#buckhound

It took him a moment to gather himself, wiping the sweat from his brow with his discarded shirt. He’d put on a good show, at least. If there was one thing he could do, it was that. There was a still, quiet place inside him — a place he could go when he needed to be the prince instead of Chivalry. The master-at-arms had always said it was unnerving, watching his eyes go cool in the middle of a fight. He’d learned to use it. It no longer worked on Verity, but it had been enough to daunt this soldier.

Burrich was the name. Chivalry pulled on his shirt and crouched beside the man, who was sprawled on his side. It took some effort to roll him onto his back — the commoner was taller than the prince and thicker around the middle. His breath stank of ale, and bright red blood sheathed from the crown of his head, from the blow that had taken him to the floor. There was older blood, too: brown, dry, and cracking in his left nostril and at the corner of his mouth. Remnants of the fight, one against five, that had gotten him dragged here.

Chivalry studied him. One against five was no easy feat. This man had a sturdy build, true enough, and young, but Chivalry had no doubt that the others were as hale and able-bodied. But there had been a desperation in the way he fought. His strikes were reckless, inviting just as many blows as he gave, and there had been a look in his eyes… Hatred or fear, Chivalry had not been able to tell. So often, the two looked much alike. Either way, the man — Burrich — fought with a ferocious emotion that burned from the inside out.

Could you stand against them, one to five? Chivalry wondered as he brushed Burrich’s brown hair back from the weeping cut. He had pale lashes and a strong nose, and the fair skin of Chalced, though freckled and windburnt. Some blue ornament hung from his ear, glittering through the frenzy of his sweat-soaked hair. He was already tired and beaten when they brought him before you. Could you have stood against him, in his full strength?

It had been a close spar. Far too close, for a prince of the realm.

There was a soft noise from the back of Burrich’s throat, and the man’s eyes rolled rapidly in their sockets before blinking open. It was another long moment before that gaze focused and sharpened on Chivalry’s face.

The still, quiet place. Chivalry summoned the prince within him, feeling his expression become cold and mask-like on his face. “Are you well?” he asked.

Burrich only stared. His chest heaved with every ragged breath, and he did not speak.

Chivalry pulled a worn handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to the man’s cut. “Here.”

Blood seeped into the silk — a cherry stain — and Burrich reached up to hold it in place. The man wet his lips. He’s in pain, Chivalry knew, and felt the tickle of sordid pride in his spine; it was the same pride he had felt at fourteen, the first time he’d knocked the master-at-arms on his back.

And when it happened, he couldn’t help it. He felt the visage of the prince slip as he moved forward and sought this soldier’s mind. This soldier, this damned man. Three times he’d been brought before Chivalry, and three times Chivalry had felt at a loss for words or wisdom. It was not a feeling he enjoyed, nor one he often felt. He’d taken away Burrich’s pay, added to his duties, but he could not bring himself to dismiss the man, and the man had refused to desert. What was it?

Chivalry tried to move slowly. Skillmistress Solicity had chided and Verity had teased him enough for his tactlessness — “charging in like a horse,” he knew. He looked into Burrich’s mind as Solicity so often said: carefully, a lens being slid over a manuscript’s tiny lettering, a magnification, a way of seeing clearer.

The man had no defenses. So few people did.

Pain. The cut on his head. The bruises on his arms, his abdomen, his hips. A cracked rib from the alehouse, a lucky bastard with a quick fist. The taste of blood in his mouth. The smell of it in his nose. Old bruising on his windpipe, though that bruising had faded on his skin. A rope that had not done its duty quick enough.

Fear. A fear of being punished, a fear of being alone. Chivalry saw his own face reflected back to him: it was the face of his father, but so much younger, so still and regal and cold. Do I look like that? he wondered, as another part of him knew that was the point. A prince, hovering overhead. A prince who could beat him and kill him, a prince who, if he knew—

Anger and shame like twin rivers, running deep, far deeper than Chivalry would have guessed. The alcohol, the women, the blood. Knuckles torn on every occasion and the stench of ale that had become his skin’s natural perfume. And something else, something darker and deeper that Chivalry could not see, not without taking it from the man by force. Those rivers were at the center of this man, this Burrich. They were everything.

A push. Soft, instinctive, and unintentional, but a push all the same. It was no stronger than a child’s hands, but it was still resistance where Chivalry expected none. It batted him away. He fled.

When he looked down at Burrich, the man’s gaze held his. The intensity of that stare made his skin prickle. Burrich’s eyes were not brown, as Chivalry had first thought, but green, deep and dark as lakewater in the winter.

“No.” Burrich huffed and picked up the page. He seemed to gather his composure, and then, “The black buck walks though—”

“Through.”

The man’s dark green eyes snapped up. “That’s what I said," he said tersely.

Chivalry shook his head. “You said, ‘though,’ as in, ‘It is good for you to read, though you hate it.’ And though no harm was done, I would warn you to be careful with your tone. Go on.”

He saw how Burrich’s jaw tensed. Their gazes held, but the man’s voice strained to be affable when he responded, “Pardon, Your Highness. The black buck walks through the wood, seeking his… his supper. High in the branches, a…” 

The silence stretched on as he searched for the word. The look on Burrich’s face was very dark. Chivalry watched him. During one of their first lessons, Burrich had stormed from the study in a black rage when Chivalry thrice corrected him, slamming the door so hard that Chivalry felt it in the stones. He’d paid for that, of course. That had been a rainy day, and so the next morning, Burrich was up before dawn using a little bucket to drain a flooded wine cellar. Since then, Burrich had done well enough at tempering his flares of anger.

“I don’t know that word. Your Highness.”

Chivalry went to stand behind Burrich’s chair. When he came close, the man beneath him visibly bristled. Like a hound, raising his hackles. He found the word. “Squirrel,” Chivalry said.

A low, agitated noise from Burrich — either a huff, snort, or growl. “It shouldn’t be spelled like that.”

Chivalry laughed.

It went well for several minutes before Burrich stumbled once more, and then the man was shooting to his feet and pushing past Chivalry. Chivalry sighed. He thought he might storm out again, but instead Burrich began to pace the short length of the study, raking his hands wildly through his hair. Back and forth, back and forth. His face was horrid. A few strands of brown hair dropped from his fists where he’d tugged them out and floated slowly to the floor. 

Chivalry dropped into his chair. It’s impossible. A stupid fantasy, Chivalry. He could feel his own anger clawing up his throat, putting pink blood in his face. Don't lose your temper, too. He searched for the still place within him.

When he felt composed enough, he asked, in a flatter voice than he’d intended, “What is it?”

Burrich rounded on him. The feral flash in his eyes was enough to frighten Chivalry, and he spoke in a low, clipped voice, heavy with the accent of his homeland. “I don’t understand it,” he said. “You have two scores of men in your guard. More than half can’t read a lick, either — and they’re Duchymen, born and bred. Many of them rank higher than I do, and all of them, I’d wager, would be more grateful for your tutelage.”

He put special venom on the last word. Chivalry would not let anything show in his face, but the man’s passion only mounted.

“I wake when you tell me, and train when you tell me, and come to your study when you call. I spend my hours in this forsaken study, blundering through your pretty words like a fool, all while you sit there with your haughty look.” His lip lifted. It was almost a snarl. “Is this my punishment? For the fight in the tavern? All this criticizing me — humiliating me with your fancy letters. Was laying me out cold not enough for you?”

“Being taught to read is an honor,” Chivalry said. The coldness in his voice surprised even him. “Few are privileged enough to learn — as you have so succinctly noted.”

Burrich snorted derisively. “Maybe it’s because I’m Chalced-born. Does it give you some pleasure, Your Highness, teaching your language to a stupid Chalcedean—”

“It is no such thing!”

“Well, I never knew my Chalcedean letters, either!” Burrich said. “And I didn’t speak a word of your tongue when Duke Grizzle took me on. My pike was enough for him. My pike was enough for your sergeant, too, when he made me one of your men.” He took a heaving breath. “I’m no duke, and I don’t wager you’ll want me as your scribe, so I have no need for your lessons and letters.”

Chivalry stayed perfectly still. In the sudden absence of Burrich’s rampage, the silence grew to be a heavy, physical thing. 

When Chivalry spoke, each word was weighted. “My father would have thrown you back to the streets, with neither a glance nor a penny in your pocket, for speaking to me so.”

It was true. Shrewd was a good king and a just man, but no one had ever accused him of being merciful. He was particularly hard on the smallfolk. We hold ourselves to high standards, Chivalry, he would say. Why shouldn’t commoners do the same? It had been the long, hard lesson of Chivalry’s childhood. When a serving boy would grow too fond or familiar with the young prince, Shrewd had had a word. The next morning, the child would be formal and distant, dressed neatly in their serving blues. Some would leave the keep entirely, without a farewell to soothe him. Chivalry had lost countless friends that way. You are a Farseer. They must learn to speak to you as a Farseer.

Burrich had not moved. Other than the breaths that made his great chest rise and sink, he could have been made of stone. 

Chivalry’s throat was dry. “Come,” he said at last. “Ride with me.”

•••

Despite the pale, mottled sky, the Rippon countryside was bright. Clover brought green back to the hills and fields, and an eastern wind raced through the wild grasses. It was good to ride. Though Grizzle’s horses had been his constant companions during his year under the duke’s employ, Burrich could count on one hand the times he’d ridden freely like this.

It was a relief to leave the cramped, stony study, choked as it was with the smell of paper and the prince’s spiced cologne. The endless lessons were oppressive. He hated the silly stories Prince Chivalry wrote for him — children’s tales — and the way his head would ache if he spent too long squinting at the page. He hated the prince’s even gaze most of all: those dark, fathomless eyes that watched, and watched, and watched.

At least Burrich had their training sessions in the yard. Each morning, he rose before dawn to meet Chivalry while the rest of the barracks slept, and theirs were the only shadows moving across the dirt. They would spar as the sky went from deep orange to misty lilac to blue. There, at least, he could let his frustration rule him, dealing the prince bruises for every hour they’d spent poring over arithmetic and letters. He’d felt a smug delight more than once upon noticing the deep, violet marks he left on Prince Chivalry’s skin. 

“Just over that hill,” the prince called.

Burrich put his heels to the mare beneath him, and together they started up the hill. The stablemaster at Neatbay had given Burrich one of the duke’s stock for the ride: Mellie, a gentle, thick-bodied horse who cantered steadily over the twisting hills and rocky paths of Rippon.

The Farseer prince had his own mount, all the way from the royal stables at Buckkeep. It was a fine horse, indeed. You could see it in the gelding’s breeding and care — the smooth, glossy black coat, the black mane that was carefully braided with pale blue ribbons. Sommer, Chivalry called him. He was as lean and athletic as his rider, and beautiful in much the same way. Together, they cut a striking figure.

Neither Sommer nor Mellie’s minds called to Burrich. It relieved him as much as it pained him. Mellie was a simple girl, caring little for the ways of humans — she was content to run, eat, and sleep as a horse should. Burrich felt the warm, basking pleasure she took from the day’s exercise, but nothing more. Sommer, meanwhile, had a great intelligence within him, but when Burrich quested out, the proud thing had snorted and turned away as if smelling something foul. Just as well. Burrich had left it alone.

Prince Chivalry reached the top of the hill first. He turned in the saddle and raised his slim brown hand aloft. Far behind them, the two other guardsmen nodded to his signal and slowed their own mounts to a halt.

Chivalry looked at Burrich. Several of the prince’s curls had escaped his long black braid, and they streamed across his face in the wind. “They’ll give us a bit of privacy,” he said. Then, gesturing, “Look.”

Burrich looked. They stood above a rolling clover-green hill, and beyond that was a thin beach of pale sand, and then a sea of crystal water that stretched as far as the eye could see. Gulls wheeled over the lapping white waves. The smell of open air and brine… Burrich desperately blinked away the sudden stinging in his eyes. The cold wind in your face, he told himself. That’s all.

He could feel the prince’s brown-black gaze lingering on his expression, and so he toed Mellie a few feet forward. Let him look on my back. Oh, to see the sea again: it was almost too much. Even for his years in the Shoaks Duchy, Grizzle had not taken him south to wear the ocean roared — all his business or warring had taken Burrich inland. He had not been so close to the sea since he left home, long ago.

“You were raised by the ocean, weren’t you? Lees?”

Burrich turned. The prince was watching him with an open stare. “How did you know that?”

“I noticed you looking at my maps, one day. You traced your knuckle down the coast of the Duchies until you reached Chalced, stopping at a little city on an inlet.” 

Chivalry kicked Sommer forward, closing the distance. They stared over the sea together. “I assumed,” Chivalry said quietly. “It seems a hardy little town, from what I’ve read. A trade port. Is that right?”

Burrich felt like he was breathing oddly. “Trade and fishing.”

“Did your family fish?”

“No.”

“Ah.” Chivalry shifted in his saddle. “Well. I call it ‘little.’ It seems that way from a map, but from what I can tell, Lees fits more people within its bounds than some of the Duchy’s largest cities. The book said the city’s great population is partially due to the many freed slaves who find their way to Lees, after emancipation.” The prince’s voice went quieter. “So many ships sailing away from Chalced, it said. Further away from the empire’s centralized oversight.”

The crude tattoo of a spear beside his grandmother’s nose. The thick pink scarring on her wrists, where the manacles had chafed for years. Burrich took a deep breath and let it out. 

“You wear a freedom earring,” Prince Chivalry said quietly. “Do you not?”

Burrich closed his eyes.

“Is it yours?”

“No,” he said.

“Whose?”

Burrich could have struck the prince then, but he smothered his agitation before he could give it voice. He choked on nothing for a time. “I don’t want to talk about it. Your Highness.”

He did not look at the prince, but the prince was quiet for a long while after that. The wind rushed loud across the glass surface of the sea, and the gulls cawed high as they swung in flight. 

“I’m sorry. I presume too much.”

When Burrich opened his eyes, Prince Chivalry was staring out at the sea. He had a look on his face that Burrich had never seen before — not while training in the yard, and not during their long hours of lessons together, shut up in the prince’s study. A deep contemplation. A sadness, almost. His long, black lashes skimmed over his high cheekbones as Chivalry sat blinking against the wind. His black cloak billowed behind him. A young man, Burrich thought. More wealthy and clever and lovely than I, but a man all the same. A man, as I am.

“My mother was born a young lady of Shoaks,” Chivalry said. His words were so soft, they were almost lost on the wind. “The niece of your Duke Grizzle, in fact. She was raised along the coast. Not far from Lees, I suppose. We would go visit her mother and father — my grandparents — in the summers, and walk along the pebble beaches, splashing in the shallows. Verity and I." He sighed. "Those were simple, happy times. I was not raised beside the sea as you were, Burrich. But I love it all the same.”

The sound that next came from Chivalry’s mouth was a shuddering breath, frightful in its brokenness. At first, Burrich feared he suffered some pain of the body — the princeling’s eyes were screwed shut in what could only be described as a wince of agony. Thoughtlessly, Burrich reached for his shoulder. “Your Highness?” 

“Fine,” the prince said, brushing Burrich’s hand away. It was almost horrifying how quickly the man regained himself. “Fine. Thank you.”

They sat for a moment longer before Prince Chivalry asked, “Would you like to linger here a while longer, or shall we return to the city?”

The sea was beckoning him. He remembered those cool mornings in Lees, when the air felt just like this, and spring snows would fall from the wide grey skies. He and Slash would go to the beach, kicking sand into each other’s hair and fur, and then they would dive into the freezing waters and let it all wash away. Those days had come with their own sorrows, but the Farseer prince was right — those had been simple, happy times, indeed.

Burrich opened his mouth to ask if they could go closer, if they could touch the waves with their toes; no, he opened his mouth to say they could return to the city, that the prince surely had countless duties to attend to. But neither of those was what slipped from Burrich’s mouth when he asked, “Why?”

Not the trip to the sea. Not the quiet memories that Chivalry now offered him, of little princes playing in the southern sands. It was greater than that. It was what Burrich had wanted to know all along — what he had tried to ask there, in the study, when all his confusion had emerged as rabid, spitting anger. He knew better than to shout at a Farseer princeling. He couldn’t say why he’d done it. But the prince had found him all those weeks ago, drunk and bloody, and scooped him up. Suspended him, kept him, and never explained why. 

It was driving him mad.

Why? He knew Chivalry Farseer understood the question. Those dark, dark eyes always understood. That was the trouble.

The smile that crept over the prince’s handsome face was sickly, and his voice trembled when he finally spoke. “I don’t know,” he whispered.