“There’s got to be something I could do for you,” Relam muttered.
“I don’t want a handout,” Aven said quickly. “My parents would beat me something fierce.”
That was something else Relam didn’t understand. Aven’s parents would beat him for bringing home a little extra food or money? Were they trying to stay poor?
Aven must have seen some of Relam’s confusion in his expression. “They’re proud,” he explained quietly. “They’d see a handout as a sign that people know we’re poor, that we can’t feed ourselves or afford a place to live. They don’t want that.”
“I see,” Relam murmured. Then, an idea struck him. A wonderfully obvious idea. “What about the city guard?” he asked eagerly.
“What about them?” Aven replied carefully.
“You could sign up as an archer,” Relam said quickly. “Your size wouldn’t be a disadvantage then.”
“But you would have to find another servant,” Aven pointed out.
Relam shook his head. “No. You could still do that, too. The archers only train in the morning, when I’m not usually around anyways. Besides, one prince doesn’t generate that much work.” Relam hesitated, experiencing a sudden flicker of doubt. “Does he?” he asked, just to be sure.
“Not this one,” Aven said, smiling. “But will the guard take someone my age?”
“Maybe as a trainee,” Relam suggested. “And in a couple years, maybe you could join up full time. But even if you’re just training you’re still serving the crown and that’s worth a little bit of money at least.”
“Maybe,” Aven said slowly. “It could work. I’ll talk to my parents and let you know tomorrow.”
“Excellent,” Relam said, clapping the younger boy on the shoulder. “Tomorrow it is then. The moment your parents give the go-ahead, I’ll reach out to some of the military men I know. I’ll have my father do the same.”
Aven’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull. “You think you can get the king to recommend me?” he asked, his hushed voice indicating that he hardly dared speak such a hope aloud lest it shatter.
Relam nodded. “He knows I hold you in high regard. You’re also the only servant that’s lasted more than two years with me. The others were a little too . . .” He hesitated, searching for the right word.
“Interfering?” Aven suggested, his old impudence back. “Too involved maybe? Or perhaps ‘always underfoot’?” He grinned suddenly. “What about, ‘aggravating’?”
“All of the above,” Relam said wearily. “Get going, or I’ll have you on the list too.” He swiped at the younger boy half-heartedly. Aven dodged easily and made for the door, practically bouncing as he moved.
“See you tomorrow!” he said cheerfully, closing the door behind him.
Relam smiled and crossed to the door himself, throwing the latch home. He wondered what Aven’s parents would think of all of this. A recommendation from the king and the prince could go a long way.
But would Relam’s father cooperate? After all, Aven and his family were from the lowest of the low, from a class perspective anyway. Had he overestimated his father’s regard for Relam’s assessment of people?
Relam shook the negative thought aside ruthlessly and crossed to his desk, sitting on the edge of his seat. Whether his father saw reason or not, Relam would see that Aven was admitted to the guard. For now though, while it was night, there was nothing he could do.
Pushing the matter of his servant aside, Relam unlocked a small drawer to the right, built into the supports of the wide desk. He kept important things here, things he did not want to fall into the wrong hands. Money, namely. And other, more personal treasures. He reached past his purse, which clinked audibly when he nudged it, into the furthest corner. There, his hand closed over a strangely shaped wooden object and a small knife in a leather sheath.
Relam drew the two items out, setting the knife on the desk in front of him. He studied the carving by the meager light filtering through the tall windows. He ran a thumb over the finished part of the carving, sighing wistfully.
When he had first learned to read as a child, Relam had spent hours in the royal libraries, flipping through book after book. He’d had plenty of time to do so, since his parents were so often busy with the business of running the kingdom. In those days, books had been Relam’s companions. They told stories of far off lands, all places he would one day rule, and of great deeds and battles won and lost.
Some of them told of fantastic beasts. Namely, dragons. Relam had spent hours looking at the hand drawn pictures in some of the oldest books, marveling at the flashing scales, the burning red-orange flame and the muscular, reptilian bodies of the beasts. Some of the tales about dragons were heroic, speaking of daring rescues and breathtaking aerial combats. Others portrayed them as evil creatures that stole men’s treasures and ate their flocks and burned their homes. Relam was not sure which he believed, but he hoped dragons were of the heroic variety rather than the evil sort. For he had always wanted a dragon, though there were none to be found anymore. So, Relam had started the carving, a tiny replica of something he would never, ever possess.
The tail was mostly finished, a thin protrusion lined with overlapping triangular spines, heavy and dangerous in a real dragon, almost fragile in the carving.
Relam took up the small knife and went to work, shaving miniscule bits of wood from the block. Bit by bit, the final portions of the tail were extracted from the wood, as though he were dragging the beast out of a cave. Next came the hindquarters and part of the dragon’s back legs. Relam frowned at the little model, wondering if he should try to add a pattern of scales on the beast’s hide. The creature looked strange indeed with only the natural wood grain.
A perfunctory knock came at the door, then the sound of someone testing the latch. Relam quickly sheathed the small carving knife and stowed both it and the dragon in the locked compartment. Then, after sweeping the wood shavings into the waste bin and shaking it so that they slid under the other rubbish, he rose and went to the door.
He unlocked the door and swung it wide, stepping to one side. His father marched right in, not waiting for permission. Kings rarely needed permission to go somewhere, Relam reflected ruefully.
“Recovered from training yet?” the king asked briskly, sitting in Relam’s recently vacated desk chair.
The prince closed the door and sank onto the edge of the bed, looking at his father warily. “I feel fine. No different than I do normally after a hard day.”
“Hrmph,” the king grunted. Then, he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I’m no fool, son. Those marks didn’t come from a practice bout.”
“Where did they come from then?”
“Maybe a fight?” the king suggested idly. “Maybe a little battle beyond the borders of training?”
“Interesting theory,” Relam said, shifting uncomfortably.
“It’s more than a theory,” the king growled. “So, who did it?”
“Did what?”
Relam’s father sighed irritably. “Relam, I know you like to handle things yourself, but if someone attacks the line of kings then something needs to be done.”
“Sebast Garenes,” Relam spat finally.
The king blinked. He clearly had not expected this answer. “As in young Garenes? The heir to his father’s title of Great Lord?”
“The same.”
“All right.” The king rose, frowning. “I see. You don’t want me involved so you gave me a name you knew I would not believe, nor follow up on. You can trust me you know.”
“And you can trust me!” Relam blurted. “Why do you assume that I lied to you? Sebast was the one that attacked me! Ask any of the other trainees under Tar Agath.” Knowing as the words left his mouth, that the other lordlings would certainly take Sebast’s side. Except maybe Cevet.
“Well, you are all still young,” the king remarked, almost to himself. “Minor scuffles and arguments are to be expected . . . yes, nothing to make an
y fuss about.”
Relam blinked in surprise, stunned by the sudden reversal of opinions. Plainly, his father wanted nothing to do with conflict among the nobility. Nor would he instigate. Which, Relam reflected, was what he had wanted all along.
“I should get some rest,” he said finally. “Maybe that will help me heal quicker.”
“Anything planned for tomorrow?” his father asked.
“No training,” Relam replied shrugging. “At least, not with Master Agath. I might get some work in on my own.”
“I envy you your freedom,” the king muttered.
“Working alone isn’t nearly as productive as sparring,” Relam said eagerly. “I’d learn more from you in an hour than a full day on my own going through drills.”
“Not tomorrow,” the king said. “I have those trade talks, remember?”
“The next day then?”
His father hesitated. Then nodded decisively. “Yes, the next day. Assuming that delegation actually gets here tomorrow, of course. I’ll need some time to work off frustration from those meetings.” He shot a sly look at Relam, looking in that moment young and reckless again. “You had better be ready. Otherwise there will be some very short bouts.”
Relam grinned in reply. “Oh, I’ll be ready,” he promised. “I can’t wait to see just how well Master Agath trained me.”
Chapter 3
When Relam woke the next morning, his shoulders and back were stiff and sore, and the flesh around his eye felt uncomfortably tight and delicate. He winced and rolled over, looking towards the tall windows across the room. The drapes were still drawn, but thin lines of gray, pre-dawn light were seeping around the edges nonetheless.
The prince groaned and got out of bed, stretching and rolling his shoulders. Maybe he would take the day off, rest up for his practice with his father tomorrow. Almost instantly, Relam discarded the idea. He needed to practice, and he needed his skills to be in perfect form. Resigning himself to another brutal day, he stumbled into the washroom, peering at his reflection in a small mirror. His face had darkened to a dull purple where he had been hit the previous day.
After a brief wash, Relam pulled on clean clothes and belted on his weapons. First stop would be the kitchens, he decided. Then to the small, private training ground reserved for the royal family and their guests. He knew he might have more success training under Tar Agath’s expert eye, but Relam also knew it would be better not to present his beaten visage to the public. And there was no chance that Sebast would be in the palace courtyard.
His mind made up, Relam slipped out of his bedroom and padded across the main room of the royal suite, carrying his boots in his right hand. The hard soles often cracked against the stone and wood floors of the palace, and such sounds would certainly wake his parents.
Outside the royal suite, Relam stopped and pulled his boots on, kneeling beside the guards that flanked the door. “Another quiet night?” he asked casually, glancing up at them.
“Of course, your highness,” the guard on the left replied. “Nothing to report.”
“Good,” Relam muttered. “No messages for me?”
“None. Do you have any to leave with us?”
Relam thought for a moment. “If you see Aven, send him to the palace training ground. He’s still got my practice gear and if I’m to do any sparring I’d like to have it.”
“We’ll pass that on,” the guard promised. “Best of luck with the trials, your highness.”
“Thanks,” Relam replied swiftly, standing and flashing a grin. “Care to share any pointers?”
“Tar is tricky,” the other guard, who had remained silent to this point, replied immediately. “He will do what you least expect. So, be prepared for everything.”
Relam nodded. “Good to know. See you later.”
“Good day, your highness.”
Relam moved quickly through the palace, following the twisting corridors with no problem whatsoever. He knew every inch of the building, from the servants’ corridors and staircases to the massive banquet halls used for special occasions. He knew where concealed doors stood behind tapestries, leading to shortcuts and secret passages in the event that the royal family or their guards needed to move unseen. All of this knowledge Relam used to avoid running into people he would rather not see. Nobles, namely, but others as well.
When he reached the royal kitchens ten minutes later, Relam’s stomach began rumbling with anticipation. Delicious smells were wafting through the corridor, even though the day was still young and there were but a few figures in cook’s whites moving about.
Relam shoved through the large double doors and stepped immediately to one side to avoid an assistant wheeling a cart laden with breakfast pastries. The girl squeaked in surprise as she swerved to avoid Relam. “Apologies, your highness!” she said breathlessly, reaching out to steady a mound of precariously perched cinnamon buns. “I didn’t see you come in!”
“No worries,” Relam replied. “Those rolls aren’t spoken for, are they?”
“Oh, no, your highness,” she replied. “Here, let me-”
“I can manage,” Relam interjected, picking up a napkin and grabbing one of the buns. “No trouble at all, really. Thank you.”
“Oh! You’re welcome,” the girl replied shakily, starting away with her cart again. Relam frowned as he watched the girl move away. Why did all the servants have to be so nervous and formal around him? He wasn’t going to hurt them!
Relam moved further into the kitchens, his cinnamon bun still clutched in the napkin, though it seemed less of a treat now that his mind was troubled. He found some sliced ham and added this to his breakfast, then moved to the very back of the kitchens, where a wide window looked out over a courtyard blooming with all manner of flowers. Beyond, across the flourishing stems and the paved paths of the garden, was the river, wending its way slowly past the palace. Relam took a bite of the cinnamon bun and savored it, chewing thoughtfully.
“Anything I can get you, your highness?”
Relam turned and saw another figure in cook’s whites, standing behind him uncertainly. “No, I’m fine thank you,” he replied politely.
The woman smiled in reply and curtsied slightly. “Just let me know if there is something,” she said, scooping up a heavy tray of fresh loaves. She glanced at the cooling racks, which were well above the height she could reach, and hesitated. Relam saw the problem and set his breakfast on the window ledge.
“Here, let me.” Before the cook could protest, he had relieved her of the tray and slotted it into place. It was hardly any load for his arms, strengthened by years of training.
“Any more?” he asked, looking back.
“No, no, your highness, don’t trouble yourself,” the cook said sharply. “I can make do admirably.”
“I don’t mind helping-”
“And I appreciate that but, well, you’re . . . you’re . . .”
“I’m what?”
“A prince?”
“So? I can lift trays as well as any.”
“But it’s not proper!”
Relam frowned. “It’s not? Lending a helping hand is always proper in my opinion.”
“But why should someone like you help someone like me?” the cook demanded.
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“You are a rare individual,” the cook observed gratefully. “Looking out for us. Griff passed your thanks on last night, you know. It does us good to hear our work is appreciated, your highness.”
“Of course it’s appreciated!” Relam replied, now a little confused.
“Yes, we know that now. It’s a strange feeling for us, your highness. I know others working at estates and such that . . . well.” She bit her lip and shook her head.
“I understand,” Relam said gently. “Here is different though. We appreciate what you do. All of you. Let the others know that, please.”
“Of course, your highness.”
Relam smiled and looked past the cook to where
three more trays rested on a low shelf. “Now, do those need to be racked as well?”
Twenty minutes later, having finished his breakfast and lifted no less than seventeen trays of fresh-baked bread onto cooling racks, the young prince left the kitchens and began making his way to the private courtyard reserved for weapons practice. Relam kept to the back corridors, smiling and nodding at the servants he encountered, sometimes murmuring a short greeting to those he knew by name or sight. He had not realized just how many people were in the palace. By the time he reached the courtyard, Relam had seen nearly thirty servants, and he had only been walking for a few minutes!
Relam marched out into the courtyard, an expanse of short, bright green turf surrounded by one-story walls on all sides. No windows overlooked the courtyard and no flowers bloomed along its borders. This courtyard was for weapons practice, and weapons practice only. One corner of the courtyard served as an open-air armory for training. A wooden roof extended over a triangle of stone, sheltering the area from weather. Within, archery targets were neatly stacked with quivers hanging from pegs above them and all manner of wooden practice weapons were leaned against the walls. Relam left the practice weapons where they lay. Since he was not sparring today, he would use his own sword.
The field was not large, only ten meters by thirty, but more than suitable for a single prince practicing his swordsmanship. Relam drew his blade and held it vertically in front of him, taking a deep breath. Then, he flowed into the first series of strokes Tar Agath had taught him. The blade flashed in the weak morning light, cleaving air effortlessly.
Relam finished the first pattern and started it again, speeding up the strokes this time. Then, he moved into the second pattern and the third. Each was performed flawlessly, as easily and effortlessly as when he did them with a practice sword. It was just like being at Tar Agath’s facility, except without the audience of other lordlings.
After the fourth pattern, Relam lowered his blade and turned around, headed for the small lean-to in the corner. There was a rain barrel standing against one of the supports, and the water inside would be cool and fresh.
The Prince (Heirs of Legacy Book 1) Page 3
