The Prince (Heirs of Legacy Book 1)

by Paul Lauritsen

  Even back in his own room, Relam felt as though he were as much in a prison as the assassins he had helped capture. The guards had been doubled, and at least one was always inside the main room of the royal apartments. Every visitor was searched, whether it was a servant such as Aven or Griff or a noble such as Lord Clemon. Clemon had only visited once since the attack, hoping to let the king know he was leaving to adjudicate the border dispute in the swamps. The king never heard his message though, sleeping through the whole visit.

  Five days after the attack, Relam was sitting beside his father’s bed with the healer. There was little else for the young prince to do. No training, no official business. And with his thumb still healing from the wood-carving accident, no miniature dragon to work on.

  “Isn’t there anything you can try?” Relam asked the healer for what must have been the thousandth time since the attack.

  The healer shrugged disconsolately. “He is alive, my prince. But he is very weak. As far as I can tell, he got a much larger dose of the sleeping potion than you and your mother. A little more would have stopped his heart.”

  “So, all we can do is wait?”

  “For this to work out of his system, yes,” the healer agreed. “Each time he rises to semi-consciousness, we are a step closer. If I knew what had been used, I could awaken him within a day or two.”

  “You mean you could create an antidote?”

  “Of course. Most of the training a royal healer does is in the realm of antidotes.”

  Relam nodded thoughtfully. “I think I know someone who can help us with that,” he muttered. “Three someones, actually.”

  “The assassins?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your highness, with all due respect, I don’t think it wise to let you leave the palace right now.”

  “I’ll go under guard, to the Citadel, which is the safest place in the whole kingdom,” Relam said, raising an eyebrow at the healer.

  The older man squirmed uncomfortably. “Speak to your mother about it, my prince. She can offer better counsel than I.”

  “He should go.”

  They started guiltily and turned in unison to see the queen’s small figure standing in the door. “He will be quite safe at the Citadel, and it would do him good to be outside again, if only briefly,” she added with a small smile.

  Relam grinned at his mother. “I’ll be on my way then,” he said, smiling.

  The queen nodded. “You’re welcome,” she said pointedly.

  “Thanks,” Relam replied hurriedly, “I’ll be safe, I promise.”

  “Oh, and take Aven with you,” his mother added as he crossed the main room to his own.

  “Aven?” Relam asked, not sure he’d heard right.

  “Yes, Aven. I know he is training as a soldier and that you are the reason why.” The queen smiled at Relam’s befuddled expression. “I’m a mother. I know everything you and your father are up to, Relam. Besides, Aven is young and keen-eyed. He may see what you and your guards do not.”

  “He’s probably at guard training though,” Relam protested. “On the other side of the city.”

  “No, he’s in your room right now,” his mother replied.

  Relam poked his head out the door in time to see Aven sneaking out of his room, probably having heard his name mentioned.

  “Well?” the prince asked. “Are you up for a little mission, Aven?”

  “Always,” the boy replied, practically bouncing from excitement. “Where are we going?”

  “The Citadel,” Relam replied, striding across the main room and scooping up his sword belt from where it lay on his bed. “It could be dangerous, though.”

  “Okay.”

  Relam frowned at the younger boy severely. “If we’re attacked, you run back to the palace or to the Citadel, whichever is closer. Got it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” Relam grunted.

  “That goes double for you, son,” his mother called from the king’s sickroom.

  “Of course,” Relam said, gritting his teeth. He hated running from a fight. “Come on, Aven. We’ll collect a few guards on the way to the entrance hall.”

  Aven grinned and followed Relam out into the corridor. The guards on duty sprang smartly to attention. Relam turned and addressed their leader, who happened to be Narin.

  “Aven and I are going to the Citadel to interrogate the prisoners. We need guards to accompany us.”

  “Yes, your highness,” Narin replied immediately. “I’ll run to the guardroom and collect five others. Will that suffice?”

  “That should be fine,” Relam agreed, nodding.

  “Good. We’ll meet you at the entrance hall,” Narin said, saluting. Then, he took off at a jog, deeper into the palace where the guards had their headquarters.

  “Did you capture any of the assassins yourself?” Aven asked curiously as they walked down the corridor.

  “No,” Relam said, pursing his lips in annoyance. “I hardly got to fight at all. Narin and his men took care of it. The most useful thing I did was provide a distraction. All the assassins threw their daggers at me instead of the guards and that allowed the guards to subdue them.”

  “I heard that one of your guards died.”

  “You heard right,” the young prince said with a sigh. “He saved my life.”

  “How does something like this happen?” the boy demanded. “In the palace of all places! Five assassins, dead guards, the king unconscious . . . that should have been impossible.”

  “Believe me, I’ve been asking myself the same questions for the last few days,” Relam agreed as they started down the main staircase to the entrance hall. “How did they get in? Who are they? Who hired them? What’s their end goal? Who was the real target of the attack?”

  “Do you think the assassins have the answers?”

  Relam shrugged, coming to a halt at the base of the stairs. “They might. The bigger question is, will they be willing to share those answers with us.”

  “I’m going to guess ‘no’,” Aven muttered, scowling.

  Relam grinned sardonically. “Right little optimist you are, Aven.”

  They stood in silence, Aven tapping his foot impatiently, scanning passersby intently. Relam leaned against the banister at the base of the stairs, thinking, wondering. Adding new questions to his list all the time.

  Finally, Aven nudged the prince with his elbow. “Here come your guards.”

  Relam turned and saw Narin leading a band of five guards, all fully armed and armored. Much of their equipment was hidden beneath dark blue cloaks though, so that they appeared to be more or less ordinary soldiers.

  “Here,” Narin grunted, tossing Relam a cloak as well. “The weather is cool enough now that we can use these to blend in a little bit. Kid, I’m sorry but I couldn’t find one for you. Though I doubt there is any need to disguise you really.”

  Aven shrugged. “It’s all right,” he replied. “If you put me in one of those cloaks, it would really look suspicious. Best if I go as myself.”

  “What if someone recognizes you?” Relam asked, chewing his lower lip worriedly. “A member of the palace staff or a member of the guard?”

  “The palace staff pretty much stays in the palace,” Aven replied, raising an eyebrow to indicate that he thought Relam’s question was a foolish one. “And there isn’t anyone in the city guard who knows that I am also your servant. His majesty took great pains to arrange things that way.”

  “Well, that’s fortunate,” Relam muttered. “I guess we had better be off then. We won’t get any answers out of the assassins standing here. Lead on, Narin.”

  “Yes, your highness,” Narin murmured. “Form up,” he added curtly to his guards. The guards snapped to attention, then surrounded Relam and Aven completely, nearly hiding them from view.

  “This feels a bit obvious,” Relam muttered to no one in particular. “Ease up, will you? And walk normally, like you’re not highly-trained palace guards.”


  A ripple of laughter ran through the guards, but they did as Relam asked. “That’s better,” the prince muttered, looking around. “I feel much less conspicuous now.”

  Narin led the way out of the palace, followed by the others, moving in a loose knot. The young prince kept his eyes down, so that his face was not presented to the world. Beside him, Aven was looking around constantly, searching every side street for potential threats.

  “All clear,” he muttered, then twisted around to check the palace steps. “There’s a man that just left the palace behind us though . . . and a woman leaning against the Stover’s Alley entrance.”

  “Anything suspicious?”

  “Not really,” Aven replied, turning again.

  “Don’t look around so obviously,” Relam muttered. “Just in case those people are up to no good. We don’t want it to be obvious we’re on to them.”

  “Why not? Won’t that deter any attack?” Aven asked curiously.

  “It will only delay it,” Narin growled from under his hood. “Delay it until a time when we aren’t so vigilant. Now, shut up and stay focused.”

  Silence fell over the little band as they turned onto the River Road, moving quickly towards the Citadel. The bulk of the legendary fortress loomed overhead, casting its shadow over a wide swath of the city.

  The River Road was comfortably crowded, pedestrians roaming back and forth, carts plodding down the center of the road, the animals pulling them snorting and blowing as their drivers urged them to greater efforts. Relam looked around quickly, trying to see if there was anything out of the ordinary. But with the guards close around him, it was difficult to see anything. Aven was focused on the ground now, eyes occasionally darting left and right, his head never moving to belie his vigilance.

  Finally, they arrived at the gates of the Citadel. A squad of ten guards was on duty, heavily armed to deter any mischief. Eight of the guards stood in the entrance itself, the other two flanking the recessed gateway. As Relam and his guards approached, the eight soldiers in the gateway lowered their halberds, menacing the new arrivals with the spear points. The axe heads sprouting from the base of the spear heads were just as dangerous though, the edges reflecting the sun’s rays brilliantly.

  “What is your business in the Citadel?” the flanking guard on the right asked.

  Narin beckoned to Relam to step forward. The young prince did so and looked up into the Citadel guard’s startled face.

  “His royal highness is here to interrogate the prisoners,” Narin replied quietly.

  “Of course,” the Citadel guard replied smoothly, bowing low. “Welcome, your highness, to the Citadel.”

  As he spoke, the eight guards blocking the entrance withdrew to the sides in lines of four. Then, as one, they cracked the ends of their halberds against the stone floor. The sound echoed in the recess, and the gates began to swing ponderously outward. When they were open, the flanking guard gestured for Relam and his men to enter.

  “Thank you,” the prince murmured, leading the way into the Citadel. The palace guards followed quietly, Aven looking around spellbound in their midst. As soon as the last of Relam’s guards was through, the Citadel guards formed up in the entrance again and the gates began to swing shut.

  Chapter 10

  The main entrance did not lead into a courtyard, as most gates did on castles. The space beyond was roofed over, a vast entrance hall built entirely of gray stone. Thick pillars supported the ceiling, two stories above. Around the bases of these pillars, soldiers, blacksmiths, stable hands, and other personnel required to support an army milled about. At the far end of the hall was a set of double doors, standing open to reveal an even larger assembly hall. Other smaller doors led off to the right and left, leading to barracks, armories, offices, and more.

  Relam turned in place, taking in the raw power and strength of the Citadel. “Incredible,” he muttered. He had been in the Citadel only once before, when he was a boy accompanying his father on some errand or other. It all seemed different now, more impressive. More intimidating.

  “The Citadel is the largest and oldest structure in the known world,” Narin grunted. “It has never fallen.”

  “I can see why,” Aven said faintly. “How many soldiers are garrisoned here?”

  “Over a thousand,” Narin answered. “And they are the best of the best.”

  “Out of the way, stop plugging the entrance,” a soldier barked, shoving past them. “Oh. Good afternoon, Narin. What are you doing outside the palace?”

  “Official business,” Narin said without elaborating. “D’you know where the master of the Citadel is? We need his assistance with a couple things.”

  The soldier shrugged. “Should be in his office, fourteenth level of the Anchor. If he’s not there, he’ll be training his cadets in the seventh level courtyard.”

  “Thanks. We’ll check those places first.”

  “Happy to help. Good to see you, Narin.”

  The soldier ambled off, hailing a few of his fellows further along the hall. Narin turned quickly and led Relam and the others to a door near the back of the hall.

  “What’s the Anchor?” Aven asked curiously.

  “The largest tower, dead center of the Citadel,” Narin replied. “Used to be the tallest tower too, until the Eyrie Tower was added to the Guard Tower.”

  “How many towers are there?” Aven asked.

  “Eight,” Narin grunted in reply.

  “Do they all have names too?”

  “Yes.”

  Relam noticed that the palace guard’s answers were getting shorter and shorter. As Aven opened his mouth to speak again, the prince nudged him gently.

  “I think we can discuss the Citadel’s many wonders some other time, Aven.”

  The boy nodded sheepishly. “Sorry. It’s just so . . . huge.”

  Relam frowned. ‘Huge’ seemed a little too simple a word to describe the Citadel in all of its glory.

  Narin led them down a short corridor, then turned into a twisting stairwell that spiraled up to the left and down to the right. “What’s below here?” Aven asked, daring to ask one more question. “I thought we were on the ground level.”

  “There’s storerooms and such underground,” Narin grunted as they climbed.

  “Not dungeons?” Relam interjected. Then, he mentally kicked himself for breaking his own rule about asking more questions.

  “A few. But the Eyrie and Guard towers are more secure. Nowhere for any escapees to go except down the stairwells and those are easy enough to plug up.”

  “What about the outside of the towers?” Aven asked. “Couldn’t someone climb down?”

  “Maybe. If they were a really good climber and they had a rope and plenty of time,” Narin allowed. “They’d probably be seen though, especially during the day.”

  “They’d be pretty obvious, clinging to the wall like that,” Relam agreed. “Nobody has ever escaped?”

  “Never,” Narin confirmed. “Now, come on, we need to find the master of the Citadel, D’Arnlo.”

  Relam gave an involuntary grunt of displeasure. He had forgotten that D’Arnlo was the master of the Citadel. When Narin glanced at him, he shook his head.

  “Nothing. It’s just . . . I’ve encountered this D’Arnlo before, at court functions and such.”

  “He takes some getting used to,” Narin agreed. “And he has some strange ideas. Nothing to worry about today though, all we’re doing is interrogating prisoners, not holding a debate on the kingdom’s policies.”

  The small band exited the stairwell on the fourteenth floor of the Anchor. Relam, following just behind Narin, stopped abruptly. They were in a corridor that seemed to run the entire perimeter of the central tower, with numerous wide windows looking out over the city below. Far below. Relam had not realized how far they had climbed in the enclosed stairwell. Birds circled below them, and the masts of the tallest harbor ships seemed short and stubby viewed from this angle.

  “This is impr
essive,” he observed drily, looking left and right.

  “Yes, it’s quite the view,” Narin agreed. “That’s why the senior leaders of the Citadel all have their offices and quarters up here. It’s also a good place to command from. The last time the Citadel was attacked, this corridor was filled with archers standing shoulder to shoulder and pouring arrows down on the enemy. The attackers never stood a chance. Anybody that stepped out in the open was instantly killed.”

  “Ah, nice to see someone knows their history,” an unctuous voice declared from the corridor to the right.

  Relam turned and saw Master D’Arnlo advancing towards them, smiling a little too widely for the expression to be genuine. He was clad richly in breeches of thin, glove-quality leather and a spotless white tunic. Over this he wore a black surcoat with the gray tower and halberd insignia of the Citadel on the left breast. His curly dark hair, streaked with gray, fell to his shoulders and a carefully cultivated beard covered his chin and upper lip.

  “Master D’Arnlo,” Narin murmured, bowing. “Good to see you, my Lord.”

  The other guards bowed low as well, murmuring greetings of their own. Aven and Relam stood quietly, Aven untrained in court protocol and Relam taking full advantage of the fact that he was by no means required to bow to D’Arnlo.

  The lack of respect earned a raised eyebrow from the master of the Citadel. “Well? Who might you be?” he asked, peering at Relam’s shadowed features. “There are few men who would refuse to bow before the master of this tower.”

  Relam pushed back his hood and inclined his head, wishing that he were just a little taller so that he wasn’t looking up at D’Arnlo. The sword master flinched ever so slightly as Relam revealed his face, then bowed smoothly.

  “Your highness, this is an unexpected pleasure,” he said, straightening. “To what do I owe this rare visit to my domain?”

  “A few of your guests, actually,” Relam replied grimly. “In the Eyrie.”

  “Ah, yes,” D’Arnlo said, nodding slowly. “I had wondered if anyone from the palace would come to interrogate them. His majesty is feeling better, I hope?”