“Obviously. If they want me to hear this in person, they can ride to the capital.”
“Very well, your majesty, I will communicate that immediately.”
“Good. See you tomorrow, Marc.” Relam heard the outer door close, then his father muttered, “Unfortunately.”
Relam waited a moment, then quietly slipped into the main room. “Another typical afternoon?”
His father turned around and scowled. “You could say that. The lords fighting over the swamp sent another message asking me to come in person to survey the issue.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re idiots,” the king muttered disgusted. “I’m a king. I don’t have time to go riding off around the known world to resolve every dispute. And I certainly don’t need the ‘extra experience and perspective’ such a trip would give me. And it won’t help me make a better decision either. If I go, it will be to grab the pair of them and-”
“Dinner’s ready,” the queen interrupted, stepping out of the dining alcove. Relam and his father exchanged sheepish looks and made their way to the table.
As he sat down in his typical place, Relam looked up and saw his mother frowning at him across the table. “Relam, what happened to your hand?”
“Nothing,” he said casually. “Just sliced myself while doing some carving.”
“That looks like more than a slice,” his father said drily, noting the thick bandage. “You sure that thumb is still attached if you take the bandage off?”
Relam grinned. “Okay, you got me. I stuck it back on with a blob of pitch. I’m just waiting for it to firm up, then the bandage can come off.”
Orram laughed loud and long, the small room echoing with the sounds of merriment. The queen smiled tightly, but her expression quickly returned to a worried frown.
“You have no idea how good that feels after a day like today,” the king gasped, wiping his eyes.
“I’m glad I could ease your suffering with my own,” Relam replied with a pained look that sent his father chuckling again. “Shall I do the other thumb tomorrow?”
“Better pace yourself, you only have so many fingers,” his father warned. Then, he chuckled again. “Stuck it back with pitch,” he repeated.
The discussion was interrupted by the opening of the servant’s door just behind the king. Griffin emerged, beaming. Relam’s gaze passed over the archway behind the servant and he grinned. The opening was packed with palace staff, smiling and waving, eyes shining with pride.
“Your majesties, good evening,” Griff began. “Your highness, congratulations! We of the staff are most proud of you and your accomplishments, and are pleased to serve you.”
“Thank you,” Relam said humbly. “I never could have done it alone.” He looked back at the entrance. “Thank you. All of you.”
The servants packing the doorway bowed shyly and retreated, hurrying back to the kitchens. Griff bowed as well, then straightened, smiling.
“And tonight, we shall celebrate you, your highness. Please let me know if there is anything you need.”
Griff snapped his fingers imperiously and servants scurried forward with bowls of steaming potato and leek soup, accompanied by warm, perfectly round dinner rolls and a slab of yellow butter. Relam picked up his spoon and dug in eagerly.
“Perfect, Griff,” he announced. The cook’s potato soup had always been a favorite of his. Creamy and thick, with chunks of potato and leek, well-spiced. In short, perfect.
“I shall pass along your compliment,” the servant said formally. “I will be back soon with the main course.”
“Any hints as to what it is?”
“Wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise,” Griff replied, wagging his finger in reproach. Then, he disappeared, leaving the royal family to their meal.
The moment Relam’s spoon clinked against the bottom of his empty bowl, Griff was back with more servants and a huge covered tray. Sharp knives were set at each place and wide platters were laid in front of each of the diners.
Griff stood opposite the king, taking carving tools from another servant and sharpening them, even though Relam could see the edge was perfectly keen. Griff was a bit of a showman on occasions like these. More than a bit, the prince amended as Griff tossed the carving fork and caught it, smiling.
Then, Griff whipped the lid off the tray with a flourish, beaming around the table. On the platter sat quite possibly the largest chicken Relam had ever seen. The skin was golden brown and crisp, and the prince could see the spices underneath that had been roasted into the meat. Onions and peppers spilled from the central cavity of the bird, aromatic steam billowing around the opening.
“That is one big bird,” the king observed, duly impressed.
“This,” Griff announced, “Is no mere bird. This is a wild Mizzran Swift Chicken, renowned for the amount of meat on its bones and the wonderful flavor. It was caught earlier this week and brought to the capital directly.”
“Amazing,” Relam said, gazing at the carcass. His mouth was already watering.
Griff smiled and began breaking the bird down into pieces, legs, wings, breast meat, thighs. Relam was watching the legs wistfully. The meat there would be extremely flavorful, juicy-
“Your plate, your highness,” Griff interrupted.
Relam started in surprise. Normally, his parents would be served first. He hesitated, unsure of himself, then at a nod from his father passed Griff the plate.
The servant smiled and began piling meat on the prince’s plate. Breast meat mostly and, yes, one of the legs. Plus a steaming mound of the peppers and onions. Griff returned the plate to Relam and set about filling his parent’s plates while the prince dug in.
The meat practically fell from the bones and was delightfully juicy. Every morsel exploded with flavor the moment Relam put it in his mouth, and the onions and peppers were perfect companions with their acidic nature. Relam put down his fork and knife and picked up the leg, ripping great strips of meat from it with his teeth, chewing contentedly.
“Perfect,” he heard his father mutter around a mouthful of food. “Heavenly, really. Mizzran Swift Chicken? I must speak with Lord Vicet about finding more of these.”
“They are exceptionally rare, your majesty,” Griff replied, almost apologetically.
“Then I’ll speak with him about breeding more,” the king decided, filling his mouth again. Relam nodded agreement, too busy eating to speak.
Griff bowed wordlessly and retreated, leaving the royal family to their meal. Relam and his father ate voraciously, ripping apart the meat with hands as often as forks and knives. The queen ate at a more sedate pace, cutting slices of breast meat into regular pieces and consuming them almost daintily.
Nearly an hour later, when the bird had been reduced to a pile of stripped bones, Griff reentered the dining alcove and cleared the platter away.
“My compliments to the chefs,” Relam murmured, too stuffed to move. “Thanks, Griff.”
“It was my pleasure and honor,” Griff replied, bowing. “Congratulations again, your highness.”
Relam nodded acknowledgment, barely stifling a belch that threatened to break free. He rubbed his stomach ruefully, noting that his belt seemed rather tight.
“You should pass the trials every day,” the king suggested, groaning. “I’m not sure I’ve ever eaten that well. And I’ve been king for years.”
“We’ll be sure to do this again though,” Relam murmured, his eyelids drooping. “Best chicken ever. Wonder what makes the Mizzran birds so large and tasty?”
“Maybe all the exercise clambering over rocks and such,” the king suggested, yawning. He frowned suddenly. “Strange, it’s not even late and I’m exhausted.”
“I’ve heard that eating excessively can make you drowsy,” Relam said complacently. His eyelids did feel rather heavy. In fact, he felt like he was in danger of falling asleep at the table. He could see his mother watching the pair of them, a puzzled expression on her face. Then, Relam’s eyelids drifted shut
and he drifted off to sleep. As he did, he thought he heard a door open, but he was too far gone to be sure.
Chapter 8
“Your majesty, get down!”
Relam’s eyes snapped open and he looked around blearily, trying to figure out what was happening. As he did, he fell out of his chair and hit the ground hard.
All around him was noise, weapons clashing, the screech of steel on steel, grunts of pain, and screams of the injured. Relam put a hand to his head, wincing as it throbbed painfully. Where was he? What was happening?
He looked around slowly, trying to understand what was going on, but his brain was moving too slow to process what his eyes saw. The door to the hall stood open, two bodies sprawled in the entrance. They were the guards, their throats cut, their eyes wide and staring. In the main room, dueling furiously, were four black-clad men wielding knives and short swords against two palace guards. One black-clad man was down just inside the door, groping feebly for a weapon.
“Your highness! Can you hear me?”
Relam rolled over, moaning in pain. “My head hurts,” he told Griff.
The servant flashed a quick smile. “We can deal with that later. Right now, you need to get out of here.”
“What-?”
“I don’t know, but follow me quickly. We can disappear within the servants’ corridors.”
Griff hauled Relam to his feet and dragged him towards the narrow doorway. Just inside, his mother was struggling to support his father, half dragging him down the passage.
“A little further,” Griff urged. “Then I can get the door shut and help.”
Relam stumbled into his father and the royal family lurched forward and fell in a tangle of arms and legs. Griff slammed the servants’ entrance shut and threw the bolt, sighing with relief as he backed away from the door. “Right. Everybody up. Hurry. It won’t take them long to figure out where we’ve gone.”
The prince got to his feet shakily, trying to clear his head. He felt his mother’s gentle touch on his arm. “Are you okay, Relam?” she asked, worried.
“Fine,” Relam grunted. “What’s going on?”
“You and your father were knocked out,” the queen explained. “Something in the food I suppose. I didn’t get as large of a dose of it, I guess. I have a mild headache, but still full use of my wits. Your father is in the worst condition. He’s hardly stirred since the assassins broke in.”
A cold hand of fear gripped Relam’s heart. “Assassins?” he croaked. “Here?”
“Apparently,” Griff said, joining them. “Now, really, we must get moving. There’s simply no time to waste. I don’t know where we should go-”
“The kitchens,” Relam said immediately. “That gives us a lot of options, plus two guards if they’re still on duty there and haven’t come running upstairs.”
“Good thinking,” Griff agreed, reaching down and draping the king’s left arm over his shoulder. “Milady, can you help me with his majesty? I cannot manage on my own.”
“Griff, do you still have that knife?” Relam asked.
“Of course.”
“Give it here then. I’ll lead the way, just in case.”
“Your highness you are hardly in any condition to fight-”
“I’m even less able to carry the king though. Give me the knife, Griff.”
There was a pause, then Griff extended the knife to Relam, handle first. The prince grasped it quickly, testing its weight and balance. “Thanks,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”
They made their way slowly along the passage. As they moved, they passed a regular parade of simple lanterns, emitting a warm golden light that lit the whole corridor evenly.
“Left up ahead,” Griff gasped, hauling the king along gamely. “Then a right at the second hallway. That will take us to the nearest stairwell and we can use that to access the kitchens.”
Relam led the way, following Griff’s instructions. “This is much faster than using the public corridors,” he commented as they began moving down the stairwell.
“We servants have to be efficient to get everywhere we need to be on time,” Griff explained. “Take meals for example. In order for them to stay hot, we need the shortest distance from the kitchens to the royal apartments.”
“Makes sense,” Relam grunted, eyes and ears alert for any warning of danger in the stairwell below them.
Relam paused at the bottom of the staircase, waiting for further instructions. Behind, him he heard Griff and his mother stumbling forward under his father’s weight.
“Straight along here, all the way to the end” Griff gasped. “Nearly there now, thankfully.”
Relam led the way again, edging past side corridors, expecting black-clad assassins to spring from one of them at any moment.
At the third such crossing corridor, Relam heard footsteps approaching. He signaled for the others to halt and they did, leaning the king against the wall. Relam turned back and put a finger over his lips, then pointed to himself and tapped his blade. His mother frowned, concerned, but Griff nodded agreement, though he seemed a little confused. Maybe he was wondering what assassins were doing in the servants’ corridors.
Relam moved forward until he was right at the corner between the two corridors, scarcely breathing. The footsteps were still moving forward steadily. The prince could picture one of the assassins, inching along the corridor, trying to find the royal family. Relam knew he would have to be quick, he would have to strike immediately, predict where his foe would be.
The footsteps were nearly to him now. They seemed deafening to the prince’s nervous ears. He realized his palms were sweating and dried them on his shirt quickly. He would need a firm grip on the woefully inadequate carving knife if he was to pull this off.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the footsteps were right on top of Relam’s position. He leapt around the corner, striking with the carving knife, aiming to slash the assassin from shoulder to hip-
And nearly slew the serving girl in front of him.
Relam changed the angle of his blade just in time so it struck the stone wall of the corridor instead. The shock shook the knife from his grip and numbed his hand. Gasping, the prince shook his hand, trying to relieve the pain of the vibrations.
The serving girl shrieked and turned away, covering her eyes with both hands. Relam was in too much pain to pay her much heed at the moment though.
He heard a rush of footsteps, then his mother and Griff came hurrying around the corner. They balked at the sight of Relam and the serving girl, Relam clearly in pain, the serving girl terrified out of her wits. Then, as they realized what had happened, the pair relaxed. Griff went to calm the girl and the queen tended to her son, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Are you all right?”
“No,” Relam muttered. His hand still tingled and shook. “Who knew a little knife like that could hurt so much if you hit a wall with it?”
“Well, you do now,” Griff observed, grinning in relief.
“Thank you,” Relam said icily. “But just now I’m wishing I didn’t know that.” He shook his hand one more time, then retrieved the carving knife and straightened, looking around.
“We should keep moving,” his mother said worriedly, glancing at Griff and the girl. “If the assassins are following, they will have heard that.”
“You’re right,” Griff agreed. “Relam, go to the kitchens at the end of the hall. Get the guards and send a couple of strong lads to help us with the king.”
“Good idea,” Relam grunted, looking around to get his bearings. He had gotten turned around during the attack and all the corridors looked the same.
“To your left,” Griff said helpfully, pointing.
“Thanks,” Relam muttered.
The prince shambled off towards the kitchens, the knife clutched awkwardly in his bandaged left hand now. His right was still partially numb. As he approached the kitchen entrance, he slowed even more, not wanting to have to save another ser
vant from impalement on the little blade.
Finally, he turned into the kitchen and was nearly run over by a woman pushing a cart loaded with fresh bread.
“Your highness!” she cried, clutching at her heart in surprise and shock.
“Guards!” Relam shouted. “Here, quickly. And any among you who are strong.”
A trio of cook’s assistants, sturdy boys and young men between fifteen and twenty-five, immediately joined Relam by the entrance. They looked nervous and confused, but capable enough.
“The king and queen are with Griff down the hall,” Relam explained quickly. “I need you to go and help them to the kitchen. The king is unconscious.”
They nodded briefly then hurried out of the kitchen. As they departed, two palace guards came barreling through the kitchen, nearly trampling several of the kitchen staff. “Your highness!” the first said, surprised. “What’s going on? Did I hear something about the king?”
“First, I need one of your swords,” the prince grunted. The guards were each armed with heavy spears as their primary weapon. Their belts held short swords and long dirks for close quarters.
“Of course, my liege,” the second guard said, handing his over. “But if I may ask-”
“There has been an assassination attempt,” Relam explained. “The king and queen are on their way here. We used the servants’ corridors to get away. The palace must be locked down immediately, if it isn’t too late.”
“I’ll do it,” the first guard said, clapping a mailed fist to his chest in salute.
“Good. Put everyone you see on alert and turn out every warrior we have in the palace. Send four men here to join me in the kitchen.”
“To protect the king and queen?”
“No,” Relam replied grimly. “I’m going after those assassins myself.”
The first guard opened his mouth to respond but the young prince cut him off. “Get going,” he snapped. “That’s an order, soldier.”
The guard raced off, mail clanking loudly as he ran. The second guard frowned, concerned.
“Your highness, I beg you to reconsider going after the assassins yourself,” he said gently. “The guardsmen are trained for this sort of thing. We-”
The Prince (Heirs of Legacy Book 1) Page 10
