When the questions began to repeat themselves, and Gib’s breaths were shuddering, Marc waved his hands. “All right, enough. The boy is too shaken to continue. Besides, I think he’s told us all he knows.”
Koal nodded stiffly as he continued to pace the overcrowded office. “Yes. For all we know, these may not even be the same people. No actual plan was mentioned.” He rubbed his chin, deep in thought.
“Yeah, not much to go on for what sort of weaponry or tactic they’ll use,” Roland grunted. “From what I’ve gathered so far, I’m expecting long range attacks or planned encounters. They’re not opportunists. They’ll organize something else.”
Marc let out a deep sigh, stress lines gathering around his dark eyes. “I suppose you’re dismissed, Gibben. And you as well, Joel. Go back to your classes.”
Both boys bowed low and turned to leave. However, Gib found his feet refusing to move. His tongue lay heavy in his mouth; a question had been killing him since that morning. Diddy. I need to know if he’s okay. Gib wasn’t sure which of the men to address, so he shared his gaze among all three. “Uh, sir? Is–is Prince Didier all right? He wasn’t in class. I just—he’s my friend.”
The three men shared guarded looks and after what felt like an eternity, Koal graced Gib with a response. “It’s only because you’ve been nothing but an exceptional man, Gibben, that I share this information with you. Likewise, I would expect your discretion in sharing it with others. Prince Didier is fine. He’s within the palace walls for his own protection.”
Gib bit his lower lip, holding back further questions. Did this mean Diddy wouldn’t be coming back to class? Ever? “Thank you, Seneschal Koal,” he replied, doing his best not to forget his manners.
Koal nodded and waved for Gib to be on his way. Joel was already waiting by the door, and Gib went to join his roommate. He felt no resolve. Few of his questions had been answered, and he’d done little to aid Seneschal Koal and the other men. This entire meeting seemed to have been a giant waste of everyone’s time—
“Wait,” Roland grunted.
Gib paused, his hand resting on the brass door handle. “S–sir?”
The Weapons Master stood, motioning with one large hand for Gib to stay where he was. Hazel eyes flitted in the direction of the seneschal. “Koal, Gibben is one of the classmates Prince Didier specified he wanted. Gib is the prince’s sparring partner in my morning class. They work well together.”
The hair on the back of Gib’s neck began to rise. Diddy had mentioned him by name?
“Two classmates then?” Koal asked, frowning. “Are you sure that is necessary? I would think Joaquin’s son would be better matched with Didier, and with safety to keep in mind—” The seneschal furrowed his brow.
“The prince asked for both of them—and Gib’s a good lad. He’ll work hard,” Roland replied. “Give the young man a chance.”
Gib’s mouth fell open. Give me a chance? Has Roland lost his mind? In that moment, Gib was certain the Weapons Master must be delirious. He’d never been prone to such kind words in the past.
The seneschal folded his arms over his chest. “Barely men, either of them. This will be to the King’s discretion. He’ll have to approve—”
“He already has,” Roland interjected. The Weapons Master pulled a sealed scroll from his pocket and waved it under Koal’s nose. “He told me to find the right trainees for the job.”
Koal frowned, snatching the document up. “He never tells me anything! How am I supposed to keep him and his family safe if—” His words passed off into quiet, if angry, resolve as he read the parchment.
Cowering in his place, Gib couldn’t breathe. He latched onto Joel’s arm for support. What was this about? Was he in some sort of trouble? Why were they discussing his training?
With a groan, the seneschal rolled the document and turned his attention to Gib. “Gibben Nemesio.” Koal’s heavy gaze threatened to suffocate Gib. “You are to take your midday meal and then report to the palace.”
Clinging to Joel for dear life, Gib felt the floor sway beneath his feet. “The palace?” He wasn’t sure his voice was audible. “W–why?”
Koal narrowed his eyes and slammed the scroll into Roland’s hand. The Weapons Master sneered as he took the liberty of answering Gib. “For weaponry lessons. You are behind and will benefit from the additional lessons as much as Prince Didier.”
The sentinel trainee’s voice quivered. “The prince?”
“Yes. It seems as though he needs sparring partners—and since he isn’t allowed to leave the palace for the foreseeable future, you must go to him.”
A mark later Gib found himself standing at the edge of the grounds belonging to the academy. He stared across the cobblestone bridge that spanned the width of the Tempist River and eyed the wall of mortar and stone on the far side. Built along the river, the rampart circling the palace towered ominously above Gib’s head, and even from a distance, he could see sentinels walking along the top of the wall, armed with crossbows as they watched vigilantly for intruders. They won’t shoot me down before I have a chance to explain myself, will they?
Gib fumbled with the badge given to him by Weapons Master Roland. He’d instructed Gib to show it to the guards at the gate to gain access inside. Daya, I hope he wasn’t mistaken. Gib glanced down at his drab cloak and simple tunic. I don’t look like anyone who belongs inside the palace walls. What if they don’t believe me? He sucked in a deep breath. The air was cold and stung his lungs.
Mustering up what little courage he could find, Gib took a step onto the bridge. The snow crunched under his boots as he walked and was the only sound to be heard. His eyes flashed toward the gatehouse, a high-arched break in the wall where a wrought iron gate had been constructed. A grizzly looking sentinel stood at attention there, tall and intimidating in his plated armor and fur cloak.
Is this who I’m supposed to talk to? Gib held back the urge to groan. Why did everyone always expect him to know where to go and what to do?
The soldier drew his sword as soon as Gib stepped off the opposite side of the bridge. “Halt! What is your business?”
Gib fumbled for his badge. His hands trembled so badly he nearly dropped the damned thing before he could hold it up for examination. His voice likewise shook as he tried to remember why he was there. “I, uh—my name is Gibben Nemesio. Weapons Master Roland Korbin summoned me. I—” He was unsure if he should continue or not. “I’m to report to Prince Didier within the palace.”
The soldier sheathed his sword and took the badge, turning it over to examine it. His shrewd, hard features studied Gib before curling a lip to reply. “You are a sentinel trainee?”
Gib nodded so hard his curls fell over his brow. He was painfully aware of the sentinels on the wall above moving closer. They were scrutinizing him just as closely as the guard on the ground, though none of them had raised their crossbows yet. “Y–yes, sir.”
“Who are you and what was your year of birth?” the guard demanded.
Gib’s mind went blank. Why did his Name Day matter? “Uh, I, um, I’m Gibben Nemesio of Willowdale, born in the Ardenian year of five hundred twenty-five.”
The soldier still didn’t seem convinced. “You are thirteen years old? You hardly look—”
“Gibben Nemesio. I was beginning to think you were never going to arrive.”
Hasain Radek strode up behind the gate, black robe billowing around him as he moved. The young lord wore his typical smirk and his haughty poise made Gib want to roll his eyes. Was he waiting for me?
The sentinel straightened his back. “Good day, Lord Hasain.”
Hasain stuck his nose in the air, gesturing toward Gib. “Gibben is a sentinel trainee. He’s old enough—just short.”
Gib clenched his jaw but said nothing. He wasn’t particularly excited to see Hasain, but if the young Radek was here to assist Gib, it was to his benefit to mind his manners.
Hasain’s presence alone seemed to be enough to convince the gua
rd Gib was telling the truth. The sentinel handed the badge back to Gib and signaled for the men on top of the wall to raise the gate. The sound of iron squealing offended Gib’s ears as the gate was raised just high enough for Gib to slip under.
Gib bowed to the guard as he passed beneath the archway, keeping his eyes trained on Hasain. “Are you here to show me the way?”
“Oh? You don’t know where to go?” Hasain’s words dripped with mockery, and if the situation were any different, Gib would have thought to find his own damn way. As it was, he couldn’t afford to be late.
Gib gritted his teeth. “I’ve never been in the palace before.”
“No, I should think not.” The young lord chuckled, but the sound generated was unkind. “Follow me.”
Gib gaped as he turned and got his first clear view of the royal palace. It was the largest structure he’d ever seen—even the three wings of Academy were dwarfed in comparison to this building. Marble columns taller than trees supported the stone walls which rose four stories above the ground and stretched nearly two furlongs in length. The roof was made from terracotta and gilded with golden powder that shone as brightly as the midday sun, and great window panes of stained glass towered over an open courtyard.
Gib forced his legs to move, but he couldn’t take his eyes away from the splendor in front of him. Hasain’s expression was nonchalant, as though the young lord were approaching the home of a peasant. I don’t understand. I could look at this every day and it would never lose its magnificence.
It took the two young men some time to cross the sprawling courtyard, greater than even the largest crop field Gib had seen in Willowdale. Two fountains carved from alabaster stone stood on each side of the path, and though no water flowed through them due to the frigid weather, he imagined the view would be spectacular in the summer cycles.
Hasain cleared his throat, motioning for Gib to follow through an arched doorway. A pair of sentries stood dutifully beside the entrance, but they did little more than nod toward Hasain as the young lord passed by.
Inside, the palace corridors were long and narrow. Some of the walls were covered in decorative stucco while others were bare marble. Light poured through tall glass windows, illuminating the hallways and warming the stone architecture.
Hasain led Gib through corridors and up several stairwells. To keep up with Hasain’s longer strides, Gib had to trot. If he were to get lost in such a big place, he’d never be able to find his way. He had lost all sense of direction by the time they reached their destination.
Hasain stopped before a large door made from polished oak. The Crest of Arden had been etched into the wood with intricate detail—some artist had been paid a hefty purse for such detailed work, no doubt. Gib swallowed, feeling out of place.
“Stand up straight,” Hasain commanded in a somber, lofty voice. “If any of the officials address you, be sure to bow to them before you respond. If the servants address you, don’t bow—it will embarrass and confuse them. You are a guest of the royal family while you’re within the palace walls and you’ll conduct yourself as such. If you have any questions, it would be best for you to ask Didier since he already knows you and is least likely to be offended by your ignorance.”
Gib took a deep breath, head spinning. How did anyone expect him to be able to do this? There were probably a thousand ways to offend the highborns who walked these halls, and he was sure to figure out each and every way. Leaning against the wall, the sentinel trainee managed a garbled response. “Are you going to stay?”
Hasain stuck his nose in the air. “No. I’m far too busy. I must go to council with my father to discuss what other measures are to be taken against these traitors.”
“You’re on the High Council?” Gib had imagined the royal council would consist only of old politicians—men who cared little for individual peasants and a lot for the size of their own purse. Hasain seemed to be too young for such a position. Though in another twenty years, he may fit in perfectly.
The young lord narrowed his eyes. “Not yet, but my father is the king. I’m being trained to give council to our future king, my younger brother, Crowned Prince Deegan. There will come a day when I’ll sit in the council chamber and those old men will all take orders from me.”
Gib chuckled at the absurdity of the idea. “I wouldn’t want that job. Too much pressure.”
Hasain didn’t laugh, but his mouth twisted into a thin slant. “I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you. It’s not the place of a peasant to sit on the chair of a decision maker.” No more courtesies were exchanged after that. With a deep frown, Hasain pushed the heavy door open and motioned for Gib to go inside.
The sentinel trainee froze at the sight of the finest arena he’d ever seen. Lined with polished weapons which—to Gib—had no name and conjured images of brutal death and warfare, the space was more than twice the size of the indoor sparring area in the academy.
Foreboding washed over the sentinel trainee as he took in the hard lines of the marbled architecture and tiled floors which weren’t covered by mats. A person falling here risked cracking his skull in two. The bare feel of dread was scarcely softened by lush velvet curtains and paintings decorating the walls. The arena was like a gallows where the nooses were made of silk.
“Gib! I’m glad you were chosen to come!”
Gib was so taken with the sights and splendors around him that it took a moment to realize he was being spoken to. He blinked out of his reverie only to realize Diddy was standing nearby, dressed in splendid finery much like the first day they’d met one another.
“Diddy—” Gib winced, remembering Hasain’s warning. Conduct myself as a guest of the royal family. All right. “I mean, Prince Didier. I, uh, I’m honored to be here.” He bowed, just in case anyone else was around to see them.
A solemn, grave look passed across Diddy’s brown eyes. “Arise, Gibben Nemesio. The honor is mine.” The prince’s voice was formal, stifled, and nothing like the friend from class Gib had grown accustomed to.
Gib stood to his full height, glancing around. He didn’t like having to be so formal but was glad he’d erred on the side of caution. He and Diddy were not the only people in the room.
Hasain had joined a group of three men on the opposite side of the arena—one of which Gib recognized as Weapons Master Roland. Of the other two, one was tall with dark, braided hair and a red cape similar to Seneschal Koal’s except that it hung from his right shoulder instead of the left. He was fitted with a fine linen doublet and heavy fur cloak beneath his cape to ward off the cold. The other stranger was the opposite of the first, small of stature, with red hair and a patch covering his right eye. Gib could only assume this stranger had no reason to leave the palace for all he wore were a pair of boots and a kilt. Both men stood beside Roland and six royal guardsmen waited nearby, still as statues.
As Gib observed them, he pondered whether this lesson would be a spectacle for all these gathered strangers to see. It was bad enough when he made a fool out of himself in private.
The men talked quietly among themselves, stealing glances in Gib’s direction now and then. Roland even gestured toward Gib at one point. He shrunk back a pace, doing all he could to keep from wincing. Are they talking about me? Do they disapprove of a commoner training with the prince? What if they send me away?
Diddy’s voice was soft and reassuring in his ear. “They’re learning your name and face—a safety measure, nothing more.”
Gib forced himself to nod, though he had little idea what was happening or who any of these strangers were. But when do you ever really know what’s going on? Just nod your head and pretend you’re content. “Fair enough.”
Diddy began to pull the velvet cloak from his shoulders. “We should start practicing. It won’t be long until the lesson commences.”
The prince unclasped the golden button that held his cloak in place, and almost immediately, a young attendant slipped from behind a pillar and scampered to Diddy’s side. �
��M’lord, Prince Didier, can I take your cloak?”
Gib blinked in surprise. He recognized the boy with russet-colored hair at once as the waif who had been caught stealing the fur cap from a vendor during Midwinter Festival—the same boy who had nearly lost his hands until Queen Dahlia herself had ordered the sentinels to stand down. The royal guardsmen had taken custody of the youngster—and now he was here at the palace?
Diddy turned toward the boy and gave him a small smile of gratitude. “Yes, Gideon. Thank you. Gib, you may give your cloak to him as well. I assure you Gideon will take good care of it.”
The boy took their cloaks, bowing as he stepped out of the way. Gib noted the youngster looked to be in good health. He’d been half-starved and wearing rags less than a moonturn ago and now he was dressed in a clean tunic and appeared to be receiving regular meals. Joel did say his aunt has a soft spot for homeless children. Queen Dahlia must have offered him a job as a servant. He thought to ask Diddy about the young boy later—now was hardly an appropriate time.
Diddy smiled as he turned his attention back to Gib. “We’re only waiting for Tarquin now.”
“Tarquin is coming?” Gib asked.
“Yes. He was also chosen to train with me. I requested Kezra and Nage as well, but I fear they were overlooked for being a girl and a peasant.”
“I’m a peasant.” Gib didn’t mean for his voice to sound so strained, but he couldn’t correct it once he’d started talking.
Diddy’s dark eyes went wide even as his pale cheeks flushed with color. The prince stumbled over his next words in perhaps the most ungraceful display he’d ever shown Gib. “I didn’t mean—apologies, Gib. I–I only meant that I believe Kezra and Nage weren’t given fair treatment when it was decided who would come to the palace. The fact that you were chosen speaks highly of your skill and the trust Master Roland has bestowed upon you.”
A Call to Arms: Book One of the Chronicles of Arden Page 23
