The Players of Luminesco Prologue

The Players of Luminesco

Prologue

Luka was hungry. In fact, at sixteen, he was always hungry. Luka was a guard at the king's palace in Luminesco, the capital city of Lyrona, a large country bordering the Western Sea. Luminesco was situated near the center of the shoreline, a port city. It wasn't the largest in Lyrona, but it was the most vital, the most beautiful, and the best liked.

At that moment, it was late afternoon. The sun was already beginning to set, tingeing the crooked little houses of Luminesco gold. Luka was standing just outside the open front gate, and thought he must soon succumb to starvation. He craned his neck, trying to see over the roofs of the houses.

"Stand still. His majesty will be here soon enough," said Alfonso next to him, a hint of amusement in his gravelly voice at the boy's impatience. Dierck, King of Hochstereich, was to arrive to discuss a treaty with their King Ricardo that evening. The night guards would arrive to replace Luka and Alfonso when Dierck got there, and then Luka could eat. His stomach growled loudly. Alfonso laughed at the younger guard, and Luka flushed.

He liked Alfonso and most of the other guards, and he wasn't really embarrassed about being hungry, but sometimes it was hard being the youngest. He was good at his job, he knew that very well, but every so often the thought occurred to him that the older guards didn't take him seriously. It wasn't just that he was young; it was that he looked young. He was small and thin for his age, with straight dark-brown hair that grew fast and was constantly in his bright black eyes, which stood out sharply against skin that was too pale for a southern Lyronan, most of whom were swarthy. He had wiry muscles that didn't get very big no matter how strong he was or how hard he worked, and bony elbows and knees that stuck out awkwardly. Arturo, captain of the king's guard and Luka's guardian, said that he would shoot up and get bigger soon. Luka hoped he was right.

While Luka was thinking about this, Alfonso scratched his gray-flecked beard and stretched broadly as he looked around the stone courtyard. It was full of courtiers in rich clothing, too hot in the late summer afternoon to argue as much as usual, much to Luka's relief. He found the nobles of the palace irritating in the extreme. There were also vendors with fruit, jewelry, cloth, and pottery for sale, and plenty of dogs, pigs, and other animals milling around, looking for scraps of food and garbage.

"Aha! You're in luck, boy," Alfonso said. Luka started from his glowering and followed Alfonso's gaze.

"Aziza!" he said in relief.

Aziza was Luka's best friend, and worked in the kitchens, meaning she had likely brought food. She was small and slender, with black skin and hair and wide, dark eyes. She grinned as she pushed her way through the crowd, ignoring the indignant huffs of the court ladies.

Making her way toward them, she said, "Good afternoon Luka, Alfonso," and nodded to each in turn. To Luka, she added, "Are you hungry?"

He smiled sheepishly. "A little."

Alfonso snorted. Aziza laughed too, her eyes twinkling, and handed him half a loaf of rich brown bread, still hot from the oven, out of the cloth she was carrying.

"I can't stay long," she said. "Signora Monterisi will miss me soon what with all the preparations for the welcome feast."

Aziza had been taken from her home when she was eight and sold as a slave. Ricardo had outlawed slavery years ago, but the black market trade persisted nonetheless. She had worked in the home of a wealthy merchant family for three years, cooking in the kitchens and working in the gardens, before her existence was discovered and reported by a neighbor. After that, no one was sure what to do with her. She could not return to her home because her family had been killed during the raid when she had been taken. In any case, her black skin testified to the fact that she was from somewhere in Tajirinchi, but beyond that no one knew. Aziza's people did not have names for their villages, and she had been too young when she was seized to remember much about the geography of the region.

So the family who had found her, a duke and duchess at court, brought her before the king. Ricardo was a kind man, and he gave her a job as a kitchen maid. Luka was already living at the palace with Arturo, working as a page, which was how he and Aziza had met. She caught him sneaking apples from the kitchen one night, and he shared them with her in his secret hiding place in the stable loft. They had been friends for the four years since, but in the last two years, Luka had begun to desire something more.

He had become a guard because he was living with Arturo, who had found him to be talented, but wasn't what he would have chosen. Luka hoped that someday he could find work as a carpenter in the city and make a living for himself, and then, when he was able to support her, he might ask Aziza to marry him. He could build her a home outside Luminesco, a good wooden house on a small farm, a place to raise a family and build a life together. This was his dearest wish. For now, however, he was content to talk to her, quietly, of less important things, and let his dreams stay in his head. He had never told Aziza how he felt about her. He didn't know if he would ever be able to summon the courage to do so.

Aziza glanced over her shoulder. "I should go. I've stayed too long."

"Aye," Luka said, nudging her with a shoulder. "You ought to leave. You're distracting me from my work."

She made a face at him, then they bid each other farewell and she departed. Luka watched as she slipped into the crowd and disappeared, then sighed and leaned back against the wall, his stomach growling vehemently: he was still hungry, although he had devoured the bread. It seemed like forever before the shout came from above them.

"King Dierck approaches!" called the sentry in the east watchtower.

There was a sudden upswing in the noise level as every occupant of the courtyard surged toward the gate, looking for the procession. There were shouts of "Where?" "I don't see them!" and "How far are they?" There were general cries of pain and annoyance as people were shoved and toes were trodden on, and there were shouts of anguish and outrage as the wares of the traders who had been closing up their stalls for the night were knocked over and trampled by the eager and jostling crowd. People craned their necks, trying to see the approaching visitors. Luka looked too, allowing their excitement to infect him, although he knew the twisting streets and uneven houses of Luminesco would hide the procession until they came right up to the palace walls.

There wasn't so much as a banner in sight, so Luka turned his attention to the excitedly buzzing crowd. He could see grizzled old Arturo shouting at a pageboy to fetch the king. Luka laughed as the child ran away, terrified. He remembered how intimidating the captain had seemed to him when he had first come to live at the castle with Arturo after his parents died. He had been only four or five then, and the big man with his gruff manners and unruly beard had scared him stiff. He knew now that Arturo was really quite kind, if a bit rough around the edges.

He turned back to the street and received a slight shock to see two great green standards preceding a prodigious procession of people in green and white livery and rich fine clothes. The banner bearers were walking on either side of a third man on a gigantic dapple grey horse: King Dierck of Hochstereich.

Of the whole lot of snooty-looking Hochster courtiers and nobles, noses-upturned astronomers and intellectuals, hunch-shouldered, defeated looking slaves, fine horses, barking dogs, and handsome hunting falcons, Luka's eyes were drawn to King Dierck, who was now close enough that Luka could see him clearly. The king was not tall or particularly muscular, but the sight of him was, all the same, intimidating. His hair was a dusty gold color, flecked with grey, although he was not old. His features were sharp and chiseled looking, with high cheekbones, a long nose, a strong jaw and chin, and deep-set eyes. It was these, perhaps, that made him so unnerving. They were dark, black or something deeper. His gaze was intent and intelligent, but it seemed, somehow, that there was something missing there. Luka stood, transfixed as the king rode past on his great dapple grey stallion, and it seemed that his gaze drew the king's, because suddenly those terrible eyes were staring straight into Luka's. In that moment, Luka felt afraid. Something was very wrong with King Dierck, and Luka didn't want to look at him anymore, but he couldn't look away.

And then it was over. King Dierck's gaze passed him by and Luka drew a deep breath. He was being ridiculous. King Ricardo would not have invited Dierck to stay if there were any danger in it. You're hungry, he told himself firmly. You'll feel better after you've eaten. All the same though, between his reputation of war and conquest and his appearance, Luka was concerned about having a guest like Dierck in such intimate accommodations with everything he held dear.

"Luka!" Alfonso's shout interrupted his thoughts. Luka started and leapt backward just in time to avoid being beheaded by the portcullis, which crashed to the ground a moment later.

"Pay attention, lad!" Alfonso barked, cuffing Luka around the head.

"I'm sorry," Luka mumbled distractedly, rubbing his stinging left ear. Alfonso laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Come now!" he fairly bellowed, in his good-natured way. "It won't be much longer. Our replacements should arrive any moment; then we can go find some food."

Luka nodded, not listening. He was watching King Dierck. He had dismounted and was now speaking to King Ricardo, whose favorite hunting dog was capering right behind his ankles, threatening to trip him when he turned, wagging its tail low to the ground. As Luka watched, Ricardo clapped Dierck on the shoulder, smiling his broad smile and speaking words Luka could not hear. Dierck answered humorlessly, and the two men climbed the stone steps and entered the castle, followed first by the dog, then at a discrete distance by the silently squabbling flock of courtiers. Soon the last couple of ladies had bickered their way up the stairs and the great double doors were closing. As they were slowly swinging shut, Luka thought maybe the Hochster king had turned to beckon to Giacomo, Ricardo's High Chancellor, but then the oaken doors had shut with a dull thud, and the courtiers were blocked from view.

Luka backed up a step and leaned against the rough stone wall behind him. His stomach growled, and he wished his replacement would hurry up and get there.

*  *  *  *  *

It was past midnight a few days later, and Luka was pretending to be asleep, hoping that whoever was shaking him would go away. He didn't have the night shift that night, meaning that whatever was going on, it was not his problem; but whoever was trying to wake him was persistent, and Luka found that he couldn't ignore them. He tried to roll away, but the person hit him on the head. Luka swore at them then, or tried to, but there was a hand clamped over his mouth. He started to shake it off, but stopped. He had suddenly realized what was wrong. The person trying so hard to wake him hadn't spoken a word, hadn't even said his name. He opened his eyes and rolled back over.

It was Arturo, still in his dinner clothes. It looked as though he had never gone to bed, though it was the early hours of the morning. Arturo put a finger to his lips, ruffling his unruly black beard, and pressed a scrap of paper into Luka's hand, along with Arturo's own set of keys. Luka squinted at it in the dark. It was an envelope. On the outside it said:



Take this to the king and hand it to him personally. Do not be seen. After delivering the message, guard the door until I get there.



What is going on? Luka thought. The situation was beyond odd. What could possibly be so secret and urgent that it couldn't wait until morning? And why wasn't Arturo delivering this letter of such importance and confidentiality himself? Most importantly, why did the king's door need guarding? There should be guards there already. Luka gave Arturo a questioning look, but Arturo shook his head and jabbed his thumb at the door. Luka nodded. He climbed out of bed, laced up his boots and buckled on his scabbard, and ran out of the guard room as quietly as he could, dodging the abandoned tunics, scabbards, and boots that littered the floor.

He slipped through the sleeping castle as silently as he could, tense, nervous, and alert for any sound. He was uncomfortably aware of the noise of his own feet on the clean stone floor, and wished for a muffling layer of dust. The columns and archways lining this main corridor and the faint moonlight from the windows cast moving shadows on the floor, often startling Luka, who imagined faceless enemies crouched in every doorway with daggers poised to strike. The skittering of mice was like the pounding feet of legions, and the gentle rustling of leaves through the open window was like the whispers of murderers, traitors, and spies waiting to jump him in the dark to Luka's frightened ears.

Luka understood why Arturo had chosen him to deliver this message. He knew the castle as well as, if not better than, any of the other guards, having lived there almost as long as he could remember, and could easily move through it undetected. He was young enough that if he were spotted, it would be unlikely for anyone to pay him any attention, and yet he was just as competent a guard as any of the others. In addition to all of this, Arturo trusted him better than he did possibly anyone else.

Yes, all of this Luka understood. What he did not understand was why he was being sent to creep like a burglar through the castle in the dead of night. For some reason, the thought of Aziza flashed through his head, the way she looked when she came to meet him in their hiding place, the way she ducked her head when she laughed, and a thrill of fear ran through him.

Quick footsteps from ahead roused Luka from his contemplation. Whoever it was would likely pay him no mind, but Luka shrank into the shadows to let him pass even so. As the person walked by, Luka saw that it was Giacomo, the High Chancellor. His long, thin face was hard to see in the dim torchlight, but Luka thought he looked tense, flustered, even scared. Luka stood stock-still until Giacomo's footsteps had died away, turned and looked around the corner to make sure he was really gone, then hurried on his way up the corridor, faster than before. He was too concerned with his own task to wonder at Giacomo's business in the king's apartments at this hour.

After a charged minute that seemed much longer, Luka was standing in front of the door to the king's receiving room. How odd, he thought, trying to ignore the thumping of his heart. No guards. Perhaps they're inside. He knocked gently, and the noise was too loud and echoed in the silence, but that was not what had caused the creeping sense of dread that was stealing over him. When he had knocked, the door had creaked and moved slightly. It was ajar.

Luka hesitated. Under normal circumstances, this would be cause for lashing or worse, but these were not normal circumstances. He was under strict instructions from Arturo. He had to talk to the king. Despite these very valid arguments, it was with a sense of trepidation that he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

"Your Majesty?" he called softly, although he knew that the king was most likely asleep in the bedchamber, and would not be able to hear him. He stole further into the room and was almost to the door at the other side, the one that led to the bedchamber, when he tripped and almost fell over something on the floor. He squinted through the dark at it, and his heart skipped a beat. It was the king's dog. It was dead.

Luka ran around the dog on the floor and burst through the door to the king and queen's chamber -

The king lay dead on the floor, slumped against the bed, a dark wound in his chest. Luka felt revulsion rise in his throat like bile. Whoever had done this had killed the king when he was still half asleep with no hope of defending himself.

This was why Arturo wanted me to stand guard here. He knew ... what? What did Arturo know exactly? Feverishly, Luka fumbled with the pouch by his side and pulled out the letter Arturo had given him. Breaking the seal, he opened it and read:



I have just received evidence that someone in the castle has betrayed you to Dierck, assisting him to bring in and hide an army outside Luminesco. The Guard has been infiltrated. We cannot defeat the Hochster forces and we cannot lock down the castle without the entire Guard. I'm going to Dierck. If we can take him into custody before the attack, all can be prevented, but he mustn't be aware that we know anything yet. Keep the dog in the bedchamber with you, send the boy to retrieve the Prince and Princess from the nursery, and stay there until I arrive.

The boy's a good guard. You can trust him.

Arturo



They will use these forces against us ... protect Your Majesty and the royal family ...

There was an army coming. Aziza's face flashed before his mind's eye, but he tamped his feelings down. He had a job to do.

He thought back to his encounter in the hallway . . . It was Giacomo, surely, who had killed the king. Arturo must have been too late to stop it, maybe he had even been killed. And now Giacomo would kill the queen, the prince, and the princess - women and children! And even now an army waited outside the city to siege or storm and take over. The prince and princess ... they could be dead already... but they might be alive. Maybe the queen had saved them! She wasn't in the bedchamber.

Luka ran. If the queen and her children were alive, he had to find them. The queen was now Lyrona's sole ruler, and her children heirs to the throne. He ran straight to the nursery. The queen would have gone there, to protect her children and to hide.

When Luka got there the door was locked. A rush of excitement and relief coursed through him. They must be in there. I can still save them! Arturo had given Luka his keys. He unlocked the heavy wooden door and slipped inside.

Before he could speak, his right arm was twisted painfully behind his back and he felt the cold metal press of a knife at his throat. He gasped in surprise and pain, and his heart sank as he realized that Giacomo must have got there first.

"Drop your weapon," hissed a voice in his ear.

A woman's voice. The queen's voice.

He could have laughed out loud; she was alive! He sobered as the knife blade tightened against his skin, and she shook him by his trapped arm. "Do it! Slowly."

Struggling one-handed, Luka unfastened the buckle that held his scabbard around his waist, and it clanked to the floor.

"Who are you and who sent you?" said the queen.

"I am Luka," he said in what he hoped was a calm and rational voice. "I am a guard. Captain Arturo sent me to find the king, but when I arrived at his chamber he was dead, so I came to find Your Majesty, and the princess and the prince."

"Prove it," snarled Queen Natalia.

"In my pouch, there's a letter from Arturo ..."

"Move and I will kill you." She released his arm but did not remove the knife. He felt her fumbling in his pouch. She pulled out the letter. A moment later, she removed the knife from his throat.

She closed and locked the door again.

"How did you get in?" the queen asked, turning back to Luka, her voice less hostile.

Luka held up the keys. "Arturo gave them to me."

He looked around at the pastel colors of the nursery. There were toys littering the floor, and a rocking chair in the corner, but there was also a writing desk for the now nine-year-old princess to practice her schoolwork, and a dresser with a mirror, a brush, and a jewelry box. The Princess Ariela was in her bed, apparently asleep. Prince Marco, only a year old, was standing, holding the bars of his crib. He was dark, his brown skin and hair almost the same color, but his eyes were a bright, piercing blue. They were fixed on Luka, and the baby's gaze was surprisingly intent.

"Please, Your Majesty," he addressed the queen, turning away from the children. "You know what they've done. It only makes sense that they'll come for you and your children as well. You must get out now. I don't know if I can protect you here, but I can get you out, disguised. If we--"

She held up a hand to stop him. "I know all of this."

Queen Natalia was small, and delicately built, and looked smaller still in her nightshift and robe. Her curly hair was black, but Luka now saw that it was from her that the prince had inherited his blue eyes and intense gaze. She drew him to her daughter's bed and Luka saw that Princess Ariela was not sleeping. Her light brown eyes were open, but glassy, and Luka doubted whether she could see them or even knew that they were there. Her lips were moving, although she made no sound, and her small brown fingers danced nervously over the bed cover, plucking at the embroidered birds and leaves and scrabbling against the rich silk.

"She cannot be moved, it would kill her," the queen told him. "I have already lost two children to fevers. If I am to lose my daughter, I will die first, protecting her and her throne." Luka started to interrupt, but again she held up a hand to stop him. "My son, however," she continued, lifting him from his crib, "is strong and healthy. If Ariela and I are slain, he is next in line for the throne." She was very tense, waiting for Luka's reaction. Her next words were slow, deliberate, carefully measured. "I want you to take him."

"Wha - !" He spluttered.          

"Take him to Queen Naa, in Tiruaine. We are friends. She will recognize him."          

"It's such a long way, Your Grace. I don't know anything about children!"

"She can raise him, and tell him what happened."

"Your Majesty!"

"My son will be king."

Luka's heart was pounding much harder now than when he had thought the worst he could face was death by a knife in the dark. Take the prince to Tiruaine! It was a month's trip by boat, by himself with an infant. Luka had grown up with Alfonso, among the king's guards, a life which had afforded little experience in childcare. His job was to guard the queen and her children, not smuggle the prince away in the night. Luka was going to tell Queen Natalia that Dierck, or Giacomo, or someone they had sent, was coming for her, that they would surely be there any moment. He was going to tell her that to stay would be suicide. He was going to tell her, had opened his mouth to speak, but then he met her gaze, and he swallowed his words.

Her face was very close to his, her eyebrows were furrowed, and she was staring hard into his eyes. She knew what she was choosing and what would most likely happen. Now she was watching him, testing his fortitude. Luka nodded. He could not speak.

After a moment, the queen nodded too. She held Marco tight against her chest and buried her face in his dark hair. She stood thus for a long moment before kissing her son's forehead and handing him gently to Luka.

Luka took him. He had never held a baby before. A fever had taken his parents from him before the second child they were expecting could arrive. Luka was surprised by how warm Marco felt in his arms, and by his weight. He was heavier than he looked.

The queen walked to the writing desk and sat down. She took a pen, paper, envelope and wax from the drawer and began to write a note, presumably for Queen Naa. Luka turned away, trying to give her some privacy. After a moment, he heard her fold the letter and put it in an envelope, then seal it. He turned back. She stood and handed the note to him, and he tucked it into his pouch. He looked back at the queen, but she did not meet his gaze, or even look at him at all.

She was staring, silently, down at her little boy, as though trying to commit the sight of him, right down to every freckle on his tiny nose, every lock of hair, the exact position of every fleck of green in his blue eyes, to memory. He waited a few long seconds, but she did not move or speak, and he knew that someone would surely arrive soon, and her efforts to keep little Marco safe would have been in vain.

"Your Majesty?" he asked. Finally, she looked away from Marco's face, her gaze moving instead to her daughter, helpless and fragile in her little bed. Queen Natalia nodded.

"Go."

Luka walked to the door, opened it awkwardly with the prince still on his hip, and stepped into the corridor outside. He was walking back toward the servant's wing and the kitchens when he heard the nursery door open again.

"Luka!"

He turned. The queen stood in the open nursery door. "When you go to Naa, tell her to tell him - tell him I loved him. Tell him his mother loved him. Please." It was the first time she had betrayed the pain she was feeling, but now he knew that giving up her son, even though she was saving his life, was no easier for her than ripping her own heart out would have been. He wondered if his mother had loved him so much.

"I will," he told her.

Her eyes searched his face. Finally, she seemed to find what she was looking for, and she nodded. Queen Natalia closed the door and Luka heard the lock click. He turned away from Marco's mother, took a deep breath, and continued down the corridor.

He was moving as quickly as he could while staying quiet. The little prince wasn't crying yet, but Luka knew it was only a matter of time. All babies cried, and he had to get outside the palace walls before that happened. They could not afford to draw attention to themselves. Once again, minutes were as hours to Luka, and every sound was magnified a hundredfold to his ears as he slid past door after door, down a long flight of stairs, and crept along a service hall along the back of the palace, which was oddly deserted.

He was hurrying past a window, open this balmy night, when he heard it. There was a crash, a scream, and a great cry of many men. Luka turned with his heart in his throat and ran back to the window. He saw a terrible sight. The portcullis was raised, and hundreds of men were streaming through into the castle grounds, in a great cacophony of shouting, stomping feet and clanging metal. They bore torches, swords and spears. Many were on horseback, and many more were on foot. Dierck's army was attacking.

A hard lump in his throat, Luka tore himself away from the window, from whence the warm smell of a summer night still wafted, mixing cruelly with the clamor of an army, and he began to run in earnest.

In a moment he was bursting through the door to the dark kitchens. Embers burned dimly in the fireplace, but the room was empty. Everyone was in bed, and the page or scullery who ought to be watching the fire seemed to have snuck off. Moonlight spilled through a big window on the far wall, lending him a bit of light. He wrenched open the cupboard nearest the door and yanked out a couple of rags. Setting the baby on the rough wooden table, Luka pulled off the white nightshift embroidered with the bird of Lyrona in gold thread, and tied one of the rags around him like a diaper. It took a couple of attempts and he ended up just tucking it under the edges of the diaper Marco was already wearing, which looked a bit odd, but it was the best he could do. Finally, he wrapped him in the other like a blanket.

"Sorry, Your Highness," he muttered as he wiped his little face with one of the greasy rags to make it dirty. The child wrinkled his nose but made no sound. Luka examined his handiwork, and was satisfied. Now Marco could be any servant's child with a dirty face and ragged blanket. Luka himself had not put on his uniform when Arturo had woken him, and he was not worried about being recognized as a guard in his white tunic and leggings.

Luka lifted the sleepy little boy off the table again, tucked the linen nightshirt into his belt for later, and tried to think about what he needed to do next. He could still hear the sounds of the fighting from outside, smell smoke from torches and burning thatch, and it distracted him. He could not think straight. They were killing his people, his friends. He wanted to go out and fight, and die with them, but he was stuck here playing babysitter, useless to them. A woman's scream pierced the night. Probably a maid, startled from sleep in her unprotected quarters.

Aziza's face flashed through his mind again. His fear for her was now sickening, but he could hardly put his personal feelings for her ahead of the welfare of the kingdom. He had a baby to take to Tiruaine. A baby whom he had no idea how to care for.

Aziza might.

If he were honest, he would admit that he knew that the fact that Aziza was a girl did not automatically give her the knowledge to care for a child, but at a moment when an excuse to ask her to accompany him was his deepest desire, it was good enough.

Luka strode across the kitchen, opened the door, and slipped silently into the servants' quarters. Here, the sounds of the fighting were muffled, and the girls on their pallets were still deeply asleep, always exhausted from the backbreaking work of being a kitchen servant. He tiptoed through the slumbering women and girls, searching each visage until he found the one he was looking for.

Aziza's sleeping face was illuminated slightly by the faint light from the open door. He knelt beside her, and placed a hand over her mouth. She started awake, but her cry was muffled by Luka's hand. Her wide eyes found Luka's and, recognizing him, she relaxed slightly. She sat up slowly, watching him questioningly, and he removed his hand, pressing a finger to his own lips to indicate that she should be quiet.

"Luka, what's wrong?" she breathed.

"Shh. Listen," he answered her. She frowned, confused, but Luka could tell she was listening hard. Hearing the shouts and screams from outside, her eyes widened.

"Dierck has betrayed us. He's killed the king and now his army is attacking. This," he indicated the child in his arms and her eyes darted down to look at Marco, "is the prince. We've got to get him out. He's the heir to the throne now."

"How do you have the prince? What about the queen? Princess Ariela ...?" Aziza whispered, her voice high pitched and frightened, but hushed.

"The princess is sick. She can't be moved and the queen won't leave her. She told me to take Marco and run away," Luka said. "Please, Aziza. She wants me to take him to Tiruaine - I can't take care of him alone. Come with me. I need you." All he could see of Aziza in the dark were her big beautiful eyes, and those were fixed not on Luka, but on the baby he was holding, who, he now saw, was asleep.

"He needs us," she whispered.

"Yes," said Luka, still watching her closely. There was something there that was akin to the queen's expression when she had looked on her children. A softness in her eyes and her face. Looking at her, Luka thought about his mother. He had been so young when she died, but now he wondered. Had her face been like that when she looked at him?

Aziza took a deep breath. She reached behind her and picked up her shawl, and then she stood up. Luka hastily followed suit. She held out her arms and Luka placed the child in them, and she leaned back to support his weight against her chest. He made a little jerking movement, but didn't wake.

"All right. Let's go," she said. They were almost to the door when Aziza stopped. "What about them?" Luka knew she was talking about all of the kitchen servants sleeping in this dark, sad little room, but she was looking down at the face of a sleeping scullery maid. She could not have been older than eight or nine.

"There is nothing we can do for them, Aziza," said Luka. "Our job is to get the prince to safety. We cannot endanger him by drawing attention to ourselves." She nodded, but continued to stare at the sleeping scullery maid. She was tiny and skinny, pale and dirty with brown hair that fell in her face. She was sucking her thumb. A strip of moonlight fell across her weary body. It was sad to see such a little face look so tired, even when asleep. Luka sighed, regretting his decision already, the need to move quickly causing his limbs to tingle. "Do what you have to do and meet me outside. But hurry."

Luka took the little prince from her and went out the door. A moment later, Aziza joined him.

"I told that little girl to wait five minutes and then tell everyone to run away through the servants' gate behind the stables."

"Why wait?" asked Luka.

"So we can get out unnoticed," Aziza whispered back.

They hurried as quietly as they could toward the servants' gate, which was normally left open during peacetime and was now the least likely to be blocked. They walked in the trees beside the path, rather than on it, in an effort to stay hidden. They could hear the fighting, but it sounded like it was still in front of the castle. Even so, Luka's heart was pounding loudly, and Aziza's breathing beside him was quick and shallow. He wondered how many of the guards had shown up to fight, which ones had been corrupted, and how many of his friends would survive their treachery.

They were nearly to the gate when a huge crash rent the night. Luka spun around. The great wooden doors to the inner courtyard of the palace had been thrown wide, and Hochster soldiers were flooding through in front of the castle. He looked at Aziza, and she looked back with terror in her eyes. The gate was fifty yards away. He took the baby from Aziza so she could go more quickly and gestured for her to go on. Aziza was ahead of him. He could just make out her outline in the dark.

Then there was a hand on Luka's shoulder. With a cry, clutching the baby too tightly so that he woke with a small shout, Luka spun to his right. The blade intended for his heart scratched his left arm, barely missing Marco's toes. The man held a sword in his right hand. Luka reached for his scabbard - and found only his drawstring pouch. He remembered setting the sword on the ground at the queen's instruction as he entered the nursery . . . but not picking it up. In his fright and confusion, he had forgotten. He pulled his dagger from inside his right boot. The soldier laughed at him. Luka raised the dagger, holding Marco in his stinging left arm. The soldier raised his sword, grinning.

Aziza shouted as she slammed into the soldier's right side, pinning his sword arm. The man must have weighed three times as much as small, slender Aziza, but she hit him with such force that they both fell to the ground.

"Go! Go!" she screamed, shoving the soldier's face into the earth as she pushed herself back, away from him. Luka stuffed the dagger back into his boot. He grabbed Aziza's hand. The soldier reached up, jabbing blindly with his sword. Aziza stumbled, but Luka still had hold of her hand and, pulling her to her feet, he ran. They hurtled through the gate and ran down Strada l'Mercate, where market was held on the first Monday of each month, along the docks at the waterfront where the smell of saltwater and rotting fish was sharp in their noses, up a street of storefronts where the owners slept peacefully above their shops, and finally turned sharply onto a side road.

Luka and Aziza ran for a long time. Luka would have run a long time more with the adrenaline coursing through his veins as it was, but Aziza pulled on his hand, and he slowed to a stop.

"Is the prince all right?" asked Aziza, panting. But Luka, giddy with relief, was not listening.

"We're all right! We got away! Can you believe it? Oh, you were amazing, the way you tackled that soldier. And the way..."

"Luka!" Aziza said, her voice sharp. He paused.

"Yes?"

"Is the prince all right?" She repeated, and he heard the frown in her voice.

"Wha- oh." Luka had nearly forgotten about Marco. It was only then that he realized the baby was crying. He held him up and examined him. "Yes..." he said, "Yes, he's fine..."

"Good." Luka turned back to her, expecting to share a triumphant grin at their success, but his glee turned quickly to alarm as he saw her face. Aziza was too pale, and her eyes were half closed as she grimaced in pain, clutching her side. As he watched, a low moan escaped her lips and she swayed, and fell. Luka hurriedly leapt forward and caught her against his chest with the arm that was not holding Marco.

"Aziza!" he gasped, sinking to the ground with her. "Aziza, what's wrong?" Her eyelids fluttered.

"Luka ..." she whispered, her voice tight with pain. Hastily, he laid the child on the ground beside him, folding one of the dishrags like a pillow for his head. Then he turned back to Aziza.

"Hold on, Aziza, hold on," he babbled. "It's all right. You're going to be all right. Please, just hold on ..." His eyes raked her body, searching for some sign of a wound.

"Luka, please ..." she whispered, her voice growing weaker.

"I know, I know." He was weeping. "Hold on, Aziza, you'll be fine." It was too dark, he couldn't see anything. In desperation he tore open her bodice to reveal the white shift beneath. There, shocking against the bright white that was shining slightly in the moonlight, was a dark stain, spreading steadily across her left side.

The same side that had slammed into the swordsman to save Luka. The sword glinted in his mind's eye: huge and long and brandishing wildly as Aziza tackled the soldier and he fell.

"No!" Luka cried out loud. "No, no, please, Aziza, no--"

"Luka." She tried to take his hands, but he was hysterical, desperate, trying to find some way to save her. She gave up, but continued speaking. "You have to take care of the prince." He could barely hear her. He couldn't quite grasp what was happening. It was unreal. It was all too fast.

"Aziza, Aziza, please," he sobbed.

Her eyes were trained on his face, and her breathing was shallow and labored, but she determinedly continued speaking.

"Luka," she breathed, "Luka, are you listening to me? You have to get him to Tiruaine safely. He's their only hope now."

"No, no, no ..." he was tearing strips of cloth from his shirt, trying to stop the blood. There was so much blood.

"I love you," Aziza breathed.

Luka's eyes snapped to her face and she looked at him, and then she was gone. There was no music, no procession. She was just gone.

Luka hugged her to his chest, and he wept.

*  *  *  *  *

Some time later, he looked up. He could hear soldiers moving down a street nearby, shouting, burning, murdering. He could hear the terrified screams and confused cries of the innocent citizens and shopkeepers of Luminesco who were being yanked from their beds by the cold, calculating soldiers of infamous Hochstereich. But Luka wasn't afraid. Aziza, and who knew how many others, were dead by the hands of those men. He knew he would die too, but first he would make them pay. He would make them all pay for the deeds they had done this night. He found himself hoping that they would come down this street. No, that wasn't good enough. He wanted to go find them. Hands shaking, he looked around for his sword, but of course it wasn't there. Prince Marco was there instead, and he was still crying.

Uncertainly, Luka picked him up, and just as he had been when he had first held him, he was slightly surprised by the warmth and weight of the baby in his arms; more weight than Luka would have supposed. Marco was entirely dependent on him, and if he failed, then Marco's life, like Luka's mother's, like the king's, and like poor Aziza's, would be snuffed out like a candle in the dark. And this life was the only hope Lyrona had left. Aziza would not have wanted Luka to abandon him. She had told him what he had to do. Now he had to find the courage to do it.

Luka looked around him. He was on a side street in a residential area, and there was an olive tree on the left side of the road. It was tall, old and beautiful, and its branches spread wide above him. He set Marco down and, turning back to Aziza, picked her up (had she always been this small?). He paid no mind to the frightened people who were beginning to stumble from their homes as he carried her to the beautiful tree and laid her at its base.

Most were consumed by the terrifying sounds of war, something Luminesco hadn't heard in centuries, from just a few streets over, but a few paused to watch as Luka carried the small, limp form of Aziza and laid her at the base of the old tree. He took her shawl and drew it over her, gazing all the while at her face. Gone was the tiredness and fear that had always been there. She looked more peaceful than he had ever seen her in life. He traced the soft curve of her cheek with his finger, marveling at the deep brown color of her skin, the perfect arc of her lips, the way her curly eyelashes brushed her face. He hoped that she was safe now, and he hoped that she was happy.

"Good-bye, Aziza," he whispered as he pulled the shawl over her empty stare, regretting that there was no time to do better for her. He returned to the baby prince still lying on the ground, picked him up, and began to walk. He would do as Aziza had said. He would go to Tiruaine. He would find work as a carpenter to make the money for a boat ticket. He would take care of Marco until he was safe with Queen Naa. Someday the prince would know the truth. Someday everyone, everyone would know Marco for who he was, and he would save them as their leader.

As son of the king.