Ardaik 12th – Malton, Lorellia

The thunder of Artus and Bhalthier's footfalls as they darted through the ground floor of the Milton's manor rivaled the pounding gate of the prince's heart in his head. Artus had never moved as fast in his life, nor had he ever felt so desperate to live.

His mind worked its own kind of magic to keep him moving, replacing the Milton manor with his own home in La'Trest.

He wasn't trying to navigate a maze of unfamiliar halls while fleeing the terrifying reavers pursuing them. He and the marquis were dodging the venomous, crafty predators of the Lorellian royal court.

The grotesque, multi-jointed appendages were nothing more than ballgowns and coattails. The twisted grins of elven-like faces housing needle-thin fangs and multiple sets of red eyes—which seemed to almost emit light of their own within the darkest crevices of hallways—were nothing more than the familiar false smiles of nobles he'd grown up under the scrutiny of.

The distant sick thwacks and shrieks of men and beasts locked in combat were court musicians' dull, rhythmic notes, fruitlessly trying their best to artfully entertain the unappeasable. And Artus...

Artus only needed to escape to the garden for a short reprieve. Not because he himself was in any danger, of course, but because he was in the company of a handsome man. One he'd probably spent far too long conversing with or smiled too genuinely at for his actions to be excused as innocent and without suggestion.

Just as the set of exterior doors he'd been looking for came into view, Artus was jerked to an abrupt stop. His wrist had been caught by a perfectly shot line of webbing, and his mind's illusion was shattered.

The prince screamed as he tugged with all of his might, switching the blade to his unencumbered hand to hack frantically at the line with his dirk. Before he could cut it entirely, the reaver responsible tugged on the line, and Artus lost purchase. His boots slipped from beneath him, sending him hard onto his side, hip and elbow meeting the floor in a painful landing.

"Help me!" he yelped, tears springing into his eyes and stinging them horribly. "Please!"

Bhalthier stooped to aid the struggling prince, limbs trembling as he swung his rapier at the piece of webbing. The tension was immediately released as it snapped, and the marquis clumsily aided Artus in scrambling to his feet.

When they reached the garden doors, Artus threw them open so hurriedly and with so much force that some of the glass panes on them shattered as they met the extent of their range on their hinges.

Artus and Bhalthier were breathing so harshly and labored as they made for the side of the massive house that Artus feared neither of them would make it far enough to find the others. His side felt like it was splitting open, and the marquis looked as though he felt just the same when Artus risked a glance.

"Here!" Bhalthier bellowed suddenly, startling Artus so much that he leaped away from the man. Before Artus could even manage a question, the marquis had called out again, and the prince was left to only hope that it was in response to the others because the reavers had given chase and were making far faster work of traversing the garden.

Artus had been raised to believe in the saints, but when the shape of a dragon appeared in the sky above them, he easily believed he could worship it instead. The sight of the winged creature alone caused the reavers to recoil, most of them retreating back to the confines of wherever they could tuck themselves, at least for the time being.

"Artie!" The first glimpse of bright red hair was enough to draw a sob of relief from the Lorellian prince as he threw his arms around Flann without reservations. "Yar alright, Artie. I gotcha. Shhh," Flann soothed as he ushered Artus closer to Orath.

Despite the dragons' arrival making their hasty retreat possible, Artus required coaxing to sit astride one's back, even with reassurance that it would stay on the ground. The dragons were far larger up close than they'd appeared from the deck of a ship.

Their group seemed to be intact, although a few of them were sporting some gashes, and McKee was wearing more blood on his layers of woolen tunics than Artus thought healthy. "Tisn't all mine," the Serellian reassured, wincing through a rather smug smile that broke just as quickly as it appeared when a muted boom echoed like thunder from the direction of the docks.

"Cannon fire," Folian said.

"Right. Let's get goin'," Liam said quickly. "With luck, we aren't already too late to help them. Iain, fly ahead."

"Aye, Yer Majesty!"

For Artus and the accompanying Serellians, the distant cannon fire ceased well before they made it close enough to see the docks rematerialize from the depths of the fog. Artus very nearly asked that they fly the rest of the way. He had to know what was happening to the Retribution and her cousins, even though he was dreadfully fearful of seeing them.

They were losing daylight, the hidden sunset painting their surroundings in a hazy deep orange, when Artus spotted the outline of the Lorellian fleet. They were still there, anchored out in the bay. Iain, along with his mount, waited between the city and the docks, where dozens of men went about like scorned bees, still moving and gathering supplies.

Webbing floated like specters from the tips of masts and from the dock and retaining walls. A stiff reaver carcass rested near the road just beside the dock, his massive appendages all pointed upward. A few barbed legs, independent of a body, lay on the cobblestone, likely lost in the assault.

"They say they're nearly done," Iain said once Artus and the other Serellians had rejoined him. "The reavers did a fair number on one of their smaller ships just before I returned. They're havin' to swap it far one'a the ones left here by the missing residents."

"I think it's safe ta assume now why Malton is without its people," Edna grumbled.

"Aye," Folian agreed.

"Artus!" It would be difficult for most to discern if Sebastien was furious or greatly relieved by his tone. Artus knew it to be the latter. "I thought you'd left me the task of explaining to your father and mother that I could neither account for their son nor his bones." He motioned for the prince to dismount from the dragon.

"No, Sebastien." Artus sighed, taking the hand Flann offered him for support as he got down. "You've been spared the task for now."

"Yes, no thanks to this incredibly foolish errand of yours. Now come, let us get you back aboard the Retribution. We sail for Causter, as we should have in the first place."

"No."

Sebastien stopped, his shoulders dropping. He shook his head slightly before turning to address Artus directly. "Your highness—"

Artus raised his chin. "I want to go to Homenil."

"Homenil?" Sebastien balked. "Artus, please, enough of this. You belong back home."

"You said you sail for Causter."

Sebastien stiffened. "Artus—"

"I believe Lord Cullach can aid me in finding the relic and Rowan."

"De Saint-Pierre is very likely dead, your highness, and it would be no less than he deserved for theft of the relic and for what schemes he plotted against you. You are not going to Serellia. You're returning home with us."

"Ney...ney," Flann said, shaking his head and waving a hand for emphasis. "I vowed ta help Artie find Row. The man was my friend as well, an if he doesn't want ta go with ya, he won't be goin' with ya."

Artus stared at Flann for a moment. Confidence swelled along with something warmer deep in his chest.

"I'll write my father," Artus said, "at the earliest hour I'm able."

Sebastien threw his arms in the air, stalking down the dock toward one of the last of the rowboats. "I've done everything in my power to keep you safe, your highness," Sebastien seethed. "As have all of these men. Do as you please. I'll hear no more of it."

The tug of Sebastien's words on Artus's throat was almost suffocating. Yet as he watched Sebastien step down into the rowboat, Artus didn't feel compelled by guilt nor grief to follow, as he'd expected. He didn't shy away from Sebastien's gaze as they stared at each other while the oarsmen pulled the loop of rope free from the dock and used their oars to push away from it. In fact, the Lorellian prince felt the lightest he had since the night of the festival.

He wouldn't deny that his mistakes had been egregious and many since that night. But his decision now, unlike what he'd done on the fifth, was one he'd at least made out in the open.

This wasn't the secret ploy coveted by a desperate, lonely Lorellian prince. This was a commitment to Rowan and, possibly even more important, a vow to himself—to the man he hoped to be in the trying days ahead.

He was going to do what he must to find the relic, and to find a way to right what he'd done...

***

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