The Queen held nothing.
She rarely needed to.
“I think you should let dangerous men underestimate you.”
“That sounds like weakness.”
“It is strategy.”
“My father never hid.”
The Queen looked toward the horizon.
“You remember him as a hero because you were five.”
The boy stiffened.
“He was a hero.”
“Yes.”
“But?”
She looked down at him.
“But heroes make mistakes too.”
The Prince disliked that answer.
The Queen knew.
She continued anyway.
“Your father believed courage meant standing where enemies could see him.”
“He told me courage meant moving while afraid.”
A sad smile touched her mouth.
“That sounds more like him.”
“Then why am I hiding?”
“Because you are twelve.”
“I’m nearly thirteen.”
“The difference will terrify armies.”
The Prince glared.
The Queen turned toward him.
“You will have time to prove what kind of king you could become.”
“If the Regent allows it.”
The Queen’s expression changed.
The Prince had learned enough to recognize when he had crossed from childish complaint into dangerous truth.
“He cannot prevent your succession forever.”
“He can if everyone thinks Father is dead.”
Silence.
The Queen looked again toward the sea.
“You believe he isn’t.”
“So do you.”
She did not answer.
The Prince stepped closer.
“You still keep his cloak.”
“That proves nothing.”
“You still leave the western beacon burning on his birthday.”
“That is tradition.”
“There was no tradition before he disappeared.”
The Queen looked sharply at him.
The Prince smiled slightly.
His father’s smile.
Infuriating and fearless.
The Queen sighed.
“You notice too much.”
“You taught me.”
“That may have been an error.”
The Young Prince trained secretly in an abandoned courtyard behind the old library.
His teacher was the Old Archer, a former battlefield commander whose left knee had never recovered from a spear wound.
The Old Archer had served the King for twenty-four years.
He had also been aboard one of the ships that returned.
He rarely spoke about the voyage.
Whenever the Prince asked, he received the same answer.
“The sea took what it took.”
The Prince had eventually stopped believing him.
On a hot afternoon near the end of summer, the Old Archer stood beneath a shaded colonnade while the Prince fired six arrows into a straw target.
Five struck near the center.
The sixth missed entirely.
The Old Archer grunted.
“You were thinking.”
“I’m always thinking.”
“That explains the miss.”
The Prince lowered the bow.
“Was my father a better archer than me?”
“At twelve?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
The Prince brightened.
“At twenty?”
“Much.”
His face fell.
The Old Archer smiled.
“Train.”
The Prince retrieved his arrows.
On the way back he noticed something leaning against the wall behind the Old Archer.
A long bundle wrapped in faded leather.
The shape was unmistakable.
“A bow.”
“No.”
“That is clearly a bow.”
“It is clearly none of your concern.”
The Prince moved toward it.
The Old Archer stepped between them.