The Errant Prince by Sasha L. Miller Read Free Book Online

again: porridge and more apples. Myron ate heartily, starving despite eating his fill the previous evening. He drank the rest of the dirt-and-grass tea, making a fresh pot when he was done. He picked up the dishes—his and Tamsen's, leftover from earlier—and noted the missing washbasin. That had to be what Tamsen was using to wash their clothes and explained the dishes crashing together earlier. Breakfast and cleanup accomplished, Myron headed back outside. Tamsen was still washing, though he looked to be mostly finished if the laundry spread out across the grass past the garden was any indication.
    "What are my orders today?" Myron asked, giving Tamsen a smile to take the heat out of the words. Tamsen scowled back, dropping the shirt he'd been working on into the wash water. He still wasn't wearing a shirt, but he'd turned to face the cottage as he worked.
    "Is that why you're doing what I ask? They're not orders," Tamsen said. He angrily grabbed the wet shirt again, sending water spraying.
    Myron snorted. He bit back the instinctive response—Tamsen had yet to ask anything. "If I followed every order you gave me, highness, I'd be halfway back to Rishaw by now. Besides, if they were orders, I wouldn't be getting spells for my trouble."
    Tamsen squinted at him suspiciously, nodding after a moment of scrutiny. He seemed crankier than usual, and that was saying something given he'd been nothing but surly or irritated since Myron's arrival. Tamsen nodded toward the side of the cottage. "You could stack the wood you chopped. Over there, below the window."
    "For another spell? That'll be two you owe me," Myron said. His back ached at the thought of carrying all that wood. He'd done worse, however, so he'd deal.
    "I think I can handle that," Tamsen said. He hesitated, looking like he might say something more, but in the end he shook his head and went back to his washing. 
    Myron walked way, trying not to read too much into that. There was plenty Tamsen might not want to say to him or tell him that had nothing to do with Myron. Still, Myron left his borrowed shirt on as he carried the wood over to the house, even when the day warmed enough for it to be uncomfortable. It only took him a few hours to stack the wood, thankfully. Myron set the last piece atop the pile before going in search of Tamsen, who had finished the washing not long after Myron had started stacking wood.
    Tamsen wasn't hard to find; he was inside the cottage, fussing with one of his bookcases. It struck Myron as he entered the cottage that it was even neater than it had been earlier.
    Not neater. More neutral. The clutter was missing. Most of the odds and ends that Tamsen had had around the house were gone or tucked away. The table was clear of the books and papers Tamsen had been working on, and it lacked the charm and personal touches it had had when Myron had first arrived.
    Tamsen had decided to move on, then.
    "So are you planning to leave today or tomorrow, your highness?" Myron asked, unable to keep all the bitterness out of his voice. He'd stupidly thought that Tamsen would respect him enough not to just run off, but apparently he'd been mistaken. Tamsen was a prince, and he'd run from his station. Obviously he respected very little.
    Tamsen jumped, startled. The little glass jar he'd been holding slipped from his fingers, smashing against the floor. Tamsen swore but didn't move except to lift one hand to cover his mouth and nose against the pale green dust rising into the air. He glared at Myron, saying through his sleeve, "Stay there and don't breathe deeply."
    Myron did as instructed, feeling as Tamsen's magic swirled to life, sweeping up the green powder that seemed to have gotten everywhere. Tamsen's magic pulled it all together, swirling the powder and broken glass together in a cyclone of shimmering light. He disposed of it in the fire, making the flames turn a deep, angry red before returning to their previous placid blue.
    "Falcine powder,"