The King Trials

by D L Sims

  He came to the Shaden cottage, a small structure made of wood on the edge of the forest, close to the village, but not in it. He could hear laughter coming from inside and smelled something cooking in the small hearth as he knocked on the flimsy wooden door.

  The door opened, revealing a young woman with long red hair, a petite round face, and freckles that dotted the bridge of her nose. Her blue eyes, the same color as a cloudless sky, twinkled with a joke that had yet to be told. Her plump, pink lips turned up into a smile.

  “Ikar!”

  She flew into his arms, and he wrapped her warm body against his, inhaling her scent, and reveling in the way her slender frame molded to fit into him. He twirled her, and her giggle warmed his chilled blood. A smile curved on his lips.

  He set her on her feet and took her face in his hands. “Let me look at you, Roz. It’s been too long since I have seen your face.”

  Roslen giggled. “It’s only been six hours.”

  “Six hours too long.”

  Roslen tugged him into the small cottage. Her family gathered around the fire, each of them with their sunny smiles and bright red hair. Mrs. Shaden, a plump figure with the same mirth in her brown eyes as her children’s, welcomed him into their home. Ever since he had met Briar at the age of twelve, he felt that the Shaden cottage was his true home; Briar was the brother he had always longed for, but never got from Yvney. The overflowing affection from both Mr. and Mrs. Shaden brought tears to his eyes, making him long for something of the sort from his own parents.

  A pang twinged his heart for a different life and family dynamic.

  “Sit, love, I’ve just put the food on,” Mrs. Shaden commanded in her kind voice. “Have you eaten?”

  “Unfortunately, dinner was ruined by Yvney.” Ikar accepted a cup of hot tea from Mr. Shaden. “Again.”

  Roslen sat at Ikar’s side. Her hand tightened in his as her pretty mouth pulled into a severe frown. Ikar soothed her by rubbing the back of her hand with his thumb while looking at Briar. His friend sipped at his tea. Dark storm clouds swirled in his usually bright gaze.

  “Briar, are you alright? I didn’t think you had it in you to be angry.”

  His friend huffed at his joke. “Your brother is a snake.”

  Roslen made a noise of agreement. “Eventually someone will chop his head off, and he will no longer be here to fill you with his poison,” she said. Ikar kissed the back of her hand. “I have half a mind to do it myself.”

  “Roslen Shaden, defender of impassive lords everywhere,” Ikar said with a smirk, pulling her to him. “I can fight my own battles, my love.” He felt Roslen’s body shake in his hands. He pulled back to see tears brimming her eyes. He wiped one away from her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Why are you crying?”

  “Don’t mind me,” she replied.

  Ikar raised an eyebrow in Briar’s direction. His strong Roslen didn’t cry over something so trivial as his brother giving him grief. Usually, she fought fire with fire. His Roslen was a warrior.

  Briar shook his head in confusion and dug into the stew his mother handed him.

  Chapter

  Five

  The sun shone down on the castle with a false jovial light; Khett cursed it and continued getting dressed in his family’s colors. A patch shaped like a black rose rested on the left side of his chest, a symbol of respect and remembrance for the fallen king. His cape seemed to be choking him; it felt too heavy, and the fabric irritated his skin.

  His eyes burned with unshed tears.

  “Are you ready?” his mother’s voice sounded behind him.

  He turned to see her in the doorway, dressed in her burgundy and charcoal dress, a black rose attached to the high collar. Her brown hair was tied up at the nape of her neck, and her face looked haunted, sallow. Khett couldn’t remember the last time he had seen his mother eat in the last week; he couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten.

  Khett nodded and followed his mother through the castle. The staff bustled around them, greeting them with their heartfelt condolences, and tales of how much they had loved the king. Khett ignored them all. He couldn’t bear to listen to it. He trudged along, pulling his mother gently by the elbow beside him.

  Outside the castle, a carriage had been brought around for them. The interior smelled of leather and wealth. Normally, Khett would have loved the smell of a new carriage, but not that day; his brain was too muddled to enjoy anything.

  They rode in silence, with his mother tapping her nails lightly on the wood of the door as she stared out at the silent city. As Khett expected, most of the shops had been closed, the streets were empty of carriages and pedestrians, and the college looked barren and ghostly.

  Khett sat, stock still, hands folded in his lap.

  He tried to think of his father. He knew he had many fond memories of the king, but in that moment, he seemed to be failing to come up with anything specific. He could see Jalinan’s straight nose, his dark eyes and hair in his mind, and he could remember his father’s strong voice and boisterous laugh, but for some reason he couldn’t picture anything beyond the frail man of the last three years. He didn’t want to remember his father as the sick man; he wanted to remember the healthy, strong man of his childhood, and it frustrated him that none of those memories entered his mind.

  The carriage came to a stop in front of the Temple where people were overflowing out onto the street. Khett shook his head. The people were early--too early. He had wanted time alone with his feelings, with his thoughts. With his father.

  Khett climbed out of the carriage, and a hush fell over the crowd. Hundreds of eyes stared at him, into him, but he looked up at the temple, a grand building made of marble with statues of Nomir and Kurem on either side of the golden doors: Nomir, bearded, holding a dove and a branch full of leaves; and Kurem, clean-shaven, holding a trident and a scale.

  Khett had never put much stock in prayer and religion, but he had been known to look to the Gods when he needed their divine guidance. He hadn’t prayed to the Gods since his father died. What would he pray for? His mother swore by religion. She believed the Gods had a reason for taking the King weeks before his forty-seventh birthday. Khett wished he could have that same belief.

  No one spoke as Khett and his mother passed. Bodies pressed in on him, and he recoiled from the touch.

  Inside the temple was stifling hot. Every pew filled with villagers from every far corner of Elthare. Only one pew in the front stood empty. The glass coffin had already been brought out, and Khett could see his father inside, surrounded by roses, and dressed in the family colors with two Opal Stones over his eyes--an offering for Kurem to guide him safely through the Afterworld. A gold plaque with the Pedgram crest above the coffin read:

  Honor, truth, and heart--long may they reign.

  Khett let out a breath when he saw Andalen and Arlen sitting in the pew behind the one reserved for Khett and the former queen. Andalen offered him a supportive smile, but he offered nothing in return. Next to her sat two men Khett had only seen in passing: Grantham Sinero and Phinn Monneaire. He nodded at them, and they gave a responding, solemn nod.

  A man in white robes took the podium just as Khett and his mother sat.

  “Let us begin,” the priest said in a crisp, clear voice that sounded slightly too cheerful for a somber occasion. “Bow your heads in prayer.”

  Father would not want us to pray to the Gods for him, Khett thought as he bowed his head and clasped his hands in his lap. His father had not believed in the Eltharian religion.

  Through the prayer and speech the priest gave, Khett’s mind remained blank, unable to retain any words the man spoke until he said: “Now, Lord Khett would like to say a few words.”

  Khett jerked at the title ‘Lord Khett.’ For his entire life he had been Prince Khett or ‘Your Grace’. The title of Lord felt like he had lost his footing in the world.

  Khett stood and walked to the podium. He was overly aware of the sharp clack-clack sound
his boots made on the marble floor. He turned and looked out at the sea of people and swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat.

  “My father was a great man,” he began. “H-he taught me how to swing a sword and skin a rabbit. I remember when I was younger he would bounce me on his knee.” The memories that had eluded him earlier flooded his mind. One after another, they blinked into focus, bringing a small smile to his face. “Many of you know him as the Great King Jalinan, the man who brought an end to the War of Wars, but I know him as the man who would sing when I was sick and read by candlelight every night.” He paused and cleared his throat. “I loved my father, and I will make him proud in the upcoming Trials.”

  His words were met with silence, everyone lost in their own grief, and he descended the podium and found his seat again. Andalen reached over the back of the pew and squeezed his shoulder. His hand came up and captured hers.

  The cemetery in Rivland was filled with past kings, members of the noble families and soldiers who had died in battle. The Golden Tomb, where all Elthare’s past kings were buried was a grand spectacle of a mausoleum filled with numerous plaques made of gold and rare jewels depicting the king’s name, the date of his birth and death, and the years of his reign. The tomb carried centuries of history. And Khett stood in the middle of it all, staring blankly into the large black hole in the east wall where his father was to be put to rest later that day.

  He had left his father’s funeral after his mother had given her eulogy. He couldn’t bear to be in the Temple anymore with the entire kingdom looking at him, pitying him. Somehow, he ended up in the Golden Tomb, staring at that blank hole in the wall.

  “Your mother’s looking for you,” Andalen’s voice came from behind him.

  He turned to see her and Arlen standing just at the entrance to the mausoleum, identical figures in their house colors: emerald and gold. Together, his oldest friends came into the mausoleum, settling at his side. Andalen’s arm went around his shoulder, and he leaned into her while Arlen stood on Khett’s other side, hands in the pockets of his simple coat.

  “The Dominikovs have been entertaining your mother with tales from the north.”

  Khett let out the first genuine laugh he’d had in days. “I’m sure my mother is loving that. She had always found the Dominikovs to be brutish.”

  “Perhaps we should go rescue her,” Arlen suggested, putting his arm around Khett’s other shoulder, over his sister’s. The nearness of them seeped into Khett, warming his chilled bones. “The funeral ended. Everyone’s heading back to the castle for the feast.”

  “My father would hate that he’s missing a feast,” Khett said sadly. “Especially one being thrown in his honor.”

  As one, the trio turned and made to head out of the tomb. Khett cast one more look at the hole that would be his father’s tomb.

  I will make you proud, Father.

  Chapter

  Six

  “You seem distracted today, Sin.”

  Grant rubbed tenderly at his bruising ribs as he looked at his friend. Lonis' bronze chest shimmered in the summer sun and his ink-colored hair dripped with sweat.

  Grant smiled at him. “Not distracted, Lonnie. Thinking about how I am going to beat you.”

  Lonis laughed. “I think the scoreboard favors me.”

  Grant adjusted his stance and delivered a combo of punches, all of which were blocked. Lonis grabbed his arms, rotating them behind Grant’s back and making him fall to his knees. He hissed in pain.

  “Poor Sin,” Lonis taunted, his voice tickling Grant’s ear, “will you ever beat me?”

  Grant growled and twisted his body, freeing himself from Lonis’ grip. He turned, swiping out his leg and tripping Lonis, who fell back into the sand with an “oomph” and then laughed.

  “You surprised me.”

  “You were getting on my nerves,” Grant countered with a smirk. He held out a hand to help Lonis to his feet. “You have a bruise forming under your eye.”

  Lonis poked the swollen area where Grant had landed a punch earlier and then smiled. “I’m proud of you, Sin. You did well today.”

  A warmth passed through Grantham’s body at Lonis' praise. He smiled. “Maybe one day I will be even better than you.”

  Lonis scoffed, clapping Grant on the back. “I don’t believe that’s true.”

  A trumpet sounded close by. He turned from Lonis to see the Trials Master coming from the direction of the village. He had nearly ten men with him, all dressed in black garments and holding trumpets with Opal Stone swords strapped to their sides.

  Lonis whistled between his teeth. “The king has only been buried three days and they are already announcing the Trials.”

  The Master came closer. His broad shoulders stretched the fabric of his black tunic, his blond hair swept back from his face with too much oil, and curled over his pointed ears and collar. His beard was oiled as well and trimmed to perfection.

  “Lord Grantham,” the Trial’s Master said in a booming voice as he held out a scroll tied with red ribbon and stamped with the Master’s seal. “An invitation to the Trials.”

  Grantham bowed. “Thank you, Master Roxell.”

  The Master smiled and turned. More trumpeting sounded as he departed from the sand.

  Lonis made a noise in his throat. “All that fanfare, and the whole affair was highly anticlimactic.”

  Grant shoved Lonis with his shoulder as he unrolled the scroll.

  You have been cordially invited to participate in Elthare’s 43rd King Trials!

  Participating in the Trials is a great honor, and one that should not be taken lightly.

  While it is not required for any member of any of the founding families to participate in the Trials, remember that it is a sacred duty that has been tradition for centuries.

  In order to participate in the Trials, you must adhere to the following stipulations:

  --You must be a member of the five founding families of Elthare

  (Monneaire, Amadon, Pedgram, Sinero or Dominikov)

  --You must be aged between twenty and twenty-five

  --You must be of sound mind and body

  The Trials will begin in a month’s time. Please return a letter with your interest and be in Rivland by midday in thirty days. Failure to do so will be an automatic forfeit of your claim to the throne.

  Your family will be invited to stay in the Champions’ Manor during your time in the Trials, and you are allowed to bring one person outside your blood to be with you during this exciting time.

  May the Gods bring you good fortune!

  Roxell Vaslev, Master of the King Trials

  Grant looked up from the Master’s large scrolling signature at the end of the parchment and up at Lonis’ eyes.

  Lonis studied him, his brow furrowed. “Are you going to participate?”

  Grant gripped the scroll, crinkling the parchment in his fist. He had no desire to be king, no desire to risk his life for the throne--

  It’s your duty, a voice that sounded eerily like his mother’s entered his mind. She would have wanted him to enter.

  Grant hesitated before giving his answer. “Yes. I am going to enter.” His eyes met Lonis' again. “I want you to come with me.”

  Quickly, the realization of what he was signing up for settled in his gut, making him queasy.

  Gods, what am I getting myself into? He shook his head.

  Lonis remained quiet as he chewed on his bottom lip. He had an expression on his face that Grant had only seen once when Lonis' father had been severely injured in battle. “Sin--”

  “Please.” Grant stepped closer to his friend, gripping his arm, his eyes wide and begging. “I can’t do this without you, Lonnie. Please, come with me.”

  Lonis nodded. Some deep emotion swirled in his eyes that Grant couldn’t begin to decipher, the only thing he could make out in the honey-colored depths was fear. Lonis' hand rested on top of Grant’s, warm and still a little sweaty from their sparring session.
“I’ll go with you, Sin. I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

  Andalen strolled through the unusually quiet manor corridors. The servants were all gathered in their quarters celebrating Isa’s nameday, so the halls felt colder, lonelier than usual. Her brother whipped around a corner, nearly smacking into her. She steadied them both with a hand on each of his elbows, noticing the piece of parchment in his hand.

  “What’s that?”

  “A letter for father. It’s a statement saying that I don’t want to enter the Trials.”

  She blinked up at him, brown eyes meeting brown. “I was thinking...” she paused, unsure if this was a good idea or not, but she saw no other way. An Amadon had to enter the Trials, and she had always dreamed of being queen--she had to at least try. “I was thinking that I could take your place in the Trials.”

  Arlen raised an eyebrow at her, his mouth quirking into a confused smile. “What do you mean?”

  “You can go to all the events like the parade and the dinners, and do the knowledge trial, and I’ll do all the physical stuff.” She took his hands in hers, pinning him with a stare. “I will become you.”

  Arlen chukled. “I hate to break this to you, Andi, but you’re a girl. We’re going to get caught.”

  “Please, If I chop my hair off and bind my chest, I’ll look like you. We’re the same height and from the back no one will be able to tell us apart” Now that the seed was planted, she wanted this more than anything. She wanted to be queen more than she needed air to breathe. “Please, Arlen. Let me do this.”

  “What if you actually win?”

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead, Ari. Please, I can’t think of another way.”

  “This is a stupid fucking plan, Andi.” He stared at her, mulling the idea over in his head. Finally, he sighed. “Fine, but if we get caught I’m blaming everything on you.”