“Not a word,” Relam promised, taking up a ready stance.
“Blade a little higher,” Tar said quickly. Relam made the adjustment and looked back at the sword master. “Sorry,” Tar said with a grin, holding his hands up, palms outward. “I’m afraid I’m hardwired to be a teacher at this point.”
“That’s not such a bad thing,” Relam mused.
“No,” Tar said, glancing towards the gate. A few of his students were starting to trickle in, rubbing sleep from their eyes. “No, it isn’t.” He hurried off to gather his students and start training, leaving Relam to his own devices.
The prince took a deep breath, and began the first practice pattern, starting off slow as he always did and gradually working his speed up. Relam proceeded through all ten of the patterns then took a short break, watching the cadets at work. They had improved considerably over the last year. Their form and control were infinitely better, as well as their stamina. Blades no longer drooped towards the ground when Tar called a halt, and the boys no longer panted from their exertions. The exercises that would have once exhausted them were now warmups for far more difficult and exciting tasks.
“Remember those days?”
Relam turned and saw Cevet approaching, his sword at his hip, two practice blades in his hands. He tossed one to Relam, the prince catching it easily.
“All too well,” he replied. “You?”
“I still miss the easy stuff,” Cevet replied with a sigh, sitting on a bench nearby. “How are you doing?”
“Fine,” Relam said. For once, it was a completely honest response to the question.
“Glad to hear it,” Cevet said kindly. “We were all hit pretty hard when we heard the news. My mother especially. How did your father handle it?”
“Fine,” Relam lied. “It’s hard on him, obviously,” he added quickly. “But he’ll come through.”
“Hmm,” Cevet said, leaning back against the wall. “I hope so.”
They sat in silence for a moment, Relam watching the younger fighters, Cevet relaxing. “Did you want to fight or just sit here?” Relam asked finally.
“Fight, obviously,” Cevet said, leaning forward and opening his eyes. “That’s what we usually do here, yes?”
“Every week,” Relam agreed. They stood as one and took up the ready stance, two meters apart.
“Begin,” Cevet called.
In an instant, the smaller boy was darting forward, lunging under Relam’s guard, trying for a thrust at his hip. Relam spun his practice sword and batted Cevet’s questing blade aside with a backhanded cut. Then, turning defense into attack, he continued the motion with a side cut at Cevet’s ribs, only to have Cevet block the blow at the last moment with an iron wrist.
“Not bad,” Cevet grunted as they locked blades and shoved against each other.
“I almost had you,” Relam growled, staring at Cevet’s eyes, waiting for any sign that the other boy was about to disengage.
“Almost,” Cevet agreed. “But almost doesn’t count.”
Cevet spun away, and Relam jumped back, putting space between them before the other cadet could follow up his brief advantage. Then, they closed again, running at each other and exchanging blows, separated by centimeters at times, spinning, twisting, and striking, and somehow dodging or blocking every attack. Relam scythed with his right leg and Cevet jumped nimbly, slashing at shoulder height as he did. Relam ducked and rolled under the airborne fighter, getting to his feet just in time to see Cevet turn and strike with a quick thrust, before Relam had any chance to strike at his unprotected back. The prince batted the thrust away easily, then backed off, breathing heavily.
The two fighters circled for a moment, recovering from the flurry of blows. “It seems we have an audience,” Cevet said mildly. “You can look, I won’t attack.”
Relam looked over his shoulder. Sure enough, Tar Agath had stopped his class and the cadets were watching the fight with interest. Relam turned back to face Cevet, grinning.
“Well, it would be a shame to disappoint our eager young fans.”
“Shall we show them how it’s done?” Cevet asked, twirling his sword in his right hand.
“Why not?” Relam asked.
With wild yells, the two fighters sprang forward again, trading blows at the speed of thought, parrying, thrusting, cutting and slashing. All the time they were on the move, spinning around each other, dodging thrusts by stepping to the side, jumping over low blows and ducking high side cuts. Throughout the high energy fight, neither fighter lost his balance or timing, always in perfect rhythm, always perfectly tuned to the pace and feel of the battle. At one point, they stood nearly toe-to-toe and exchanged a dozen blows in as many seconds, swaying and bending as they blocked and slashed.
When the bout came to an end it was sudden and unexpected. The two fighters locked swords after a particularly vicious exchange, ramming the hilts of the practice swords against each other. As they did, Relam slipped his left hand from his own hilt and grabbed at Cevet’s wrist. The other boy released his own blade with one hand and grabbed Relam’s sword hand. They shoved against each other, arm’s locked, each gripping the other by both wrists.
Then, Relam fell backwards, letting go of Cevet as he did. The smaller boy was yanked off balance, stumbling forward, twisting to one side as a result of the uneven pull. Relam kicked Cevet’s sword hand, sending the practice blade flying, then rolled to his feet and laid the point of his own wooden sword on Cevet’s heaving chest.
A storm of applause burst from somewhere behind Relam, startling him. Then he realized it was the cadets, cheering wildly and babbling to each other, rehashing the battle already. Grinning, Relam raised a hand in acknowledgement and hauled Cevet to his feet, draping his free arm over the other boy’s shoulders.
“What a fight,” he managed, gasping. “How long was that?”
“Longest we’ve fought yet,” Cevet replied, dashing sweat from his eyes.
“What about the one when it was snowing-”
“Doesn’t count, we spent most of that one standing around, trying to catch our breath.”
“Fine, then it’s the longest ever,” Relam agreed, looking up as Tar approached.
“Sensational!” the sword master proclaimed. “Truly outstanding.”
“Thanks,” Cevet said, grinning.
“Yeah, thanks,” Relam agreed. “It’s not often we get such high praise from a sword master.”
“You earned it, both of you,” Tar said fiercely. “An inspired duel. And,” he added in an undertone. “An excellent demonstration for my younger students, show them they don’t know everything yet and get them excited to try some practice bouts themselves. And excellent sportsmanship too,” he added as an afterthought. “Much better than that Garenes brat.”
“You heard what happened to him?” Cevet said, stifling a laugh.
“No,” Relam said quickly, looking around. “I’ve been a little occupied with other things.”
“Oh, well, you remember how you sort of started a contest to see who could train with Oreius?”
“I forgot about it honestly,” Relam admitted.
“Well, anyway,” Cevet continued, “The other lordlings put it off till the last minute. Some tried last week, some this week. Sebast was the first, and Oreius pitched him headfirst into the river!”
Relam howled with laughter, and Tar smiled thinly, picturing the sight. “Did he fish him back out or leave him?” the sword master asked.
“He floundered downstream some ways,” Cevet said. “Washed up in his own backyard. Lord and Lady Garenes were none too pleased. Delan tried next. He barely got through the gate before Oreius threw him in his compost pile.”
“Any others?” Relam asked eagerly.
“Surprisingly, Knet managed to summon enough courage to try, just two days ago,” Cevet continued. “Oreius actually heard him out, then asked to fight him, see what he was made of. The first time Oreius attacked, Knet lost his nerve and dropped his sword.
Oreius grabbed him by the collar and thrashed him with the flat of the blade something terrible. He’ll be walking strangely for a while, I think.”
“And Jatt?”
“Couldn’t find the house,” Cevet replied with obvious contempt. “Of course, D’Arnlo has taken on every single one of them. They start training in two weeks, at the Citadel itself.”
“What about you?” Relam asked. “Planning to try Oreius?”
“No,” Cevet said, shrugging. “My father got me in with D’Arnlo. Not my first choice, but it will do.”
“You may as well ask, Cevet,” Tar urged. “I’d recommend you to Oreius.”
“I appreciate it, Tar,” Cevet said, smiling. “But I think I’d better stay with D’Arnlo. Besides, the river isn’t that much cleaner than it used to be. I have no desire to go for a swim.”
The sword master snorted. “He wouldn’t throw you in the river. Maybe the fountain though,” he added as an afterthought. “The river is reserved for special cases.”
“So I hear,” Relam said with a grin. “I’m glad Sebast got that treatment.”
“Me too,” Cevet said. “It hasn’t helped his temperament any, but I hear he’s afraid to walk past Oreius’ house now.”
“He should be,” Tar said gravely. “I don’t suppose young Garenes told you what he said to Oreius?”
“No,” Cevet said, shaking his head.
“Oreius told me,” Tar said, shaking his head. “The boy demanded that Oreius train him, said any fool that agrees to train Relam should train him as well, since he is a better fighter. Oreius told him to beat it and Sebast got nasty, threatened Oreius in fact. Told Oreius that his father was extremely influential and that he had better watch himself when he was dealing with future great lords.”
Relam winced. “I can see why he got thrown in the river,” he observed drily.
“Yes,” Tar agreed grimly. “Oreius has no regrets about doing it. He was actually smiling when he told me that part of the story, and he rarely smiles anymore. But I have never seen him angrier than when he was telling me what the Garenes boy had said,” the sword master continued. “When I saw his expression, I remembered what a dangerous man he was.”
The prince nodded soberly. “I’ll bear that in mind. I mean, I knew he was skilled but-”
“He is the best,” Tar said immediately, cutting Relam off. “Forgive me for interrupting, your highness, but I want to be absolutely clear about that. If Oreius and I fought a hundred bouts, he would win every single one.”
Cevet whistled appreciatively. “That’s impressive.”
“Yes,” Tar agreed. “Do not take him for a fool, Relam. And do not antagonize him. He is a good friend, but a terrible enemy if you get on his wrong side.”
“I’ll remember,” Relam promised.
“Make sure you do,” Tar said, nodding. “Now,” he said, raising his voice. “I have to get back to my class. Pair these ones up and see what they have. I hope they don’t hurt each other trying to be heroes.”
“There’s always one,” Relam said, grinning.
“Yes, there is,” Tar said grimly. “I’ll see the two of you around, I’m sure. Good luck with your studies.”
“Thanks, Tar,” Cevet and Relam chorused. As the sword master returned to his excited students and started to restore order, Relam lifted his sword so that it rested on his shoulder, pointing backwards.
“Another bout?” he asked innocently.
Cevet shook his head. “Not today. That was brutal. Besides, we’ve already been here longer than usual. I should be getting back.”
Relam shrugged. “If you insist. Good luck with D’Arnlo.”
“Thanks. Don’t let Oreius throw you in the river.”
“I won’t.”
Cevet flashed a grin and stowed his practice sword. Then he jogged out through the main gate, on his way home. Relam sighed and sank onto a nearby bench to rest. As he did, the younger cadets were beginning to pair up, selecting their partners for their first practice bouts. Some looked nervous, but most were eager to test themselves against their peers.
When Agath gave the signal to begin, the result was predictable. A half-dozen individual fights broke out in a flurry of movement. The cadets flailed wildly, forgetting everything Tar had ever taught them, cracking each other across knees, elbows, and wrists. Three of the bouts were ended in seconds, with both boys dropping their drill swords and clutching bruises. Another dissolved into a punching, kicking brawl. The other two fights lasted a little longer. One ended after five seconds, and the other was ended by Tar himself when he realized that all the two combatants planned to do was circle each other and wait for an opening.
Even though the sight of Tar training his students was vastly entertaining, Relam knew it was time to head back to the palace. His father would need his support, and there was a new guard commander to select. Stretching, the young prince made his way to the gate and slipped out, unnoticed by Tar and his clamoring students.
When Relam returned to the palace though, his father was not there. There were four guards at the door as usual, but they could tell him nothing of the king’s whereabouts. He had left with Clemon earlier in the day and not returned.
Disappointed again, Relam cleaned up and ate a solitary lunch in the dining antechamber, watched over by a quiet servant. The food was splendid as always, but Relam scarcely tasted it, wondering what his father was up to and if he would be all right.
The afternoon passed slowly. Relam alternated between dozing, trying to remember everything Tar had ever taught him, and reading a report about southern trade routes he had found on the table in the main room.
When his father did not show for dinner, Relam became worried. After asking the servants to delay the meal if at all possible, he set off into the palace, searching all the places his father was likely to be. He was not in the practice courtyard, blowing off steam or working on his swordsmanship. He was not in the gardens, staring at the door to the crypts. Nor was he in the council room, or the entrance hall, or the banquet hall. When Relam searched Clemon’s third floor office and found that it too was empty, he started to get worried.
Before he really panicked though, Relam had one last place to check. The audience hall. Used for court days and receiving dignitaries, the audience hall was a smaller hall not far from the banquet hall. It was just large enough for a throne and a hundred seats or so, if needed. Usually, the throne was the only item of furniture in the room. Visitors stood, which had the desirable effect of reducing the length of audiences. And when the space was not cluttered with tables or chairs it seemed larger and more impressive with its tapestried walls, marble pillars and high clerestory windows.
The door to the audience hall was closed when Relam arrived, with no guards at the door. He nearly turned around and left then and there, reasoning that surely there would be guards if his father were present, but then decided to check anyways. After all, the next step in the search was panic.
The young prince eased the left-hand door open and peered inside. The audience hall was dark, the lanterns extinguished, the only light filtering down from the clerestory above. But even in that dim light, Relam could see that the room was occupied by two men. One sat on the throne at the far end of the hall. The other hovered at his right hand.
Relam stepped into the hall, looking around warily. “Father?” he said tentatively.
“Your highness!” came the reply. Relam scowled as he recognized Clemon’s voice.
“Lord Clemon,” he said stiffly. “My apologies, I did not see you there.”
“Understandable,” Clemon said airily, looking around the darkened hall.
“Father,” Relam said, addressing the figure on the throne. “What are you doing here?”
“Running the kingdom,” the king growled. He was still wearing his crown which was unusual. Normally, he only wore it for formal occasions or when he needed to intimidate some uppity nobles. When he was not using it for either of those pu
rposes, the crown was usually locked up in the royal suite.
“It’s after dinner time,” Relam said, looking around. “And today’s not even a court day.”
“I have kingly duties to attend to,” his father murmured, slumping in his throne.
“Are you all right?” Relam asked, frowning.
The king made no reply, ignoring Relam completely.
“Father!” Relam shouted.
“His majesty is indisposed at the moment,” Clemon said, clearing his throat hastily.
“Has he been like this all day?” Relam asked worriedly, turning to the king’s chatelain.
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“Well, I-”
“Father,” Relam said, kneeling beside the throne beseechingly. “Come with me, come home.”
“No,” he muttered. “I am king.”
Relam exchanged a puzzled look with Clemon. “I know that, father, but-”
“Go!” Orram roared, raising his head and thrusting his bearded face forward. “Go,” he said again. “Your king commands it.”
“But-”
“Relam,” Clemon said quietly. “Best do as he says. I don’t know what’s come over him.”
The prince backed away from the throne slowly, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Please,” Clemon said.
Relam turned and left, with many a backward look. His father sank back onto the throne with a grunt, sinking back into his brooding mood.
The young prince stopped just outside the audience hall and leaned against the wall, shaking his head.
“They were right,” he whispered, looking up to the heavens. “Her death has destroyed him.”
Chapter 26
The king’s condition did not improve over the next few days.
On the fifth day of the week, court day, he returned to the audience hall. Relam accompanied him, along with the king’s chatelain. A few people came seeking justice, or rulings in their disputes. Some the king dismissed. For those cases that were simple to resolve, he casually passed judgement and the participants were rushed out of the hall. By the afternoon, there were no more cases to be heard and the king went back to his new natural state, brooding on his throne.
The Prince (Heirs of Legacy Book 1) Page 31
