When I wrote the first draft of A Blossom at Midnight, I included the points of view of several characters in addition to Jessamine, Laec and Çifta. Those points of view were deleted in later edits. Here is one scene written from the point of view of Prince Ander. Please forgive any mistakes, this deleted scene did not undergo final edits. Enjoy!

Deleted Scene: Prince Ander

Dawn was a pink promise on the eastern sky, but night watchmen still hovered at the street corners of Rahamlar city. Mist swirled over the rivers, cloaking the towers and gathering in the dips and hollows like ghosts. Mourning doves and larks broke the quiet as Prince Faraçek and Prince Ander strode across the courtyard to the royal stables. Since they were old enough to ride, the brothers met once a week for an early morning tour. Daytime rides were purposeful; hunting, visiting tenants and villages, attending celebrations or political events, but the morning ride was pure pleasure, brothers escaping fortress life and their responsibilities, if only for a few hours.

Ander’s mount was a stallion named Iskander, after the famous prince who gave part of the original kingdom of Rahamlar to a beloved brother, which later became the neighboring kingdom of Solana. Iskander was a rare Terran breed called Akhale-Teke, brought through the veil so many centuries earlier that many thought of the breed as native to Ivryndi. Prized for his glimmering coat, Iskander was the epitome of his pedigree, a perfect and uniform gold. He reflected sunlight like he was made of metal and pranced, fully aware of how handsome he was. As Ander mounted him, he tossed his head, flipping his mane and pawing at the ground.

Ander himself matched his stallion for beauty. Tall, broad chested and straight-backed, Ander was the pride of Rahamlar. Green-eyed and strawberry blond with straight white teeth that flashed thousands of times a day to all who crossed his path, Ander was beloved. He wore a red velvet riding doublet and leather breeches with tall riding boots and soft calfskin gloves. On his head perched a feathered cap. Ander grinned as he watched Faraçek mount his mare, a young and spirited creature with a brindled coat, a breed properly native to the stables of their kingdom. Fryth was white with dark brown and red splotches, as though she upset buckets of paint and then rolled in them. A dark blotch covered one eye, giving her a rakish appearance. She danced in a circle as Faraçek swung his leg over, settling his bulk expertly into the saddle. The elder prince wore a fine jerkin of royal blue with black breeches, his preferred blade (a rapier without a name, since Faraçek considered naming swords to be childish) hung at his side.

Bolting into a near sprint, the princes bent low over their mounts, laughing and invigorated. Groomsmen and stable boys dove out of the way as the gates were hastily swung wide.

The golden stallion and painted mare raced along the serpentine road leading toward open fields where they could go full out. Thick trees arched overhead and coins of soft morning light kissed the dirt in front of their pounding hooves.

As the sound of galloping rose behind, Ander and Faraçek shared an understanding look and urged their mounts faster. Forcing the guards into a game of chase was an old prank, one they’d been reprimanded for many times by their father. They hadn’t done it in years. Still, the temptation couldn’t always be ignored, not on a day like today. As the forest thinned they cut off the road and into the trees. The horses dug into the soft earth to climb up and away from the river. They were well hidden in shadows by the time the guards thundered by, four of them, still blaming each other for losing the princes.

Faraçek and Ander smothered their laughter.

“Father will throttle us.” Faraçek’s dark eyes followed the shadows of the guards as they disappeared down the road.

“Their tracking skills could use the practice. Come on.” Ander pushed Iskander to climb, even as he pushed away thoughts of their father, King Osvitan. The king’s health was in decline and Ander was the heir. He didn’t want to think about losing his father, or what it would mean for him afterward. He didn’t feel ready for the responsibility.

The forest here was rough barked pine, tall and widespread. The terrain was not just rocky but treacherous, filled with huge gray-blue boulders. The horses picked their way expertly to the crest of the hill. Ahead lay sprawling, steep lands filled with forests, glens, and the occasional farm. They headed for the nearest valley at a trot. There was no sign of the guards. They were at times able to outrun their chaperones but they always allowed themselves to be caught a short while later; after all the only reason the guards were there was to protect the princes, not that there was much in the way of danger. There were forests in Rahamlar where bandits and thieves hid, but none within many miles of Rahamlar fortress itself.

The thrill of genuine freedom sizzled through Ander’s veins, tangled with a sting of regret. The guards would make a full and honest report and the princes would have to answer for their actions. Ander glanced at Faraçek but his unseelie brother was gazing at the view as Fryth picked her way along, his face set in its usual expression of contemplation and watchfulness. Ander wondered what his brother had to be so serious about. Nothing would change for Faraçek when King Osvitan passed. For Ander, everything would change.

Ander had always thought Faraçek looked like a fae pirate, the kind they read stories about as children. Everything about Faraçek was fastidious and fierce. He was not a wide man, but he was tall, hard, lean and vascular and had reflexes to beat Ander’s own. Ander had seen Faraçek’s blade move with inhuman speed. He had seen Faraçek catch a piece of falling crockery before it reached the floor when he should have been too far away to be able to do so. He had seen Faraçek catch a lizard in his hands as it zigged and zagged across the stone floor of their Isabey’s bedchamber, while the young princess stood on the bed and screamed with mingled terror and delight. The princes used to play a slapping game taught to them by one of the soldiers. Ander lost to Faraçek so often that his knuckles would bleed and the game lost its appeal. Faraçek would goad and tease him that he didn’t want to play simply because he knew he couldn’t win. Ander’s pride drew him back into the game, but he was rarely able to best Faraçek. No one else could best Ander at anything. Ander came to believe that it was Faraçek’s unseelie nature that gave him an advantage.

Faraçek only laughed at this. “We came from the same womb, which was planted by the same seed. The only advantage I have is that I’m older and wiser.”

But Faraçek had taken nothing physical from their human father, and Ander had taken nothing from their unseelie mother. Likewise, their youngest sister Isabey had taking nothing from Osvitan, and the second youngest Serya, had taken nothing from Queen Daryli. Isabey and Faraçek had their mothers pointed fae ears, her pitch-colored hair and pale, slightly greyish skin.

When the princes hit less rugged terrain and started across a section of grassland, Ander turned to Faraçek. “I have something for you. Father said I could be the one to give it to you.” He fished in a pocket.

“Is it a photo of my betrothed?”

Ander retrieved the miniature oval canvas wrapped in a silk handkerchief. “How did you know?”

“What else could it be? Father won’t survive to see another harvest, he must settle me with a wife before then.” Faraçek urged his mare into step with Iskander so he could take the little package.

Ander couldn’t read the emotion in his brother’s words. There was very little in the way of expression on his face. Was he bitter? Resigned? Ander decided it must be the latter, but his heart ached at the casual way Faraçek could speak of their father’s death. Ander handed over the portrait. He’d already seen it and watched Faraçek closely as the fae prince unwrapped the silk.

“So, who is she and where is she from?”

“Lady Çifta Unya, from Kirkik,” Ander said. “Daughter of the richest merchant in Boskaya. Her dowry will be worthy of a princess, and she is exceptionally beautiful.” Ander felt a sting of jealousy. His own bride was chosen many years ago, and while Princess Katya of Silverfall would come with vast lands and trunks of coins, she was not fair to look at.

“Not a princess?” Faraçek said in that flat, unexpressive way of his, like he was remarking on the weather. His gaze was on the girl’s likeness.

Frustration gripped Ander, and his curiosity to understand Faraçek overcame him. This was as big a moment as Faraçek has ever had in his life, his bride had been decided, why could he not let something show through on his face, for once?

“Are you displeased?” Ander kept Iskander reigned in so he would not pull ahead of Fryth.

“Not displeased. No,” Faraçek said softly, gazing at the portrait.

Çifta was a vision. Flowing locks of black hair parted straight down the middle, rose-petal lips and porcelain skin sweeping over high cheekbones, a flawless forehead and a feminine jaw. The column of her neck was long and graceful. Modest pearls dangled from tiny earlobes.

“I’ve never seen a prettier shade of blue, not even my eyes are so bright,” ventured Ander, who was well aware that his long lashes and sky-blue eyes had melted many hearts.

Faraçek wrapped the portrait and tucked it into his pocket. He gestured to the wide open plain. “Shall we?”

Ander tucked away his annoyance and urged Iskander into a canter. They were brothers, and not children anymore. Surely Faraçek could take Ander into his confidence. Perhaps when Ander was king and the persistent competitive tension that had always been between them was relegated to the past. Ander had always been the King-in-Waiting, but Faraçek had always been the elder, making for a confused tension. Ander looked forward to the day when things were settled, with Ander on the throne and Faraçek was seated at his right hand.

They rode until they reached a bog known as Uilainn, land that defied both use and development. Too soft to build roads or farms upon with soil to thin for trees, yet the bog of Uilainn had its appeal. Sandy trails threaded their way between saplings and flowering thistles, home to brightly colored fae bog-birds that sang prettier than any lark. The thistle-blossoms, when they were in bloom—as they were now—filled the air with a heady, spicy scent. Lining the sandy trails were boulders coated in bright green moss as soft to touch as velvet. Mist swirled through the dips, the last of it yet to burn away from the rising sun.

Ander urged Iskander into a canter and chose one of the sandy trails. He saw Faraçek hesitate, or was it the mare who was hesitating? Ander couldn’t tell, but he understood. Uilainn had some areas of deep muck known as quag.

“If we stick to the trails we’ll be fine,” Ander called, nudging his heels into Iskandar’s side. The air was so sweetly scented, and the terrain so alien and interesting that Ander couldn’t deny himself a ride through.

When he heard Fryth’s hoofbeats, Ander smiled and gave Iskander his head. They were headed straight for a moss-covered boulder. Ander bent low over Iskandar’s neck as they sailed over it, blood rushing through his veins. They wheeled, eager to see if Faraçek would attempt the jump. Iskander pranced backward as Fryth sailed over, legs tucked neatly under her.

The brothers shared a look of exhilaration at this new game. Iskander bolted along the sandy trail, Fryth following behind.

The trails were never straight and there were a thousand ways through the bog. Ander chose a path to the left, and Faraçek took a path to the right. They picked up speed as they galloped and leapt, following the curve of the trails or jumping boulders in their path. They came in line, separated by several metres and patches of rocks. A race ensued.

Fryth sailed over a boulder, Faraçek clinging to her like a burr. Ander and Iskander flew over obstacles like they had invisible wings. Ander pulled ahead, gritting his teeth as Iskander hugged the sharp curves. His eyes began to tear. He could hear Fryth’s hoofbeats and snorts.

Something long and black slithered into the trail in front of them.

Iskander screamed and slid, digging powerful hooves into the sand. He wheeled sharply and bucked his hindquarters.

Ander flew as though launched from a catapult, landing in the centre of a large patch of bog. The air rushed from his lungs. Blunt pain swept through his shoulder and hip. The side of his face mashed into the slurry. He lay still for several long seconds, taking inventory of himself. He was bruised but didn’t think it was more serious than that. A broken bone would be a dreadful inconvenience. As the pain eased, Ander put an elbow on the sand to lift himself. His elbow sank. Ander struggled and his hips and legs sank even faster than his elbow did. The bog quickly closed over most of his lower body and his right arm. Only his head, heels, neck and left arm were free. It happened so fast it took his breath away and sent his heart pouding. He was stuck. He called for Faraçek, breathing a sigh as Fryth’s hoofbeats echoed across the bog.

Iskander had stopped nearby and was sniffing the moss of the boulder Ander had flown over, as though considering it for a snack.

“Brother?” Faraçek called. “Where are you?”

“Down here.” Ander was beginning to laugh now that the pain of his fall had passed, and help had arrived. “He spooked at a snake.”

Faraçek spotted his brother and threw back his head. Both of them were laughing now.

“He threw you so easily? You look ridiculous.” Faraçek urged Fryth to get as close as she could to the slurry. The mare’s hooves sank and she danced back, tossing her head, sensing danger. “Can’t you get up?”

Ander moved his legs and pushed his right hand into the muck, searching for a solid bottom. The slurry gave way with a sucking sound. It was sickening feeling to find no solidity anywhere. Too far to reach for a shrub, and too far from Faraçek to be dragged free, Ander laughed again but cut himself off as the quag sucked him another couple of inches into itself. “A little assistance, please.”

Still laughing, Faraçek dismounted and toed his way to the bog’s edge, feeling where the slurry met the hardpacked sand of the trail. “Can you not find the bottom? Perhaps if you make yourself more vertical? You’re lying there like a badly used maiden.”

Ander snorted. The quags were not usually so deep, or so they’d been told. He struggled to stretch a foot downward, but was dismayed when he felt a sucking sensation. The quag had swallowed all of his legs, hips, his torso and right arm. The slurry skimmed his jawline. He tried to lift his left arm and sank even lower. Cold and damp seeped into his clothing.

“I cannot,” Ander gasped. “Bring a branch or something.”

Faraçek strode to a copse of saplings and brush. Taking the dagger from inside his boot, he freed the longest branch he could find. Crouching at the bog’s edge, he stretched out the branch, sending the thicker end to Ander.

Ander reached with his free arm but in the process rolled further onto his stomach. He sank deeper. His mouth felt sapped of all saliva and his heartbeat filled his hearing. He greatly disliked feeling so helpless. He worked to calm himself. He was not alone and it would do no good to panic. “Is there nothing longer?”

Faraçek frowned, his gaze sweeping around. “Not really. No.”

Ander’s left elbow was now buried, his hand sticking up from the slurry like a strange fleshy plant. He was afraid to put his hand under the muck for fear he wouldn’t be able to free it again, and he couldn’t lift his right hand out without sinking further. “Get the rope tucked in my saddle bag.”

“You have a rope?” Faraçek was surprised but went to Iskander at a jog.

Ander felt the slurry enter his right ear and the corner of his mouth. He strained to lift his head, but now that he was on his stomach it is difficult. He had to get on his back or he’d soon drown. Slowly, he tried to turn. He was somewhat successful but the price was too great. The muck swallowed his entire body up to his jaw, only his left hand and his head remained free. He wondered if the guards would find them soon. They were good trackers, but they wouldn’t have expected the princes to enter Uillain. Everyone knew it was dangerous.

Blood flushed Ander’s cheeks and his eyes rolled as he tried to see what Faraçek was doing. He could hear him talking to Iskander, soothing the stallion, as he searched the saddlebags.

Slurry filled both of Ander’s ears and he cried out for Faraçek to hurry. He looked up into the endless sky, now filled with fluffy white clouds. The occasional bird fluttered overhead, heedless of the drama. At any moment a rope would land on his face or near his hand.

The rope did come, but Ander could barely see it and couldn’t reach it. It was tossed and tossed but never landed where it was accessible to him.

A horrible suspicion bloomed in Ander’s mind as the slurry crept over his lips: His brother was missing on purpose.

There was no way someone as capable as Faraçek could possibly miss Ander’s splayed left hand. The distance was not far, the target was not so small. Faraçek was intentionally failing him. Ander knew with a sudden and iron-cold certainty; he was going to die.

He had never really known his brother until this moment.

He tried to scream but his mouth filled with slurry. A moment later it climbed over his nose, then filled his eyes, then closed over his head. Only his left hand was free. Desperately, he waved, clutching at nothing, his lungs burning and his mind reeling with shock… until the blackness swept it all away.

End of excerpt

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