“I can manage,” I said stiffly. I was aware of how he honored me, but also of how plainly he saw my weakness. I wanted to be alone, to hide myself.
He nodded, understanding. “Would that you had mastered the Skill. I could offer you strength, just as I have too often taken it from you.”
“I could not,” I muttered, unable to mask how distasteful I would find the drawing off of another man’s strength to replace my own. I instantly regretted the moment of shame I saw in my prince’s eyes.
“I, too, could once speak with such pride,” he said quietly. “Go get some rest, boy.” He turned slowly aside from me. He busied himself setting out his inks and his vellum once more. I left quietly.
We had been closeted for the whole day. Outside, it was full dark. The castle had the settled air of a winter’s evening. The tables cleared, the folk would be gathered about the hearths in the Great Hall. Minstrels might be singing, or a puppeteer moving his gangly charges through a story. Some folk would watch while fletching arrows, some would be plying needles, children would be spinning tops or matching markers or drowsing against their parents’ knees or shoulders. All was secure. Outside, the winter storms blew and kept us safe.
I walked with a drunkard’s caution, avoiding the common areas where folk had gathered for the evening. I folded my arms and hunched my shoulders as if chilled, and so stilled the trembling in my arms. I climbed the first flight of stairs slowly, as if lost in thought. On the landing I permitted myself to pause for a count of ten, then forced myself to begin the next flight.