The Ill-Fated Prince, Part 3

Ser Anthony chuckled lightly.

“Hearts and minds aren’t won so easily, though your mad plan just might, Your Highness.”

“Call me Bram. Just Bram.”

“I’ll do no such thing.” Ser Anthony took another long puff of his pipe, breathed in the smoke, and expelled it all before adding, “You’ve been insulted enough today.”

Bram shrugged. “I’m used to it.”

The contempt of the commoners was nothing new for him. He’d lived with contempt for as long as he could remember, and Bram remembered much. Even the first time he’d opened his eyes on the day his mother had given birth to him. The seventh prince of the Atlan Imperium was special, though not in the way those around him hoped for. Over time, their hopes dwindled, twisting into scorn, until finally, only Ser Anthony remained by his side.

Bram gazed fondly at the old knight who kept on smoking his pipe.

Underneath his hood was a weathered face with salt-and-pepper hair and a villain’s mustache to match. Even seated, the old knight seemed a tall man, with shoulders nearly as broad as Atlan’s seventh prince.

“They insult you because they don’t know you nor how hard you toil for them.” Again, Ser Anthony reached for his sword, and again, he reluctantly withdrew his hand. “It’s taking all my resolve not to arrest these fools…not out of compassion — I’ve no mercy for those who defame your good name — but because I know your courtiers will find some way to blame you for any incident…”

“The nobles here don’t like me any more than the commoners do.” Bram shrugged again. “It’s almost like I’m back in the Sovereign’s court, but now I have a bigger target on my back, and no ally to call on.”

“You have at least one ally in this city, Your Highness.”   

Bram couldn’t help smiling.

He didn’t say it aloud, but Ser Anthony’s steadfast loyalty was one of the main reasons why he could endure all the malice sent his way for being House Attilan’s ill-fated prince.

Bram frowned.

He hated hearing it spoken aloud, and he hated it more whenever he thought it himself.

The ‘Ill-Fated Prince’…this was the title his older siblings bestowed on Bram after it became clear that he was a child whom the gods had cursed with a body that couldn’t become a vessel for the magical energies permeating the western continent of Gaullia. He was magicless in an empire where sorcery was the dominant power, and though not a crime exactly, to be magicless was seen as the harshest of failings among commoners and nobility alike.

“…And yet I sang it easily enough,” Bram murmured, chuckling to himself.

He picked up the flagon of ale on his side of the table and breathed in its heady scent.

“You’re not wrong, Ser Anthony…they don’t know me, and they can’t trust that I want the best for them.” He raised the flagon to his lips. “But if I can help make Lotharian lives better, make Lotharin great again, then I might start changing hearts and minds…”

Even as he said the words, hope blossomed inside him—the hope that one day people would stop calling him by his hated moniker…that they would find him worthy.

“You’ve grown up, Your Highness.”

That, Bram believed, was an understatement.

At seventeen, the imperium’s seventh prince was a tall muscular youth with wavy pale blonde hair and irises the color of molten gold—the physical traits that proved his bloodline—though he’d recently dyed his hair a dark purple to keep people from immediately recognizing him. Bram’s sun-kissed face was oval, almost delicate, with long lashes complimenting almond-shaped eyes, a long pointy nose, and full lips the color of fresh blood.

More than any other royal, Bram was said to be the perfect likeness to his mother. It was a fact Ser Anthony reiterated when he said, “How like the Sovereign you’ve become.”

“I’m nothing like her,” Bram chuckled half-heartedly. “I have none of her wit, her strength, or her charisma…”

Embarrassed, he took a long swig of his flagon—and immediately spat out the strong ale that burned his throat. 

“Fuck!” This word felt peculiar on his tongue as if it didn’t belong somehow. At least not to any language known to the Imperium. Still, it was strangely comforting for Bram to bellow this alien curse aloud in times such as this one. “What sort of gods-awful piss do they serve here?!”

“It’s called grog,” Ser Anthony answered distractedly.

He was busy wiping drops of spit and grog from his face.

When he was done cleaning himself, he added, “It’s cheap and packs a punch. Commoners love it.”

“Grog…” Bram gazed at the flagon in his hand with a wary eye. “What a strangely apt name for this poor man’s ale…”

He took a breath, and then another swig of grog. Indeed, he went as far as to down the whole flagon in one long gulp.

“Oh, Gods that tasted terrible.” While trying hard not to gag, Bram slammed his now empty flagon onto the table. “I’ll have another!”

He downed a second flagon of frothy grog quickly too, though his cheeks grew crimson from the effort. He bought a third cup, and when he finished it—a little slower this time—his head ached so terribly it was as if someone was banging a sword against a shield inside his skull.

‘Ping!’

Something shimmered in the air, though only Bram could see it. He chose to ignore this strange thing for he knew exactly what it was, and he didn’t need it to tell him what he already knew; three flagons of grog were murder to one’s liver.

Ser Anthony eyed him with concern. “Why did you drink it if you don’t enjoy its taste?”

“How could I ever hope to lead the people”—Bram wiped the froth from his mouth with a napkin—“if I can’t even understand them or their tastes.”

He was too busy trying not to puke to notice Ser Anthony smiling warmly at him.

“Honestly, though, that’s about as much understanding as I can manage today.” Bram rose groggily to his feet, took in several deep breaths, and then dropped the last of his bard earnings onto the table. “Come, Ser Anthony. The hour grows late…and the Loom of Fate is calling.”