“I’ve talked to a few. They’re nice people.”
Trent sipped his champagne. “One of these days you’ll have no other choice than to consign them all to the oblivion whence they came. When you finally get tired of this little island paradise you created.”
“Think I’ll get tired of it?”
“Do you think you will?”
Sheila mulled it over. “I like it here much better than the castle. The castle’s dark and gloomy.”
“Castles tend to be that way.”
“Especially Perilous.”
“Well, yes. But it has one hundred forty-three thousand nine hundred ninety-nine more game rooms besides this one.”
“Some of them are downright creepy.”
“Oh, sure, but some are quite delightful. I wouldn’t mind a change of scenery.”
“Really? Trent, do you want to move?”
“No, dear. I want to be where you are happiest. And I think that, for the moment, you are happiest here.” Trent crossed his legs and sipped thoughtfully. “But paradise can be ultimately boring. I do miss the castle every once in a great while.”
Sheila set down her glass and stretched out again, this time on her back. “I thought you said you can’t ever live at Perilous. Because of the curse?”
“Well, it’s a mild curse.”
“Your father put it on you, right?”
“Yep. Old Dad. The king.”
“You’ve never really explained why.”
“Well, simply put, Dad banished me from the castle because I was a rotten kid.”
“Were you a rotten kid?”
“I was young. And hot-headed. And ambitious. I wanted to be king.”
“But your dad favored Incarnadine over you.”
“For the succession, yes.”
“Incarnadine is older than you, isn’t he?”
“No,” Trent answered. “I am. By four minutes.”
Sheila’s head popped up. “What?”
“We’re twins. Fraternal twins.”
“You never told me that.”
Trent considered it. “No, I don’t believe I ever did. It’s true, though.”
“This four-minute difference — is that why you thought you should be king? Some legal thing?”
“Dad didn’t care a fig about legalities. Dad liked Inky a lot. He hated me. There was no question in his mind who should wear the crown after he died.”
“And Inky … I mean, Incarnadine, was crowned when that happened.”
“Yes, but not until after I gave him a run for his money.”
“I’ve heard stories about how you challenged him.”
“Mostly blown out of proportion. But I’ll have to admit I got rather insistent about it.” Trent stretched out his legs and leaned back against the bulkhead. He chuckled. “Do you know how long ago that was?”
“I know you two are getting along in years,” Sheila said, “for all that you both still don’t look a day over thirty-five.”
“Magic, my dear. Magic.”
“Great stuff, magic. So, about this curse. You can’t set foot in the castle?”
“Oh, I can set foot in it, all right. But I can’t stay for long. Eventually I get an overpowering urge to leave.”
“Too bad.”
“It used to be worse. Used to be I’d get anxiety attacks. The shakes. I’ve done some work against the spell over the years to reduce its effectiveness.”
Sheila asked, “Are you saying you could live in the castle now?”
“I’m really not sure. The spell may have lost potency on its own. Spells do that, with time.”
A gull screeched somewhere off in the lazy silence.
Trent looked up at the canopy of fuzzy, blue-dyed cotton that was the sky. “I honestly don’t know if I could stay in the castle for any length of time. But I’m fairly sure I’m not interested in trying.”
“Then we’ll stay here for the time being?”
“As I said, Sheila, dear — where you’re happiest is where I want to be.”
“You’re so gallant. So damned gallant.”
“I’m a prince, hey.”
“A prince of a prince.”
“And you’re a princess, don’t forget. A princess of the Realms Perilous.”
Sheila sat up and pulled her husband close. She kissed him. “Thanks for making my life a fairy tale.”
“My pleasure. You know, when I first met you, I —”
Trent suddenly turned his head shoreward.
“We have company,” he said.
Sheila got to her knees and looked. “The speedboat. Snowy’s probably waterskiing again.”
“Look again. It’s the speedboat all right, but no skiers. Heading right for us.”
“Something must have happened at the hotel,” Sheila said with concern, reaching for the two scraps of cloth that were her bikini. “That must be Julio piloting.”
“It’s not Julio,” Trent said, shielding his eyes. “This is interesting.”
“Who is it?”
“Looks like Tyrene, a couple of Guardsmen with him.”
“What? They never come here!”
“No.” Trent’s brow lowered.
“Trent, what do you think is up?”
“We’ll soon find out.” Trent got to his feet.
The speedboat cut its engines and turned, its starboard aligning with the sailboat’s port. One of the Guardsmen stood and threw a line.
Tyrene, Captain of the Castle Guard, waved and shouted, “Ahoy!”
Trent caught the line, tied the end off. The Guardsman hauled the two craft close enough to bump gently against each other.
“Your Royal Highness,” Tyrene said, “if you’ll pardon the intrusion …”
“What’s up, Tyrene?”
“Permission to come aboard, sir?”
“Permission granted.”
It took some doing. Tyrene was the lubbiest of landlubbers. Trent helped him onto the deck of the sloop, where he eventually spilled.
Trent had immediately taken ominous readings from Tyrene’s grave expression, but said casually, “Something’s up at the castle, I take it.”
Tyrene came to unsteady attention. “Your Royal Highness, a disaster of unprecedented magnitude has befallen us. I regret to inform you that your brother, the king, is dead.”
A gasp escaped Sheila’s lips before both hands shot up to cover her mouth.
Trent turned his head and stared out to sea. A long interlude followed, the only sound that of wavelets lapping at Fiberglas hulls.
At last Trent looked back. “How?”
“He was found dead this morning, at his desk, locked within his quarters at the Elector’s palace.”
“In …?”
“Malnovia. That is the aspect, sir. He was Court Magician there.”
“Malnovia, Malnovia.” Trent scratched his bare chest. “I recall the name but can’t put any images with it.”
“The milieu is not unlike Earth, western Europe, eighteenth century, sir. Highly developed science, but largely agrarian …”
“Yeah, I remember. Fine music, just like Earth’s in that period, only slightly different harmonic conventions and freer musical forms …” Trent exhaled. “Now, why do I remember trivialities like that?”
“Sir, His Majesty was fond of the aspect chiefly for its music.”
Trent nodded. “Inky’s a classicist through and through.” He looked out to sea again. “Was. But you haven’t told me how he died.”
“Sir, I regret to say that the cause is not yet known. However, the court physician was summoned and he pronounced the king dead. Later, our Dr. Mirabilis confirmed. Your Royal Highness, I am afraid there is no doubt about it. The king is dead.”
“Long live the king,” Trent intoned. “But I regret to say I have forgotten his name.”
“The king’s only son and heir is Brandon.”
“Ah, Brandon. Yes, of course. Fine lad. How old?”
“Twelve, sir.”
“Seems he was born last Tuesday.” Trent inhaled salt air deeply, let it out. “So.”