The Prince in Exile

Chapter 1

There was a potent fire in his gaze: not a flickering ember of threat or rage, but the eternal brand of power.

Royalty.

Regal at the apex of the hall, there could be no mistaking him, with his crowded court all aiming their attention and honor up towards his image. He stood in his silks, gleaming with fine silver chains across his neck and chest. His hand rested on an ornamental dagger belted at his hip, the filigree of its handle flowing seamlessly into the sheath, surely never used, perhaps never even drawn.

He wore a fierce smile, and when he laughed it rumbled through the grand hall. When he clasped a man's shoulder or swatted his back, it came as a divine blessing, so rapturous were his subjects to receive his attention. Some came begging advice, others imparting their concerns, endless words spent on nothing.

Thus it went: laughter and fraternity, trivial matters given the weight of war.

The chamberlain had insisted she wait until she was called upon, but her patience could endure no more. She came before the prince out of turn, stealing a sliver of notice for herself. There, with the royal flame of those eyes upon her, she found that she could not bring herself to kneel. He stood at least a hand taller than her, but she knew in her bones that he would never look down upon her.

Already her impudence had garnered whispers from among the assembled. These men of war had all bent their knees countless times, and yet here came a woman proud, upright, and their scorn was palpable. She could hardly spare them a thought.

"Six days," Erzsebet began, letting no man's contempt oppress her. "For six days, your men have kept me captive, neither granting me audience with you, nor letting me leave."

Prince Andras smiled; easy, careless, patronizing. "Sincerest apologies, my lady. If there was any lapse in courtesy–"

"I have not come here for your courtesy," she snapped. This interruption earned a fresh pulse of outraged whispers, a colorful array of invective quivering through the air.

Still the prince looked upon her mildly, perhaps even amused. He spoke more gently to her than he did to his men, a fact that rankled. "Pray, then, my lady: for what have you come?"

"Justice," she declared, for she could not bring herself to beg his aid. The days wasted in wretched captivity had brought back no warmth to her breast; her heart still lay in the dirt a mile out of the city. She had marked the path of coquettish innocence, and long since torn the map to pieces. The thought of begging at his feet, of debasing herself like a tearful feckless girl filled her with disgust.

He watched her for a moment, that fire never leaving his eyes. "Then you have come to the right court," he soon said, "for I am the very Duke of Justice–and of Slavonia, as it happens. Not to mention Zadar–oh, and Hum, we cannot forget. But who's counting?" He turned a winning smile on his audience, basking in their hoots and cheers.

Erzsebet could hardly keep the sneer from her face. She waited for the pointless acclaim to die out, for the prince to grace her again with his regard. His was a type she knew well; already she saw shades of the younger Benedek, the preening of a man who never had to earn regard. She could manage him, though it would be no pleasure–she had expected nothing less.

At last the ruckus settled. Andras looked again upon her, and his arrogant smile faltered. Looking a touch less the fool, he finally asked her, "Justice for what?"

"For the unlawful seizure of my family's castle," she answered. This she had rehearsed these past days, an endless litany, such that she could voice each atrocity without a single quaver of weakness. "I am Erzsebet, daughter of Peter, count of Sopron and Szerem, lord of the Castle Petervarad. The king's count palatine took my father's castle by force, killing many loyal knights and castle folk, and capturing my parents. Even now he holds them–by the word of his son and heir, the palatine subjects them to daily torture and outrage."