by D L Sims
The King Trials
Chronicles of Wehlmir Book One
By: D.L. Sims
This book is dedicated to anyone, young and old, who had ever wished of living in fantastical lands. We are the dreamers. We are the world.
The King Trials. Copyright 2020 by Diondra Sims. All rights reserved.
This story is a work of fiction. All names, companies, events, organizations, etc are the imagination of the author or are used fictitiously. No portion of this book should be used or distributed without direct permission from the author.
Cover by: RebecaCovers
Edited by: Charmaine Tan
Map
Frostwindz
Chapter
One
Men and women dressed in immaculate fashion bustled around Khett as he stood in the middle of the ornate train station. They wore the conservative fashions of Rivland: coats and dresses with high collars. Men wore trousers with gold or silver chains dangling from the pocket watches hanging at their hips and shiny leather boots, which clicked against the marble floor. Women held purses made of fine fabric with beaded designs threaded into the front, and had their hair twisted at the nape of their necks, not a strand out of place. They wore little makeup. Only rouge on their cheeks, but nothing more.
“The train’s late,” his steward, Dallin--a much too skinny man with a large mole on his right cheek--said. He was older than Khett by five years and found displeasure in most things Khett enjoyed. Dallin wore his displeasure now as Khett leaned on a post with one leg crossed over the other and pulled an apple from a pocket inside his coat.
“The train’s always late,” Khett replied, peeling the apple with a small jeweled knife he kept tucked in his belt.
Khett’s presence in the station had not gone unnoticed. A circle gathered around him and his steward. People clambered over each other to be close to the Prince. Khett remained indifferent to the scene and let his apple peel fall to the marble floor in front of him, catching Dallin’s sharp frown out of the corner of his eye as the steward picked the peel up and threw it in the trash can.
Khett ate in silence and discreetly looked at the sea of women around him. Some he had already bedded once or twice, but there were a few that caught his attention, like the young woman with brown hair and ample breasts to his left and a red-haired beauty in the front.
“Rivland women are educated. One would make a perfect bride.”
Khett snorted at the memory of his mother trying to push him to find a wife. He had no desire to seek a bride from Rivland. He believed them to be bland creatures who loved nothing more than discussing philosophy and dead writers. Khett got enough of that with his tutors. Rivland women were great for sex, but dull for conversation.
Somewhere in the station, a bell rang to signal a train’s arrival. Khett stood straighter and lobbed his half-eaten apple at the nearby trash can. Dallin’s frown grew deeper as the apple core bounced off the rim of the can, and he chased it as it rolled away. Khett chuckled when Dallin came back with the core covered in dirt and hair. His steward hated that Khett didn’t act like a proper prince; he hated it even more when he had to clean up Khett’s messes.
“How’s my hair?” Khett asked, looking at the oak-colored strands in the reflection of a gold statue a few feet away. “Too much oil?”
“Just the right amount, Your Grace.”
He chuckled. “Good answer, Dallin.”
His steward bowed his head, and Khett swore he heard the man sigh.
Somewhere nearby a train whistled, and Khett readjusted his burgundy velvet tunic. The crowd waited in silence to see who Prince Khett could possibly be meeting at the train station.
The train pulled in with a hiss and a plume of steam. Khett stood with a cool, but feigned confidence. He checked his hair in the reflection of the statue again as passengers began disembarking. He scanned the crowd, his eyes glancing over the train’s passengers until Andalen’s wild, black curls came into view.
He stepped forward, gliding through the throng of people like a god. He smiled when his eyes met Andalen’s, and only grew bigger when Arlen came into view, followed by Lord Halon Amadon, and Andalen’s handmaiden, Nixema Maldreen.
Khett extended his hand toward Halon, who followed behind his children with a purposeful gait. He shook Khett’s hand with an iron grip that had the prince grimacing, but he kept his smile in place. “Father will be so pleased to see you, Lord Amadon.”
“I’m sure he will,” Lord Amadon replied in his frigid, clipped tone. Lord Amadon was tall and skinny like his children, but he had pale skin, much unlike Arlen and Andalen’s darker complexions. “How has he been?”
Khett stiffened. “The Illness is aggressive. Sadly, I believe you came just in time to say goodbye.”
Lord Amadon bowed his head, his face solemn.
Uncomfortable with the man’s display of emotion, Khett turned his attention to Andalen’s handmaiden. “Good afternoon, Nix.”
She smiled wide, making her round cheeks puff out. “Khett.”
Dallin frowned. “You should call him ‘Your Grace.’”
Khett pulled Nixema into a hug. “She isn’t required to, Dallin. Nix is a friend.”
Dallin grumbled, and Nixema giggled. Khett released her and turned his attention to Arlen, who was running a hand over his short, black curls. Blush tinged his cheeks.
“Why are you so nervous, my friend?” Khett laughed.
“I’m not nervous.” Arlen protested, but his posture suggested otherwise. He stepped forward and clapped Khett on the back. “It’s been too long.”
Khett turned to his last visitor. Andalen stood tall and noble in a green dress with a large hoop skirt. Her curls were long and wild, barely contained by a small ornate hat. She wore light makeup that made her brown eyes appear larger and brighter.
“Andalen,” he breathed out.
She smiled, showing a row of perfect white teeth. “Hello, Khett.”
He held an elbow out for her to wrap her delicate, but deadly hands around, then led the party forward with Andalen at his side. Whispers followed them out of the train station.
Khett stood tall and proud. A devilish smirk curved on his handsome face.
The sun reflected off the pristine marble buildings, casting glittering light over the gray cobbled streets as the glossy black carriage with gold trimmings bumped over the pristine cobbled streets in a gentle rhythm as Khett’s visitors marveled at the beautiful buildings. He had seen the same architecture more than a thousand times before, so he sat back with one leg crossed over the other, observing Andalen and her wide-eyed wonder of the shimmering structures. She had been to Rivland many times, but whenever she visited she acted as if it was her first time seeing the white and gold city.
“That is the university,” Dallin provided, directing the Amadons’ attention to the window on the right of the carriage. “It spans the length of two miles.”
Halon yawned.
“Do they have an artist program?” Arlen wondered.
Khett looked curiously at his friend. Arlen had been an amazing artist, but an eye disorder had left him unable to paint. Or so Khett thought, but he wouldn’t embarrass his oldest friend by bringing it up.
“Hmm?” Dallin asked, distracted. Khett looked out the window to see what had caught the steward’s attention. Dallin’s wife, one of the professors at the university, had taken her students outside. “Oh, no. Rivland’s schools focus on relevant subjects such as science, arithmetic, the study of nature, and literature.”
Arlen frowned. “That--”
“Are you saying art is irrelevant?” Andalen challenged. “Arlen is a great artist. Is his work not relevant?”
“N-n-not in Rivland,” Dallin stammered, looking to Kh
ett for help, but the young prince sat back. It brought him immense enjoyment to see his steward floundering under Andalen’s fierce stare. “It just isn’t taught here...at this school.” Dallin swallowed, and Andalen raised an eyebrow. “The...um...university in Palamar teaches art.”
Andalen rolled her eyes. “So, is it relevant to you? Art?”
“Y-yes, Lady Andalen.”
Arlen patted Andalen’s hand with an amused smile. “Sister, stop torturing the poor man.”
Andalen looked at the steward as he sweat beneath his collar. “I apologize, Dallin.”
Khett chuckled. “Serves you right, Dallin. Everyone knows the Amadon twins stand up for one another.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Halon cleared his throat. “It doesn’t matter if art is relevant or not. Arlen--”
His voice cut off as he realized what he was about to say. The Amadons had kept Arlen’s disorder a secret; only Khett and a few others knew of the diagnosis.
The passengers fell into a tense silence until the castle came into view.
The carriage pulled up to the golden gates of the castle, which were molded to look like leafy vines. The castle itself was constructed of white bricks forged from marble and Opal Stone, with large veins of ivy climbing up the side walls. Tall turrets pierced the sky, and stained glass windows glittered in the summer sun with a rainbow of colors. The Royal Guard stood sentry every few feet along the castle walls, each donned in their burgundy and charcoal uniforms with Opal Stone swords at their belts.
Khett jumped out of the carriage before it came to a stop.
His mother stood at the top of the steps, wearing an elegant dress with her brown and gray hair twisted back from her face. Beside her--in his wheelchair--sat King Jalinan with his hands clasped in his lap. He was older than his queen by four years but looked even older than that. The Black Illness had turned the strong man frail, leaving him skinny and pale. The golden, ruby and onyx jeweled crown laid slightly askew on his head.
It had been three years since his father had contracted the Illness. King Jalinan had deteriorated slowly. First, he had lost the ability to walk, then his heart became weak, and he sometimes found it hard to breathe on his own. Over the last six months, the Illness had become more aggressive, rapidly taking what was left of his vitality. He could no longer eat solid food and had begun to cough up blood. A black, tar-like substance also leaked from his nose and ears.
No one outside the castle walls had seen the King in months. Khett had been the face of the Crown since his father had taken a turn for the worse.
But the Eltharian people knew of the King’s illness. Khett had heard the rumors. He had heard that the guards at the Round Tower were placing bets on his father’s passing.
“How was...the journey...my son?” King Jalinan asked as Khett approached.
“Well, Father. We brought you a surprise.”
The door to the carriage opened, and out stepped the Amadons, followed by Dallin and Nixema.
The King’s laugh was brittle. “Halon Amadon...as I live...and breathe.” He coughed into a handkerchief, and black and red stained the white cloth.
Halon’s eyes softened, but he didn’t draw attention to the King’s disease. “Two years and three months by my calculations.”
“Aye.” The King motioned for one of the servants to wheel him back inside. “The staff will...show you to...your rooms,” he said to Andalen and Arlen as he pulled back and turned to Halon. “Come.”
The party followed the King and Halon inside, but Khett stopped Arlen with a hand to his shoulder. Arlen turned, his gaze questioning and an eyebrow raised, reminding Khett of Andalen.
“Come to the gardens with me. We must catch up. I haven’t seen you in nearly a year.”
Arlen nodded, and they started down the path that led to the front gardens. The gardens were a maze of flowers and bushes, and the smell of roses and tulips hung in the air. Gardeners tended to the plants and grass, greeting the Prince and the young Lord as they passed.
Arlen remained quiet, but then again, Arlen was always quiet.
“What has been going on with you, my friend? Bedded anyone?”
Arlen shot him a look, causing Khett to chuckle.
“Right. Still a virgin, then.”
“Not all of us bed whoever we like, Khett.”
“But those that do are happier because of it.” Khett laughed boisterously. “Why did you ask about the Art program? You planning to go to school?”
Arlen nodded. “It’s a dream. With my sight going, I want to experience university before I can no longer see.”
“The Doctors said you were only losing it in one eye, correct?”
“For now,” Arlen mumbled. “I can still read and paint, but they don’t know much else.”
“You could study Literature at the Rivland University,” Khett suggested. He would love to have Arlen closer.
“Books are a great escape, but art--art is my life, Khett. I live and breathe color and canvas.”
Khett pursed his lips, thinking. “Well, Palamar isn’t that bad,” he offered. “The people are wild, but still educated, unlike the dregs in Oszerack.” Khett plucked a flower from the soil without touching it, relishing the feeling of his powers surging through him as the flower left the dirt and floated into his hand. “Do you think Oszerackians are born with those sad looks on their faces or do they develop over time?”
“You shouldn’t poke fun, Khett.” Arlen frowned. “Tell me about yourself. Have you found a wife? I’m sure your mother is already planning the wedding even if you haven’t found a woman you desire for more than a night in bed.”
“Mother’s been wanting me to marry since I came of age. I turn twenty-five next year, and according to Mother, I should be married and have a child on the way. You know how much my mother loves tradition.”
“Especially for us nobles,” Arlen continued Khett’s unspoken thought. “That way, there are heirs for the Trials.”
“No. I haven’t found a wife.”
Arlen stopped, studying his old friend. “Are you still waiting for my sister?”
Khett ignored his question. “She ended things with me when we were eighteen. We’re only friends, Arlen.”
“And yet, six years later, you’re still in love with her.”
Khett scoffed and continued down the path. He would not admit that Arlen was right.
Khett, Arlen and Andalen spent the night reminiscing about old times. Arlen teased Khett for being enamored with Andalen after all these years, but how could he not still love her? Her laughter was like music echoing through the white halls of the castle; she was strong and beautiful. He valued her mind and would love her always. When they turned in for the night, Khett found it hard to sleep, and when he did sleep, he dreamed of her. He dreamed of her light sepia skin, her curly hair, and her deep brown eyes. He dreamed of kissing her again, of pressing into her warm body, and the familiarity of her hands on his skin.
He woke in the morning with a smile and headed down to breakfast after getting dressed, only to find that the Amadons had left before the sun rose due to urgent business Lord Amadon had in Odenmal. Khett’s smile quickly turned to a frown.
He didn’t get to say goodbye.
“Is my father up?” he asked one of the servants while buttering his toast. He then tossed the knife on the table instead of on the plate, smearing butter and jam on the tablecloth.
“No one has seen him this morning, Your Grace,” the servant answered as he stood against the wall with a pot of tea in his hand. “Nolan was just going to check on him.”
Khett waved his answer off and stood from his chair, placing his toast between his teeth. “No need,” he said around the bread. “I will go.”
He walked through the white halls as he ate. Adorning the walls were tapestries in the Pedgram colors stitched with a hawk and roses, and others depicting events of Elthare’s past, such as the Elf Wars of 1539 and the invention of the Steam Tra
in. Just before the hall on the fourth floor branched off into his father’s wing, the family tree hung, dating all the way back to the first King of Elthare, King Valnar Pedgram I. Khett’s little branch was at the bottom, his name stitched into the burgundy fabric with gold thread.
He turned, intending to head to his father’s bedchambers, but the door to his study stood open, the tip of his father’s boot visible from the hall. Khett pushed the door open further to enter the room.
“Father--”
His words stuck in his throat. His father was huddled in his wheelchair, his face a pale ghost white. Crimson dotted his lips and chin. His eyes were wide and gray with death. Khett inched closer. The room smelled of something so foul Khett couldn’t put a name to it. The black oozing from his father’s ears and nose had dried to tar-colored rivers on his ghostly skin.
He touched his father’s hand. It was stiff and cold.
He pulled back. Everything in him--his mind, his heart, his breathing-- stuttered to a halt. He was too shocked to move, to make a sound. An odd croaking sound escaped his parted lips.
He sank to his knees. His brain seemed to jolt to a start, and internally, he screamed. His thoughts were nothing more than a stormy mess of grief and devastation.
A scream ripped up from his throat, turning to a loud sob. His heart pounded against his ribs, almost painful as it clenched with sorrow, beating too fast and too hard in his chest. His breaths came in rapid, unsteady bursts as tears streamed down his face.
The servants came running. Nolan was first to enter the room, but Khett paid no attention to the young man until he spoke.
“Prince Khett.” He heard the servant’s voice as if he were underwater; the man sounded garbled, far away. “Prince Khett, let go.”
He hadn’t realized he still held on to his father’s hand. He released his fingers and could swear he heard his joints creak as if he had been holding on forever. The hand fell into the King’s lap with a small, dull thunk.
