Queen of the Ashes

IX.

The boy was five years old when the king presented him with his first pair of gloves.

They were white and soft, made of the finest kid skin, and he stared at them in bemusement.

Are these for me?

Yes, the man said. You're to wear them on your hands at all times, from now on.

He looked up at the king with a frown. All the time? Why?

The older man's gaze narrowed. You know why. Now put them on.

The boy crossed his arms, the gloves tucked against his biceps. No. I don't want to.

The king pulled his arms out until they were straight in front of him, seized the gloves from his grasp, and in two swift movements he forced one, and then the other, onto his small hands.

The boy wriggled under the older man's grasp, flames shooting up and licking against the gloves and at the king's skin.

The man let go of him with a grunt, pulling his hands towards his sides, and watched as the boy's gloves slowly disintegrated within the fire that enveloped them.

Insolent child, he rumbled. I will have another pair made, and you will wear them.

I won't, the boy exclaimed, shaking off the ash from his fingers. You can't make me!

The king scowled and snapped the back of his hand across the boy's face hard enough to make him lose balance and fall to the cold stone floor below.

The boy glared up at him with watering eyes, pressing one hand to the injured cheek and raising the other towards the king.

The older man grabbed the outstretched hand, his expression dark and hard even as the boy's fire encompassed his grasp.

You will never raise this hand to me again. Do you understand?

The boy's lower lip trembled as his fire sputtered out, smoke rising from the burnt edges of the king's gloves, saying nothing.

The king released his wrist, putting out the remaining embers. Good. Now get up, and go back to your lessons.

The boy rose with effort, his arms straight by his sides, and bowed.

Yes, Father.

»» —— ««

The boy received another pair of gloves a week later, but did not raise a fuss when instructed to put them on, feeling his father's eyes boring into his small, shrinking figure.

He wore them dutifully every day after that, though they often made his hands sweat and slick from over-long use. He dared not allow the king to see him without them, for the risk of injury and humiliation was too great, hanging over him like a thundercloud.

His brothers, seeing the king's animosity towards their youngest brother from an early, copied it in the hopes of winning their regent's favor. After several entreaties to his father to make them stop were met with little more than a retort of sort it out with them yourself, the boy stopped asking, and retreated to the refuge of his bedroom.

There, he took to experimenting with his magic in-between lessons and meals, training his flames with his bare hands into the shapes of fantastical beasts and far-off places that he had read about in his picture books.

Eventually, however, many of his brothers intruded on this space, each with a new taunt or trick to play on the "Unlucky Thirteenth" prince. Whether it was placing a snake in his bed, horse manure in his boots, or dusting the insides of his gloves with chili powder, they performed each stunt with wicked glee.