As his long locks of ebony flapped in the wind, Sébastien sucked in a whiff of the fresh air, let it ripple against his cheeks and fill him with hope. With a nagging for adventure and a yearning to settle under a batch of trees and curl up with a book.
But I must not stop yet; I must move onward.
The beast beneath him galloped, speeding down the cobblestone path through the forest. The landscape blurred as he raced on, faster and faster, farther and farther. Away from the dreaded Torrinni court and its expectations, from the lies spun for attention. From his mother and her schemes, his brother and his pompous wife.
Away from it all.
The memory of his father floated around him like a ghost, squealing at him to speak up, to react, to grow a back-bone.
"You cannot spend your life in a Library, Sébastien!"
He wouldn't—because what no one knew or sought to understand was that Sébastien's favorite books were about weapons. Fighting stories, military tactics, thickest clothes to wear when sparring. At night, while his squires and staff thought he slept, he snuck out with Jules to train.
His father's haunting tones pushed him to make a decision; to realize his place, if only while he trained and grew stronger, was elsewhere. Not in the stuffy offices, advising Antoine how to oversee his men; or in the Ballroom, listening to girls groan about the Queen's strict requirements for her Solar.
When she ran off, Marguerite had it right—the castle was full of hypocrites and liars, draped in shame and liquor and overpriced diamonds. Everyone plotted, even the elder brother he always looked up to. Choosing Adelaide at the last minute, shocking the attendees into silence, sending a snide smile to Clémentine's face? Why? He'd tried to explain his reasons to Sébastien, but Sébastien never understood it, and wasn't sure he ever would.
Lingering at court wouldn't provide him with answers; and neither would leaving, but he preferred the latter option.
The moment Marguerite ran woke him up. Pried him from the reverie his parents raised him in, the life they expected him to lead. A Prince of Totresia, the second-in-command, the heir should Antoine fail to procreate—it was too much, too heavy, too fast.
That famed night, atop the hidden balcony, while Jules stormed off, yelling at Marguerite to come back, and Cordelia cried in confusion, Sébastien froze. He saw Marguerite's golden train whisk through the crowd and squirm out into the corridor, and he knew he had to follow her. Perhaps not go where she went, but flee the cramped coffin they called court, like she did.
The rumor soon skirting along the floorboards was that Marguerite died. Caught in arrow crossfires. Tumbled down a hill and landed in a ditch and crashed her skull. Or—the worst of all—detained and tortured until she perished. Too many stories to decipher which was true, if any of them were.
He noticed that books with entries about a Duchess of Torrinni disappeared. Certain pages had scratched out sentences or entire paragraphs burned off. Such a sly action reeked of his mother. Clémentine erased Marguerite from history, peeved at her unexpected departure, unwilling to handle courtier's questions about the specifics.
Was she responsible for Marguerite's supposed death? It wouldn't have surprised Sébastien, and believing such cruelties about his mother intensified his desire to escape.
He was young—too young to travel alone, he knew—but at fifteen, soon-to-be sixteen, Sébastien was more mature than most gentlemen at court. More than Antoine, who sulked and screamed and stomped off whenever unhappy. More than Jules, who spent his days and nights wagering money that didn't belong to him in taverns he never should have been allowed in.
To think he believes himself inconspicuous!
If only Sébastien had decided sooner, while his father lived. Edouard would have approved, would have encouraged the trip, the need to further knowledge, to test his techniques, to learn from other cultures. After all, the former King had also taken such a voyage; at fifteen, he traveled around France with his escorts to better immerse in the massive country bordering his own.
Prince Sébastien had every right to follow in his father's footsteps. Antoine was too busy scuttling about learning to be a proper King, and Jules had too many adventures already.
The funeral, the wedding ceremony, and the coronation passed without incident. Though far from pleased, the nobles held their tongues—wary of traitors looming in dark hallways—and continued their business as usual. Adelaide paraded about with her fancy crown, bossing everyone; and Antoine, ever the serious member of the family, welcomed and met his constituents. He sat for hours of court proceedings and hearings, refraining from yawning. Adelaide found the process too boring, so she hid in her quarters or behind the grand piano in the Music Room. "I must stay with the ladies, darling!"
Sébastien rolled his eyes, wincing at the echo of her tart tone.
Before mounting his stallion and taking off, he'd secured an audience for himself, to warn his brother of his intentions before the horde of peasants swarmed the Ballroom with their requests.
To his surprise, as he kneeled at the bottom of the dais, his mother was there, too.
"Sébastien, dearest, what are you doing?" She batted her lashes at her middle-boy. "You need not grovel at your brother's feet, not while the Ballroom is empty."
He snarled at the Dowager. "What are you doing?" He peeked at Antoine, one brow arching. "Why is she here?"
Antoine, stiff as a board on his throne, motioned for Sébastien to rise. "You act as though I would understand. Mother does what Mother pleases."
Clémentine coughed, ignoring her son's cruel jesting. "I am here to watch over our new King, to assure myself he understands what Edouard expected of him."
He hadn't planned for her presence, but Sébastien wouldn't let his resolve melt now. Not after hours of practicing his speech, of preparing for all outcomes.
"What is it you hope to speak to me about?" Antoine shifted in his seat. "Surely you could have done so later, in my office?"
"No." The Prince swallowed, his throat dry. "This is an official matter. Because I aspire to withdraw from court. To voyage around Europe and see what is out there, before losing all my liberties and assuming the role of Crown Prince."
The look on his mother's face, torn between fury and outrage, might have made him guffaw, if she had directed it at anyone else.
Her brows creased then shot upward, and her curls shimmied atop her head as she gripped the edges of her Dowager chair. "Excuse me? You? Leave the castle?" She twisted to the King. "Son?"
Tilting sideways, one elbow resting on his armchair, Antoine pursed his lips, ignoring his mother's bewilderment. "What do you mean?" Lines dug deep into the skin near his eyes and mouth, and he sank into his throne, as if too small, too inexperienced to sit on it. "I thought you were about to take up my offer to attend this session beside me. As my right hand, my—"
Sébastien flinched. What Antoine wanted to say was, "as the advisor Father meant Marguerite to be." But he couldn't; he hadn't pronounced her name in weeks and shivered if anyone with blonde hair stood too close to him.
It was a lot to ask. Sébastien didn't want to accept the role destined for her. Didn't want to rule at his brother's side while the Queen spent hours nitpicking about ladies and selecting frilly fabrics to wear for the next Ball. Eighteen, dull, and over-dressed—that was who Antoine chose instead of the level-headed, simple, sweet Marguerite.
I will never understand why.
"I apologize, but I do not aspire to sit by you today, or any other day for that matter. Not until I am wise enough to counsel you, Your Majesty." He pumped his chest with one fist. "This court is no place for me, not now. I need more."
He always had Antoine's ear, and he'd consent; he had to. They were close, though they'd grown distant during Antoine's Season, and more so since their father's death.
Antoine rose so fast he sent a few of the nearby servants to their knees. "So you long to leave court?" He scratched his upper jaw, covered in stubble. "Alone? And go where?"
Heaving to his full height—which was a few inches shy of Antoine's forehead, if they stood face-to-face—Sébastien set his palms behind his back. "If I may take my personal staff, a squire, a few of the soldiers, I wish to see France. Spain, Germany, Switzerland, Gir—"
"—do not dare say that last one," said Clémentine, her voice a hiss as she pushed up from her seat, her majestic ebony gown billowing off the boundaries of the platform. Mourning, yes; but she had to make a statement. To impress, inspire awe, incite fear. More so now that a younger, mouthier version of her had taken her spot as Queen. "Son, please, do not tell me you are considering this?"
Her advice, disguised as a plea, a question, was another reason Sébastien wanted out. Her whispers, her controlling, her decisions—her husband had been beneath the ground for only three days and her son crowned for a week when it started. When she seized her puppet strings and began to play, to lead the carriage of Torrinni court like she still held the reins. Behind the scenes, and for years, she swayed Edouard's orders, she carried out the rules, she was the monarch. It hadn't changed; it never would.
Sébastien wondered if she'd plotted alone for Antoine to choose Adelaide—but it made no sense. Why ally with an insignificant city like Avignon? If they were to seek treaties with France, the daughter of a Duke or Count would have been better. But the daughter of a measly Lord with ties to the wild and conquest-hungry Napoléon? Sébastien didn't understand it. It kept him awake at night; that, and nightmares of his father's death. A coup? Accidental? A genuine sickness? No one would ever know, and he wouldn't stick around to hear the gossip and the fallacies.
Nor would he remain in a place where the family name had tarnished. Where drama unfolded at every corner, older noblewomen ogled him like some prized horse or delectable pastry. He didn't wish to marry soon, and none of those ripened and fawning fakes would ever do.
"I am, Mother." Antoine descended from the dais and halted in front of Sébastien. He set a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "Séb, take whoever you wish. Take as much time as you must. We all deserve to grieve in our own manners. I cannot, since I perch up there, and..." A flicker of despair flashed in his hazel eyes, so like their father's, Sébastien swallowed a sob to maintain his composure. "I cannot escape. But if this is your choice, then by all means, do so. You have my blessing."
Peering at his older brother, every inch the copy of their father with his ash-and-chestnut tresses, his tired expression, the golden sash slashing across his chest, Sébastien resisted the urge to hug him. To reassure him, tell him they'd make it through, they were strong, they had each other—
He shoved his feelings into hidden parts of his brain—he would show no weakness in the presence of his mother. "And Cordelia? You will look after her?" Turning rigid to conceal his emotions and his unwillingness to abandon his baby sister, he cleared his throat. "Because if I am gone—"
"—Cordelia will be fine, I promise." Antoine's palm lowered to Sébastien's upper arm, where he squeezed again. "She will not become what we fear."
They worried for the Princess daily. How she resembled Clémentine, how her shyness and easygoing nature might fade once she started taking more complicated ladylike lessons, becoming a woman. They feared she'd turn into someone else. Jules caused problems, too, but Cordelia was fragile, innocent, and needed guidance. Marguerite's departure devastated her, deprived of her friend, her confidante. She locked herself up for weeks, refusing to attend the funeral or the wedding. Clémentine had to pull her out by the hair, force her to appear at all events. Between Edouard's death and Marguerite's disappearance, the Princess suffered terrible losses.
Sébastien couldn't stay. He prayed Antoine would take care of her and find a way to reel in Jules and his bad habits, too.
Fourteen and spiraling into alcohol and gambling; and he will not listen to me, no. Too stubborn.
Clémentine hobbled halfway down the platform steps and grunted. "Leave, and you decline your place in line for the throne, Sébastien!"
Antoine spun on his heels, fists bunching at his sides. "What? No. You have no authorization to decree such things."
The Prince sidled up to him, narrowing his gaze.
Snickering, the Dowager strode closer, her attitude that of a bitter widow. "It is a rule. Your sole inheritors are not to leave the premises and endanger themselves until you have an heir."
Antoine, who often turned to Sébastien for the veracity of laws and political issues, even before his coronation, swerved to his younger sibling. "Is that true?"
Of course.
Prince Sébastien knew the consequences. He read the books, informed himself of the privileges he'd give up by leaving. He'd conserve his title, but forfeit his spot, allowing Jules to be next in line. Jules was far from ready to handle such a responsibility, but Sébastien expected Antoine would have a child soon. Adelaide was desperate enough—he overheard ladies saying—so something would come from her efforts.
"It is. I am aware of what I ask." He straightened up and tucked his hair behind his ears. "I hate to beg, but I cannot be here. Not with this atmosphere. The Balls, the frivolous attire, the foolish requirements; I cannot abide by them, not yet. I need time."
Drooping, his fists unclenching, Antoine let his chin dip down. "I suppose that changes nothing, then. But will you return?" His jaw whipped up and he blanched. Stuck in Torrinni with the wife he may not have chosen, the mother he didn't want at his heels, and the siblings he didn't wish to supervise—Sébastien felt bad for Antoine.
He felt worse for himself. "I will. I would never desert you for too long."
Antoine agreed, Clémentine moaned and complained, Jules wished him well, Cordelia embraced him with tears in her taupe eyes.
Sébastien, breathing at last, set off to new horizons.
A group of more experienced men joined him, on Antoine's orders; and a tutor, sent by Clémentine, trudged at the tail-end of the expedition.
"If you must run off, you will at least complete your studies!"
He smirked as he watched the trees rustle when he flew by. Would he run home at some point? Perhaps. Or he'd become a scholar. A wise writer, an incognito author of dramatic plays, living as a clandestine peasant in France, surviving on scraps. Or he'd become an actor, a sailor, a pirate. Venture off to the Americas and discover their culture, drink in the splendor of their landscapes.
He sensed the pistol at his hip, banging into his thigh as he urged his stallion onward.
He knew better. He'd do what he always planned to—master his fighting techniques, hone his skills, become the fiercest warrior ever known in Totresia. The strongest Prince in the land, to protect those he loved. And since he'd stuffed countless books into bags that his squire had with him, on his mount, he would read, read, and read more.
I will outsmart and outfight them all.
"Your Highness," said one guard, catching up to him, navy cloak whipping in the breeze. "Our first checkpoint is at the French border, past Mara. Where do you want to continue from there on?"
Pulling the reins to slow his horse to a trot, Sébastien scrunched his nose. "Stay in France? We are on decent enough terms. If we avoid the areas Napoléon has his grasp on, they would not mind a Totresian Prince passing through, no?"
The soldier grunted in approval. "Indeed. Where in France, Highness? I would not recommend loitering at the border-lands between Totresia and Giroma—"
"—we will go there. You are aware of this, yes?" He craned his neck to peer at the man, who squinted and flinched away. "If I choose to stay in that area, I will."
"Highness, your brother, your mother—"
"—Antoine permitted me to go. And Mother?" He scoffed. "She has no control over where we travel. The instant we left Torrinni, she stopped being our concern." He jutted his chin towards the village ahead of them. "We will visit Giroma, but not yet. We will save it for last. Does this reassure you?"
At the guard's hesitation, Sébastien chuckled and clapped a hand against his back, startling his horse.
"Let us pass this checkpoint and veer north, then. Paris? Father and Mother always taunted me with its beauty."
By beauty, I do not mean its over-dressed ladies.
He wasn't opposed to wooing women, but the ideal match he sought didn't exist. Not in Totresia, where all were brainless daughters with no skills aside from knitting, dancing, and rumor-spreading.
The lady he wanted hid in a library or ran barefoot in a field of flowers. A shy but sweet-natured girl who didn't wear dresses that allowed her breasts to spill out, didn't style her hair to the latest trends or display so much powder her real skin-color disappeared. She read, explored, laughed without scruple.
He prayed one day he'd find her, but for now he galloped straight to his freedom, away from Totresian women and their toxicity.
•••