Kaitlyn Patterson - The Diminished

Claes raised an eyebrow at his sister. “Are you certain that’s what happened?”

“Of course. Imelda told me herself.”

“I heard that she’s been spending more than a little time in the gambling dens in Oak Grove, and she used the story about the End to get herself out of trouble with her wife. Patrise told me she’s in debt up to her eyebrows.”

I kneed my horse forward, up a hill and away from the wharf, and let the rest of their gossip drift away behind me. I focused instead on the city, watching the people I would someday rule as we rode into Esser Park, the most fashionable neighborhood in Penby. Tall brick houses, their doors and window sashes painted in bold colors, ringed the largest and most carefully tended of Penby’s parks. The houses were trimmed with ornate stone fripperies and built so close together, their occupants could open their windows and gossip without raising their voices. My father had owned one of these houses, but my mother had closed it up after he died. I tried to pick out which one had been his, but it had been too long since I’d visited. None seemed more familiar than the rest.

Alskaders had thronged to the park, drawn by the lovely weather. The benches and pavilions were full of picnickers popping bottles of fizzy wine and laughing. Vendors hawked their wares from colorful carts, and people crowded around them, buying fry bread dusted with sugar, flaky meat pies and baskets of steamed, spiced crab, shrimp and clams. Children played on the rolling lawns, and their parents watched from blankets as they tumbled down hills and tossed balls to one another. There were other riders out, too, and I nodded at the familiar faces we passed.

Despite the fact that this park was free and open to the public, the only people enjoying it were the nobility—the same nobles who attended the parties and dinners at the palace. Who visited our countryside estate. Who sent me birthday gifts year after year, not because they knew me, but for the simple fact that I was a Trousillion—and though the announcement would not come until my birthday, everyone knew that I would be the next king.

It was as though there was some kind of unspoken rule, more effective than walls, that made this space inaccessible to the poor.

“Why is it that the only people out on a day like today are the same ones we see at court all the time?”

Penelope and Claes exchanged one of their infuriatingly meaningful twin looks, and Claes shrugged.

“Did you give Gunnar the afternoon off before we left?” he asked.

The heat of a blush crept up my neck as I realized my mistake. I hadn’t thought to give him time off. Of course I hadn’t. I was a fool to think I had any idea what it was like to be poor in Penby—or, for that matter, to be employed. It suddenly made perfect sense that the park was crowded with the nobility. We were the only people who could afford the time to enjoy these green spaces.

The entire sum of my life had been devoted to work and pleasure in nearly equal portions. The work I did in preparation for the duties of kingship was challenging and extensive, but if I took ill or needed a day off to rest, I could have that. Queen Runa had always emphasized that the role of a monarch was to be a servant to their subjects, but the reality of my life was such that I rarely interacted with people who were actually poor. Those people I knew who worked for a living, by and large, worked for me in some capacity or another.

Penelope tapped my thigh gently with the end of her riding crop and said, “There’s no reason you ought to have done, Bo. With your birthday around the corner, he hasn’t got the time for gallivanting around a park all afternoon. And frankly, neither do we. We must decide on the menu for your birthday party, not to mention the entertainment...”

I stopped listening, and my eyes drifted to the edge of the woods, where a group of the Shriven stood, their white robes stark and austere against the dark evergreen tree line. I glanced around, looking for the city watch, but there were none in sight. Like the rest of us, the watch depended on the Shriven to protect us from the diminished, but it was odd to see a group of them standing there, as if waiting for something.

“Bo? Bo. Are you listening?” Penelope’s voice snapped me back to the present, and I tore my eyes away from the Shriven.

“Obviously not,” Claes drawled.

A hunk of grass exploded a stride to my left. Then another, closer. I looked over my shoulder, confused. A sound like a thunderclap reverberated through the park, and my horse sidestepped, flinging his head up and snorting anxiously. It was the most activity I’d seen from the beast since I’d mounted. I glanced at Claes, but before I could say anything, something whizzed by my shoulder, and this time, I recognized the sound. Gunshots. One voice rose up in a scream, and in no time, it was joined by a chorus of panicked yells.

I’d hunted for sport all my life. I knew the sound of a rifle, but it was so out of place here, so unexpected in this beautiful park in the middle of the city. There was no game to hunt, no reason for a person to come armed. I was as baffled as I was frightened; it simply didn’t make any sense.

Realization dawned on me suddenly. Someone was shooting. At me. There’d been attempts made on my life before, but they’d been flashy, easy to identify and avoid. Poisonings, cut stirrups, clumsily hidden explosives. It was tradition more than anything—a show of strength and power. The singleborn threatened each other with assassination all the time, but never with firearms, and people rarely actually died unless in some kind of horrible accident.

The horse jigged beneath me, and I knew he was on the verge of taking off. It took nearly all my focus to stay in the saddle, but even still, I saw the Shriven streaming up the hill toward the copse of trees at the edge of the bluff. They moved like silverfish streaking up a stream, silent and focused. Something about their coordinated movements, and the way they’d been waiting—it left a bad taste in my mouth. An overwhelming wrongness, like biting down on a copper tvilling .

Another shot rang out, and this time my horse wheeled and started to bolt off down the hill. I sat deep in the saddle and tightened my grip on the reins, murmuring soothing nonsense and slowing his pace. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Penelope and Claes catch up to me as people dashed out of the park, leaving hampers and blankets behind in their rush to get away.

“We have to get back to the palace!” Claes yelled over the din of the crowd.

“Follow me,” Penelope called. “Side streets will be faster.”

We rode at breakneck speed through the city, dodging street vendors and pedestrians. Our terrified horses needed no encouragement, and they only gathered speed as we rounded the last corner and finally caught sight of the palace.

Startled guards threw open the gate, and we thundered across the courtyard, finally slowing as we neared the stables. Claes leapt off his horse, snarling, and stalked off toward the palace without a second look for Penelope or me. I dismounted more slowly. As the rush of danger faded, my hands shook, and my knees felt like jellied eels.

“Are you all right, Bo?” Penelope handed her horse’s reins off to a groom and looked me up and down.

Dry-mouthed and weak, I ignored Penelope, pressing my forehead against the curly hair on the horse’s thick neck, petting him automatically. He was shivering, too. Without thinking, I started to run my hands over his body, looking for injury. When I reached his left flank, my hand came away damp with blood. The poor beast had been skimmed by a bullet.

“Bo?” Penelope put a hand tentatively on my shoulder.