With a state funeral negotiated and the details even now being finalized, Nick wasn’t opposed to abandoning the capitol spotlight he, Rolan, and Lydia had been moving within these past weeks. “We’d be able to discover information about your kin without alerting the tribes and placing anyone in immediate peril.”
“You realize these capitol idiots think you can’t shift.” Rolan smirked. “Benjic has been pushing the adventure tour in the Urals to get you out of the way, but he and the rest of them also believe you are an omega so traumatized by the murders and war that your ability to take your animal form weakened…if you can still take your animal form at all. They can’t conceive of anyone in the tribes, forget a prince of the people and a white wolf, choosing not to shift for two decades.”
“Benjic recommended the tour to serve as remedial shifter lessons, I know.” Nick chuckled. “To be fair, I haven’t hunted since I ran the palace grounds inside a pack composed of my brothers and sisters.”
“It’s like riding a bike. If you learned to hunt in a pack once, you can do it again…which is more than I’d be willing to wager about most we’ve met in the capitol.” Rolan grunted. “You aren’t an omega, either.”
“Are you sure?” Nick grinned. “I do run a yarn shop.”
“Don’t be an ass.” Rolan turned toward the glittering beacon of the distant ballroom. “How rebels as dumb as they are managed to seize power is a mystery.”
“It isn’t stupidity. Just prejudice. Instead of freeing the people to grow and explore their respective roles and positions, the rebellion constricted what each of us are permitted to do and be. The tragedy was never that the peasantry rose up against us. Even my parents believed more needed to be done for the people. No, the tragedy wasn’t that the revolution happened—it was that the revolution failed.” Nick joined his brother, standing at his side to study the palace’s opulence. “The tribes have lost touch with who they are.”
Rolan leaned to shove him with a shoulder. “They need an emperor to remind them.”
Laughing, Nick shoved back. “Cut it out.”
“I’m serious.” He jerked his chin toward the ballroom. “Opposition to your abdication is growing.”
Nick wrinkled his nose. “They crave a pretty noble to waltz with. They crave portraits of another white wolf hanging in their galleries and one to trot in their parades. They want Lydia’s goddamn commemorative coins.” He chopped a hand through the air. “None of them understand what being a prince means, the obligations, the costs, the duties I owe to the tribes.”
“They don’t need to comprehend it.” His brother let his hand fall on Nick’s shoulder. “As long as you do.”
“Benjic might grasp it.” Dread curled in his stomach. “Which is also why a trip to the Urals for the adventure tour he keeps encouraging could be a smart move.” Despite the parties, parades, and a stream of formal events in the ambitious elder’s company, Nick had been singularly unable to ascertain if Benjic wanted to help, wanted him dead, or was simply manipulating the circumstances for his political gain. Perhaps all three. “He’ll follow us into the Urals.”
His brother’s brows furrowed. “He won’t stay to capitalize on your absence?”
“His children will protect his interests.” Nick frowned. “Mating Janen seems to have softened Harr. He’s outgrown his youthful obnoxiousness and become as wily as his sire. His daughters are worse.” Exhaustion weighed down his shoulders. “He’ll come with us, if for no other reason to ensure I don’t cause more trouble.”
“Trouble? You?” Rolan tipped his head back and laughed.
Nick smiled. “He’ll try to mitigate the damage anyway.”
Wiping at his eyes, Rolan snickered. “Don’t we all.”
Chapter Four
Arit didn’t often go to the station to meet the train, but as his dad had repeatedly told him, they didn’t usually entertain clients who were former royalty—or current royalty, considering the crown prince had yet to officially abdicate the throne. Arit scowled. What mattered was his father had insisted Arit, as their best guide and managing partner of Shifter Frontiers, greet today’s arriving guests. He kicked a display of tired pamphlets advertising other business catering to tourists—restaurants, hiking and mountain-climbing groups, and driving tour maps featuring the war’s local points of interest.
One of those stops was the site where Barton House had stood. Arit knew because he and Dad had steered their old Jeep along the circuitous route into the mountain peaks when Arit was a teenager. Nothing remained of the manse. The capitol had ordered the house razed shortly after the imperial family’s executions to prevent supporters from transforming the place into a shrine. When Arit had seen it many summers later, even the ashes were gone. Crumbling stone walls encircling the perimeter still stood, but inside, where campers with enough coin could pitch a tent, the estate was a barren field. No plaque or monument indicated whose blood had saturated the fertile soil. Trees that had born scorch marks from the fire had reportedly been chopped down, too.
Would the emperor want to see it?
Arit hoped not. His job was to take shifters into the mountains to tutor them on survival skills and tracking prey. No one, including his dad, could persuade Arit to play chauffeur and tour guide to a bunch of politicians. Arit glared at the ticket window, staffed this afternoon by Marni, a capable mother of four who would doubtlessly find a local to show tourists around if necessary. There was always someone in the forgotten Urals who could use extra cash. Arit hired as many as he could, but jobs were still scarce.
A lone, high whistle broke the quiet bustle of the station, heralding the arrival of the train. Arit grimaced. He pivoted from the warm building and, feet dragging, headed to the platform where passengers would disembark. He exited the wind break the building provided and hiked up the collar of his work shirt. The chill of late autumn had definitely arrived in the Urals. The cold never bothered Arit. When temperatures plummeted, he shifted to rely on his dense coat of fur for comfort. Capitol shifters, who preferred their human form, rarely arranged adventure tours this late in the season. The last-minute reservations for the crown prince’s party would probably be Arit’s final group until the snows came and capitol goers opted for the main lodge’s cozy hearth and overland skiing for their winter vacations.
The train crept down the tracks, sliding into the station with a loud screech that hurt Arit’s ears. Porters rushed to the luggage bays as soon as the train halted. He employed one of them, Noryl, a cousin hired fresh out of school to help at the lodge. Noryl was shorter and stockier than Arit but shared his love for the wild. The young shifter heaved a trunk from the train onto a handcart he’d eventually unload onto a lodge cargo van. Station attendants wheeled a staircase platform to the train door through which passengers soon streamed. Although few visitors came from the capitol this time of year, Arit would have identified the royal party easily whether the train’s riders had been plentiful or few.
No one else would arrive in the Urals with a human.