The Rebel Prince Read Online Free PDF

against the King, and he had enticed the King’s heir to do the same. At the very least, he had a lot of explaining to do.
    ‘You refuse to hand over the royal papers?’ Oliver asked, his Hadrish flawless, his cultured voice cold.
    Sólmundr began to reply, but Úlfnaor raised his hand to silence him. The warrior bowed to his leader and drew his horse back into formation.
    ‘I feel certain in my heart that there has been mistake in carrying my introduction to the Royal Prince,’ said Úlfnaor quietly. ‘I certain of this, because if Royal Prince knowed that I am diplomatic envoy for Royal Princess, come with full permission also to negotiate for my peoples, he would have greet me with honour and treat me with respect, as one head of state to another, with the grace and nobility worthy of man destined to be King of his peoples.’ Oliver pursed his lips at this, and Úlfnaor knowingly held his eyes. ‘And so,’ he continued, ‘I allow my Second again to introduce me, knowing that, this time, there will be no more mistake.’
    Sólmundr once again clucked his horse forward. He once again made his introductions, and the Merron once again waited. This time, Oliver bowed and the lieutenant smoothly followed his lead.
    ‘Lord Úlfnaor,’ said Oliver, still bent at the waist. ‘Forgive me. We had been told to expect a simple messenger, not a diplomatic representative. I fear we are ill-prepared. Had the Royal Prince understood . . .’
    ‘It not matter. I forgive. We go on.’
    Oliver straightened. ‘Unfortunately, his Royal Highness is very busy. He begs that you forgive him this, asks that you hand over the papers and says that he will speak with you as soon as time allows.’
    Wynter briefly closed her eyes and shook her head. So, that was how it was to be. After all he had done to get here, after everything he had been forced to sacrifice, it was quite clear that Úlfnaor was never destined to get his audience. He would never have the chance to negotiate on behalf of his people. He was to be a messenger in all but name, and Shirken would laugh behind her sleeve to the very end.
    There was a long, empty silence, during which time Úlfnaor sat heavy in his saddle, and Sól stared blindly out at the trees.
    ‘I will come to royal tent,’ said Úlfnaor at last. ‘I will hand papers myself, as is my duty. Then you will show my party to our quarters and I will wait the Prince’s pleasure.’
    Oliver blinked in surprise. He had been expecting wounded pride perhaps; had been anticipating an argument. He went to speak, seemed to think better of it, nodded and gestured that the Merron should dismount and follow him up the hill.
    Christopher fell into place at Wynter’s side and they strode forward to flank Razi as the party trudged through the last of the daylight to Alberon’s tent. At the royal quarters, Úlfnaor and Sól went forward with the papers. The rest of the Merron closed ranks around Razi, shielding him from sight and obscuring Wynter’s view of the tent. She heard Oliver’s voice as he announced the Merron lords.
    ‘Your Royal Highness, I present Lord Úlfnaor, Aoire of the Merron people, emissary from her Royal Highness Princess Marguerite of the Northlands.’
    This was greeted with silence, during which Wynter imagined Alberon stepping into the sunlight. Úlfnaor and Sól kneeling in the dust. Úlfnaor holding out the package of letters. She imagined Alberon reaching forward and taking it. She tried to picture him as something more than the boy she’d known. In her mind, she tried to form him into a man. But nothing came to her, nothing but a clear image of him as she had last seen him, a ten-year-old boy standing in a doorway, the bright sun in his hair, his hand raised in farewell – her final sight of him as she had ridden away from the palace. She waited for his voice, wondering if she’d know it. He did not speak.
    Instead Oliver said, ‘His Highness thanks you.’
    At Wynter’s side, Razi