A number of the side gates were usually unguarded, or were allocated to the charge of a guard who had to cover several exits at once, with the inevitable consquence that the quieter ones were neglected. It would be difficult to leave the castle without being spotted, but if he made it out quickly and hid in one of the desert caves, he might be able to lie low until the guards lost interest in looking for him. Hopefully he would be able to get away fast enough to prevent them from realising who he was, which he assumed ought to help.

Sabin slipped through the gate and pulled up the hood of his cloak. There was an uncomfortable heat outside, as always, and the desert wind threatened to blow the hood straight down again. He secured it with one hand and attempted to hold on to the strap of his knapsack with the other as it began to slip from his shoulder.

“Hey!”

The shout came from the castle behind him: one of the guards had spotted the escapee. Sabin gripped his hood and ignored the impulse to look towards where the sound had come from. As long as he managed to keep the hood on and not show his face, they would be none the wiser as to who he was.

“You there!”

That was a different voice – had two of them seen him? He’d thought one might, but two was unfortunate. The sand was getting blown into his eyes, so he pulled the hood down as far as he could and continued.

Suddenly, something crashed into the ground beside him, fast and heavy. The noise made Sabin yelp, and threw him off balance; the strap of his bag began to fall down his arm, and he grabbed at it, his heart racing: that was unmistakeably an arrow, sticking out of the sand inches from where he stood. The guards were shooting at him – they must have thought him a thief who had sneaked into the castle and tried to sneak back out, his bag full of plundered treasures –

He broke into a run: he had to get as far from the castle as he could, as soon as he could. Running against the strong wind felt barely faster than walking, though, and it was even harder to hold his hood in place; not a few moments later, he lost his grip on it entirely and it flapped free, uncovering his head and the long blond hair that was one of the most famous features of the twin princes.

He pulled the hood back over his head as quickly as he could manage, but the damage was done. The shouts had grown in number – additional guards must have been alerted – and he could hear that they had changed:

“Your Highness!”

“Prince Sabin!”

As he realised that the guards had identified him, even somehow worked out exactly which brother they were pursuing, something slammed against his foot, and he stumbled.

Slipping his hands under the straps of his sandal and clutching the foot to try and stem the sudden flow of blood, he grimaced in pain and confusion. A second arrow. They recognised him now, and yet they were still shooting at him – they would harm their own prince? Sabin was hardly one to use his position to his advantage – that came more naturally to his brother – but he had thought it would mean something. They clearly weren’t aiming to incapacitate him entirely, shooting at his feet like that: the intention was obviously to leave him with a serious but treatable wound that would render him unable to advance so that he could be brought back to the castle without resisting. But even that: was that how their own staff would treat him or his brother, now that their father was gone and the kingdom was the responsibility of two teenagers? Imprison them in the castle, even if they had to maim them to do it?

A new voice rose over the sounds of the guards: one that still carried the high pitch of youth.

“Lower your weapons! I command you –” the voice paused, and then added somewhat uncertainly, “as your king!”

Father, Sabin thought in a moment of delirium; and then, Edgar. The commotion had died down, so he stole a glance behind him. Sure enough, it was his brother, somehow looking royal at seventeen, his hair blowing behind him in the wind, his arms spread imperiously, the image of a monarch addressing his people.

“Return to your stations,” Edgar continued, and Sabin could hear a slight tremor in his voice.

“But, Your Hi– Your Majesty,” one of the guards argued. “Your Majesty’s brother is fleeing the castle, Sire –”

“You have no proof of who that man is,” Edgar interrupted. “Listen to me. Return to your stations at once. None of you will mention this incident to anyone.” He hesitated, and then added, “Am I understood?”

The guards mumbled in assent, and gradually dispersed, until only Edgar was left, leaning on the parapet.

“Are you injured?” he called out.

Edgar was still speaking with the same impersonal, majestic voice, and Sabin realised that he was still pretending that it wasn’t his brother, alone and wounded, down in the desert. Perhaps it was in case some of the guards were still close enough to overhear; perhaps it was for another reason. Sabin wasn’t quite close enough to discern his facial expression.

“I’ll recover,” he called back, mimicking Edgar’s detached tone.

“Wait there,” said Edgar, and he disappeared inside. Sabin waited, although he wished he could keep moving; the desert heat was making his head hurt, as it often did on occasions where he ventured outside the castle. His foot was still worryingly painful too, but he’d have to cope with it and walk on, as there was certainly no alternative. Still, he obeyed his brother and sat there, still squeezing his foot, watching the blood flow from the wound and form a sticky mess on his hands.

Edgar returned shortly afterwards, holding something small and white that stood out against the dark castle stone. “Here,” he said, and he threw the item down to Sabin with impressively precise aim. Sabin watched as it rolled the final inches towards him: it was a length of bandage, secured as a tight cylinder.

“Sorry I can’t be of more help,” said Edgar. He was probably trying to convey some deeper meaning with that, but Sabin had never been good with that kind of thing.

“Thank you,” said Sabin. Edgar looked like he was about to retreat, so he hastily added, “You ought to watch out for your staff … Your Majesty.”

Edgar flinched at the honorific, but he nodded brusquely, and disappeared inside the castle.

Sabin wondered fleetingly whether Edgar was about to return again, but it seemed not to be the case, so he carefully bandaged his foot, did his best to rub the dried blood off his hands, and pulled himself up. Standing caused a fresh wave of pain, but he gritted his teeth and began to make the journey south, leaving the castle further and further behind, with sand and tears stinging his eyes.

Some time later, Sabin arrived in South Figaro. He’d had a few run-ins with monsters in the desert; they weren’t terribly strong, but he wasn’t used to fighting, beyond his unfortunate habit of punching things when he got angry. His foot had slowed him down, too, so he lacked the agility of youth that he might have been able to rely on otherwise. He’d grappled with the monsters as best he could and eventually dispatched them, but not without sustaining a few further injuries, including a particularly nasty cut on his forehead: he’d have been in much worse shape by this point if not for Edgar’s bandages. It was an uncomfortable reminder of the fact that he’d forgotten to pack such a fundamental item himself; it made him wonder what else he’d inevitably overlooked. He’d brought a good amount of gil, and some clothes, and a little food for the first morning, but he hadn’t stopped and thought about what other less obvious items he might need – he’d been too caught up in the urgency of getting away from the castle. Sabin wasn’t a thinker; that was Edgar’s job.

He made his way to the inn: night hadn’t quite fallen, but he doubted he could manage much other than sleeping by this point. The innkeeper looked bored and tired, but his eyes widened when he saw Sabin.

“Your Highness!”

The title stung, so soon after Sabin had left the castle: it made him think of his brother on the parapet and the wretched guards, and tears began to well up in his eyes again. He said the first thing he could think of to quell them. “You’re mistaken. I’m no prince.”

The innkeeper looked sceptical, and rightly so: only two young men in the entire kingdom had long blond hair like that, and the bandage around Sabin’s forehead only covered up so much of it. He didn’t press the point, though, and asked, “Is it a room you’re after, sir? One hundred gil a night.”

“Please,” said Sabin, and he dug into his bag for the hundred gil.

The innkeeper took it, his eyes lingering on Sabin’s bloodied hands. “First on the left, sir. And here –” he reached under the counter, and handed Sabin a potion. “Take this before you go to sleep. It’ll help with the – er –” he gestured towards Sabin’s head, and his hands, and the rest of him, at a loss for words.

Sabin murmured his thanks, and headed towards the room, now fully certain that the innkeeper was aware of his identity: he wouldn’t give out free potions to all and sundry. It was further confirmed when Sabin opened the door to his room: it was a good size, and tastefully decorated. Not the kind of place one would expect from a small-town inn: a double bed, a spacious closet, even an en-suite – and didn’t most travellers have to share dormitories? This room must have been the one they reserved for visiting dignitaries and those with more money than they knew what to do with. And he’d been given the space for a hundred gil a night, just when he’d been trying to sever his connections with the castle.

He had a terrible urge to punch something – the table by the bed, the door, the wall, anything – and got as far as raising his arm, but a twinge of pain from a wound at his elbow caught him off-guard, and he lay down on the bed instead, tears pricking at his eyes for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

Remembering the potion, he uncapped the bottle and forced its contents down his throat as quickly as he could. As he put the empty bottle aside, he suddenly recalled the circumstances of his father’s death, and a feeling of alarm nagged at him: perhaps he shouldn’t have been so quick to drink something given to him by a stranger. If the rumours were true, and somebody had been out to get his father, he and Edgar were surely in danger too.

Before too long, though, the familiar potion-numbness settled over him, and he knew the liquid was the usual mere painkiller.

A few years back, Edgar and Sabin had developed a potion habit. They’d each experimented with taking one every day before their lessons, and it had made the dullness of learning more bearable, the pleasant numb feeling distancing them from the boring details of Figaro’s history that they were expected to memorise. While they waited during the changeover between tutors, they would slap at each other, giggling at the strange feeling, the usual sting obscured by the protection of the potion even as their forearms gradually turned red. After a while, the effect seemed to lessen, and so they’d started upping the quantity to two potions each morning, and coasted through their lessons with their minds somewhere in the vicinity of the castle roof.

It had ended when Sabin had been caught sneaking into the medicine store. They took turns smuggling the potions out, but it was he who was eventually intercepted. He could still picture Edgar saying “of course you’d be the one to get caught”; he could still remember the irritation on his brother’s face. That had been before Sabin’s final growth spurt, when Edgar was still taller than him.

Then the staff had realised just how many potions the princes had stolen over the past months, and their father had given them a lecture on the dangers of drugs, which had shocked them both: they’d never quite realised what they were doing. They’d had to go off the potions completely after that, and their heads had ached for a week or two; they’d lounged about in their quarters complaining, pressing ice to their foreheads, until they felt better and their lessons resumed. Sabin had recovered first, and he’d had a few days of waiting while Edgar continued to lie in his bed moaning about the injustice of the situation and demanding fresh ice from the servants.

It all seemed so long ago; they’d grown up since then. They’d had to.

The effect of the potion was making the pain recede; even the throbbing in his head from a few hours of intermittent crying had gone away. He felt calm, at last, and he slept.

After a few rounds at the tree, his head felt much clearer, and he suddenly realised there was a way of stopping the council’s order. As king, even king-in-waiting, Edgar would surely have power that trumped theirs, and Sabin knew he would be displeased to find his brother’s movements restricted like this. If he could get a letter to Edgar into the midday post, his brother would receive it by the afternoon and Sabin might even get a reply the next day. He hobbled back into town and entered the post office.

After buying the necessary items, he sat down at the little table that people used to package their deliveries and used the pencil stub that had been left there to compose the letter.

Roni,

I’m safe. I don’t know if you’ve heard the order the rotten council have put out to stop me going anywhere. Your authority ought to outrank theirs.

I hope you’re safe. I miss you.

S. R.

He’d never been much of a letter-writer – yet another skill where Edgar had always outshone him – and it was difficult to control the pencil with his bandaged hand, so he left it at that.

When they were young, around eight or nine, Edgar had been sent away to some kind of educational programme for children interested in engineering. There had been a lot of fuss about it because of the additional security arrangements that would have to be made for the young prince, and the fact that the event took place in Vector, and nobody had quite been sure at the time of exactly how friendly Figaro ought to appear to be towards the Gestahlian Empire. But Edgar had gone, with a squad of servants and bodyguards and a written contract specifying exactly what would happen in the event of harm to his person, and for the six weeks that he was there, he’d exchanged letters with Sabin. Even at that age, Edgar’s writing had had a kind of charming eloquence. Dear René, the other children here are dreadfully dull, but the machines are fantastic. Did you know there’s one you can put a whole bag of nuts into, and it’ll take the shell off every one in under a minute? It’s about as tall as I am. I thought that might make you laugh. Write soon and tell me about how boring your lessons are. Does Dr Caionferas still wear that awful coat that I teased him about? I miss you. Lots of love, Roni.

Edgar had been invited back the following year for a longer follow-up programme, but the risk was too great, and by that time, reports were starting to emerge of the kind of activities the Empire was involved in. When their father had sent the letter turning down Edgar’s place, Edgar had refused to speak to him or any of the staff for an entire week, and Sabin had had to act as go-between.

Sabin hesitated about what to write on the envelope, but eventually put Prince Edgar, Figaro Castle. That ought to be clear enough. He marked it “confidential”, stuck on the stamp while trying to avoid looking at the image of his father’s face, and left it for collection.

It turned out that the doctor’s surgery was just opposite the post office: a small building with various jars and instruments displayed in the window, and a sign that read Dr H Goret, Physician. He grimaced, thinking of the stable girl. She’d seemed genuinely concerned about him, but he didn’t want to go anywhere that might mean reports would be written about him and potentially sent back to the castle. He stood there, hesitating, until he realised that the pain in his foot was making him grind his teeth together, and capitulated.

Dr Goret didn’t look that surprised to see him. He cast his eyes over Sabin’s various bandages and half-healed injuries, raised his eyebrows, and asked, “Um – are you just here for a general check-over, or is there something specific I can help you with?”

“It’s my foot,” Sabin told him, and he sat down, gingerly pulling off his sandal to let the doctor unwrap the bandage and examine the wound.

Goret looked at for a while, and eventually, in a carefully calm tone, remarked “You’ve been shot.” He prodded at the wound, and Sabin clamped his teeth together to stop himself crying out. “It’s beginning to get infected,” the doctor added.

He continued to poke around the wound, and amid the pain Sabin managed to ask, “Is there something I can take for it?”

Goret looked up in surprise as if he’d forgotten the rest of Sabin was there. “Yes,” he said, and he retrieved a tube of ointment from a cabinet. “You can use this twice a day until it heals. I’ll put some on for you now.” He paused. “This may sting.”

Sabin couldn’t help moaning in discomfort as the doctor liberally applied the ointment to his foot. In the end, he shoved the fingers of one shaking hand into his mouth and bit down in an attempt to force the involuntary sounds to stop.

Goret covered the wound with a fresh bandage, and returned to his cabinet. “If you insist on walking,” he said, “you should use a stick.” He retrieved one from the cabinet and handed it to Sabin. “And carry some potions with you for the pain.” He sat down and fixed his gaze on Sabin’s face. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Nothing,” Sabin replied. “How much do I owe you?”

The doctor cast his eyes over Sabin’s bandaged hands, and asked again, “Are you sure there’s nothing else?”

“I’m sure.”

He stood up and walked to the window. “You know,” he remarked casually, “nothing you tell me will get back to the castle.”

Sabin almost laughed. “You’re not expecting me to believe that,” he said.

“I certainly am. Medical confidentiality. I took an oath when I entered this profession.” He sounded affronted that Sabin might have thought otherwise.

“These are just …” Sabin shook his head. “The rest will heal. I was just worried about the foot.”

“Hmm,” said Goret thoughtfully. “But how do you feel … otherwise? You may be aware that I’m a doctor of the mind as well as the body.”

“I’m fine,” said Sabin tightly. Like everyone else in South Figaro, the doctor had clearly read the morning paper and learnt about his “state of distress” from the stable girl.

Goret looked him in the eye. “I doubt that. Your father died only last week. You’ve left your home and your brother, apparently without giving anyone prior warning. You’re grieving. You’ve clearly,” he nodded towards Sabin’s foot, “gone through an ordeal if you ended up getting shot. And the rumour in town is that you go about for half the day breaking down in tears if anybody so much as talks to you.”

Sabin couldn’t do much to disprove the last part, as he found himself crying again, openly, right there in front of the doctor. The bluntness with which he’d delivered the account of the last few days was a shock, but it was true: Sabin’s father was dead, he’d probably never see Edgar again, and his brother was stuck in that castle with a horde of loathsome characters who’d shoot him too if he dared go against them.

Goret waited while Sabin sobbed, his hands pressed to his face, the bandages over his knuckles growing damp from the tears. Eventually, he raised his head and looked back at the doctor. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he pleaded.

“And I won’t force you to,” said Goret calmly. “But if you ever feel that you need to speak to someone, anything you tell me will be treated with the strictest confidence.”

Sabin nodded and wiped his eyes. He doubted he’d be back, but he appreciated the concern, even if it was merely professional. “How much for the ointment?” he asked again.

“Twenty gil, normally, but –”

He handed over fifty, struggled out of his chair, and left.

The stick helped with walking a little, but it made Sabin feel like a weak old man and seemed to draw even more attention to him. He ducked into a quieter street to avoid the stares, and made his way back into the trees.

After a few hours of throwing punches, Sabin picked up some dinner at the shop and hobbled back to the inn, having reconciled himself to booking a third night at the place.

“Evening,” said the innkeeper as he walked in.

Sabin approached the desk. “I need that room again tonight,” he said.

“It’s already reserved for you. You paid for it yesterday.”

He shook his head impatiently. “That wasn’t – fine. You know what, I’m not going to argue with you. But I have the gil, so maybe you’ll think about charging me the going rate if I’m unfortunate enough to have to use your services again.”

The innkeeper smiled mirthlessly. “One hundred gil is the going rate, sir. You may also be interested to know that we offer a special discount: if you’re planning to stay for seven nights and book all seven together in advance of the first night, the seventh is free –”

“I’m not intending to stay for seven nights,” Sabin interrupted angrily.

“You’re going back to the castle?”

“No. I’m getting out of this damned kingdom as soon as I can.”

The innkeeper eyed his stick. “And you’ll be leaving on foot, sir?”

“Go to hell,” said Sabin, and he limped down the corridor to his room.

The tree took a good beating that day. Its sharp bark dug into Sabin’s fresh bandages and new blood ran down his fingers, but he ignored the injuries and continued throwing himself at it for hours, occasionally stopping to catch his breath before starting again with renewed vigour. He’d forgotten to pick up any breakfast after the torment of Edgar’s letter and the encounter with the stable girl, and he felt weak and exhausted after so many bouts at the tree, but he’d keep going at it until night fell or until he passed out, whichever came first.

It was during one of his brief pauses that he heard a sound among the trees not unlike the one he’d noticed two days earlier.

“Who’s there?” he called, as he had before. He flinched at the sound of his own raised voice: the high, frightened tone of a young boy.

There was no answer. He cleared his throat, and forced the pitch of his voice lower as he added, “Show yourself!”

There was more rustling, and eventually, a tall, muscular youth, perhaps not much younger than Sabin himself, emerged from the trees, looking as if he would rather have been somewhere else.

Sabin kept his fists raised in defence. He had no idea what the boy wanted from him, but it occurred to him that being alone on the edge of town with eighty thousand gil in his bag, as someone of personal interest to the royal household, could make him a likely target for a number of dishonourable activities.

The boy glowered in the direction of the trees that he had come from, and then gestured carelessly towards Sabin’s fists. “You’re doing that wrong,” he said in a bored tone, before approaching and stretching out his own hand. “Look. Curl your fingers in tighter, like this. And keep your thumb down. And you need to stop bending your wrist. Watch.”

He stepped up to the tree and threw a punch of his own, then stood back and wiggled his fingers in annoyance. “And there are better things to go for around here than that,” he complained.

“Such as?” asked Sabin sharply.

The boy shrugged. “We’ve got stuff.” He laughed. “You know, that’s the first time I’ve heard you actually talk? You usually just stand there and cry and punch that tree. What’s it ever done to you?” He scratched his head. “I thought maybe you couldn’t talk.”

“You’ve been watching me for a while, huh?” Sabin said.

“This is the third day in a row you’ve come here,” the boy confirmed.

Sabin scowled. “What’s your point? Looking for a story to sell to the paper?”

He looked confused by the suggestion. “Don’t blame me, I wasn’t the one who wanted to come out here and watch you every day. Your technique’s appalling.”

“So …” Sabin thought to himself briefly, trying to work out exactly what was going on here – “There’s someone else with you? Back there?” He glanced towards the group of trees that the stranger had appeared from.

The boy looked unenthusiastically in the same direction. “Dad!” he whined.

Sabin waited while a second person emerged from the undergrowth: a middle-aged man, muscled like his son, although it seemed to suit him better. He was smiling in a way that juxtaposed oddly with the boy’s sullen expression.

“Ignore him,” he said to Sabin as he approached. “You’ve got spirit, son. This one’s all about rules and book-learning.” He cuffed his son on the shoulder playfully, and the boy bristled in annoyance. “I brought him out here to see what it means to be a real fighter. I keep telling him, you really have to feel it. Isn’t that right?” He turned back to the boy, who nodded glumly.

Still smiling, the man held out a hand for Sabin to shake. “You can call me Duncan. And this cheerful individual is my son, Vargas.”

Sabin wouldn’t normally have needed to introduce himself, but he hesitated: these two were just about the first people who’d spoken to him here without stumbling over an aborted “Your Highness”, and he wondered –

“My name’s –” he began.

Duncan cut him off with a laugh. “We know who you are.”

Trying not to reveal his embarrassment, Sabin accepted the handshake. Duncan frowned as his fingers came into contact with the bandage over Sabin’s knuckles, and his expression grew more serious. “Why do you come here, son?” he asked pensively.

Sabin shifted on the spot uneasily, and eventually replied, “I hit things when I’m angry.”

“Why do you do that?”

“Makes me feel better,” Sabin mumbled.

“Do you get angry a lot?”

“I do at the moment,” Sabin said, more harshly than he intended.

“Right,” said Duncan, looking appropriately contrite. He studied Sabin for a while before continuing. “You know, I know what that feels like. When crying and yelling doesn’t cut it so you have to put your whole body into it, and you think if you bash yourself up enough that’ll put it all to rights, like the pain on the inside gets overtaken by what’s on the outside. Well, you can do it that way if you want. You can try ignoring it all and feeling sorry for yourself because of things that are your own damn fault. As if this –” he grabbed Sabin’s hand – “is anything to do with what’s in there.” He lifted the hand and shoved it forwards until it rested against Sabin’s chest.

Sabin stood there, too stunned to cry. Nobody had ever said anything like this to him before. Duncan was looking right into his eyes, his own blazing with determination.

“So what’s the alternative?” Sabin asked wearily.

“Damn it, son, the first thing’s to stop running away from it. Let yourself grieve. Get a damn sense of perspective. Because if you’re out here whacking that thing for eight hours a day, you’re going to kill yourself.”

“What’s it to you? Why do you care what happens to me?”

Duncan furrowed his brow. “OK, how can I put this so you get it into your head? It wasn’t because you were a prince that people cared about you, it was because you were a person. And you’re still a damn person.”

The memory of the stable girl came to Sabin’s mind unbidden, and then the image of Dr Goret, and then, inexplicably, Edgar’s face –

And then he cried, and the sobs wracked his throat, and he raised his injured hands to his face and sank to his knees, and a strong pair of arms wrapped around him, and a low voice murmured, “That’s it, son. Let it all out. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

“What can I do?” Sabin choked. “What am I meant to do to fix it?”

Duncan made no reply, but rubbed Sabin’s back slowly, holding him there as Sabin shuddered with grief and pain, until a different, younger voice spoke from above them.

“We’re going to teach you to fight,” said Vargas. “Me and Dad.”

Sabin looked up, and through the blur of tears he could see the boy standing there, looking highly embarrassed.

“That’s what you said, right, Dad?” Vargas went on hesitantly. “I don’t mean it’ll fix … I just … you’re like us. You’re a fighter.”

Sabin covered his face again, and the tears kept streaming from his eyes, and his shoulders continued to heave as Duncan rubbed them with a careful hand.

He’d be alright. Time would pass, and the townspeople would forget that a former prince walked in their midst – soon enough, it would be as if he’d never been one at all.