silver mirror, Ergyfel caught her watching as he struggled with his clothes. The wounded hand was an albatross.

  “Please, my lord, allow me to help you.”

  Ergyfel stared. With her help, the task of dressing would be less painful. Further, she earnestly wanted to help him, and in fact, seeing her before him brought forth desire for her assistance, but then something in him twisted and hurt. He grew angry again.

  “You’ve helped enough.” His voice sounded more like a snarl. “Leave me. Now!”

  Maeven bowed to her king and collected her things. Then, mute and with the utmost of humility, she left.

  The door to the royal bedchamber closed, and Ergyfel turned to call to her but was stopped by his taut image grasping for her in the tall mirror across the room. His outstretched hand became a fist. He was shaking inside, as he approached the mirror. He splashed some water on his face and pulled off the glove with caution.

  “Damned faerie curse,” he muttered while he examined the wound.

  Ergyfel had tried everything he could to heal the injury caused by Billy’s ring. At first, it appeared to be an ordinary burn. He had used all his knowledge of practical medicine and alchemy, but nothing seemed to affect it. That is, nothing except magic. Unfortunately, with each spell Ergyfel cast, the wound consumed new flesh as if the magic fed it. Now, much of the hand had festered and become grey and swollen. Its smell turned his stomach, and he had to turn away. His gaze struck the mirror again and he saw that his fingernails were turning black, as if great blood blisters grew beneath them. A closer examination revealed long, thin streaks of grey coursing up past his wrist to his forearm. A turn of his limb confirmed his worst fears. The arcane cankerous disease was not going to stop with his hand.

  Ergyfel cleaned the wound and pondered over his decision made the week prior—not to cut off the hand. The choice seemed no easier now, and indeed, it might be too late for that. There had to be another way. He was determined to find it. Ergyfel couldn’t imagine continuing the rest of his life as a one-handed cripple. Somewhere, amongst all the tomes he had collected over the years, there would be an answer—a cure. There had to be.

  If only I had the ring. Blasted faerie! If Billy hadn’t taken it to the bottom of the sea …

  Ergyfel’s mind circled around the image of Billy. Why was the boy invading his dreams each night? He was gone, swallowed up by the deep, and that was that.

  Ergyfel completed dressing and left the royal chambers. He ignored or avoided all whom he passed, only offering, “Later, later!” to his cowed and feckless ministers. One of the less malleable toads persisted, but Ergyfel deboned him by saying, “You are fortunate I have something more important than you to dissect.”

  At that moment, a servant arrived and announced, “My lord, the king’s funeral waits upon your presence.”

  Ergyfel halted his stride and turned his face to the daring servant. The others backed away, leaving the man alone.

  “Don’t you mean King William’s funeral, Gullinburst?”

  The man bowed hastily. “Yes. Forgive me, Your Majesty. My grief got the better of me.”

  Ergyfel demoralized the hall full of minions with his stare. He spun on his heels and left them dithering. Without turning back, he proclaimed, “William denied me a crown at my coronation; I am returning the favor.” When he reached the end of the hallway, he added, “Do not speak to me until he’s buried.”

  By the time he arrived at his study, Ergyfel’s mind had wrapped around the first fragment of a spell—a spell that would allow him a tiny glimpse of the future. He had dared to use the spell but once before; for to gaze on the future, as one not born with second sight, could drive a man mad or cost him his life.

  Ergyfel barred the door and crossed to the large stone table in the center of the chamber. He grabbed a large, angular crystal and placed it in the middle. Then he picked up an egg in one hand and a thin black iron blade in the other.

  Ergyfel stared with contempt at his gloved fist. Then he gripped the knife with a scowl. “I must know.”

  Before he could change his mind, Ergyfel completed the spell and punctured the egg. Pain gripped his left arm, and the beat of his heart raced as blood ran from the small hole in the shell onto the crystal. He focused on the semi-opaque stone and allowed his mind to slip into the trance.

  At first, there was stark whiteness and the lone sound of his quickening pulse. Then shadows formed and danced, coming together, growing and dissipating. His heart pounded in his ears until it became like the sound of the ocean and the shadows became waves. A large shadow in the rough shape of a ship loomed on the horizon. The ship sailed alone on a stormy red sea with a small pale figure on its deck. The ship sailed to Ergyfel, and Billy stood at the helm. He held a sword in one hand but, more importantly, he still wore the ring. The storm redoubled in intensity and Ergyfel felt his heart was about to burst. By sheer will, he forced himself away from the ship and flew across the sea, back to where there were no shadows. Light radiated all around with nothing to reflect it.

  Where am I? Ergyfel’s mind grew more frantic with each beat. What am I doing here? I’m starting to forget! No! I—I...

  The image of a man flashed before him. He fought to maintain the image as it coalesced and developed detail. The man was tall and thin, with well-groomed raven hair, and eyes like inkwells. He wore clothing to match a moonless night and a glove upon one hand. Upon his naked hand, there was the large signet ring of a great lord.

  I ... I am Ergyfel. I am Ergyfel, King of Lyonesse.

  At that moment, he found himself back in his study, in Castle Orgulous. His knees wobbled and he half-fell, half-sat on the stone floor. Before him, on the granite table, lay his large, rough seeing-crystal, caked in dried blood. He remembered now what he had been doing, and the vision he had received came rushing back into his mind.

  “So ... the brat still lives, and he’s coming to me.”

  He savored the thought of having Billy and, more importantly, the ring back under his control. Eleanor’s ring would be his salvation—the cure for his hand. And Billy would be an entertaining aside.

  The king smiled and whispered to the air, “You are welcome to come home anytime, Cousin. And oh, what a welcome I shall prepare for you.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Introductions

  Billy woke to a moist, rough tongue licking his cheek. The sweet song of birds flittered on the fragrant, fresh air. Still half-awake, he smiled and reached up to push the affectionate creature away. His hand felt soft, warm fur, long ears, and horns...

  Horns! Billy’s bright blue eyes snapped open.

  A young buck stood directly over him. Billy stared into the deer’s large, brown eyes and remembered that he was now in Tirn Aill, the land of faerie folk.

  He l
ooked beyond the beast’s antlers and into the green canopy over them. The silvery trunks of trees reached up for hundreds of feet, stretching to touch the sapphire sky that peeked through their branches. Billy had never seen trees like these or smelled flowers as fragrant, nor seen a sky so blue. Nor had he ever felt such peace.

  Being washed up on the shore of Tirn Aill, all alone, with only myths and legends to go by, Billy didn’t know what to expect. But then again, he reminded himself, ever since I left the Valley of the Yew, things haven’t exactly been predictable. The thought of his boyhood home brought back memories of John, the kind-hearted innkeeper, who had raised Billy as his son and had paid for his kindness with his life. Billy had always known him as “Father,” and now felt he would never know an end to the ache caused by his absence.

  Still gazing at the trees, Billy tried to analyze his situation. Tirn Aill was the last place he had expected to wind up when he’d stowed away on the Gyldan Mene. The ship had been headed for Erin. Now he found himself in a strange land, with no one to help him and no idea of what he should do.

  “It could be worse,” he told the buck. “The shipwreck could have left me on Lyonesse.”

  It felt strange to hear himself say it. Billy had lived his whole life in Lyonesse and never imagined another place more to his liking, but that was before he had to run for his life and before he came to peaceful Tirn Aill.

  He had heard many a yarn about the land of Faerie, but no tale could touch the truth of its serene majesty. None could have prepared him for the excitement of discovering its wonders. Everywhere he looked, from the pastel beaches to the glittering bark of the trees, something grand and unexpected confronted him. His greatest surprise had come when he learned that he could communicate with the birds and other animals.

  Something tickled his foot, and he looked down to see the fawn that had befriended him the day before on the beach. It licked his toes in greeting. Billy pulled his foot away, and rolled over, but something hard and sharp at his side stopped him.