Closer To The Stars

by Marie Brown

  Chapter 9: Surprise

  Castle Larantyne loomed above them, grim and solid in grey stone. Up close, Kirel marveled at the size of the stone blocks used in the walls. He'd seen a few castles in the Southlands, made to withstand assaults with rams and siege engines, but this. . . this looked like the walls would burst out laughing if the heaviest catapult launched the largest boulder it could find, the walls were that sturdy. He almost believed the tale that a goddess helped raise the walls herself, because surely no unaided human could manipulate stone blocks that large!

  The castle had little of beauty, just functionality and an impressive solid presence. It squatted on a low rise, what passed for a hilltop around here, with a square watch tower at each corner. The gate faced inwards, towards the farmlands. Kirel could understand why, from a purely psychological point of view: who'd want to look across the wasteland on the other side, into the heart of the Land of Evil, on a daily basis?

  He wondered what kinds of stories those imposing walls held. Perhaps his newfound sensitivity to stone, awakened in him by the temporus Shem, would let him hear some of the history.

  Sylvan and Kirel rode their horses to the gate and halted by the guardhouse. They dismounted.

  "Who's there?"

  A voice inside immediately challenged them, followed by a guard. Somewhat short and squatty, the solidly built man bore a resemblance to the castle he guarded. His armor glinted dully in the thin sunlight.

  "State your names, and your business."

  "I'm Kirel, in the service of Bard Sylvan." After so many lunations on the road, it no longer felt strange to introduce himself as Sylvan's servant. "We came seeking to learn of the Northlands, and the Kingdom of Larantyne."

  "A Bard!" A hint of excitement broke through the guard's glower. "What proof have you to offer?"

  Kirel frowned. Proof? He wanted proof?

  "I can sing something for you, if you'd like," Sylvan offered, a puzzled note in his voice. "Or you can inspect my instruments. I'm afraid they're all detuned at the moment, although the pipe can be played, as it doesn't have any strings."

  "You have no travelling papers?" The excitement dimmed, replaced by suspicion.

  "Papers? Good sir, I haven't the faintest clue what you're talking about. My armsman and I are what we are, with no proof, no papers, and nothing but our curiosity bringing us to this place."

  The guard considered for a moment, then cracked a smile. "Well, then. Everyone knows demons can't sing. Can you give me a song? Something cheerful?"

  Sylvan smiled, took a deep breath, and launched into a fine rendition of a lighthearted song about the springtime foibles of young lovers.

  The sound of singing attracted attention from others, wearing the same armor as the guard. Shortly Sylvan and Kirel were surrounded by about a dozen folk, both men and women, grinning, nodding their heads, clapping along with the beat of the music.

  "We've got a Bard come to visit, lads!" The previously grim guard now smiled broadly at his companions.

  "Excellent! Now, let's not keep him outside," one of the new arrivals, with a dark green shirt peering out from beneath his chain mail in contrast to the others' grey, said. "Beran, run and tell the Castellaine we've got a Bard come to visit, and have her spread the word. And if you'll come with me, Sir Bard, I'll take you to where you may leave your horses."

  Their guide identified himself as Captain Wolna. He led them to a stableyard, snug up against the castle wall. He located an empty row of stalls with ease, while Kirel wondered where all the horses were. A stable this size, for a castle the size of Larantyne, should have had many, many more horses. Hundreds, at least. Not to mention the fact that the only beasts visible were all ordinary horses, and short ones, at that. Was not the proper name of the breed the Great Horse of Larantyne? Why, then, were there no Great Horses here, save Dapple?

  That mystery got shoved aside and exchanged for another in short order. Someone came to investigate the new arrivals, the head groom, and he stopped short when he saw Kirel.

  "Mother of us all," he breathed, staring with wide eyes. "You must be Kirel. I always knew you'd make it to the Northlands someday."

  "What? I mean, I beg your pardon?"

  "I recognize you because you look just like your mother," the head groom nodded, smiling. "Welcome home."

  "You knew my mother?" Kirel felt completely, utterly stunned. Sylvan looked equally stunned, although there was a flicker of understanding in his eyes.

  "Aye, that I did," the head groom nodded. "My name is Turcil. Your mother Mairead and I were good friends, long before you were born. Such good friends, in fact, that she had me down to witness your birth. Is she well? There's been no word these many annums, see, and I've been worried."

  "Uh. . . " Kirel took a few deep breaths, rubbed his head. His mother's friend? This man witnessed his birth? "Uh, I'm sorry, Turcil. Both my parents died several annums ago, when I was eleven. It was a fever. It took nearly half the folk of the Estate. Now, if you don't mind my asking, how did you know my mother? I never knew she'd been to Larantyne."

  Turcil closed his eyes at the news Kirel gave him. He stood for a moment, lips moving in a silent prayer, then looked at Kirel. "I'd been afraid something of the sort had happened. When you get a message twice an annum like clockwork, and then suddenly none come at all, it can't be good news. It does my heart good to know for certain, though, and I thank you for that much, at least." Turcil paused and ran a hand through his graying hair. "As for the other. . . well, I think perhaps I'd best let your cousin tell you the details on that score. I will say, though, that I knew your mother from the time she was a wee bit of a thing, and I taught her how to ride and care for her first little Figro. I—I'll tell you more later, lad, when you've had a chance to talk to your cousin."

  He pulled the Captain aside and asked him a low-voiced question. The Captain's eyes widened, then he nodded and strode away purposefully.

  "Now, lad, let's have a look at your horse. He puts me in mind of old Banner."

  "Banner of Glory? Dapple's descended from him, sure enough. But how—" Kirel shook his head. "I'm sorry, Turcil, if I seem a bit dazed. I've got a lot to assimilate, here, just from the last few moments. Forgive me if I seem slow, or uncomprehending."

  "That goes for me, as well," Sylvan put in. The Bard wore a speculative expression. "We certainly were not expecting to meet up with any friends of the family, so to speak."

  Turcil laughed. "No, I imagine you weren't. A pity Mairead never did get around to explaining things to you, Kirel. If she had, perhaps you would have come to visit sooner—although, come to think of it, it would hardly have been possible until a few lunations ago, between the old King and the snow and all. So you've come in good time, after all."

  "That's good," Kirel said vaguely, confused again, then turned to his horse and set about stripping the armor and tack away. "Sylvan? Were you planning to tend to Thunder, or should I?"

  "I'll do it," Turcil broke in. "It's my job. But I do have a powerful desire to see this fine lad stripped down. He's beautiful even all covered up."

  "Thank you," Sylvan said, with heartfelt relief. He no longer felt any fear or intimidation around horses, and he no longer had any difficulty riding or caring for his horse, but he was grateful for the opportunity to rest his hands. Something told him he'd be playing quite a lot later this evening.

  So Kirel stripped Dapple and let Turcil look him over. He was too distracted by everything Turcil had said to even properly appreciate the complimentary things Turcil said about the horse. He had a cousin? And possibly other relatives? And his mother had friends here? Who was he? Or more to the point, who had his mother been, before she married his father? His mind shied away from the obvious explanation of the royal crest on his armor. Blast it, he didn't want to be royal! Did he?

  Then his cousin arrived.

  "Hello," a new voice, filled with uncertainty, spoke up as Kirel finished picking out Dapple's hooves.
"Turcil? May we use the office?"

  "Certainly, my lord," Turcil's voice emerged from behind Thunder.

  Kirel stood slowly, excited and fearful at the same time. What did one say when meeting a previously unknown cousin?

  Perhaps one said nothing, simply stood staring.

  "Well, one look at the two of you, and no one could doubt you're related," Sylvan spoke, breaking the silence while the cousins stared at each other.

  "Yes," the new arrival said softly. "Kirel? Bard? If you'll accompany me?"

  He led the way to the stable office. Dust lay thick on the spare furnishings, and he frowned, brushing at it futilely. But the elemental lamp worked well, spreading a steady glow through the dusty office.

  Kirel studied his cousin minutely. On close inspection, he found differences, but fewer than he'd expected at first sight. They shared the same general build, the same coloring, and even the same dusty brown hair, grey eyes, and high cheekbones. Although still young, his cousin looked a few annums older than Kirel, with tired eyes. A hint of silver peeped out between strands of hair on his forehead. A circlet. Denoting what rank? Prince, King, presumptuous noble?

  Kirel knew he was staring, but couldn't help himself. His cousin wore dark clothing both simple and elegant, made of fine quality but not precious materials. A small corner of Kirel nodded in approval. Good, whatever his station in life, this cousin had good sense.

  "Forgive me," the cousin said, with a crooked smile, as they all found seats on the dusty furniture. "I never did give you my name. I'm Riallen. Your name I know, cousin, for Turcil told me of you once long ago. And Sir Bard, you are—?"

  "Sylvan, Bard Sylvan. Now, if you don't mind my saying so, both Kirel and I are consumed by curiosity. Please, tell us the tale of Kirel's mother, and yourself as well?"

  Riallen laughed. He left off staring at Kirel and threw Sylvan a smile. "It won't be as prettily worded as a Bard's tale, but I'll give it a go.

  "Once on a time, in a realm both far and near," he began, the traditional Bardic opener. Sylvan laughed appreciatively. Kirel waved him quiet and leaned forward, intent on Riallen. "There lived a Prince with an extreme dislike of horses. Now, this was unfortunate, because this Prince came from a long line of horsebreeders. His castle was known far and wide for its ancient bloodlines and the high quality of its stock. Even the lowest of the low rode to battle on the nobility of the horse world.

  "When Prince Melann's father died, making him King, the first thing he did was order all the bloodstock sold. This upset nearly everyone in the King's castle, even the servants, but what could they do? Melann was King.

  "Buyers came from all over the known world, eager to snatch away these prized beauties now offered for sale. One man in particular came from a place far, far to the south, known as Tanivar Estate."

  Kirel twitched.

  "Now, the King had a sister, Mairead, who did not approve of the sale of her horses."

  Sylvan nudged Kirel, as though he could possibly have missed the mention of his mother's name. Mairead, the King's sister.

  "But one day in the stables, she found something she did approve of: Lord Daro Tanivar. She approved of him so heartily that she helped him secure the absolute best of the bloodstock.

  "The more Princess Mairead approved of Lord Tanivar, the less King Melann approved. Until one day there was a distinctly not genteel shouting match in open Court, ending with Melann casting his sister out of the kingdom. Mairead stormed away, collecting her Lord and all the best horses. She didn't stop stomping and cursing, I'm told, until she was nearly halfway to the canyonlands."

  Kirel recovered from his amazement enough to chuckle at that, albeit weakly.

  "I can believe that. Mother had a temper, that she did."

  "It was the stuff of legends around here. Anyway, if you haven't figured it out, King Melann was my father. We didn't get along well at all. He died a few lunations ago, almost a year, actually, and I'm King now, trying to clean up the messes he left for me. I know we've barely met, but we're related by blood, so I feel I can get away with asking this. Will you help me?"

  A king, asking him, Kirel, the deposed lord, for help.

  "Certainly," Kirel replied, although he felt anything but certain. What if he failed again? "Although I don't much know how much help I'll be."

  So he told his story, although he skimmed over much. He glanced at Sylvan for permission, then went ahead and told Riallen that they were lovers, and continued with their journey to this castle, trying to find out why Kirel's armor bore the royal crest.

  "I certainly hope I've cleared that up!" Riallen laughed. "Now. . . forgive me, but one thing I'm going to do is acknowledge you publicly as my cousin and heir."

  "What?" Kirel nearly fell off the musty old couch in shock. Sylvan caught him.

  "That's right," Riallen nodded. "It's only temporary, see, until I get married and have a child of my own. But right now you and I are the last of our line. Unless you've hidden a flock of siblings or children away somewhere?"

  "Mother died while pregnant," Kirel said softly.

  "And it would take a miracle from the gods themselves to bring forth children from our union," Sylvan said, with a wry twist of his lips.

  "A point. But Kirel, people need to know about you. They're scared, and nervous, and that makes things go all the worse on the battlefield. Father wouldn't allow them to mention the situation, because it was his fault, after all, that his sister didn't stay and add to the royal line. Not to mention my mother the Queen never did have more than the one child. But I can't have someone beaten for stating the obvious. I'm just not that kind of person. Are you?"

  "Me?" Kirel laughed, more like a real laugh this time. "Hardly. I get sick when I have to fight someone. How could I have someone beaten for speaking truth?"

  "Good," Riallen beamed.

  "I'll accept your decision, although I think once people realize the nature of my relationship with Sylvan it may do you more harm than good."

  "How so?" Riallen scrunched his eyebrows together, no longer smiling. "I don't understand."

  "Is there no stigma associated with being flit in this country?" Sylvan asked.

  "Not really," Riallen shrugged. "Why? Is it so where you are from?"

  "To varying degrees in different places, yes," Sylvan nodded.

  "I was speaking from previous experience," Kirel said dryly. "I was deposed for not siring children on a woman, after all."

  "Right, right, I see," Riallen nodded. "We'll deal with that if it becomes a problem. There's ways, after all, and even the flittest of the flit can get a child with a bit of creativity. The other immediate thing I'd like to ask your help on is this," and he waved a hand at the office. "Larantyne has no Horsemaster, no Great Horses, no trainers capable of teaching warhorses. I want to restore us to, if not our former prominence, at least a force to be reckoned with in the horse world. Are you up to the challenge?"

  Kirel reacted to this far more favorably than the other offer. "Yes!" he said, sitting fully upright with eyes shining. "That's something I know I can—wait a minute."

  Kirel turned to face Sylvan, abruptly aware his lover had a stake in this as well. "Sylvan? I think this is as much your decision as it is mine."

  The look Sylvan turned on him was filled with astonished gratitude. "Thanks, love," he said, then looked at Riallen. "So, King Riallen. What has your court to offer a Bard? What in this strange, forsaken country could entice one such as myself to give over wandering before I've truly begun? And how can you possibly compensate for the weather?"

  Riallen looked torn between amusement and concern, trying to decipher how much of what Sylvan said was serious. Then Sylvan winked at him, and the amusement won with a laugh. "Bard Sylvan, I assure you, there are compensations for the weather. The grimness and the forsakenness, well, I can do nothing there, as it would be your job to distract people's minds from those. But I have the position of Court Bard open for you, along wi
th priviliges fit for royalty, for surely the talents of a Bard put him above mere mortals."

  "Ah, my lord, you do know the way to speak to a Bard," Sylvan said, grinning. "And what might those priviliges be?"

  "You shall have a suite on the family level. . . I'm assuming you'll wish to share?" Kirel and Sylvan nodded emphatically as one. "Along with meals at the high table, a right decent wage, and of course the typical clothing allowance to keep a Bard in proper style. I'll also assign some personal servants and such. In return, I'd expect entertainment according to a schedule yet to be determined, with High Feast days being, of course, mandatory. I'd also expect your assistance in going places where I may not, but where the King's Bard and his heir would be free to visit. Namely, I'm looking for a bride, and I'd like both of you to help find one."

  "Your Highness, your offer suits me quite well. And Kirel? Won't your people find it odd to see an heir of the blood assuming the post of Horsemaster?"

  "My thought is they will accept Kirel far more readily because he is of the blood. People in these parts have a long, long memory, and Aunt Mairead was well-liked and known to have a fine eye for horseflesh."

  "It looks like you've got a cousin, a Horsemaster, and a Bard, then," Kirel smiled. "What a surprise all of this is to me! I was expecting that maybe I was distantly related somehow to the royal family, not that I was a part of it up close and personal! I'm not sure how I feel about that. I'm just a failed mercenary and deposed Lord, after all. What right have I, assuming the position and duties of royalty?"

  "Well, you are royal, and you'd best get used to it," Riallen frowned slightly, then shook his head. "I'm afraid I'll have to set my old tutors on you. There's some things you'll have to know that can't be learned in a place like Scholastica, including a bit of self-confidence."

  "I expected that," Kirel nodded. There was a knock at the door, and a page stuck his little head in.

  "Pardon, but—" He saw the king and his eyes widened. "Oh! If you're here, my lord, it must be all right. The Castellaine wishes to know, will the Bard be seeking his rooms anytime soon?"

  "Tell the Castellaine for me that I'm sure whatever rooms she chose for the Bard are perfectly wonderful. However, I'd like her to open up the Peacock Suite for me, and to announce that there will be a surprise at the evening meal tonight. Also, I suppose it's too late for anything really special, but let Cook know if she can come up with anything nice by way of a treat with the meal, it would be appreciated. Have you got all that?"

  "Yes, my lord," the page nodded.

  "Fine, then. Off with you."

  The page scampered off. Kirel smiled at his cousin.

  "Riallen, I have to compliment you on your manner of dealing with your people. I can't imagine anything less like my other cousin, Jackon. He's nothing but a high-handed bully disguised as a lord."

  "I'm glad you approve," the King said, with heavy irony. "I merely try to be opposite in all ways to my unlamented father. It sounds as though your Jackon would have suited my farther far better than I ever could."

  Kirel lost his smile and cursed himself silently. Don't alienate the King already! "I don't know about that. All I know is you're lucky to not be related to the arrogant prig at all."

  "I'm inclined to agree with you, despite the fact it would be nice to have more blood relatives. However, I owe him a debt of gratitude. Without his greed, you would still be snug and secure in your manor, and I'd be left as the last of my line. Do you have any idea how precarious that position is? If not, just wait. You will."

  Riallen rose and stretched. "Well, all that private family stuff is out of the way. Would you like to see your rooms now? The Peacock Suite belonged to Mairead last. If that makes you uncomfortable, just say so."

  Kirel blinked away an unexpected mistiness. How. . . touching. "Far from it," he replied. "I appreciate your thoughtfulness. Will you be making us into your surprise at dinner?"

  "Indeed. Let's go, then. It's a bit of a walk to the family suites."

  Along the way, Riallen showed them his stronghold. The stables snugged up against the outer wall, two buildings separated by an arched tunnel. Guard barracks lined the side walls, with the space in between filled with training yards for men and horses. The castle itself occupied the far wall, forming a rectangle with its outbuildings. Far from the grandiose beauty of the palaces of Caissa or Eirian, or even the combined beauty and functionality common elsewhere, Castle Larantyne was strictly functional. Solid stone, square lines, absolutely no decorative stonework anywhere, it would have been unimaginably grim if not for the efforts of its inhabitants. Once inside the great walls of the castle itself, not as thick as the outer curtain wall but still impressive, the walls were hung with paintings, tapestries, and dried flowers. Magical sculptures, illuminated by strategically placed lightsticks, occupied beautifully carved stands. Bare stone floors were covered with bright woven rugs. Beauty shone everywhere. An undertone of vibrant life hummed through the stone, teasing at Kirel's expanded senses.

  Sylvan cocked his head and listened. "I hear a harp."

  "Yes, that would be Mira, one of the Ladies waiting for me to find a bride. She plays quite often. We do have some musical talent here, but there has been no Court Bard since my father's father took the reins. I really shouldn't blame my father for being so rotten and driving his family away. He had such a fine example: rumor has it his father disinherited and drove away his own brothers, reducing our house down to almost nothing."

  "Well, perhaps the musicians would be willing to work in a group? That would be enjoyable."

  Riallen laughed. "I know they would, because they've tried. But if you want to produce a group out of this motley lot that actually is worth listening to, you've got a lifetime's work ahead of you."

  Sylvan put his hands to his face, gasping in exaggerated horror. "Oh, no, not that! Not. . . work!"

  "You and work have never been more than nodding acquiaintances, have you, Sylvan?" Kirel said, at his driest.

  "You wrong me!" Sylvan protested dramatically. "I've worked hard! I must shine my instruments every day, you know, and practice striking dramatic poses."

  He stopped and struck a pose in the middle of the hallway. Fortunately, no one was passing through at the moment, or they would have spotted their King giggling like a schoolboy.

  "Are you two always like this?"

  "Frequently," Sylvan admitted, relaxing from his pose and resuming their interrupted journey. "Life is more enjoyable if you take it on with a sense of humor."

  "I agree. You know," Riallen continued, with a sideways glance at his companions, "I envy you. You two have the opportunity to be together because you want to be, not for dynastic and political purposes."

  "I understand," Kirel said, nodding. Sylvan merely looked thoughtful. "I was incredibly lucky in the choice of bride made for me. She was only an annum older than me, and very pretty. I think it would have worked out well, if not for my lack of interest in women. But there's no guarantee of that at all."

  "No, none," Riallen agreed. "Here's the main upward stair. It reaches all four upper levels of the castle. There's another main stair elsewhere that leads to the basement levels."

  "Four upper levels," Kirel said. "Wow."

  "Yes, and all equally ugly."

  "Ugly?"

  "Oh, come now," Riallen said impatiently. "I have eyes. The architecture of this castle is just plain ugly."

  "I wouldn't say that," Kirel said, and Sylvan shook his head.

  "Not ugly, no. Utilitarian, yes. Not to mention very functional. And tell me something: how badly does it leak?"

  "What?" Riallen looked startled.

  "When it rains, or the wind blows cold. Or the opposite, if it gets hot outside in the summer. How much of that penetrates to the interior?"

  "Not much at all," Riallen said thoughtfully. "I'd never looked at it that way."

  "There is good in everything, young man," Kirel intoned, in imitation of one
of his teachers back at Scholastica. "One must only look properly to see it."

  Sylvan snickered. He knew the teacher, as well.

  "Fine, then. It's not completely ugly. How's that?"

  "Better," Kirel nodded.

  They were on the second floor now, surrounded by portraits, both hand-painted and magical, of people in clothing reflecting different time periods. Kirel was struck by one thing in particular.

  "They all have grey eyes!"

  "Yes, these are our ancestors. The grey eyes seem to be the most predominant trait in our family. Everyone's got them."

  "How odd. I had no idea. I wonder why that's so dominant?" The horse breeder in Kirel reared its head. "I'd expect even a dominant trait to get washed out in a few generations, because unless you've kept it all in the family, so to speak, there's bound to be outcrossings with other families with equally strong traits, like—"

  Sylvan nudged his lover, interrupting the flow of words. He didn't mind when Kirel talked about breeding and such, but Riallen displayed that distinctive, glassy-eyed stare of someone out of his depth and well beyond his level of interest. "Kirel, mind your cousin. He's not into analyzing inherited traits."

  "Oh!" Kirel blushed. "Sorry. I'm just a horse breeder at heart, no matter what my own bloodlines suggest."

  "And glad I am to hear it, too. We need talents like yours if Larantyne's to recover from my father's excessive hatred of horses."

  Riallen led them to the third door on the right from the landing, marked with a peacock feather, and opened it up. "Let me just see if. . . oh, Castellaine. Good, you did get my message."

  A round, apple-cheeked woman stood at the center of a flurry of activity. She hurried to the door when she spotted the King, leaving her servants to continue freshening the room undirected.

  "My lord, I had no idea you'd wish the guests housed here, or else I—"

  "It's not a problem, Marris. I didn't know myself, until I'd spoken with them for some time. You'll hear more tonight, at Evens."

  Marris glanced at the visitors, then her eyes widened in shock. "My lord! It's—he's—"

  "Hush now, Marris," Riallen said, patting her arm with a conspiratorial smile. "I promise, you'll hear the story tonight. Just make sure you're at Evens. Understood?"

  "Yes, my lord." Marris wrenched her gaze away from Kirel with difficulty and surveyed the work her people had accomplished. Then she nodded with satisfaction and collected her crew, comprised of men and women either old or young but no one in between. They left the room in a flock, Marris chivvying them past the King and the new arrivals without giving them a chance to notice Kirel's appearance. Riallen smiled in satisfaction.

  "There, she's gotten them out without them noticing. Not that we didn't pass at least a hundred people in the corridors, but that can't be helped." He shrugged, then indicated the room around them. "Well, here we are. This is the main public room of the Peacock Suite. What do you think?"

  "It's beautiful," Kirel breathed, crossing the room to investigate the huge wall hanging covering the longest wall. It drew the eye like nothing else, as was obviously intended. The hanging depicted a giant peacock feather-eye in the center, surrounded by representations of the irridescent sheen of peacock feathers. It was made up of innumerable bits of some fine, shimmery material Kirel had never seen before. "What is this stuff?" he asked, touching it lightly. "And how ever did the dyers achieve such vivid, intense colors?"

  "It's spiderweave," Riallen said, satisfied with his cousin's response. He wanted Kirel to feel at home here. "That's our number one moneymaker, right there. Traders come from all over the known world to buy the stuff. And the colors, they're so vivid because the spiderweave itself is iridescent. So any dye picks up that brilliance."

  "I can see why the traders risk the journey for this stuff," Kirel said, running his fingers along the stitching. "I've heard of it, of course, but never seen it. And such fine needlework. It must have taken a lifetime."

  "Nearly, or it would have if it were done by one person. As it was, four people at a time worked on it for over two annums, using bits and pieces of silk to make the patchwork pattern. It was presented to our great-grandmother, Queen Eratre, as a birthday present. She loved it so much she commanded an entire suite of rooms be decorated around it."

  "Amazing."

  "Kirel! You should come see this."

  "Where are you?"

  "In the bedroom."

  Kirel followed the sound of Sylvan's voice and stopped in the doorway, amazed.

  "What is that thing?"

  On the wall hung what looked like a picture frame. But it held no ordinary picture. It appeared to be a forest glade, complete with sunshine on buttercups, and a breeze that set the flowers' heads to nodding. Birds flitted about, a brook rippled, the trees rustled. . . "How'd they do that?"

  "It was an experiment," Riallen replied. "There was one of the magical artists here that tired of painting portraits. He wanted to see if he could do something with life and motion inside. He only completed two of them, though, for they took a lot of effort. I've got the other in my own chamber. It's a great comfort in the wintertime."

  "I can imagine."

  "I'll leave you two to get settled in, now. There's some business I need to attend to. I'll send a servant when it's time for the welcoming meal."

  With that, King Riallen left the suite, leaving his cousin and the Bard staring at the door as it closed behind him.

  "Well," Sylvan said, after a moment of silence filled with whirling thoughts, "how's it feel to be a Prince?"

  Kirel winced. "Prince? I guess I am, at that." He shuddered dramatically, but it wasn't all fake. Uneasiness gnawed at his guts, hearing it said out loud like that. Prince. Only son of a Princess from a land with a dearth of royal blood. Prince, and therefore burdened with infinite responsibility for people he didn't even know. "It feels uncomfortable, honestly. I'd rather just be Horsemaster and leave it at that."

  "You'd better get used to it," Sylvan said, softening the admonishment with a smile and a warm embrace. "You're both now, Prince and Horsemaster, with a lifetime of work ahead of you."

  Kirel closed his eyes and relaxed in Sylvan's arms, adjusting himself until his head rested on his lover's shoulder. Sometimes he wished Sylvan was just a bit taller, instead of nearly the same height as Kirel himself. That would make cuddling so much easier. "Prince. Guess I'd better get over thinking royalty are just a bunch of arrogant, over-fed, lazy prigs."

  "Guess so," Sylvan chuckled, tangling his fingers in Kirel's hair.

  They stood like that for a brief moment longer, enjoying the closeness, then Kirel straightened and gently pushed Sylvan away. "If I'm to be Prince of this place, we'd best get settled in. There's a big public ordeal coming tonight, and we need to be ready."

  Sylvan laughed at him. "Kirel, you are such a nut! Ordeal, indeed. It'll be a night like any other, with good food and happy people, and lots of music. You'll love it."

  Kirel smiled. "I know. I'm just a bit out of sorts with today's abrupt changes. So let's get unpacked, and then go make some people very happy."

  Sylvan laughed again, rumpled Kirel's hair, then took his lover's hand. They moved in concert towards the heap of their travel packs, huddled in the corner, and onward into their new lives.

  * * * *

  look for other titles in this series:

  Warlord

  Larantyne

  Dragonborn

  visit the author online at

  the Evil Kitten Project