by D L Sims
“There’s rich history in these crowns,” Master Roxell informed them, his voice echoing throughout the empty room. He went to the other side of the table and looked down at the five crowns with veneration, placing a hand over the Sinero crown, gold like all the others, but adorned with sapphires. “King Elric Sinero brought peace between the Lysins and the Eltharians.”
He moved to the amethyst encrusted Monneaire crown. “After learning trolls were killing Eltharian children, King Hollis Monneaire had them banished from the mountains and removed from the kingdom.”
“A Dominikov has yet to win a Trial,” the Master said, placing a hand on the Dominikov crown, which had rubies like the Pedgram’s, but lacked the onyx. He fixed his gaze on the Dominikov brothers with a smile. “Perhaps one of you will be the first.”
He glanced at the Amadon crown, silver with emeralds and onyx. No one spoke of the Amadon’s ruling in the past. Each had ended with death and destruction. Except One. “King Artus Amadon. He opened the castle doors to the common folk in the Harsh Winter and fed them from his own stores.” Master Roxell sighed wistfully. “He sang hymns and told tales to keep up morale. I met my first wife during those hard months.”
Khett wondered exactly how old Master Roxell was. The Harsh Winter was seventy years ago.
The Master didn’t look older than forty, but there was a point to the tip of his ears that suggested elf blood ran through his veins. Elves aged at a slower rate compared to humans; they were almost immortal.
Master Roxell shook the memories free and moved to the Pedgram crown, looking at Khett as he spoke. “The Pedgrams have a long proud line of kings, but it was your father--King Jalinan--that brought real peace between the three kingdoms and the Republic of Kehan. It was your father who put an end to the War of Wars.”
Tears pricked Khett’s eyes, but he refused to let them fall in the company of others.
Master Roxell left the table and stood on the bottom step of the dais. “Sit,” he commanded.
The wood creaked as they sat on the benches behind them.
“Each of these crowns has graced the heads of kings for many centuries. At the end of the Trials, one of you will be crowned, and you must uphold the same honor and authority as the kings before you.”
“No pressure,” Grantham whispered, his words carrying through the silent room.
Master Roxell smiled. “There, indeed, is great pressure, Lord Grantham.” He was quiet for a few moments. “The Trials are not to be taken lightly, gentlemen. It is a great honor to serve in them, but they are dangerous. Only one man can be king.”
Arlen stiffened next to him. Khett bumped his shoulder against his in reassurance. When Arlen looked at him, he gave him an encouraging smile, but it didn’t seem to lessen his friend’s nerves or end his sullen mood.
“The Trials will begin in three days time, starting with a test of your knowledge. Since you were babes you have been taught lessons in politics, arithmetic, philosophy, and many more subjects--all of that has been in preparation for the Trials. After, we will test your archery and hunting skills, and then will be the last but most important leg of the Trials: the battles.” He paused, looking at them with excitement, but frowned when his enthusiasm was not matched. “The combined scores of your knowledge, archery and hunting tests will be used to determine who you will fight against in the battle rounds. Understood?”
“Understood,” they said in unison.
“Excellent. Tomorrow will be the Announcement of the Champions. Tonight you are expected to get a good night’s sleep and make sure you eat well.”
They nodded. Khett shifted in his seat. Up until that moment the Trials had seemed more like a dream than a reality, but as he sat there listening to Master Roxell, the more the excitement and anxiety started to feel like a fist squeezing his stomach and heart. He felt sick and light-headed.
He looked at the Pedgram crown. That’s your crown, Khett. Win it for your father.
“Now, Lord Ikar, stay with me,” Master Roxell said, descending the dais to stand before them. “The rest of you can wait in the hall for your turn.”
They stood while Ikar remained seated on the bench. As they departed, Khett overheard Master Roxell say, “Tell me, Lord Ikar, what is your ability?”
The door closed behind Khett before he could hear Ikar’s answer. The other four were already sitting in the wooden chairs that had been brought into the hall, each of their faces drawn, except for Yvney, who smiled.
“I can’t believe I agreed to enter the Trials,” Phinn whispered, more to himself than to the others. “What was I thinking?”
“What were you thinking, time-thief?” Yvney barked with laughter. “Do you really think you could be king?”
The others gasped. The Monneaires were the poorest of the noble families, and they sometimes had borrowed money from Khett’s mother and father to help pay for items they needed. There was a running joke between the other four families that the Monneaires used their ability to bend time to steal coin from people’s pockets, but no one had ever called a Monneaire a time-thief to their face.
“Don’t call him that!” Grantham seethed, his hands fisting, and his face contorted with rage.
“Why not?” Yvney asked, lounging in the wooden chair, leg slung over one of the arms. “Has his family paid back the coin they owe your family, Grantham?”
“That’s not the point. You don’t need to be a cock towards him.”
Phinn’s blush deepened. “I-I’m sorry. He’s right, Grant. We owe so many people--”
Grantham patted his shoulder. “It’s not your fault that your family fell on hard times, Phinn.”
“No, it’s your father’s.” Yvney laughed again. “He’s the one who gambled away your family’s savings and drank your coin. Do you blame your father for your family being poor, time-thief?”
The door to the throne room swung open. “Enough!” The Master’s voice echoed through the hall. “Save that for the battles, Lord Yvney.”
Ikar’s eyes shot daggers at his brother, and he went to sit on Phinn’s other side. Yvney shrugged and began picking under his fingernails with the edge of a blade.
“Lord Arlen?” Master Roxell said, his professional smile returning to his face.
One by one, the other lords entered the room with Master Roxell. The hall remained silent, even Yvney had stopped speaking. Finally, after Grantham, Khett followed the Master into the throne room.
The crowns had been taken back to the vault, and Master Roxell settled onto one of the benches. He turned his smile to Khett as he sat opposite him.
“I knew your father,” the Master said. “I was the Master when he won the Trials.” Master Roxell’s smile deepened, turning from professional to genuine. “Tell me your ability.”
“I can manipulate the elements: fire, air, water, earth.”
He nodded. “Yes, yes, but which one do you have true mastery over? Your father was a master of fire, which is yours?”
His father had hated his powers. “We’re the only people in all the world--besides the Lysins-- that think something as unholy as bending the elements to our will was something given to us by the Gods. We are not descended from the Gods, Khett. Witches are our ancestors, and the powers are a curse.”
Magic and the nobles’ abilities were sacred in Eltharian religion. Witches and warlocks were servants of the Gods, ranked higher in society than merchants, but lower than nobles. To hear that his father had been pulling away from their Gods would have broken every Eltharians’ heart. It would have broken Khett’s mother’s heart if she had known her husband had spoken such blasphemy.
He shook his father’s words from his mind to think about the answer to Master Roxell’s question.
He struggled to tame fire. Air and water came easier to him--he thought about how easily he could move boulders without touch, and how to make vines grow with just a simple thought. “Earth,” he said. “Manipulating earth is the most effortless.”
&nbs
p; Master Roxell smiled. “The battles are going to be hard, Lord Khett, remember to use your powers wisely.” He stood, putting an end to their conversation. “I’m famished.”
He followed Master Roxell out to the hall where the others were waiting, fidgeting through their boredom, but still silent.
“Let the Dinner begin.” Master Roxell clapped his hands and began another trek down the large halls.
“Finally,” Grantham whispered under his breath as they followed. “I thought we were never going to eat.”
Khett chuckled, despite the uneasy feeling in his stomach.
The Master led them to the dining hall where Khett’s father had held holiday feasts and parties; the last feast held in the hall had been for his father’s funeral. The room was as silent as it had been that day, and held wonderful but terrible memories of his father making speeches and kissing his mother while he ate chicken drenched in hearty gravy, and drank goblet after goblet of wine.
A large table had been set with seven chairs, and dishes covered every inch of the surface. Khett settled into a chair next to Arlen while a servant filled his chalice with wine. He piled his plate with meat, potatoes, bread and fruit; he felt like he hadn’t eaten in days. Master Roxell sat at the head of the table, engaging Grantham in conversation. The low hum of voices filled the large room.
Ikar ate in silence. All around him the other competitors were talking about their families, their villages, or the recent festival in Palamar, but Ikar was all too aware of his brother sitting to his left, his presence a blight at Ikar’s shoulder.
“You’re awfully quiet, brother,” Yvney whispered as he tore a chunk of meat off the bone. “Aren’t you enjoying the dinner?”
Ikar whirled in his seat, pinning Yvney with a glare. “Why are you here? You had no interest in participating in the Trials when we got these invitations a month ago, so what changed?”
Yvney smiled in a way that always set Ikar’s teeth on edge. It was the same smile he had when he won the title of Great Wolf Hunter of the North four years in a row, beating out Ikar by just a fraction of a point. The same smile he had worn when he let Ikar’s rabbit escape when they were children and allowed his dogs to eat it as a treat, and when he had injured the boy who had bullied Ikar in their teens. Ikar had come to loathe and fear that smile. Even now, he shivered from the severity of it.
“It is a great honor to compete in the Trials, brother, don’t you agree?”
Ikar didn’t answer, and he knew Yvney didn’t expect to get one.
“I realize that I have a duty to the Dominikov lineage, and why should you get all the glory?”
Ikar scoffed. “You’re lying. The only reason you care about being a Dominikov is because of the wealth and status it brings you.” His eyes went round. “I have been dreaming of the day I finally get out from under your shadow--our parents’ shadow--for years. Can you not let me have this one thing to myself, Yvney?”
Yvney’s grin sharpened. “Are you afraid of a little competition?” He sipped from his goblet and then turned toward Ikar, resting his arm against the back of his chair, and said, “Besides, brother, it is not like you are going to win the Trials. At least with me, our family has a fighting chance at the throne.”
Ikar’s blood went cold. He didn’t respond, and pushed his plate away, unable to eat another bite. His brother’s words brought his own doubts to the forefront of his mind. Perhaps Yvney was right: How could he possibly win the Trials?
Chapter
Eight
Khett felt sick.
He made his way down to the dining room where voices drifted out into the rest of the Manor. He found the other Champions sitting at the large table, already dressed for the day. They were surrounded by their families and loved ones. Each of them looked as sick as he felt— all except Yvney, who smiled as he ate sausages and porridge as if it were another normal day in their kingdom.
Andalen stood from her seat and came to him, her face tight, but her smile in place, easing the vise on his stomach a fraction. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him against her warm body. He held her to him as he inhaled her subtle lemon and vanilla scent.
“Are you nervous?” she asked into his shoulder.
“I’m fine,” he replied into her hair, but noticed something odd about the texture, but he didn’t question it. In that moment, as he held her, he was fine. He was more than fine. He pulled back and looked into her brown eyes. They were steady, which relaxed him even more. “It is nothing more than a test of my knowledge, and I have had the best tutors in the three kingdoms.”
Her smile grew bigger. “I have no doubts that you will excel, Khett.” She kissed his cheek and went back to her chair.
He maneuvered through the room until he found an empty chair between his mother and Phinn. He sat, pulling the plate of sausages towards him.
“How do you feel about today’s Trial?” he asked Phinn as he piled food on his golden plate.
“Great, actually.” The young Lord smiled at him, his eyes big and round, making him look boyish. “I have spent many hours in the library at our estate. I have studied nearly every subject there is. I’ve remembered every book I have ever read--word for word. Marklin, my brother, hates it. I am full of useless knowledge,” he said with a laugh.
“You still have your library?” Khett asked, astonished. He had heard a rumor that the Monneaires had sold every last possession they had to pay off Lord Monneaire’s gambling debt.
Phinn’s cheeks reddened. “My books and Elodi’s governess are the only things we have left, and I heard Mother and Father were going to fire her before I got invited to the Trials. Mother’s books don’t sell as well as they used to, and Father’s debt keeps growing.” He looked across the table at his family; his father was already glassy-eyed from wine. His mother frowned at her husband in disapproval. “Please, don’t tell anyone what I told you. It is merely a rumor that we had to sell everything, but if it were known that it were true, I think that would embarrass my mother, and I don’t want that.” He looked close to tears. “I shouldn’t have told you. I apologize. Mother says we should use discretion when talking about our struggles.”
“I understand,” Khett answered, uncomfortable at the shame in Phinn’s blue eyes. “It must be hard on your family, and I do not wish to make it worse.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
“Champions,” Luane stood at the foot of the table, her hair as smooth and straight as it had been the last three days, her black dress pressed and wrinkle-free. Khett wondered if she owned other clothes. “Please, follow me to the carriages.”
Khett stood with the others. He glanced down to see the three sausages still sitting on his plate. His empty stomach growled, but he had no time to eat, and he didn’t think he could keep down food anyway.
Luane led them outside to where the Master’s carriages waited, but Master Roxell was nowhere to be seen. Khett climbed into one carriage behind Phinn and Ikar, while Yvney, Arlen and Grant took the other.
“Where are we going?” Phinn asked as the carriage passed the gates of the castle and continued down the cobbled road into the city.
Khett looked out the window to see they had also passed the university. People milled around the grounds in groups, laughing and talking, and he wondered what it would have been like to be one of them, a commoner able to study whatever they desired. They had no ancient duty passed down to them through their family blood that obligated them to sacrifice their lives. What would it be like to be unencumbered?
But even as he wondered about a life he could not have, Khett loved the duty he had to his family. He had a purpose, and he found comfort in knowing he had something he was supposed to do with his life.
The carriages came to a stop just outside the Gods’ Temple. The six of them climbed out, clustering on the white walkway leading to the marble building. Grantham looked ready to spit fire as he came to stand next to Ikar, while Yvney howled with laughter, and Arlen loo
ked ready to cry.
“I forgot how much of a cock your brother can be,” Grant seethed.
Ikar snorted. “And I keep forgetting to ask Mother if she’s sure he’s our blood. It can’t possibly be true; my brother was raised by wolves.”
Grantham laughed. “Unfortunately for you, I think he is, in fact, blood-related.”
“The Gods cursed me with him,” Ikar resigned. “Do you think I can trade him for another?”
“What happened?” Khett asked Arlen as he came to a stop at his side, ignoring the rest of Ikar and Grantham’s banter.
Arlen ran a hand through his curls, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. “Please, Khett, I don’t wish to discuss it.”
Anger brewed in Khett’s belly, and the ground shifted under their feet as if the earth were quaking. “Whatever he said, I will kill him.”
“Leave it be, Khett.” Arlen sniffed, and looked over at Yvney leaning against the statue of Nomir and chatting with a woman as she walked by. “I have never met anyone who got so much enjoyment out of causing other people pain.”
The doors of the temple opened before he could ask Arlen what he meant, and Master Roxell strolled out, wearing his signature smile. He opened his arms wide; The silver of his buttons and jewelry glittered in the sun.
“Welcome, Champions!” He looked at each of them as if he was personally honored by their presence. “Today is the first Trial. You will be given four hours to complete the test. Top scores will be announced before the second Trial.” He waited for them to acknowledge his words, and his smile grew, turning into a grin when they did. “Now, follow me.”
He turned and led them through the empty temple, and back through to a hall that smelled strongly of incense. Golden doors lined the white walls, each closed and locked; only the priest’s door stood open. He sat at his desk, reading a scroll. He smiled as they passed, wishing them luck.
