The River Prince

The moon was full the night Kerissa found the River Prince.

That was what she called him when they first met. “Prince”, because he wore a rich, crimson cloak—the colour of royalty.

And “River”, because Kerissa fished him out of one.

“All the trolls and their ugly fathers,” she cursed when she realised just who she’d saved from drowning. A foreign prince? What was she to do with him? No doubt he was the young prince of Valea, neighbouring country to Kerissa’s own Akranes; the river she’d found him in bridged the two nations.

And the worst part?

Valea and Akranes were at war.

“Hey, wake up,” Kerissa said. She shook the prince. “Wake up!”

He did not wake. She checked his breathing; it was normal. His chin-length curls, dark as night, framed a soft, round face. He looked no more than twelve years old. His fingers were long and thin. A painter’s hands? wondered Kerissa. The prince looked like he’d never done a day’s work. She scoffed at the unconscious boy.

It wasn’t until Kerissa had recovered her breath that the fear began. What would they do if they found her in possession of the crown prince of Valea, her country’s sworn enemy? Valea would descend into anarchy. The Akranean government would accuse her of kidnapping the prince, and she’d be hanged as a traitor. Who would take care of Godfrey then? Her poor, fragile uncle, who couldn’t even lift an axe to chop firewood—

“Who are you?” a voice croaked.

Damn it. Now Kerissa couldn’t throw the boy back into the river.

The River Prince pushed himself up to his elbows, coughing. He winced and pressed a hand to his head; it came away bloody.

“You’re bleeding,” said Kerissa.

The prince gave her an amused look. “I know.”

She walked to a nearby bush, plucked a few fern leaves and folded them into a wad. “Here,” she told the boy. “Use this to stop the bleeding.”

He frowned. “Do you not have a kerchief?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then why didn’t you offer me that instead?”

“Might I remind you,” she said, “that you haven’t even thanked me for saving you?”

“Thank you for saving me. May I have your kerchief now?”

“No. I only have the one, and I don’t need your bloodstains on it.”

The prince snorted. Kerissa had the urge to slap that cherub-sweet face of his. “If that is your concern,” he said, “I will send you a hundred kerchiefs once I am home. So may I have yours now? Please,” he added. He touched his head once more and grimaced.

It struck Kerissa at once why the boy spoke with such authority. He was an only son, she recalled. Sole heir to the Valean throne. What would the Valean king do to save his son? she wondered. Propose a truce? A ransom? End the war?

Kerissa took in the boy’s narrow frame, the blood trickling down the side of his face. He was weak now, and unsuspecting, and she was larger than him. Kerissa’s fingers inched towards the hunting knife on her belt. She would have to go about this carefully. With her other hand, she held out the kerchief.

“Here you go.”

Before the prince could reach for it, she flicked the cloth into his eyes. She locked her arm around him, held her blade to his neck. He struggled against her grip.

“Call off the war,” she hissed. “I will take you to the Akranean palace, and you will surrender.”

The prince went still for a moment.

Then, he sighed.

“Stupid country maids.”

He moved as though made of water, twisting out of her hold and disarming her weapon. Now the blade pricked her neck. How their places had swapped in mere seconds.

The boy’s face held a smirk. “I think you will find,” he said, “that killing livestock and people are not the same. You are too cowardly for murder. Much less the murder of a child.”

Kerissa spat. So the slippery devil was trained to fight. She should have expected as much.

“And you?” she taunted. “You dare to take a life?”

His eyes narrowed, considering. Then he pocketed the knife. “Not yours. You saved mine.”

Kerissa did not trust herself to speak over her pounding heart. She watched the prince bandage his head with her discarded kerchief. I have misjudged him, Kerissa thought. She would not do it again.

Once the boy was done, he looked at Kerissa and grinned, wide. It unsettled her.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“What?”

“I said let’s go.” He took Kerissa’s hand and tugged her towards the treeline. “It is dark, and I don’t fancy being eaten by wild animals. Show us the way to your house.”

Kerissa shrugged off his hand. “No,” she said. “You’re the enemy. You’re a fool if you think I’ll help you.”

“I don’t think you’ll help me. I think you want the war to end, don’t you?” A smile. “I was travelling to Akranes for a peace treaty when my ship got caught in a storm. You know the rest.” He gestured to the river. “So, if you take me to your king’s palace, I can present the treaty and end the war. Happy endings all around. What say you, farm lady?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“You’d be rewarded. Money to buy new kerchiefs.”

“I thought you said you’d give me a hundred.”

“That was before you tried to kill me.”

Kerissa considered the prince’s words, the Machiavellian mind beneath his easy manner. She knew there were gaps in his story, such as the shipwreck (she would’ve seen debris floating downriver if there was one), and that he was to present a peace treaty (treaties required at least three witnesses from both parties, and the prince was alone). Besides, he could very well be lying. Who’s to say he was not an assassin, hired to murder the Akranean king?

But what choice did she have? If she refused to help the boy, he would simply follow her to her cottage.

So she said, “You want to stay at my house, even though I tried to kill you?”

He shook his head. “You would never have done it. You lack the guts for murder.”

She raised an eyebrow. There’s one thing the boy’s gotten wrong.

“And you know that because…?”

The prince faltered, but only for a moment. He turned to her with that same grin: knife-sharp, out of place. “Because many have tried to kill me, and I know what murderers look like.”