It was comfortable, and there was no pain.
The bed under him was too soft and large to be a hospital bed. Also, the characteristic sounds and smells were absent. He couldn't identify his location, but he was certain it was somewhere he'd never visited before, which made no sense given his last memory.
Raven lay still, listening.
Towards his feet, there were distant footsteps and voices, muffled by a door or wall. On his left, he heard birds chirping, women laughing, and maybe howling? There was a window in that direction because of how the light hit his face.
The only sounds in the room were his shallow breaths and the ticking of a clock.
He didn't move, counting his breaths and waiting for fifteen minutes to make sure no one was going to enter before cracking his eyes open. He lay with his back to the window, and the first thing he noticed was the pitcher on the bedside table.
There was no glass, and the room didn't have a fireplace. Both absences mattered, but he didn't know why.
There was a large, imposing wardrobe made of…oak, his mind supplied. It had simple carvings on the doors and a curved top. Beside it was a mirror.
The image reflected was of a black-haired boy lying on an ornate four-poster bed. Raven's mind flooded with memories the moment his eyes met the reflection.
Crown Prince Alaric Alvar Valen, heir to the throne of Valenmark, and puppet ruler.
Also dead.
The body Raven now inhabited was corpse-like. The skin had a blue tint. There was petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes, foaming around the mouth, and blisters in the throat. Someone poisoned him. It was a professional job. The poison had no taste or smell, and no indicators of the time or method of delivery. Only the physical evidence suggested ingestion.
Color seeped into his skin, and the redness from his eyes receded. The weakness that chained him to the bed melted away. Something impossible had happened, and he didn't waste time wondering why…only how it would affect him going forward.
Raven...No. Alaric sat up.
No viable exits.
A letter opener and several pins that could serve as weapons if needed.
Ra…Alaric took a deep breath and exhaled.
Alaric stood and walked to the mirror.
"I'm Alaric Alvar Valen."
"I'm Alaric."
"Alaric."
He tested the name.
This wasn't the first time he'd become someone else, just the first time it came with a new body. He was ten when he threw away his first name, and thirty when he retreated behind a moniker.
He laughed. The sound was strange to his ears, but lighter than it had any right to be.
The smile faded. It was time to get down to business.
Alaric sifted through the memories, taking what he needed and shelving the rest. He would go through later and record anything useful. He didn't trust borrowed memories. For now, information surfaced as if it were his own.
Next came posture, speech, and movements. They didn't need to be perfect. The people in the castle would ignore mistakes as long as his overall demeanor remained meek. He had no intention of wearing this mask for long.
The subservience stitched into this boy's bones itched under Alaric's skin.
He'd die, or they'd die, that was the long and short of it.
Alaric steadied himself and used the water from the pitcher to wipe away the foam and spittle from his mouth. He checked his reflection. There were no outward signs of poisoning. But his tongue and throat were blistered. It hurt, but it was pain he could hide.
He tugged the braided rope that hung by the bed, then moved to the windowsill where he sat counting the minutes and watching people below.
It took twenty minutes for a maid to arrive. His personal secretaries and valets were absent.
The girl entered with a smile. "Morning, sir," she said in a display of innocence.
New.
Uninformed.
Disposable..
Beyond her were the guards at the door who watched with wide eyes and spoke in failed whispers. Royal protocol dictated that they be present at all times, but in their case, they were there to ensure he wasn't rescued last night.
"He's still alive?" The older one asked.
The younger one shrugged. "That's a pity," he said. "They'll try again, and this time the method might not be painless."
"Do you really think the poison was painless? I heard him thrashing last night."
Alaric was a zoo animal again. What would their admission fee be?
He turned to the maid whose hands were twisted in her skirt.
They hadn't told her who she was coming to serve. The poor thing would be dead by the end of the day.
He was already tired of this. "Where's Marcus?" he asked as if he hadn't heard their conversation.
The guards shared a long look before the younger one ran off.
Alaric settled down to wait.
***
Alaric's personal secretaries, Marcus Henly and Davus Flint, were nowhere to be found, probably already settling into the new positions their families had secured for them in light of Alaric's impending demise.
They'd managed to find one of his valets, a weedy thing named Janus who pissed himself when he saw Alaric alive and stuttered when he spoke. Thankfully, his hands were experienced, and he chattered. The maids, the new gardener, nothing important, but friendly people had friends and were often privy to information.
Alaric twisted the ring on his finger, watching how Janus's eyes zeroed in on it. He pulled it to the knuckle before sliding it back. Each time he tugged on the ring, he opened his mouth, then closed it and ducked his head.
He balled his hands and yanked the ring off in a huff and pushed it toward Janus.
Janus held it, palms open, eyes wide and bright with greed. He didn't dare steal jewelry, but there was no problem if Janus accepted a gift from Alaric.
"What?" He started before stopping. Alaric's hand touched his throat, tracking Janus's eyes as they zeroed in on the action. "What are they saying about me, out there?" Alaric stood taller and looked determined.
Janus glanced at the closed doors. "The Silent Brotherhood accepted credit for your assassination this morning. Marie said there was a dead chicken's head sitting on a note on the Solen Fountain in the square." He tugged on the waistcoat, his hands trembling as he spoke.
Pageantry. A show for the uninformed observer.
Solen, his memories supplied, was an artist famed for his commentary on noble excess and the shortcomings of people in power.
"Do you know, when my uncles argue, who people listen to more?" Alaric slipped on the expression he'd practiced. Head tilted, hopeful.
Janus' expression morphed into pity. "They listen to Lord Regent Deric more, but if you want protection, you're better off going to Duke Astra."
He was hiding something, but Alaric's current character setting was meek, bookish, and silly. It broke character to push for more information.
From his memories, Lord Regent Deric Edric Valen was his father's brother, and Duke Callum Varius Astra was his mother's brother.
Deric had a direct claim to the throne, but Callum had raised my younger brother since childhood.
And that was the sum total of the information the original's memories provide on the political situation. He knew he was a puppet prince, but was content to stay out of it and hide in the library.
Alaric could detail the country's geography and include flora and fauna by region, but couldn't say which houses ruled in those regions.
"Ahm, in the castle, which noble do you want to avoid?" He asked, the picture of a boy searching for safety.
Janus scoffed. "All of them, no one's going to trouble you if you keep your head down and do your job, but they decide if you're doing your job or not. Lucas got fired because she put the teacup too close to the edge of the table. And the girls, well. Some want to be mistresses, but others keep their heads down and try not to get noticed." He caught himself, realizing he was talking to me instead of discussing this in the kitchens.
Alaric looked suitably fascinated, and the valet relaxed. He had one or two questions before Janus registered something as odd. Three if he kept along the 'need for safety' line of questioning.
Alaric thought of the time he went to Vegas, got shitfaced, and ended up married to a stripper named Darlene. A blush spread all over his face. "Do you know about the guard rotations for my rooms? I've never paid attention before."
Janus was on his knees, helping Alaric step into his shoes. "That's easy. You have twelve guards who work in pairs and change every six hours."
"And, do any of them have problems like gambling or have debt? Maybe they'd guard me more or take on extra shifts if I paid."
Janus tensed for a moment, but as Alaric explained, he relaxed. "Grant and Amas are gamblers. Phips, McClaren, Webster, Mead, and Kent are all in debt for one reason or another. Dayton, Calabar, and Westwood either have lots of children or siblings and could use the extra money. Koen and Flint are ambitious; you need money for that too."
Every guard around him could be incentivised to kill him.
Alaric bit his lip. He opened and closed his mouth again, seeming to struggle with what to ask. "Who changes shifts without explanation? You know…who to avoid?"
Alaric thought he'd outgrown these emotions, but he hated pity. He'd just gotten to a point where no one dared to look at him like that.
This was the first time Janus had to think about the answer. He affixed a silly hat with a feather attached to Alaric's head. "Flint and Grant are known to wander off at night. Kent is a drunk, even if he's there, he's not the most…reliable. Mead…mead will take your money and open the door for the person who's trying to kill you if they give him more."
"Oh, that's…well." They both settled into silence.