3. Prince Emery

Avery blew on his tea. “So, Sachie found her mace. We then looted the brigands and quickly made our way out of the woods, following the trail of markers Birger had left behind. I don’t remember if anything was formally said about me joining, but we pressed onwards. One location after another, working our way southeast towards Hov. Sachie had a list of scrolls, amulets, and armor pieces she wanted to collect along the way. Nothing of note happened, a few trivial snags here and there, but nothing we couldn’t handle.”

“There was that time with your brother,” said Birger.

“Step-brother,” Avery quickly amended, reaction sour. “Ugh, where do I begin with him?”

***

The three of them had secured supper and boarding at a caravansary, all purchased with Avery’s hefty—and curiously abundant—supply of bullion spits. They sat in the courtyard under the weeping forms of desert trees, accompanied by other eclectically-clad travelers savoring their meals under the clear sky of a setting sun. A musician played her mandolin in a measured rhythmical way—a lissome sound, plucked then rolling—a lonely tremolo without a full band.

The three sat at a corner table and ate their chickpea stew in silence, until Birger grunted and pulled out a small leather-bound jotter. He procured a worn pencil from the same pocket and began writing—jaw clenched as he scribbled away.

“I didn’t even know you could read,” Avery said, watching him with raised eyebrows.

Sachie leaned over to look. “What’s this?”

“There’s heat in this stew, a spice. It cuts through the fatty pork base and brings a pleasant fire to the back of my throat. What would be a dull stew otherwise is saved by this spice. I’m just writing down what I think they used.”

“There’s pork in this?” Avery sat taller, tickled by Birger’s observation—expertise, really. “You know…you could ask the cook, they’re right there.”

“No need. I have an idea of what it might be.”

“Huh,” Avery said, astounded by the knight’s study. As their journey carried on from days to weeks, time revealed Birger in a way Avery had not expected, for the towering man was more than a gruff warrior with little to say. He was…domestic. It was the way Birger took the time to do their laundry in a stream, with his sleeves rolled up, his face tranquil as his hands scrubbed, mind adrift during the menial activity; his verve while preparing their meals, quietly chopping and seasoning, consulting the extensive notes of his jotter, sweating over an open fire, a look of pride as he offered steaming bowls of some of the most comforting food Avery had ever eaten; his mothering of their injuries, quick to help, clucking his tongue as he smeared ointments and deftly bandaged. Avery titled his head, watching as Birger ate his stew, his brows furrowed, eyes full of passionate understanding. The mage felt his own body soften; his lips pulling into a gentle smile as heat surged in his chest…

“How do you do that?” Sachie asked suddenly, mouth full of food, though her hand was politely covering.

Avery blinked at her. “Do what, my dear?”

“Make your face different.”

He dropped his spoon. “Excuse me?”

Birger stopped writing and looked at them, eyes darting from one to the other.

“That,” she said, motioning with her hand, palm out in a circular manner at Avery’s face. “How do you make yourself so pretty?”

He scoffed, then offered, “I have attractive parents?”

“Come on,” she said, a little annoyed. “I wanna know. You are practically made of magic, and yet you never teach me anything.”

“You never ask? Also, I’m not here to teach, you have your moldering scrolls and silly celestial magic, I want nothing to do with that.”

She made a face, elbows on the table. “What’s it called then?”

“Changing your appearance? Glamouring—though I don’t do it.”

“But I saw you, a few moons back, in the morning. You were hungover and went off to piss and came back and I saw you.” She bared her teeth and Avery gasped and hammered his fists onto the table.

“Sachie! I swear on the Goddess’ tits I will—”

“Do you not look like this?” Birger interrupted, staring.

“No, I do,” Avery answered, laughing uncomfortably, then said through his teeth, “Sachie’s just being a bastard.”

She grinned.

“And if she wants to learn about this whole glamour nonsense she’ll shut up and meet me in my room later,” the mage added, picking up his spoon and cleaning it with his handkerchief.

Sachie pursed her lips and pretended to lock her mouth.

Avery held out his hand. “Give me the key.”

She handed it over to Avery and the two laughed at their shared comedy.

“Oh, Birger, don’t look so disturbed,” Sachie said, slapping his arm. “He basically looks the same.”

“Yep, what you see is what you get,” Avery reassured and continued eating.

Birger’s eyes narrowed. “You say that a lot… But I gather that’s not true at all.”

Avery was unexpectedly hurt by the comment, but he kept a neutral face. “Well, I liked it better when we were eating in silence, how's that for truth?”

Birger shrugged and Sachie snorted into her drink. “Oh!” She wiped the wine from her chin. “Get a load of this clown.” The men followed her amused look to the entryway where a fashionable man, a worn-out witch, and four towering escorts funneled in. Avery quickly turned back around.

“Fuck. Shit.”

“What?” Birger said, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

Avery groaned and sank into his seat. “Did he see me? Is he coming over?”

Sachie watched as the man and his entourage spotted Avery. “Do you know them?”

“They’re approaching,” Birger said, glancing at his sword. “Should I—”

Avery reached over and clutched Birger’s hand. “No, none of that. Let me handle this.”

Birger paused, feeling the tremble in Avery’s fingers.

“Well now, here you are!” the gaudy man said with a Tatran accent as thick as Avery’s. He came up behind Avery and placed his hands on his shoulders—kneading after making him flinch. His stout guards appeared bored, and his accompanying witch was stooped, using her staff to support her weight. All were dressed in fine threads and leather protection, though it did little to brighten their airs.

Birger’s eyes narrowed.

The man wore a heavily embroidered bolero, and the woven sash at his waist was a multitude of colors. His hair was a golden blond, unnatural, undeniably altered with the aid of magic. He didn’t introduce himself, as his sole attention was on the mage before him.

“You’re rather slippery, aren’t you?” he said, eyes drifting over to Sachie, his gaze lingering a little too long before he rested his chin on top of Avery’s head. “But you know you can’t hide from me.”

“And you are?” Sachie asked.

“Emery, son of Adler the Generous. I am the crowned prince of Tatra’s southern hold,” he announced, pointing at his circlet. “And this—” He hugged Avery close. “Is my inconsiderate brother.”

Avery pushed his bowl of stew away. “Well, I lost my appetite.” He then shook his shoulders, forcing Emery off of him. “The lengths you’ll go,” he said and turned, swinging a leg over the bench and straddling it. “What do you want?”

“You know what I want,” Emery said, hands on his hips, looking around with open dismay. “Come home. Enough of this.”

The two stared one another down for a long while until Avery moved to stand and Emery motioned to a guard who forced him back down. Avery then offered a subtle head shake to Birger who had already pulled a knife from his boot.

“I don’t know what all of this is,” Emery said, hand limply motioning to Sachie and Birger and the table. “But you’ve bided your time for far too long. You’re due to take responsibility for your actions.”

“Oh please, spare me,” Avery said with a wry smile. “Tired of following me around? Is that it? Rather do it in the comfort of your estate?”

“Our estate, and what you did to Gwenaëlle was wrong, leaving her at the alt—”

Avery groaned aloud and stood up. “Alright sure! Tell everyone my business then! Fuck off, Emery. If I see you again, I’ll—” He bit his words, and balled his fist, holding it up to the prince’s face in a threatening way. He then shoved past him and his goons, marching out of the courtyard in an angry flurry of crimson and Tatran curse words.

“My, he’s more irritable than usual. Is he really a pleasure to be around?” Emery asked, scandalized, hand cupping his cheek.

Neither Birger nor Sachie answered, glaring.

“Well,” Emery sighed, turning to walk away. “I should go gather him—”

But Birger reached over and drove his knife downwards, catching Emery’s colorful sash and pinning it to the table. Emery’s guards drew their weapons, and Sachie sprang up, a dagger poised to the witch’s throat. The music stopped, and the chatter of the caravansary died, all eyes on them.

“He told you to fuck off,” Birger said.

Emery swallowed and motioned for his guardians to stand down. They did, and Sachie lowered her dagger and sat. Birger freed the prince’s sash. The travelers in the courtyard then lost interest and returned to their meals.

“Ourensean,” Emery said, grabbing his sash and examining the damage. “Whatever he’s paying—”

“He’s not paying.”

“Oh? Here of your own volition then? Word of advice—”

“Don’t want it,” Birger said. He grabbed Avery’s discarded bowl, tipped the uneaten contents into his mouth, and then gathered Sachie’s and his own empty bowls, stacking them neatly.

Emery watched, confused. “But I’m—”

Birger smacked his lips, secured his belongings, and walked away. Sachie snorted and excused herself, offering a half-assed curtsey before following Birger to the cook where he handed over their dishes.

Emery’s witch sighed. “What now, your lordship?”

The prince offered no direction, he simply stood, thumbing the hole in his sash with a haunted expression.