Liza nodded, a pained grimace on her face. “You knew it might come to this, Gib. We can’t keep them at the farm all alone. Tayver can apprentice, and we’ll figure out what to do with Cal.”
“I feel like I failed them both. And Pa.”
“No, Gib.” Liza’s voice was firm as she squeezed her brother’s shoulder. “It’s the best thing to do. The boys are proud of you. And Pa would be too, if he could see the young man you’ve become.”
Gib turned to look at her. “You really think so?”
“I know so.” She paused long enough to wrap her arms around his back. “There is something else I came here to tell you.”
Gib winced at her ominous tone. “O–oh?”
Liza caressed his curls absently. Her eyes were distant as she stared across the room. “I’ve been reassigned to Winterdell, due to the growing tension with Shiraz. My unit’s been ordered to reinforce Arden’s eastern border. I leave in one sennight.”
Gib’s stomach flopped. “H–how long will you be there?”
“I’m not sure,” Liza admitted with a shrug. Her nonchalance didn’t fool either of them. They knew how dangerous it was to be stationed along the border Arden shared with Shiraz. “I’ll be there half a wheelturn at least.”
“Half a wheelturn?” Gib didn’t mean for his voice to spike, but the shock hit him like a rock to the face. “I’m sorry, it’s just—how am I going to figure out what to do with the farm if you’re gone? And the boys—I don’t even know—” He bit his bottom lip and glared at the floor. Liza doesn’t need to hear me complain. She has enough to worry about without me blathering on.
“I’m sorry, too,” Liza sighed, hugging him close. “I’m sorry that life hasn’t gone as planned. But our family is strong—you, me, Tay, Cal—we’ll be all right. No matter what fate decides to throw at us next, we’ll get through it. And when the time comes to make a decision about the farm, you’ll do the right thing, Gib. The boys trust your judgment, as do I.”
Gib swallowed the lump that formed in the back of his throat. His eyes burned, tears threatening to spill over his eyelashes, but with a shuddering sigh, he blinked them away. Things could always be worse, much worse. It looked as though Tayver and Calisto would survive the winter, Liza was alive and well even if she was being sent into danger, and Gib had a warm bed to sleep in, friends to laugh with—and Joel Adelwijn. Deep breaths, everything is going to be okay.
Gib turned to look Liza in the eye with renewed resolve. “I’ll try to make you proud, Liza. I promise.”
His sister gave him a small, knowing smile. “You always do, Gib. Always.”
The next two sennights were hell on Gib’s body and mind as he tried desperately to keep up with the demands Weapons Master Roland placed. The private lessons were brutal, and each night Gib had to drag himself back to his room. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he could have simply gone to sleep upon his return, but he had to study for his other classes. He became reliant on Kezra and Nage to give him pertinent information each morning at breakfast from the previous day’s lesson.
Nights were spent studying and practicing his reading and arithmetic skills. Joel was wonderful about helping as much as possible, but still Gib feared this extra strain may hurt their blooming romance. How long could these extra lessons possibly last? He wasn’t sure he could continue this way until the end of the academic year, still three moonturns away.
At practice, Tarquin pulled his chosen sword from its holster on the wall and gave Gib a small nod. They’d missed each other after midday meal today and had each walked to the palace alone. The boys’ faces were known well enough now that they were rarely stopped other than to show their badges to the sentries posted at the gate. Didier was running late and Gib wished he’d brought a book. He could have been practicing his reading while he waited for the prince.
Tarquin took off his hat. In the enclosed arena, he didn’t need protection from the sun. “Want to drill with me until they show up? I want my muscles to loosen up a little before—”
“Before Master Roland beats us to death?” Gib offered wryly.
Tarquin snickered. It was easy enough to joke now, but in a few marks none of them would be in any mood for merriment. They took their starting stances and were prepared to begin sparring when the door behind them opened. Didier hurried through, followed closely by his newest servant, russet-haired Gideon.
Diddy trotted over to them. “Master Roland isn’t here yet?”
“No,” Gib grunted, keeping a close eye on Tarquin. They had begun to circle each other now, each boy looking for an opening to strike. “We’re just warming—” Tarquin launched himself and Gib darted aside, grinning at his improved speed. “—up.”
The prince was entirely inattentive as he paced across the tiled floor. “I wonder if he’s still with Father. They were in deep discussion earlier.” Gib had a hard time listening and watching Tarquin at the same time. The sentinel trainee opted to save himself from receiving any more broken limbs. Diddy didn’t appear to be talking to him anyway.
After Gib had worked up a sweat, the arena door swung open again. He and Tarquin stopped long enough to see who had joined them. Weapons Master Roland came through the arched doorway, barely casting a glance in their direction. He was invested in conversation with the same tall, dark-haired man who had supervised the boys’ first private lesson. Roland and the stranger were followed by a handful of royal guards, and all the men swept off to the viewing auditorium without a single word to the students. Gib glanced at Tarquin, who merely shrugged.
Gib heaved a sigh. “One more drill before certain death?”
Tarquin chuckled. “Yeah. Let me get a drink quick.” He holstered his weapon and went over to a bucket set aside for drinking. Lifting the ladle, the young highborn took a long gulp of water. Gib considered doing the same. Once they began their training, they would find no time for drinks. With a grunt, Gib holstered his blade as well and went for a drink.
Tarquin turned to look at Diddy as they shared turns with the ladle. “Something has Diddy up in arms. What do you think they’re talking about up there?” He nodded in the direction of the gallery.
Gib shrugged. “Something to do with the safety of the royal family maybe? Perhaps there’s been news.”
Tarquin snorted and rolled his eyes. “It’s just not like Diddy to be so preoccupied.”
At length, Roland strode away from the other men and came upon the trainees. His face was set in a grim mask and Gib’s stomach flopped. “Gibben, Tarquin, to me. You as well, Your Highness, if I may.” The three approached in unison and waited in tense silence for further instruction.
Roland glanced over his shoulder, and Gib followed the gaze. The tall, dark-haired stranger and royal guards were waiting in icy silence, all eyes on the arena. It was an eerie feeling to be under their scrutiny.
The Weapons Master spoke mainly to Diddy. “They want to see your progress, Highness. The three of you need to be at your best. Show them everything you’ve learned. This will determine whether these private lessons continue.”
Diddy nodded, his face grim.
Roland’s eyes were apologetic, though his voice remained rough and authoritative. “Prepare yourself, Highness. We wait for one other and then you’ll begin.”
Gib waited until they had moved out of Roland’s earshot before questioning the prince. “What’s going on? Why would they stop the lessons?”
Gideon was already helping Diddy remove his fine cape and restrictive doublet. The servant would fetch the sword in a moment, as he did each day, and Diddy would thank him despite what Hasain had said about not needing to thank the servants.
Diddy looked back at the men in the auditorium. “It has been suggested that lessons with you and Tarquin may be risky. The High Council says either of you could be spies or informants for the assassin.” Tarquin balked and Diddy gestured for the young lord to keep his voice low. “I know it’s ridiculous and Father thinks the same, but we have
to prove that I’ve made adequate progress or the risk will be deemed too high. So please, be serious about this, friends.”
Gib frowned. “What will happen if they decide you haven’t progressed enough?”
Diddy’s eyes were wide and hopelessly lost. “I won’t be able to go to class anymore. In the future, even when this danger has passed, I’ll be given a tutor and forced to stay within the palace walls.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. What does your progress here have to do with you taking other classes once the danger is gone? You won’t have to lift a sword for your history lesson or law lectures.”
“I know,” Diddy sighed. “But the politics of Arden run deep. There are those on the High Council who have always questioned Father’s judgment on allowing his children to be schooled with lesser nobles and commoners at Academy. They believe royalty should not mingle with anyone who is ‘beneath them.’ Of course, Father is defiant and has always fought against this, but in light of recent events, the idea has gained support within the council. They would use my performance today as an excuse to pull the royal family away from outside influences.”
Gib shook his head. It all seemed more confusing than it needed to be—confusing and dirty. But such matters were not up to a lowborn to decide. “If you should fail this today then you’ll be tutored? Is that such a terrible thing?”
Diddy’s eyes shone with unshed tears as he looked to the marbled floor. “I must sound a spoiled brat to you. It’s just—Father indulges our dreams of leaving the palace. I’ve always been taught outside of the palace and the thought of being tutored feels like I’m being sentenced to prison. I leave so rarely as it is—” The prince stopped there, head hung low. Gib would have never considered the palace to be a prison but now, in context, he thought he understood Diddy’s dilemma.
They had no time to discuss it, however. The arena doors flew open a final time and Seneschal Koal stormed through. The look on his face showed he was in no mood for merriment, and a moment later the sentinel trainee understood why. High Councilor Neetra Adelwijn followed just behind the billow of Koal’s red cape.
Neetra’s face was set in a foul sneer. Pointed nose in the air, he didn’t wait to be acknowledged before climbing the steps to the auditorium. Gib watched as Koal took a stance on the far side of the dark-haired stranger, putting the man between the seneschal and his brother. Gib watched with growing apprehension as Neetra bowed stiffly to the tall stranger. Who in hell was this man if the high councilor—arrogant and lofty as he was—had bowed to him?
Roland was bearing down on the trainees. No time was left to ponder the stranger’s identity.
“Formation!”
Roland’s voice filled the arena. Gib had no time to think about anything besides following the command. Falling into position, he shared one last meaningful look with the prince and Tarquin. They all knew everything rode on this performance.
At Roland’s command, they commenced. Gib and Tarquin advanced as they would on an enemy. Diddy was no longer their prince and close friend. He was an obstacle to overcome, and the prince had to prove he could undo them both. In whirling steel and clashing blades, Prince Didier proved himself to the gathered men. If Gib hadn’t known any better, he would have sworn the trio of boys had rehearsed this performance beforehand. He hoped Neetra didn’t accuse them of as much.
They pressed on until Gib’s shoulders were on fire and he could barely catch a breath of air. He had no idea how Diddy was continuing with two opponents trying to best him. Tarquin was likewise flushed and gasping for air when Koal finally raised a hand into the air.
Roland called them to halt, and the three students gratefully complied, only just managing not to drop their weapons on the floor. It took all of Gib’s reserve to hang his sword back where it belonged before kneeling to take a rest. Diddy handed his weapon to Gideon, but the young prince remained standing, anxiously watching the men in the gallery as they deliberated.
From the distance, Gib couldn’t hear their words, but he could see Neetra’s scowl. Likewise, Koal and the tall, dark-haired stranger with the long braid frowned and waved their hands as they argued with one another.
After a heated few minutes, the man whom Gib didn’t know flagged a hand, catching Roland’s attention. The Weapons Master barked a single command for the three students to follow him and they fell in line behind the instructor.
Tarquin’s eyes were wide as he rubbed his sweating palms across his leggings. He examined the occupied auditorium, and Gib felt one corner of his mouth turn up. He kept his voice low. “Seneschal Koal isn’t so bad. He was very hospitable when I met him before. High Councilor Neetra, on the other hand—”
The puzzled look on Tarquin’s face should have been a bigger clue. “I’m more concerned about the King.”
Gib’s stomach seized. The King? “Why? Are we going to meet him too?”
Tarquin didn’t have time to respond. They were too close to the group of men now. The sentinel trainee swallowed hard, a knot in his stomach. The sparkle in Tarquin’s eye suggested he was amused about something—only Gib couldn’t figure out what he’d overlooked.
Standing before the panel of judges, Gib bit his bottom lip and remained silent. The tall man who’d called them over addressed only Roland. “Weapons Master, how fares the prince with his lessons?”
Roland bowed to the stranger and as he did, a sickening realization began to dawn on Gib. Roland’s voice sounded a hundred leagues away as he responded, “Prince Didier is doing well for his age and build. The areas he needs to work on are—”
Gib wasn’t listening any more. How had he never realized this stranger looked so familiar before now? Tall and slender, he bore a striking resemblance to Hasain Radek. His dark, almond-shaped eyes, olive skin, and braided onyx hair—albeit silver dusted with age—were all testament to the truth now so painfully obvious. Save for the thin mustache resting above his lip, he looked so much like Hasain that no one could say this man wasn’t the young lord’s father. And if he was Hasain’s father then—Gib swallowed to keep from throwing up his midday meal. Goddesses! How could I not know?
Neetra’s high whine needled its way into Gib’s consciousness, drawing his attention back to the conversing men. “Yes, yes. The prince performed well against his peers, but how would he do against a true enemy? A full grown man?”
Roland’s eyes were sharp. “Not as well. It would be unfair to pit him against a grown man.”
The high councilor threw his hands into the air. “I didn’t ask whether it would be fair or not. I asked how he would do! Surely you don’t think the enemy will concern themselves with being fair?”
“Of course an enemy won’t fight fair. Politicians, each one of them,” Roland replied through gritted teeth.
Neetra’s mouth fell open, aghast. He narrowed his eyes as if to respond but the tall stranger who so closely resembled Hasain cut the councilor off. “Roland Korbin, tell me the truth. Will the prince benefit from training with the royal guards? Should these two students be dismissed?”
“No. The prince is not so tall or built as fully trained soldiers. He wouldn’t stand a chance—”
Neetra snorted. “Then perhaps your training is little more than a waste of time and resources, Master Roland.”
Roland’s mouth pulled back into an ugly sneer. “With all due respect, High Councilor, how many soldiers have you trained? How many of Arden’s wars were won by troops you taught?” Neetra fell into angry silence. “I’ve dedicated my entire life to Arden’s defenses. I assure you all that I’ve taken the utmost precaution with Prince Didier.”
“Roland, what is your suggestion?” asked the tall, dark-haired man.
The Weapons Master scrutinized Gib and Tarquin for a long moment. “I would keep the students I’ve selected. And if you would like, I can bring in a couple of the older boys to train with Prince Didier as well. Nawaz Arrio, Otho Dakheel, and Lord Tular Radek would be suitable. All are taller and stronger than
the prince and will give him a good comparison for fighting a grown man.”
The stranger—who Gib was now sure was no stranger at all—nodded his head as if his thoughts were deep. Diddy took the opportunity to step forward, bowing low. Tarquin did the same, and Gib was quick to follow. He couldn’t breathe. This was proof. Who else would the prince ever need bow to?
“Please, Sire, if I may request my friends stay, I would.” Diddy’s voice was eloquent as he took a deep breath. “I wouldn’t be caged now, having been free for so long. Please.”
Gib’s head was swimming. He feared his knees might buckle right there. The King of Arden looked over the three boys in silence. The weight of his dark eyes was enough to crush Gib’s lungs without so much as a touch.
“I’ll allow it, Didier,” King Rishi responded at length. “Unless there comes a time when the danger is too great. If and when such a time should come, I’ll do what I must to keep you safe. There are worse prisons than this palace.”
“Thank you, Sire.” Diddy stood slowly, the trace of a smile gracing his lips.
It wasn’t until King Rishi told them they may rise that Gib and Tarquin straightened their backs. Gib was so flustered he could barely tell which way was up anymore. The King! I just met the King of Arden! Diddy had a full-fledged smile while Tarquin was doing his best not to grin—and failing miserably. As Gib watched the King and his entourage depart, he began to shake his head slowly. How did I not know?
Chapter Eleven
The sennights sped by quickly after that, and before Gib knew it, the ice and snow covering Silver City began to recede. Cold rain fell in its place, sometimes for days on end, leaving the streets in muddy disarray. The rain was hardly any more tolerable than the snow, but at least an end to the bitter winter was within sight. Spring was just around the corner.
A Call to Arms: Book One of the Chronicles of Arden Page 25
