The Fire Prince (The Cursed Kingdoms Trilogy Book 2) Read Online Free Page A

packhorse and strap the load into place. She wanted to whistle, the way Ebril always did. It felt so right, being Justen. The amulet at her throat, the weight of the armsman’s sword, her place at Prince Harkeld’s side.
     
     
    T HEY REACHED THE forest in the mid-afternoon, tall trees Harkeld didn’t recognize, bark hanging off in long gray strips. The air was damp and mild. That evening they camped beside a river. The fire burned fiercely, the wood crackling and spitting, giving off a strong resinous odor. He lit a candle several times, under Cora’s watchful gaze. “Good,” she said. “Tomorrow night you can light the fire.”
    They struck camp at dawn, heading east on animal trails, following the brown hawk that was Gerit. After several hours they came to farmland. It had been hard-won from the forest; sheep grazed around burned tree stumps.
    The hawk landed and became Gerit. Harkeld lifted his lip in a sneer— filthy witch —but the sneer was half-hearted. He was one of them now.
    Gerit scratched his beard. “You want me to lead you round the settlements, not through ’em?”
    “Please,” Cora said.
    They followed the hawk, skirting straggling fields, then down a rutted lane. Justen rode at his side, Cora just ahead, Ebril and Petrus behind with the packhorses, and yet Harkeld felt exposed. In Lundegaard they’d had an escort of soldiers. Here, there was only a handful of witches between himself and anyone who cared to claim the bounty on his head.
    “Prince Harkeld?”
    He looked at Cora.
    “Now that we’re in populated areas, we should call you by another name. One no one will recognize.”
    He nodded.
    Cora looked relieved, as if she’d expected him to protest.
    I haven’t been a prince for weeks. Haven’t you noticed? Not since the moment in the canyon when his fire magic had burst out of him. He’d lost the home in Lundegaard that King Magnas had offered him, lost any right to call himself a prince. He was a commoner now. No, lower than a commoner; a witch.
    “Do you have a preference what name we use?”
    What did it matter? The witches had lost him his birthright, his family, his home. What was a name, compared with those things? A name was nothing.
    A name was something he had to live with, until he could be rid of these people. Another two months, at least.
    Harkeld scowled at his horse’s ears. On either side of the lane, warped split-rail fences enclosed ragged fields. He needed a name that was ordinary, but also one he’d recognize when people said it. His memory skipped back to the game he’d played with his half-sister when she was a child.
    “Flin.”
    Saying the name brought back a rush of memory. He heard Britta’s voice, Can we play Flin, please? Heard her breathless giggles as he chased her across the palace lawns while the nursemaids and the armsmen tried to keep straight faces. Heard her squeal when he caught her and her whoop of glee when he swung her in the air.
    They’d only played Flin for a few months, before he’d been fostered to King Magnas’s court. When he’d returned two years later, he’d thought himself too old for such games. And Britta, sweet Britta, had asked only once and never mentioned it again.
    I should have played with her more often.
    His throat tightened. Tears stung his eyes. For a dreadful moment he thought he might cry.
    But wasn’t it something worth crying for? The sister he’d never meet again. The little brothers he’d never see grow up.
    Harkeld lifted his face to the sky. All-Mother, please keep them safe, he prayed.
     
     
    T HEY SKIRTED THE town of Hradik. Gerit now rode, and it was Petrus who glided overhead, creamy wings widespread. A second hawk joined Petrus for several minutes. It had a speckled breast and tail feathers. Not long afterwards they came to a crossroad. Four riders and a string of packhorses waited there. Above, the strange hawk circled.
    “Rand!” Cora spurred forward.
    Harkeld watched the witches greet each