by D L Sims
Andalen beamed. “Fair enough. Now let’s go find some shears and Nix. She’s not going to be pleased to hear this.”
In unison they turned in the direction of her bedchambers. Andi looped her arm through Arlen’s as he crumpled the letter to their father and threw it into one of the torches lining the corridor.
Chapter
Seven
“Attention, Champions,” a professional, clipped female voice sounded through the round, gold speaker on the wall of Khett’s room. The voice belonged to Luane, the Champions’ Manor keeper. She was a stern woman with severe features, and pin straight gray hair. “You will be leaving for the Champions Welcome Dinner. Please make your way to the foyer.”
Khett straightened up from the open trunk with a tunic in his hand. He had only arrived an hour before and had hoped for some sort of reprieve before they jumped into the Champions’ duties.
He had not seen the other Champions. Each of them had arrived at different times throughout the day, but he had heard Grantham Sinero’s voice in the hall earlier, followed by that of Ikar Dominikov.
Footsteps on the floors above and below him sounded as the other Champions and their loved ones made their way down to the foyer.
“And so it begins,” his mother said, fear laced her voice, mixing with pride. “Remember, my son, being king is in the Pedgram blood. What are the words on our family crest?”
“‘Honor, truth and heart--long may they reign.’”
She gave a small, sad smile. “Your father would be so proud of you.”
Khett dropped the tunic in his half-packed trunk and crossed the expanse of the room to sit with his mother on top of the red and black blankets of his new bed. He took her hand and gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “I’m going to win, Mother. For him.”
His mother sniffed, pushed her dark hair back from her face with her free hand, and then cupped his cheek; her fingers were cold against his warm skin. “I know you will, my son.” She stood, pulling him up with her. “Now, let’s go to the foyer.”
Together, they exited the large, ornate room and descended the stairs down onto the first level of the Manor. He smiled charmingly at one of the pretty house servants as he passed, causing the woman to blush.
The walls and floors of the Champions’ Manor were made from hard stone, marble and onyx, laced with gold. Murals of past Trials were painted on the walls and ceilings, and the colors, flowers and animals of the five founding families had been interwoven throughout the house. Khett wrinkled his nose at the purple and blue window drapings with small stags and crows stitched into the fabric.
Whose idea had it been to mix the Monneaire and Sinero colors?
Andalen and Arlen were hugging as he entered. Their parents stood close by, but distant from the words and affection exchanged between the twins. Phinn Monneaire stood with his younger brother and his seven-year-old sister at his hip, while his parents were huddled around them, sobbing onto each others’ shoulder.
They fear for him, Khett realized, but it wasn’t that same proud fear on his mother’s face or in the Amadons, the Dominikovs, or in Lord Sinero’s eyes. This was pure terror for their son’s life. And rightly so, Khett’s thoughts continued, looking at the young lord. Phinn, the youngest of the five champions, was built like a bird with a small frame and a face that made him look like a boy of fourteen rather than a man of twenty. The Trials weren’t deadly, but they were brutal. They have left men permanently injured, and some had even been paralyzed after. From what Khett had heard, Phinn Monneaire was not a strong fighter.
A loud squeal came from where the Sineros stood, drawing Khett’s attention. Grantham knelt in front of a young girl, holding out something in his hand. The girl laughed. “Thank you, Grant!” Then Grantham stood and looked at his companion, a tall figure with raven black hair and a sword at his belt. The man was built like a soldier with lean muscle and a rigid stance; the exchange between Grantham and his friend seemed tense and private, prompting Khett to turn away.
He turned to his mother. Tears streaked her face, and he chuckled at her foolishness. “I’m not going to die yet, Mother.”
She gave him a watery smile, wiping at her eyes with the kerchief his father had given to her for her birthday, and pulled him into a hug. “Have fun, my son.”
“Khett!” Nixema’s voice drew his attention, and he pulled back from his mother to find the handmaiden in the small crowd. He hadn’t seen her before when he surveyed the room, but she stood in a corner, draped in a simple but beautiful green dress. She waved him over.
He unwound his arms from his mother and picked his way through the families to stand next to Nixema. She smiled as he approached.
“Hello, Nix. What are you doing here?”
Khett followed her gaze to Andalen dressed in a jacket and trousers, her hair long and curly, but odd-looking. The color either too light or too dark, and the curls seemed different as well, looser, nothing like the tight spirals he was accustomed to seeing. Khett shook his head, thinking she was experimenting with a new style, before turning his attention back to Nix.
“Arlen brought me.”
“He had no one else to bring?” Khett wondered, turning his gaze to the Amadons. Arlen looked ready to forfeit the throne before the Trials had even begun. Khett hated his friend being forced into something by his father that Arlen did not want to participate in. “No friends or a girl? It seems strange that he would bring his sister’s handmaiden.”
Nix made a face at him, something akin to her sucking on a lemon. “Arlen doesn’t have friends besides you, and as for girls--”
“Hello.”
Khett turned to see that Grantham and his companion had approached from their left. They were both wearing the Sinero colors, but Grantham’s blue jacket was finer than his friend’s and had small velvet crows sewn into the collar.
“Are we interrupting?” Grantham asked, bowing to Nix.
Nix smiled, showing the dip in her right cheek. “Not at all. I’m Nixema Maldreen, handmaiden to Lady Andalen.”
Khett snorted, finding it strange to hear Nix call Andalen ‘Lady’. Grantham looked at Khett with a curious expression. “Lord Khett, I didn’t get a chance to tell you how sorry I was about your father’s passing at the funeral. He was very kind to me when my father and I visited the castle last year.”
Khett inclined his head at the Lord’s words. “Thank you, Lord Grantham.” He turned to the raven-haired man on his left with a nod. “I don’t think I know who you are.”
“You wouldn’t,” the man said with a smile, reaching out a hand towards Khett. “Lonis Hesito. I’m training to be a soldier in the Sinero Guard.”
Grantham’s arm went around the man’s shoulders. “Lonis is my oldest friend, came to see me get maimed by you lot.”
Lonis frowned, and his muscles tensed. “Not funny, Sin.”
“Did you bring anyone?” Nixema asked Khett, pushing a blond tendril of hair off her shoulder.
“Just my mother.” Khett had no one else he could bring, growing up in the castle had left him sheltered. His only friends had been Andalen and Arlen; any friends he made, when he had been allowed to venture outside the castle walls, were only kind to him in the hopes that they would one day be invited to the castle or to meet his father. Khett frowned. “I don’t know who I would have brought.”
Grantham clapped him on the back. “We can share Lonis,” he said with a broad, teasing smile.
“I don’t think your friend is too fond of that idea, Lord Grantham,” Nixema commented with a giggle.
Petulance laced Lonis' voice when he replied, “I would’ve liked to have known that I was going to be passed around like a newborn babe.”
Khett couldn’t help but laugh, enjoying Lord Grantham’s and Lonis' company. “Where are you from, Mr. Hesito?”
“You can call me Lonis; I’m not a fan of formalities. My parents are from the Republic of Kehan--from a small village in the Shuhai Valley.”
; Khett nodded. “I went with my father to the Republic two summers ago. It’s a beautiful place.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Lonis admitted. “I’ve never been.”
A lovely woman with brown hair and dark eyes approached them from behind Grant. Khett smiled at her with a charm he reserved for the women he wished to bed. She returned his smile with a flirty one of her own. Grantham turned to find what had caught Khett’s attention.
“Milden!” He hugged her and they both chuckled. “I miss seeing you around the village.”
“I don’t miss Oszerack, but I have missed you,” she replied, pulling free from Grantham’s arms.
“What brings you to the Manor?” Lonis asked after giving Milden a hug of his own.
“I’m the official seamstress for the Trials.” She replied with pride. “Each of you are going to be fitted for a whole new wardrobe.”
Khett pushed his way forward. “Hello,” he said, extending his hand. His voice dripped with seduction. “I’m Khett Pedgram. I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”
She flashed him a disarming smile and curtsied. “Milden Oslan, assistant to Seamstress Ofra.”
Khett whistled through his teeth. “You work for the royal seamstress? That’s very impressive.” He stepped even closer and lowered his voice. “When do I get the pleasure of you fitting me?”
“You’ll be the first. You have my promise, Lord Khett.” She whispered. She then stepped back and turned her smile on the rest of the group. “Excuse me. I need to discuss fabric choices with Lady Amadon.”
Khett didn’t take his eyes off the seamstress until Lord Monneaire blocked his view.
“She’s Oszerackian?” he asked Grantham and Lonis.
“Yes,” Grantham answered. “She was a ward at my aunt’s orphanage.”
Khett smoothed a hand over his styled hair. “I didn’t know they made such beauty in Oszerack. I may have to visit your dirty village more often, Lord Grantham.”
Grantham opened his mouth as if to argue, but Master Roxell clapped his hands twice to get everyone’s attention.
“Champions, loved ones,” Master Roxell called from where he stood between the foyer and the large hall that led to the dining area, “it is time the Champions take their leave. We have dinner waiting for the families in the dining room!”
Nixema disappeared to join the Amadons, and Grantham turned to Lonis, placing his hands on the other man’s shoulders. “You’re going to tell me everything that happens at dinner, and if there’s anything chocolate for dessert steal some for me.”
“Of course, Sin,” Lonis replied with a crooked smile.
Khett turned away from Grantham and his friend to find his mother in the crowd, but she had already disappeared into the dining room with Lady Monneaire at her side. Khett felt a presence come up next to him, and turned to see Phinn at his side.
“Hello, Lord Khett.”
“Lord Phinn.”
“Your carriage awaits!” The Master said, ushering them forward.
Khett fell into step with Grantham and Phinn, but he could hear Ikar and Arlen behind them. They climbed into the black and silver carriage drawn by two black steeds, settling into the lush interior. Khett sat across from Arlen, smiling when his friend looked up at him.
“Here we are, old friend.”
Arlen looked out the carriage window. “Here we are, indeed.”
Khett’s eyes cast downward. Arlen’s hands were smudged with ink and charcoal. “You’ve been drawing.”
Arlen looked down at his hands and then rubbed them on his gold trousers, smearing them with black. “This place begs to be drawn. Not that I have been successful at capturing its beauty.” There was something flat about his voice. As if he had been deflated like an old balloon.
“You’re an artist?” Phinn asked. “My brother paints.”
“How old is your brother?” Arlen turned his attention from Khett to Phinn.
“Seventeen. He’s really talented.”
Khett kept his eyes on Arlen. When his friend smiled at Phinn it didn’t quite meet his eyes. His brown skin looked pale and ashen. His eyes seemed lifeless--no, not lifeless--full of sorrow.
“I wished you hadn’t gotten dragged into this, Arlen,” Khett whispered. “You were supposed to go to school.”
Arlen shrugged. “I don’t want to talk about it, Khett.”
Khett opened his mouth to argue, but thought better against it with the others in tow.
Next to him, Ikar shifted. Khett turned and looked at the Lord. His black hair tumbled around his pale forehead as he stared out the window at the passing landscape.
“That woman I saw you with earlier,” Khett said to him. “The one with the red hair--”
“Be careful what you say, Lord Khett,” Ikar said in a dry tone, turning to him with cold gray eyes, “that woman will be my wife one day.”
Khett felt heat stain his cheeks. Ikar, two years younger than his twenty-four, had a way of making himself seem bigger than his skinny frame and older than the lot of them by ten years. “I was just going to say that I knew her brother, Briar Shaden.”
“Also be careful what you say about Briar.” His smile was as sharp and unforgiving as ice. “I would hate to have to kill you before the Trials even start.”
“Aren’t you a ray of sunshine?” Grantham commented. “Ignore him, Khett. The north winds have scrambled Dominikov’s brains.”
Ikar turned his sneer to Grantham. “And the southern sun has fried yours.”
“There’s no need to be rude to one another,” Arlen mumbled.
Ikar and Grantham laughed. Ikar’s sounded rusty like he didn’t laugh often, while Grantham’s was free like he had been laughing for as long as he had been alive. “Actually, Ikar and I have known each other for--what, ten years?”
“Eleven,” Ikar corrected in his crisp tone. “The Sineros visit the north every year before heading out on a sea tour.”
“We’ve arrived, young Lords,” their driver said from his perch outside the carriage.
Outside the window, they had just passed through the castle gates. Khett swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. It had been weeks since he had lived in these walls--he and his mother had been forced to move into the Pedgram estate on the other side of Rivland. He had expected things to be different when he returned. They weren’t. Everything was still pristine and manicured, the same servants bustled busily through the grounds, and the same trees lined the cobbled road.
“Is it strange to be returning?” Arlen asked.
The carriage came to a stop right in front of the steps that led to the castle doors. The Trials Master stood at the top, hands braced behind his back. For a moment, Khett thought of his father standing on those same steps, hands braced behind his back, a smile gracing his face. He felt grief well up within him, pricking at his heart and the corners of his eyes. He choked back the sorrow and his tears, and turned towards Arlen.
“It’s very strange.” His voice sounded thick and foreign.
They all climbed out of the carriage and ascended the steps. The Master watched them with a small, self-important smile. “Welcome!”
Khett found it baffling to be welcomed to his own home by a man who had never lived there.
It’s not your home anymore.
“Follow me, please.”
They followed Master Roxell into the great hall, past the ballroom and the library until he came to a stop just outside the throne room. Khett swallowed. He hadn’t been inside the room since the day his father died.
“Before we start dinner--”
The doors at the end of the hall banged open, and a figure strolled in from outside with an easy, unhurried gait; a tall and broad man with a shaved head, pale skin and a wicked smile that promised retribution if you crossed him.
“What the fuck?” Ikar whispered beside him.
“Sorry I’m late,” the man said, coming to a stop before them and training his nearly black eyes o
n Ikar. “Hello, little brother.”
“Lord Yvney!” The Master exclaimed. “We’re so glad you could join us.”
“I thought you said we had to be at the Manor by noon today in order to stay in the Trials?” Grantham asked, frowning at the newcomer. There was bad blood between the two men, Khett could see that in the way the two men stared each other down. They looked like two rabid dogs waiting to tear each other apart.
Yvney quirked a scarred eyebrow at Grant as he fell in line. “Hello to you too, Sinero.”
Khett didn’t personally know Lord Yvney, but he had heard stories, and he had heard enough to make sure he steered clear of the Lord.
“I did, but Lord Yvney had written a letter stating he wouldn’t be able to make it by noon,” the Master explained, “and in my humble generosity, I gave him a pass.”
“I can’t thank you again, Master Roxell.” Yvney’s smile was one Khett imagined a snake would wear--if a snake could smile--right before it attacked.
“You just wanted to make an entrance,” Ikar accused.
Yvney shrugged at his brother with indifference before turning back to the Master. “Please, continue, Master Roxell. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said in a friendly voice that Khett believed didn’t come naturally to him.
“As I was saying,” Master Roxell continued. “Before dinner, I will tell you the expectations and rules of the Trials, and then you will meet with me one on one to tell me what ability has been passed down to you through your family name, but first, who wants to see the crown jewels?”
Murmuring followed the man’s words. He shook his head at the lack of excitement among the young Lords and led them into the throne room.
The last time Khett had been in the room, his father had been reading a scroll that had came from the Dragon Queen. Now, the Pedgram throne had been removed, replaced by one made of gold with an ebony seat. At the bottom of the dais stood a table holding five purple pillows with five different crowns on top of each. Khett sought out the Pedgram crown with its rubies and onyx and found it at the end, the gold gleaming in the light from the torches above.
