Relam sheathed his sword and picked up a cup, pulling the lid off of the rain barrel with his free hand. Filling his cup, he drank deeply, then stood there for a moment, sipping slowly. He knew the importance of staying hydrated, and though it was still early and the day was mild, he was taking no chances. He had seen plenty of trainees collapse from heat exhaustion during the course of his training.
As Relam refilled his cup, he heard the doors to the courtyard open and close. He turned quickly, his right hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. Then, he recognized Aven and relaxed, grinning at the younger boy.
“You got my message?”
Aven nodded, holding up the prince’s practice gear. “The guards told me you’d be here.”
Relam nodded. “I need to stay sharp to impress Master Agath.”
“I doubt the other trainees are working today,” Aven pointed out, setting the padded gear down amidst the practice weapons in the shed.
“You’re probably right,” Relam agreed. “But I don’t make decisions based on what everyone else is doing. Certainly not on what Sebast-”
He broke off and shook his head. It would not do for word to get out that he and the other lordlings were on such bad terms. Princes had to be above that sort of thing.
“Anything else you need from me?” Aven asked tentatively, breaking the silence.
“Not right now,” Relam replied, picking up his cup again. “I’m just going to keep on working by myself.”
“I might as well watch,” Aven decided. “I have nothing else to do at the moment.”
Relam nodded and drained the last of his water. As he set the cup down, his eyes passed over the archery targets and quivers leaning against the back wall. Curious, the young prince stepped closer, peering into the jumble of weapons.
“Looking for something?” Aven asked, hopping up on a low table, his legs dangling in front of him.
“No,” Relam replied as he pushed the targets aside and unearthed what he was looking for. “Found something.” He scooped up the unstrung bow and continued looking. Surely there would be a bowstring lying around somewhere. He continued searching, shoving targets, wooden axes, and other equipment out of the way.
“What did you find?” Relam heard Aven’s feet hit the ground as he jumped down from the table, trying to see what Relam was doing.
Relam continued searching, then finally found the last thing he needed in a sealed wooden box. Smiling, the young prince turned and held his findings out for inspection.
“What do you think?”
Aven stepped forward, eyes fixed on the bow and bowstring in Relam’s hands. “That doesn’t look like a normal bow,” he observed, running a hand over the smooth wood.
Relam nodded. “Yes, this one’s a recurve rather than a longbow. Better for our purposes, actually. Master Agath says these give you the best power for a smaller build. When I was younger he trained me to use the bow, before I was big enough to begin learning swordsmanship.”
“What do you mean when you say ‘our purposes’?” Aven asked suspiciously.
Relam handed him the bow. “If you’re going to get into the guard, best to know which end of an arrow is which. Grab a quiver.”
Aven took the bow, looking at it with wide eyes, then almost reverently pulled a quiver down from where it hung on the wall. He ran a finger along the fletching of an arrow, smiling slightly.
The young prince meanwhile picked up one of the targets, grunting in surprise at its weight. The target was solid wood, with rings carved in the surface and filled in with black paint. It was also nearly a meter wide, a heavy and awkward burden. Relam lurched across the field, somehow managing not to drop the target on his toes, and set it down carefully, panting.
“You okay?” Aven called, noticing that Relam was hunched over the target.
“Yeah,” Relam replied breathlessly. “Just . . . making sure it’s settled well. Wouldn’t want it to fall over.” He adjusted the circle of wood slightly, checked to make sure the prop in the back was sunk into the ground, then turned and began heading back to where Aven waited, the bow held loosely in his hands, the quiver over his right shoulder. The boy was so small that the arrows reached almost from shoulder to hip.
“Right,” Relam said as he joined Aven. “Ever shot a bow before?”
“Not one like this. I used a smaller bow once, when my father and I went hunting in the Midwood,” Aven said with a shrug.
“Same principle, more power,” Relam assured him. “Take a shot.”
Aven raised the bow then stopped. “Without an armguard?”
Relam mentally kicked himself. Obviously he would need an armguard for Aven. Otherwise the bowstring would sting like a whip, maybe even draw blood. “Wait here,” Relam said, moving back to the lean-to.
“If you don’t find one, you can just demonstrate and I’ll watch,” Aven said, grinning.
“Not on your life!” Relam shouted back, rummaging through the equipment.
Finally, after the prince had unearthed a worn but serviceable armguard, Aven stood back from the target with an arrow on the bowstring, quivering with excitement. The armguard was secured tightly to his left forearm, where the string would tend to slap him as it was released.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Relam said quietly, nodding to the younger boy.
Aven raised the bow, grinning, and drew back on the string. Or, at least, he tried to. The bowstring moved a few centimeters then stopped and slowly went back the other way as Aven released it. Frowning, the boy tried again, with slightly more success.
“This doesn’t feel right,” Aven said uncertainly, pulling back to half-draw, arms trembling with the effort.
“It takes practice, that’s all. Use all of your muscles,” Relam added.
Aven grunted and pulled the bowstring back a little further. Relam watched as the younger boy sighted, peering at the target, the arrow jerking up and down in spasmodic movements as Aven tried to hold the bow steady and stay at nearly full draw. Then, he released the string.
The arrow twisted skyward, executed a spectacular series of cartwheels and landed point first in the top of the target. Relam blinked, not exactly sure what he had just witnessed.
“Well . . .” Aven said mildly. “I hit the target.” He snorted with laughter and shook his head in disgust. “I’m not even strong enough for this, am I?”
“Maybe not right now. But you can be,” Relam replied encouragingly. “All it takes is practice.”
“Practice,” Aven muttered, raking a hand through his short hair and looking down at the bow. “That sounds painful.” Relam noticed that the boy’s arm muscles were twitching slightly.
“The reward will be worth it,” Relam promised. “A position in the guard, Aven!”
“Maybe. If they’ll take me.”
“They won’t take you if you just stand around bemoaning how hard this is,” Relam said sternly. “Try again. Try not to bounce the arrow so much this time though.”
Aven knocked another arrow and raised the bow, bringing the string to half draw, then struggling further and further until his thumb touched the corner of his mouth. Relam noticed that the bow was shaking a little less this time. But, when Aven released, the bow twisted in his grip and the arrow zipped to one side of the target, missing by at least a meter.
“At least I hit the target the first time,” Aven observed.
“You need to work on your control,” Relam told him. “Keep a steady aim, breathe evenly, hold the bow still without trembling so much.”
“Care to demonstrate?” Aven asked, holding the bow out.
Relam hesitated, then decided a demonstration couldn’t hurt. He took the bow from Aven, then the boy handed him an arrow with a flourish, stepping aside. Relam took his place at the line and raised the bow.
“See,” he said, glancing back at Aven. “Nice smooth drawing motion. Hold the bow steady. Not too long or you’ll start to tire. That’s when the trembling starts. And when you’re re
ady to fire-”
Relam stopped, frowning. When he had looked back, he had caught a strange glint in Aven’s eyes. Not of interest or curiosity, but of something more . . . mischievous.
“Don’t hold it too long,” Aven encouraged.
Relam slowly released the tension on the string and turned to face Aven.
“Arm guard,” he said imperiously, snapping his fingers for emphasis.
Relam saw the quick flash of disappointment, which was replaced almost immediately by an innocent expression of surprise. “Oh, yes, forgot all about that,” the boy said airily as he handed over the leather sleeve. Relam held his gaze a moment longer to let Aven know he wasn’t fooled, then went back to the task at hand. With the arm guard protecting his left forearm, Relam raised the bow, drew, sighted, and released.
The arrow split the air with a low hiss, then almost immediately smacked into the very center of the wooden target. The arrowhead vanished into the wood, leaving only the shaft and fletching sticking out.
Relam looked back at Aven, noting the boy’s wide-eyed expression. "Any questions?”
“No,” Aven replied meekly.
Relam nodded and returned the arm guard and bow. “Keep practicing. I’ll work out with my blade for a little longer. Remember, focus on control.”
As Relam drew his sword and moved a few paces away, he heard Aven draw another arrow. He glanced back as the boy released, saw the arrow fly wide, then looked away and began the first sequence of moves.
The next few hours passed in relative silence, save for Relam’s grunts of exertion, and the occasional thuds as Aven’s arrows struck the wooden target. The first time this happened, Aven let out a whoop that startled Relam and caused him to spin quickly, sword at the ready. After that, Aven kept his emotions under control save for a few sighs of disgust.
Around noon, Relam sheathed his sword and returned to the lean-to and the accompanying rain barrel. The day was slowly warming up, and he was sweating heavily from his exertions. As Relam filled his cup, he was joined by Aven.
“My arms will never be the same again,” he complained. “And I still can’t hit the target every time.”
“You’ll get there,” Relam said confidently, sipping from his cup. “It just takes time.”
Aven shrugged and filled a cup for himself. “I guess I have plenty of time to learn. Still, I was hoping for better results. You hit the target first try.”
“I had formal training.”
“Years ago.”
“Well . . . yes. When I was about your age actually. I don’t remember most of it, but I guess I know enough.”
“More than I do at any rate,” Aven agreed. “What’s the plan now?”
“Lunch,” Relam said, glancing up at the sky. There was not a cloud above them, and the sun was gleaming brightly. “Then we’ll take the afternoon off. It’s going to get a lot warmer.”
“I’m fine with that,” Aven said, grinning and setting the bow to one side along with the arm guard. “Will we practice tomorrow morning?”
Relam was on the point of saying yes when he remembered he was planning to spar with his father the next day. “Not tomorrow.” When Aven frowned, confused, he elaborated. “I’m sparring with my father, and I’m hoping to convince him to recommend you for the guard.”
“And it’s best if I’m not here,” Aven agreed.
“Exactly. The day after we can get some more work done though.”
“Good. Need anything between now and then?”
Relam considered this for a moment. “Check back tomorrow night,” he decided. “That way I can give you the run down on my meeting with my father.”
Aven drained his cup and set it aside. “Alright, see you tomorrow then.”
“See you then, Aven,” Relam replied.
The boy grinned and headed for the courtyard entrance, rolling his shoulders. Relam winced in sympathy. His own muscles were burning, but not painfully. It was the sort of stretched feeling that made him feel as though he had done good work, as though he had accomplished something. But with it came a more powerful feeling of hunger.
Relam’s stomach rumbled alarmingly as though concurring. Shaking his head ruefully, the young prince set down his cup and began the short walk back to his quarters. Lunch would be laid out in the royal dining room, and maybe he would get to eat with his parents. If his father wasn’t in a meeting with a trade official or an advisor or something.
When Relam returned to the royal suite though, he found it empty. A servant hovered in the dining room, alongside several platters laid out on the table.
“Your highness,” he called, bowing. “His majesty the king is in council at the moment, and your mother is visiting friends of the court.”
“Thank you for letting me know,” Relam replied, unlocking his door and hanging up his sword belt. “Any other messages for me?”
“Not at the moment,” the servant replied.
Relam stepped into the dining room, looking curiously at the platters. All the necessaries for a variety of sandwiches were present, meats, breads, spreads, even a large bowl of assorted fruits. Relam quickly assembled a sandwich and chose an apple from the dish, sitting in his usual seat.
He had just taken a large bite from the juicy orb when the door to the royal suite flew open and his father stumped in, followed closely by Lord Clemon. Relam immediately sat up straighter and tried to clear his mouth so he could speak if required. The result was that he choked and spluttered, trying to clear his throat.
His father thumped him on the back as he walked past. “Thanks,” Relam gasped. “How did the meetings go?”
“Terrible,” his father grunted as he assembled his own sandwich. “Four hours, arguing over fractions of a percent in taxes on items headed from Mizzran to Ardia, an extra tax if the goods come by land, which is apparently more dangerous than ever-”
“We could send a small army through the forests west of the Furnier,” Clemon suggested as he helped himself to a sandwich, taking the seat on the king’s other side. “That would clear out the worst of the bandits, I think.”
“No sense in doing that. You would have to renegotiate the taxes again,” Relam said, trying to keep a straight face.
The king roared with laughter. “He’s right, Marc! Wouldn’t want to suffer through that ordeal again, would we?”
“It really wasn’t that bad,” Clemon protested. “The officials from Mizzran are notoriously fair and transparent in their dealings and really quite agreeable people. Now the negotiators from Narne who came to the last major talks in Ardia, they were contentious. Took us a full day just to establish what the purpose of the meetings was!”
“There is no purpose, except to waste my time,” Relam’s father muttered, scowling.
“And to raise your blood pressure,” Relam added, grinning.
“Aye, that too.” The king took a bite of his sandwich, chewing resignedly.
“It is part of running the kingdom, sire,” Clemon said ruefully. “If it was easy, anyone would do it.”
“True.” The king sighed heavily. “What’s on the slate for this afternoon? More trade disputes?”
“It’s the fifth day of the week,” Clemon said, glancing up almost apologetically. “That means you’ll be in court this afternoon.”
The king groaned. “I forgot about that. Any major problems I should be aware of?”
Clemon shook his head. “Just the usual. Some civil disputes, some minor criminals. Maybe a bandit or two if it’s been an especially bad week.”
“At least you have sparring to look forward to tomorrow,” Relam put in, grinning.
“Be ready. I’ll have plenty of frustration piled up,” his father warned. But he looked considerably more cheerful now that Relam had reminded him of their practice the next day. Relam just hoped that the pending discussion about Aven wouldn’t derail everything too badly.
The king finished his sandwich and stood. “Well, might as well get it over with. I suppo
se you’re off to other errands, Marc?”
“Yes, sire,” the king’s chatelain said happily. “I have some reports from my officials along the coast. A study on seasonal shipping routes and some of the dangerous weather we’ve been seeing recently.”
“Such as?” Relam asked, interested.
“Ice storms,” Clemon told him, shaking his head. “Massive thunderstorms that drop ice balls from the heavens and freeze the rigging. Several ships have been lost. Merchants are looking for alternative ways to ship their wares around the south rather than having their goods sunk.”
“Makes sense,” Relam muttered.
“The only problem is there are not many established land routes in the area,” Clemon went on, warming to his theme, his voice adopting a stuffy, all-knowing air. “With the Fells isolating Ishkabur and providing a significant barrier to trade east and west-”
“Fascinating,” the king interrupted. “I’m off to court.”
“Have fun,” Relam called. His father grunted in reply.
“-and with the rivers running high from all the heavy rains in the middle and upper latitudes, many of the fords are impassable. The world almost seems to be against trade!”
“I doubt that’s the case,” Relam said patiently. “Things will settle down and everything will get back to normal.”
“They better,” Clemon muttered. “There’s too much for me to keep up with right now.”
“Speaking of, I have work to do,” Relam said, standing quickly. “Excuse me, Lord Clemon.”
“Of course, your highness.”
Relam retreated to his room quickly and locked the door, before Clemon could start on another topic of conversation. Heaving a huge sigh of relief, Relam sank onto his bed and closed his eyes. He knew he had just dodged a major bullet. The king’s chatelain was becoming an all too familiar visitor to the royal suite.
For the rest of the afternoon, Relam alternated between sitting quietly and thinking about the upcoming trials, and working on his carving. The hindquarters of the dragon were nearly finished now, but progress was slower. Every sliver of wood shaved from the block had the potential to either make the model slightly better or ruin it completely. He was contemplating how best to do the legs and feet when he heard his name being called from the main room.
The Prince (Heirs of Legacy Book 1) Page 4
