Stefan stepped out of Peter's empty room. His gloved hands, holding a tray of leftovers from dinner, were trembling, his face left a determined blank, a scream threatening to rise in his throat. A crumpled piece of paper was roughly shoved into his left breast pocket, his jaw tight.
“You have made yourself believe me a madman, Stefan, and perhaps Pheia as well. But upon my return, all things will be revealed.
You have changed beyond my recognition. You, my dearest friend, have set your face against me for reasons I cannot fathom. I leave in search of answers—and, yes, of Adva. If you have any affection left in your heart for me, Stefan, do not harm her. I beg you, do not depart further from the man I knew.
In your pursuit of the throne, you have resorted to the vilest threats and deceit. For all the faults you name in me, I will not leave the kingdom in your hands.
Prepare yourself, my brother. I pray you return to yourself before I return to court.”
He opened the door again, and glanced about the room. Everything in its place—and then the destruction of the window, marring the perfect image. No Peter, and almost no glass left in the window.
The crown prince threw the silver tray against the wall with all his strength. He closed the door behind him hurriedly and rushed at the bed, ripping the canopy from it, grasping the sheets and tearing them to pieces. He ran to the fireplace, tearing the brush from a hook nearby and sweeping what remained of the ashes out of the fire and onto the floor. He flung the books from their shelves, smashed the ink-pots, shredded the quills. Ornaments he smashed at his feet, grinding the pieces into powder under the heel of his boot. His eyes shone fever-bright as he grasped everything within his reach and flung it to the ground.
Finally, he grasped the poker, still lying on its side near the overturned desk, and proceeded to bash the dresser with it, ripping off the sides with the hooked instrument. The dresser tottered and fell on its side, the leg cracking loudly. Shirts spilled out. Stefan tossed the poker to the side, fell to his knees, and began tearing and throwing everything he touched.
After about half a dozen shirts were in shreds, his fingers skimmed across something hard and round.
He paused, panting, to lean forward and dig out the object, struggling to free it from the tangle of clothes.
A short, glinting knife with a seashell handle.
His hands trembled.
Stefan! Wait! Where is she? Where is Adva now?
So long as you do not attempt to escape? Safe.
Breath ragged, he crushed the knife to his breast with both hands, crouching. His heartbeat pounded in his ears.
What do I do?
He remained frozen until he heard a soft gasp and a crash from the doorway.
Stefan spun, knife still clutched to his chest.
Alice stood framed at the entrance to Peter's room, shattered pieces of soup bowl at her feet. The steaming broth was soaking the carpet and her shoes, but she did not seem to notice. Her eyes were fixed on the knife in Stefan's hand, her wrinkled fingers pressed to her lips.
The two were silent as their eyes met, equally bewildered.
Stefan's gaze wrinkled, then hardened.
“Alice.”
“I heard crashing. I thought Peter needed—” The old woman's voice failed.
“Do you know where he is?” Stefan clenched his jaw, his grip on the knife growing tighter.
She managed a shake of her head, her mouth gaping. Her gaze flicked helplessly around the room, taking in the damage.
“Stefan—”
“Set every servant at our disposal to looking for him. He may be somewhere in the castle—or he may have reached the town already. I want to know immediately.”
She hesitated, grasping her skirt.
“Go now, Alice!” Stefan shouted, pointing the knife without thinking.
The old woman turned on her heel and ran from the room. Something burning in her former charge's eyes made Alice lose her courage, even as a thousand questions burned in her chest.
Stefan turned back to the shattered window, knees weakening, fighting rising panic. He loosened his grip on the knife, looking at it as a desperate idea formed. Mouth dry, pulse pounding, he clambered over ripped shirts and pieces of the dresser to get to the desk.
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It was less than a quarter of an hour before Phillip burst into Peter's room to find his younger son on his hands and knees, shuffling through papers spilling from Peter's desk. His blank, gray eyes did not pass over the letters on each page, but seemed to pass through them. Fingers rubbed the dry ink, dampening the words with cold sweat. The prince did not look up at his father's entrance, but the restless movements of his hands stopped as he grasped a single sheet of paper tightly.
Phillip's movements slowed to a stop. He had come prepared to shout and bluster, but there was no room for shouting with the look upon his son's face.
“Stefan.”
The prince still did not acknowledge him. His coat was wrinkled and stained with ink, his gloves tossed across the room. His golden hair was mussed and wild where he had torn at it.
Finally, his face turned up to the king.
“Father.” His voice was strangled.
Startled, Phillip could not help but take a step towards him. “What happened here, Stefan? Where is your brother?”
The prince's mouth gaped, his eyes were wide, pleading. He started to stand when the glint of steel in Stefan's lap caught his eye.
Unease shadowed Phillip's face.
“What is that you have, Stefan?”
Stefan lifted the knife for the king to see. Phillip frowned.
The prince wordlessly offered him the paper in his hands, on which were scribbled a few hasty lines.
Phillip's eyes passed over the words, narrowing. His face turned crimson with anger even as it widened with confusion.
I have no more use for this foolish place and the fools who live in it. I have lost the only things dear to me—her, and my birthright.
I hear I am called mad now. If I am, you have driven me to it. My curse upon Pheia, and my curse upon its treacherous king and its preening prince, who from me have torn both love and station.
Trouble me no more. I will be far beyond your reach by the time of your reading.
The king crushed the letter in his fist. Doubt stirred within him mixed with desperation and grief. The characters were in his son's hand, but the words struck a tin note in his ear. He smoothed the page out and re-read the words, searching hard for some sign of forgery, of a hidden meaning behind the hateful words, anything to negate the horrible implication that his eldest son somehow held him responsible for Adva's death and his subsequent madness. The final line gripped his heart with fear.
“He says he will be far beyond our reach.” Phillip wrinkled his brow.
“I fear—” Stefan started, before his voice faded.
The king locked eyes with his son, and for the first time, Stefan saw his father tremble.
“The window. Father, the window.” Stefan's voice was broken.
Phillip looked at the window and with growing horror took in the shattered glass, the scuff marks of boots on the sill, the overturned desk. Slowly everything began to piece itself together in his mind.
“My son,” he breathed, and sank to his knees against his will.
He did not notice as Stefan's face twisted with pain as he hid his face with his hands.
It's too late, Peter. I am no longer the man you knew. The man you knew could not protect Pheia from you.
Or what is coming.
His knuckles were white on the handle of Peter's knife.
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