The refugees were exactly where Caius had been told he would find them on Avalon’s grounds. He watched the small cluster from beneath an archway leading to the ruined courtyard, hidden enough in the shadows that he would not be noticed.
The refugees were mostly servants from the keep. Caius recognized one of the cooks who had worked in the kitchens for as long as he could remember. She was a portly woman who used to sneak him treats whenever he sought solace in the warmth of the kitchen, hiding from his tutors or his weapons instructor, or even the father he barely remembered but whose lectures on the soaring expectations he had for Caius and his sister had left an indelible imprint on his memory. The cook—Helena, that was her name—had never chided Caius for hiding behind the oak barrels or for stealing the spice cakes that had been his favorite. She had been one of the few people to treat him like a child, to direct indulgent smiles his way when he showed up covered in mud, his fine clothes a fright, looking as much a mess as any boy would at that age. She had been kind to him, but after he had grown into the role for which he had been bred—despite the fact that no Dragon Prince’s ascension to the throne was a certainty—he had barely spared her a thought. But to see her now, alive and well, made the ever-present worry in his chest decrease, if only by a few degrees. His people were not lost, not entirely. And now he was in a position to help them.
Caius hung back, unsure of his welcome. What would they see when they looked at him? A disgraced prince who had failed them once before? Or someone worth putting their faith in again, after he had proven so undeserving of it the first time? He hadn’t protected them from Tanith. He should have. It was his most solemn duty to protect them, and he had not done so. His role, his purpose, was not to lead the Drakharin to an “age of glory,” words that were often bandied about among nobles deep in their cups at great feasts. The Dragon Prince was a guardian. A guide. And he had led his people, through his own willful ignorance, to ruin.
Helena looked up just then and caught Caius’s eye. Never one to quail before nobility, she raised a hand to beckon him over. He hesitated for a moment, and her expression resolved into the fierce stare that had haunted his childhood. No one questioned that glare, not even a prince.
Cautious steps led Caius to the small group huddled around the fire. Helena’s eyes lingered on the limp he couldn’t hide, try as he might. He stood—rather awkwardly—off to the side. Every set of eyes save Helena’s dropped respectfully. It was a gesture that marked the difference between them. They were all of the common class, even the soldiers who had guided them during their long and arduous flight from the keep. Caius was not one of them and never had been. Self-consciousness struck him as he realized he had no idea how to act. He was not their prince any longer, but their habits—and his—were harder to shake than he cared to admit.
“Hello,” he said, for lack of anything better.
“Sit down, boy,” Helena said gruffly, shifting to make room for him.
Boy. She hadn’t called him that in centuries, literally. Caius realized then that he had no idea how old she was. She had been the same for as long as he could remember. Old, cranky, kindhearted Helena. As eternal as the rising and setting of the sun.
With as much grace as he could muster, Caius sank into the seat she had vacated for him.
“Leg bothering you?” Helena asked. A cast-iron pan of something fragrant was cooking over the open flames.
“My leg and everything else,” Caius admitted. There seemed little reason to keep up appearances around Helena. Doing so would have been disingenuous, and she would see through him anyway. Perhaps it was time for his people to see him as he truly was, flaws and all. Caius sniffed at the scent of sizzling meat. Chunks of meat had been cut up and sautéed with root vegetables. Whatever the creature had been while alive was difficult to ascertain. “Please tell me you didn’t cook a bird,” Caius said. “The Avicen might kick us off the island for insulting their feathered friends.”
Helena barked out a sharp laugh. “I won’t say it didn’t cross my mind, but rest easy, my boy. This here is scraps of rabbit and squirrel and whatever else we could get our hands on. The Avicen may have provided a roof over our heads, but I don’t fancy they’d take too kindly to us depleting their stores of food.” She glanced at the guards who were lounging stiffly at the edges of the courtyard designated for Drakharin use. They were looking more than a little gaunt. “Doesn’t look like they’ve got much to spare.”
Caius nodded. It was no easy task, feeding a small island full of people without arousing suspicion. The Avicen had emergency stores, but they were burning through them fast.
“How have you settled in?” Caius asked Helena. It was a vague enough question, but from the slight sigh that escaped her, he thought she grasped the nuance. She heard the things he didn’t ask.
“As well as can be expected,” she said. After a moment of grudging consideration, she amended her statement. “Better than we expected. The Avicen…they have not been unkind to us. They offered us shelter when we had none and they had no reason to give it. The young one, the boy who brought us here…he spoke for us. Made our case to the others. Persuaded them to let us stay.”
The boy. Rowan. The tiniest flame of jealousy licked at Caius, but he doused it as soon as he recognized the emotion. Rowan was a good person. After all, Echo was an excellent judge of character. She wouldn’t waste time on anyone unworthy.
“The world is changing,” Caius said. “And we must change with it.”
Nodding, Helena scooped up a heaping mound of stew with a wooden spoon and began distributing it into chipped porcelain bowls that had seen far better days. “Are you hungry?” She studied Caius with her piercing brown eyes. “You look like you could use a good meal or ten.”
“That bad?” he asked.
“Worse.”
That earned a small laugh from Caius. “You were never one to mince words, Helena.”
“Well, I won’t have no prince of mine going hungry.” Helena shoved a bowl into his hands, her expression daring him to argue with her.
Shaking his head, Caius accepted the bowl. He reached for a spoon and stirred the stew a bit. It smelled divine. “I have no claim to that title. Not anymore.”
Helena dropped a hunk of hard bread in his lap. “You know what else I won’t have? Self-pity.”
Caius blinked at her. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, I know you nobles like to think you’re bound by the rules you lot made up, but frankly, anyone who’s done what that tyrant has doesn’t deserve my obedience or my respect.” She brandished the wooden spoon at Caius when he failed to eat with the alacrity she expected. “Those things are earned. And she hasn’t earned them from me.” A somber look passed over her face. “Shame, that. She was always such a bright child.”