Heir Apparent Page 3

  One of the other princes snickered. Wulfgar? I speculated, the foreign-educated one? since he wore a goatee—not a wispy end-of-the-chin-Colonel Sanders look, but a sexy one—while all the other men I'd seen so far were clean shaven. He was looking at me with undisguised contempt.

  The third prince—the youngest, who would be Kenric—fidgeted, using his hand to cover a smile. He was sitting sideways on the arm of the empty throne, which might indicate he was trying to insinuate himself into the kingship. When he saw me looking at him, he flashed his smile openly, which could have meant that he was friendly or that he was amused or that he realized I was too dumb to be serious trouble.

  "I think," the queen said, "we should kill her now and be done with her."

  "All right," Abas said agreeably. One of those straps crisscrossing his chest must have been a harness to hold his sword on his back, for he reached over his shoulder and whipped out a blade almost as long as I was tall.

  "Wait a minute." I scrambled backward. Lucky for me, I had outgrown my stinky and patched gown, so that the edge of the dress came only halfway down past my knees. Although this clearly showed my bare and dirty feet, at least I didn't trip as I took a couple hasty steps backward. "Wait a minute," I repeated, as a grinning Abas stepped toward me. I had a skinning knife on my belt, all of about four inches long. Abas's sword was broader than that. All things considered, it was probably best not even to go for it.

  "Just don't move," Abas told me in his calm, slow voice. "It'll be faster, and you won't bleed as much."

  Was he concerned about hurting me, or about messing the inlaid marble floor?

  "But," I said, dodging him, "but..."

  "You can't kill her," his brother Kenric pointed out. "She's already been seen by too many people. If you wanted to kill her, you should have done so before."

  Well, gee, thanks. I think.

  Abas glanced at his mother for confirmation.

  "I suppose," she conceded, clearly disappointed.

  And only then did he lower his sword.

  Wulfgar spoke for the first time. "How about if we start all over again?" He smiled at me in a way that was definitely not friendly nor amused nor even, I suspected, you're-too-dumb-to-count. "You come in, you're introduced, we ascertain exactly what it is that you smell of Let's start there."

  "No," I said, beginning to be ticked off at all this, "how about if we go back to the introduction phase, and you introduce yourselves to me? Sort of an as-subjects-to-your-new-king kind of thing."

  The prince's smile momentarily froze, but then he said, "Certainly. I am Prince Wulfgar, the firstborn. By common tradition, the heir apparent. This bulwark of humanity"—he indicated Mr. Olympia—"is Abas, the second born. And this is Kenric, the youngest." Abas let that sit for a couple seconds. "Excluding yourself of course." His hand swept in the direction of the queen, who looked miffed to be introduced after the others. "Our mother—that is, the mother of the king's legitimate children—Queen Andreanna."

  The queen sat forward in her throne. "Now," she said, "Janine." Her tone indicated what she thought of that name.

  Before I could learn what she was about to say, the room went black, as though someone had turned the lights off.

  Except, of course, that medieval castles don't have light switches.

  And except that we were in a room with about twenty floor-to-ceiling windows—not even counting the big leaded-glass one behind the thrones, through which, a moment ago, the midmorning sun had been streaming.

  "What—" I started, but was drowned out by a crash of thunder that seemed to go off about half an inch from my ear. Simultaneously, jagged lightning streaked past the window behind the royal group.

  Usually, Rasmussem is more subtle with its special effects. I could feel my scalp get all tingly from the electricity, which I thought was a great detail, but the storm didn't look right They should have darkened the sky more gradually, and as I glanced around the room, I saw that there were identical bolts of lightning in each of the windows, which was pretty shoddy, like cheaply made animé, where they use the same background in multiple scenes, hoping you won't notice what's going on behind the main characters. Still, I couldn't help but jump. The thunder continued to boom and crackle as though the lightning bolts were striking at the parapets of the castle itself.

  "Princess Janine." The queen sounded impatient, and I realized she had repeated my name several times already.

  "I'm sorry!" I raised my voice over the thunder. "I didn't hear." I tapped my ear just in case she couldn't hear me.

  In the flickering light of the near-continuous lightning, I saw her look at her sons. They were all watching me warily. Maybe they were worried about how they'd been treating me. Maybe they'd realized they shouldn't have been so open in their hostility. The queen said something I couldn't hear.

  "What?" I said. "I can't hear you over the thunder."

  Again the royals exchanged a look among themselves. The queen raised her eyebrows; Kenric, sitting on the arm of the throne, stopped swinging his leg and leaned forward; Wulfgar took a step away from me as though nervous; and Abas, still holding his sword, raised it defensively.

  And no—I decided as the queen said, "What are you talking about?"—no, that wasn't a this-is-someone-we-shouldn't-have-threatened look. That was a maybe-this-is-someone-who's-totally-out-of-her-mind look.

  At which point the lightning moved inside the castle.

  And not a one of them twitched.

  I took a step backward as a jag of lightning lit up the area between the back wall and the royal family.

  "Move!" I screamed at them. Obviously, the storm was not natural. But that didn't mean it couldn't fry us all. "It's getting closer! The next one will hit you!"

  Weren't the little hairs on their arms all standing up and marching around from the charged air? Sure, they wouldn't know the word ozone, but couldn't they smell it?

  Wulfgar tapped his head in a loose-screw gesture, and the queen rested her face in her hand as though I was a bigger burden than she'd ever anticipated. Abas was obviously waiting for his mother to tell him what to do. Kenric stood and took a hesitant step toward me, the only one to trust my warning even that far.

  And then the light came back. No lightning, no vestigial rumbles of dying thunder. The sky was blue and bright outside the window.

  "Oh," I said. "Never mind. It went away."

  Magic, obviously. But whose, and why? Deming had said Kenric dabbled in magic, but why would he call up a storm only I could sense? If it was to make a fool of me, then why was he the one person to heed my warning and step away from the window?

  And judging from his face, he was thinking that I was the one who had set out to make him look foolish in front of his family.

  "There was a storm," I said. "In here, in this room. With thunder and lightning, and my skin all goose bumpy from the electricity."

  "I never knew you were so gullible, Kenric," Wulfgar smirked. "I'll have to remember that."

  That was sure to endear me to Kenric.

  "Enough of this nonsense," the queen said. "Janine, I don't know what you think you're doing, but stop it or I may yet change my mind about having you killed. For the time being, my husband—in the derangement of his dying—named you his successor. Let's see how long you can keep the job. And your head. Come, Abas." She swept out of the hall with a rustle of stiff skirts, which nearly toppled me as she brushed past.

  Hercules Jr. followed, putting his sword back into its harness with a glance at my neck as though evaluating for future reference how hard he'd have to swing for a decapitation. Kenric glowered as he passed, and Wulfgar grinned before he followed—which didn't look quite as friendly as his brother's glower.

  Ouch. Not a very good first impression on my family.

  And what was that awful smell?

  Oh yeah. That was me.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A Heavenly Visitor

  The point of Heir Apparent is to make good decisio
ns, choose capable and trustworthy friends and advisers, and survive long enough to be crowned as king two days from now, game time.

  Judging from what I'd seen of my family, none of them would fit very snugly into the trustworthy-friends-and-advisers category.

  Maybe my first decision should be to have the guards throw all four of them into the dungeon. But, seeing as the only other people I'd met here at the castle—not counting stable boys, doorkeepers, and trumpeters—were Deming and Rawdon, it didn't seem a good plan to throw four-sixths of the people I knew into prison.

  I had to find an ally—and fast. As I ran after my family like a puppy that doesn't want to get left behind, I considered.

  The queen had every reason to hate me, as her husband's illegitimate child. Also, she had the welfare of her three offspring to advance if she could not gain the throne for herself.

  Abas seemed to be the queen's favorite—after herself, of course—but he obviously wasn't going to make any move that his mother hadn't previously approved.

  That left Wulfgar and Kenric, both clearly troublemakers.

  I based my decision on something totally frivolous: Kenric was dressed all in black. That might have been a heavy-handed hint on Rasmussem's part that he was the villain, or it might have meant that—with his dark hair and light eyes—he knew he looked good in black. On the other hand, it might mean that he was in mourning. If so, he was the only one. I didn't know anything about King Cynric, whether he'd been a just king or a loving husband or a kind father. But so far nobody had said a word about the poor guy being dead except in how it related to the succession to the throne.

  "Kenric!" I called. I don't know what I'd have done if he'd ignored me, but he waited for me to catch up as the others moved on without us.

  Still, he didn't look happy. He had no reason to trust me any more than I trusted him.

  We were standing by one of the gates leading outside, with sunlight and the chirping of birds and a soft breeze that carried the scent of lavender, as though nature wanted to rub in the idea that I'd imagined or made up the storm.

  "Are there wizards that live nearby?" I asked.

  From his expression, it was a dumb question. From his expression, everybody knew. Kenric crossed his arms over his chest. "Xenos and Uldemar."

  "Well," I said, "apparently one of them magically created a storm that I and only I could see."

  "Uh-huh," he said. "Why?"

  "I don't know," I admitted. "Maybe to make me look like a crazy person."

  "Uh-huh," Kenric said again. "That you did." But he looked more amused than angry now, which I suppose was a step in the right direction.

  Before I could ask if he could think of any reason one of the wizards might have called up the storm, there was a commotion in the courtyard. Two guards in chain mail were dragging along a boy who couldn't have been any older than nine or ten. The boy was crying and trying to squirm away, and the guards were not being gentle about holding firm. "Prince Kenric," one of the men called out, "and, uh, Princess Justine..."

  "Janine," I corrected.

  The man shrugged, like What's the big deal? Didn't I get it mostly right? He was looking at Kenric as the person in charge, not me, and no doubt considered himself extremely gracious for even acknowledging me. "We caught this boy poaching. He killed a deer. The usual punishment?"

  Kenric opened his mouth to answer, then turned to me. "I don't know. Janine?" His voice and manner dripped with innocence. "What do you think, the usual?"

  One thing I was certain of: He wasn't asking for advice; he was testing. "What's the usual?" I asked, ignoring the answer the Rasmussem program was prodding forward from my subconscious.

  "First-time offense for poaching small game might be branding or to have his hand cut of£" Kenric told me. "For deer, it's the death penalty."

  "No," the boy whimpered. "I didn't do nothing. I found 'im dead already. I was dressing 'im down so's the meat wouldn't go to waste, but I didn't kill 'im."

  Kenric was watching me appraisingly.

  I said, "The boy says he didn't do it."

  "Of course he does," Kenric said.

  I looked at the boy, all ragged clothes and tear-streaked, with his bones showing under his dirty skin. "Did you see him kill the deer?" I asked the guards.

  "No," said the one who was doing all the talking, "but look at his hands." They were bloody to the elbows.

  "He already admitted to dressing down the carcass," I said. "Did you see him kill the deer?"

  For an awful moment, I thought one of them was going to say yes. But then both guards shook their heads.

  "Then let the boy go." My first command as the would-be king.

  The guards looked to Kenric, unwilling to take my word for it. Kenric spread his hands out, indicating it was my decision. The guards let go of the boy and saluted smartly. Perhaps too smartly. Like when you jump out of your seat and shout, "Good morning, sir!" to the teacher you hate the most.

  I didn't know what to do next, so for a moment I did nothing. Kenric turned and walked away, back into the castle. I suspected I was probably supposed to say or do something to make him stay, but the game's time limit for my trying to figure what that should be must have run out. The guards, too, left to do whatever guards here did when they weren't terrorizing nine-year-old boys. Probably another missed opportunity.

  "Are you all right?" I asked the kid.

  He was watching me through the fringe of hair that hung down in his eyes, looking like a headlight-startled rabbit. He was so dirty, I couldn't tell if the guards had beaten him.

  "Are you all right?" I repeated, tipping his face up by the chin.

  He kicked me, hard, on the shin, and ran off.

  "Ungrateful wretch," I muttered as he ran over the open drawbridge, vaulted over a short fence, and took off through the meadow beyond.

  I turned to go back into the castle, when suddenly there was a brilliant shaft of light from the sky. Clouds billowed up out of nowhere, then rolled back; harp music sounded, an angelic choir sang a note of infinitely sad sweetness, and a white-robed figure descended on a golden beam.

  "Giannine Bellisario," the white-robed figure said in a voice like the voice of God from the videos they show in religion class.

  Outside of the fact that I was too stunned to speak, he was calling me by the wrong name. Here, I was Janine de St. Jehan.

  And this sure didn't sound like any Rasmussem program I'd ever heard of.

  "Giannine Bellisario," the white-robed figure repeated.

  The closer he got, the more I could see he wasn't God after all, which was a relief no matter how you look at it. For one thing, his white robe turned out to be a lab coat, and for another, he was wearing glasses. I felt fairly certain God wouldn't go around wearing glasses.

  The figure came to rest with his Reebok'd feet about six inches from the ground, so that—even though he couldn't be much taller than me—I had to tip my head back to look him in the face. "Giannine," he said, "this is Nigel Rasmussem. Don't panic."

  I'd been surprised and confused but doing fine until he said that.

  "There has been a slight emergency. Nothing to worry about."

  I began to hyperventilate.

  "People from the Society to Prevent Cruelty to Children ... What?" Somebody I couldn't see or hear must have corrected Mr. Rasmussem. He waved the interruption away. Which was good. He was already speaking infuriatingly slowly, like someone who doesn't trust the mental capacity of his audience.

  "What do you mean, 'emergency'—" I started, but he talked over my question.

  "People from the Society to Protect Our Children," he said, still getting it wrong, "have broken into the building. They have damaged our equipment. Don't worry. There is no physical danger to your body. The intruders have been removed by the police."

  "What do you mean, 'no physical'—"

  But again he kept on talking.

  He can't hear me, I realized. He probably couldn't see me. I shut up a
nd listened, since I wouldn't be able to ask him to repeat.

  "We are working to regain control," Mr. Rasmussem was saying, which wasn't comforting at all, especially from someone who had ink stains on his lab coat where he'd forgotten to use his pocket protector. "There are fail-safe measures to keep external stimuli, like power failures or surges, from affecting your mental state. But while these safeguards are in effect, you will find it difficult to exit the Heir Apparent program."

  I was stuck here?

  "The only route," Mr. Rasmussem said, "is to successfully complete the game. Unsuccessful solutions will loop you back to the start of the program."

  I can do that, I thought. What he was telling me was that I was getting free extra tries. I began to breathe normally again.

  "Unfortunately," Mr. Rasmussem said, and my breath caught again, "this is the last time we will be able to communicate with you. And, unfortunately, I cannot tell you the solution to the game since there is no one, single, right path. There are an infinite number of permutations, depending on which characters you take into your confidence, how you react to the problems with which you will be presented, and what policies you set for your government."

  Mr. Rasmussem might have been counting on this going over my head, but I could figure it out: If there were an infinite number of possible right ways that could get me out of here, there had to be an infinite number of wrong ways that would set me back on that hill in St. Jehan.

  "Don't panic," Mr. Rasmussem said again. Their readouts on my heart rate and blood pressure must have been going wild. "All you have to do is play the game as well as you can as quickly as you can."

  And while that was still sinking in, while I was mentally repeating quickly? Mr. Rasmussem said, "Wait!"

  Wait? That seemed all I could do. But he wasn't talking to me.

  He was beginning to float upward again. The heavenly choir started humming. The clouds took on a pink hue. Mr. Rasmussem was again talking to someone else, arguing. "No, this is foolish. She needs to know the urgency." He turned back to me, speaking in a rush now, so that I suddenly suspected his earlier comments had been scripted. "What I said before isn't entirely accurate. I don't want to frighten you—you should be fine. But there is no time to waste. The prolonged direct stimulation to your brain is dangerous. The longest game we have is supposed to be over in an hour, and our equipment would normally be safe for up to five times that exposure. But with the damage these people have inflicted, your safety zone is much, much less. We don't know how long you have, but the longer you're in the game, the more you risk fatal overload."