Nocturna (A Forgery of Magic #1)
Maya Motayne
1
The Prince Without a Future
A prince always comes home.
Alfie’s mother had told him that when he’d boarded his ship three months ago, leaving San Cristóbal behind to be swallowed by the horizon. And now, as the same ship eased back into the port it had departed from, Alfie’s shadow gathered around his feet in a tight spiral of nerves.
He was home.
The rings of the capital city bloomed before him, from the slouching taverns that braced against the sea breeze in the Pinch to the stately haciendas with stained glass windows and sloped adobe roofs deeper inland in the Bow. Mountains swelled in the far distance. If he squinted, he could spot the surrounding sugarcane fields, swaying in the breeze, ripe for harvest. And, of course, rising against the horizon like a second sun was the palace.
Alfie’s fingers curled tight around the railing of the ship, the flap of the scarlet sails quieting around him as the crew readied to dock. The shops and taverns of the port were lined with lanterns enchanted to burn all night long to welcome incoming sailors. Even after everything that had happened, the city was so strangely unchanged. But that was the trick of home, he supposed. It stayed the same even when you didn’t.
Alfie wanted nothing more than to shout for the captain to head back to open sea. His pounding heart urged him to sail away and not let his feet touch the ground of this place.
“Prince Alfehr,” the captain said, pulling Alfie from his thoughts. “Your carriage has arrived.”
Alfie took a deep breath, his eyes clinging to the clear blue sea. From the deck he could spot colorful fish darting about in schools, unbothered by the boat gliding over them. As soon as the ship had slid from the choppy foreign ocean into the soft embrace of the Suave, the waters of his homeland, Alfie’s stomach began to twist with anxiety. He’d known then that he was getting too close to home. Now there was no turning back.
Like everyone else, he was born with an affinity for one of the four elements—his was water. He wasn’t the most skilled water charmer; like most nobles, he hadn’t focused much on elemental study, but he still wanted to whip his arms through the air and push waves against the boat, steering the ship far from here. Instead he said, “Thank you, Bastien, for your service.” When the captain gave a bow and turned to leave, Alfie spoke again. “Espérate.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Do I look . . .” Alfie glanced at him furtively. “Do I look all right?”
Bastien gave him a knowing glance. “You look just fine, Prince Alfie. And even if you did not, your family would be happy to see you. In any condition.”
Alfie nodded gratefully as the captain left him to his thoughts. For the last week he’d stopped his drinking and late-night reading of every text of illegal magic he could get his hands on, in hopes of getting rid of the dark circles under his eyes. During his time on board the ship, the drink left him too bold to hide how lost he felt, searching for meaning in his grief only to find anger. The crew knew it all too well, but he didn’t want his mother to see who he’d become during these months away. Still, the flask of tequila sat hidden at his hip, an anchor dragging him down into its numbing embrace.
Alfie walked the shifting gangplank to the dock. As his feet touched solid ground it was strange to feel that terrible stillness again, as if hands had sprung out of the earth to hold him here in this place full of memories he’d tried to forget. With gritted teeth, he ground his heels to get his shadow to stop skittering back toward the ship. He was home now. He had an image to uphold. With his head held high, he strode toward the waiting carriage.
People working on the docks, citizens of the kingdom he would wrongfully inherit, began to gather in a wide ring about the carriage, whispering.
“Is that really him?”
“Crown Prince Alfie has returned!”
Their words fell on his shoulders like slabs of stone. The title of crown prince belonged to his brother, Dezmin, not him. Alfie walked faster. A squadron of guards in red capes bearing the insignia of Castallan formed a barrier around the carriage.
A man wearing a brimmed hat raised his son onto his shoulders to get a better look. “Mira, Mijo! It’s the prince!”
Alfie couldn’t bear it. They all had such hope in their eyes. His heart beating in his throat, he finally reached the coach. But before he could step in, one voice rang out over the others, snapping against him like a whip.
“Your loss is our loss, Prince Alfehr! May Prince Dezmin rest in peace!”
Alfie’s smile slipped and fell. The man’s condolences held a grain of truth—Dez’s absence truly was their loss. They’d been robbed of a real leader and were left with Alfie instead. But the man was wrong about one thing—Dez wasn’t dead. Alfie had returned home to find him. For these people who deserved a true king, he had returned. He would make things right.
His throat burning with the effort of holding his grief at bay, he looked at the crowd and said, “Thank you.”
His voice was wooden, hollow. But he supposed that was better than sounding broken.
As the carriage drew away from the port and the palace’s silver gates rose in the distance, a knot of dread twisted in his stomach. The ride had been too short. People spoke of how time sprinted during the best of moments, but it dashed just as quickly when something unwanted was on the horizon.