The Eunuch's Heir by Elaine Isaak

became aware of a new sound tickling the demon within him. One of the ladies was laughing.
    “What have you done to him?” the woman laughed, gesturing back the way King Rhys had run.
    Wolfram moved at last, dragging a hand across his eyes, blinking fiercely to clear the dust. He swung his throbbing head to focus upon her.
    Dark-haired and elegant in a gown of blue silk, the young woman burst out laughing again at the sight of his face. “You look like a ghost!” she sputtered, her green eyes twinkling. She’d let her skirts fall to the ground, heedless of the mess. “I doubt a ghost would scare him so.”
    “Who was that?” Wolfram demanded.
    The other two women exchanged a stern glance, and their leader stifled her laughter, her brows drawing together in some consternation. She looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place her.
    “That man who ran away, who was he?” Wolfram insisted again. Off to one side, the master mason swore under his breath.
    The mirth fled her features. “Your Highness.”
    Wolfram’s hand pressed the bear claw tight to the wild beating of his heart.
    “Forgive me, Your Highness,” the master said, coming up beside him.
    Bury it, did everyone know him? Wolfram turned, the demon overcoming its momentary paralysis, but the master was not addressing him. With cheeks ruddy from embarrassment, the old man bowed to the ladies.
    Spinning on his heel back to face them, Wolfram suddenly placed the resemblance. “Melody?” he blurted.
    A heavy, stone-hardened hand smacked him so that Wolfram’s shaky knees buckled, and he floundered to one side. The blow burned in his cheek even as the cold rush of fury consumed him.
    Balling his hand into a fist, Wolfram slammed the man’s jaw. The lip cracked, spurting blood to dampen the whiteness of the marble.
    The master staggered back, hands clasped over the injury. “I’ll have your hide for this, boy!” He plunged forward again, as if to tan his workman’s hide then and there.
    Wolfram ducked the wild swing, bringing his own fist up smoothly to connect with the master’s jaw with a crunch. The impact shivered down Wolfram’s arm as he followed through, crashing his opponent to the ground. “No man lays a hand on me.”
    The stamp of heavy feet cut through the throbbing as guards came to the princess’s aid.
    “Bury it!” The eddies of Wolfram’s fury whirled within him as his mind raced. When the leaders came up to one side, he dropped to his knees, then rolled.
    As expected, the ladies sprang away, shrieking.
    Wolfram scrambled up and ran headlong for the arch. He leapt a bed of lavender, landed hard, and sprinted for freedom. Dodging a cluster of guards by the bridge, he won through to the city, making for the main gate.
    He had already reached the open market, with the wall rearing up behind, when the first sparks of reason struck through the anger. Panting, he drew up into an alley and considered his place. The master would be out for blood, but he’d also be out cold for a little while at least. As to the princess, he might have insulted her, but it was no serious offense, and he could always reveal his right to use her given name. A new chill caught his stomach. Murder, on the other hand, was a hanging offense. Even if his royalty could save him that fate, what sort of trust could he have with that deed upon him?
    So he must leave, but he’d have the time to reach his loft and take away what little he owned. Wolfram set out again at a jog, winding through the progressively narrower streets toward the foreman’s cottage. He let himself quietly into the barn, shushing the two horses, and climbed up into the hay that had been his home for a week. Quickly, he pulled on hisshirt then found his long boar-gutting knife, and Morra’s belt with its flint and steel. Every time he used them, he thought of her, and his warmth was doubled. He fumbled in the hay to find the pouch containing his last few coppers. Then he froze.
    Below him,