Prince of the Courts

Prince of the Courts - Chapter 14

Zeke sighed and gingerly pulled his blanket a bit higher with his right arm, carefully avoiding his left. He was laying reclined in one of the Queen's chaises, propped up on a mountain of pillows to keep him upright while his collarbone healed from Kylea's savage attack. His ribs protested as he tried to shift his weight a bit and he sucked in a sharp breath.

"You should take care to be as still as possible, Ezekiel," Baelerithon's voice cautioned him from out of sight.

"My poor old ass isn't used to sitting around like this, Bael, and you know it. You could save me the trouble and heal me up a bit faster." Against his better judgement, Zeke tried to shift again and he felt his ribs flare in warning with molten anger. He lay back and panted shallowly. Maybe later.

Baelerithon came around the edge of the chaise to kneel at Zeke's side, one blue-skinned hand reaching out to gently touch the old man's arm and ease his pain once more.

"I have told you before that we must be cautious. If I were to heal you too quickly, Malchezed may choose to separate us. While you remain broken and useless, you are beneath his notice, and so he permits me to care for you with the hope that I may be distracted from finding a way to prevent him from taking the throne." Relief spread through Zeke and a numbness settled over his injuries once more.

"Broken and useless? I'll show you broken and useless once I can get off this damn couch." A wave of tiredness washed over him as Bael's magic began to take effect, but he fought it, wanting to find out if the prince knew anything about what had happened in the throne room the previous night. "Any idea where the thief went with the crown?"

Bael took his hand away and shook his head, concern on his face. "Nothing definite, but I was able to learn that a detail of guards in the Idris tunnel were slain. Their wounds were long, curving slashes. Two of them didn't even have time to draw their weapons, and another was killed from behind. It would take someone possessed of extraordinary speed or... talent... to so easily dispatch four Faerie knights." His cast a meaningful look at Zeke.

The old Shadowhunter understood immediately, and a smile crept across his mouth. "That's my boy," he whispered. "But Idris?" he continued in a more normal tone. "He had better stay far away from the Clave; they won't welcome any Morgenstern son with open arms, and certainly not one with Seelie blood and the start of a war in his hands."

The prince nodded in assent and rose to take up a more comfortable chair facing Zeke's. They had been imprisoned in the royal apartments once Kylea had returned with the badly-beaten Shadowhunter. It had taken considerable skill and persuasion for Bael to be allowed to tend to the old man. Many had been in favour of killing the Shadowhunter outright now that he was no longer protected by the Queen, but Baelerithon had convinced Malchezed that it would be a poor idea to kill Rayce's beloved tutor so long as the prince remained absent from the census. Whatever else he was, Rayce was still a prince of the Courts, and if he could be returned to the fold peaceably, it was worth the life of a single used-up Shadowhunter.

"Perhaps, perhaps not. I think we both know my brother's abilities quite well, and I do not believe that he could have done it alone. If someone from the Clave is helping him, it would stand to reason that they would be welcomed into Alicante with open arms."

Zeke's mind flashed back to the letter written by the girl. Sera? She hadn't given a family name. But she had said that the Clave didn't know that she existed, and she wanted to keep it that way. He shook his head at Bael.

"No, not someone from the Clave, but still a Shadowhunter. An unusual one." Zeke told the prince about the letter, how it had correctly predicted the death of the Queen and urged Zeke to get Rayce out as quickly as possible once he was no longer bound to the Court. He couldn't read Bael's face as he told the story, the prince retreating behind a mask that revealed nothing. When he had finished, Bael didn't respond, lost in thought.