Kinghood (The Fourpointe Chronicles Book 1)

by Joshua Rutherford

  “How are you, Grandfather?”

  Artus looked upon Gerry, then the rest of his grandsons, as he considered the question.

  Four sons. All alike in appearance. Born of the same woman, a queen, and the same father, the king. My son. Sons of my son.

  Their future is bright. Full of hope. They will marry royalty, binding our family with Kin Garsea. They will have their own children. Saliswaters. Our kin will be replenished, leaving behind the scars of the Century War. We will flourish. Our name will live on, with the sons of my son.

  “I am well, my boy,” Artus assured Gerry, gripping his shoulder with affection. “Never better.”

  Chapter 8

  Why me? Why now?

  Gerry stared into his boots. Within, the lifts met his look, reminding him of the discrepancy he had to overcome his entire life. Sitting on the edge of his bed with his elbows on his knees, he struggled against the anxiety that had recently overcome him.

  It had started as a kernel of concern when he and his brothers first spotted the Ibian Armada from the mouth of the Sirens’ Cavern. From there, the feeling festered all throughout their lunch. As his brothers and grandfather broke bread and drank wine, conversing on and on about what they thought would come from the visit of the Ibian Court, Gerry picked at his food. He left the table early, claiming he wasn’t hungry, and returned to his room to ponder the day’s events. Now, alone with his thoughts, the feeling seemed the swell in his gut, to the point that he felt his breathing would soon be hindered.

  “Breathe,” he told himself.

  He did just that. His stomach contracted as his chest and shoulders rose. The air in his lungs remained suspended for a moment before it passed through his lips, his shoulders falling, his gut relaxing.

  A bit relieved, he reached down to his boots, putting them on with ease.

  “May I?”

  Gerry glanced up to find his grandfather at the door. How long he had been there Gerry could not be certain.

  “Of course,” Gerry replied.

  Artus strode in to take a seat at the chair across from Gerry. Gerry straightened, his stare never leaving his grandfather. After all these years, he still looks like a king, Gerry thought. His silver mane. His piercing green eyes. Even the skin of his face - having been wrinkled by time and weathered by the elements - came off not as that of a tired, old man, but as that of a monarch who had settled down in old age with grace.

  If only I could be every bit a sovereign that he was, that he is. Alas, I am not.

  “Geremias,” Artus started. “How are you?”

  “Well, I must say.”

  “You hardly ate.”

  “The stale air sometimes spoils my appetite,” Gerry lied. “When that happens, I tend to become more thirsty than hungry.”

  “I see,” Artus replied, his eyes finding the table where carafes of water and wine sat, both full. “You ascend today, do you not?”

  “It is my turn.”

  “Quite the time to leave Terran, isn’t it?”

  “How so?”

  “How so?! Why you will be the first among your brothers to meet with the Ibian Court. While we are a proud family, I give you that, Kin Garsea is no dynasty to take lightly. His Majesty, King Felix, is not unlike your father. Though he is known to be kinder, and his strength has waned from whence I first knew him, age has not lessened his resolve to act in the best interests of his land. He always holds his head up high. The shake of his hand has remained firm. His steps continue to be purposeful, his gait one of resolve, never of hesitancy. At least, those are the facts circulating around our Court. You will soon know the truth for yourself.

  “Then there is his family. It is expansive, a Kin to rival any Kin. He has siblings and half-siblings aplenty, along with cousins, children of cousins and the like. Word is that one cannot walk through Ibia without tripping over a Garsea. Not to worry, though, he will not bring every one of them to us. Only a handful of relatives, I presume. His extended family aside, I know who he will bring: his wife and three daughters.”

  At mention of the daughters, Gerry bowed his head slightly. The idea of being introduced to them made him anxious, even more so than the prospect of meeting another king or queen. For with such acts between two unmatched regal souls came the eyes, the stares from onlookers – royal, noble, common – who would instantly judge the meeting and its implications. Was he taken by her? Did she fancy him? How long before he took her hand in his for a walk? Were their steps in stride? Was his voice clear when he said her name? Or did it crack?

  Gerry had been through it all before, since he was old enough to ride a horse. At that early age, some baron or baroness would introduce their daughter, and he would offer an obligatory bow or muttering of compliments, which the girl would accept with blushed cheeks or a giggle. The petty courtship would continue until Gerry met the acquaintance of another young lady, then another and still many after that. When he was younger, he could escape the embarrassing questions about his preference for this girl or that one, along with those relating to his views on marriage. But now that he was well into princehood, with many of his counterparts on the continent married and fathering children, he knew that his days of avoidance on the subject had passed. If ever there was doubt on that front, the visit from the Ibian Court had put that to rest.

  “Gerry, my boy?”

  “Huh?”

  Gerry looked up to find his grandfather staring at him. Again, you fool, Gerry chastised himself. In the midst of his anxiety, he had allowed his mind to wander. It was a tendency he tired of, one he knew would bring him ridicule and criticism on land above.

  “I apologize, Grandfather. You offered me sage wisdom. I started to listen, I really did...”

  “I know, son. You needn’t explain to me.” Artus rose to stride over to Gerry’s bed, where he sat next to him. “You see, your father was much the same way when he was growing up, though he would never admit to it now. He was a young man full of big ideas, ideas that would come to him in the middle of another’s speech, ones that would take him away to Mar knows where.”

  “Honestly?”

  “Tis true. He would often have to ask the speaker to repeat himself, much to the chagrin of the baron or mage talking. Then your father would blush, or avert his eyes, all the while trying to focus and listen, only to have his mind wander all over again.”

  “By Mar, I never knew.”

  “Keep it our secret, lad.” Artus rose, letting out a sigh. Gerry started to stand to help him but Artus waved him off, declining his assistance. “I’m fine. As you will be when you ascend. Think not too much on the matters of Court. Tis all a collection of pomp and circumstance, one you have done before. Perhaps there will be another fair maiden or two. No matter. Whatever happens, you are connected to your brothers, your actions to theirs and vice versa. You have a network of support no other prince has. You will prevail.”

  Artus winked and smiled at Gerry, who managed a grin in return. He made his way to the door.

  “And you, Grandfather? Will you be there?”

  “Of course, though you may not see me. Those barons up above have the persistent habit of chewing my ear. At least at my age I can feign fatigue and retire to my room.”

  Gerry laughed, as did Artus. He waved to Gerry once more before withdrawing to the hall. “Be well, my lad. Be well.”

  Gerry, feeling much more light-hearted, stood. He marched to his chest, then his armoire, opening each one to examine the contents inside. He looked to the trousers and boots he wore. Finding them satisfactory, he then examined his shirt and doublet. A tad worn, and less than regal, he concluded. He threw them off, opting for the white silk shirt in his armoire and the forest green doublet from his chest. To accent the clothing, he turned to the end table by his bed, where a series of rings and chains laid. He studied them all, finally settling on the thick silver ring inset with an opal, as well as the white gold chain fashioned with a small symbol of Mar, that of a trident pointing do
wnward held firmly by a hand.

  Gerry put on the ensemble, adding his matching cap and coat, both of black velvet ringed by velvet ribbon. He admired himself in the mirror, considering how his appearance would be received once he ascended. Many of his servants would suggest accompaniments to his wardrobe, he knew. His own father may even suggest a different look. No matter, Gerry reminded himself. He had done the dance before. Might as well ascend to face it all.

  Gerry left his room, the afternoon light from the conical windows and the sconces catching him here and there. He strolled down the hall, nodding to one of the Voiceless as he passed, before turning to his brother’s room.

  He found the door ajar, just enough for him to peek inside. When he lifted his fist to knock, however, the sound within gave him pause.

  “Mi, mi compazee acerr...” Within, Dawkin sat bent over his desk, a large volume of books scattered about. One particularly thick edition laid open before him, its pages faded slightly yet the text still legible.

  “Mi compazee acer sui conoki-mi-ento,” Dawkin said aloud to himself. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Gerry withdrew his hand, thinking better of interrupting his brother as he studied. Though Gerry was no linguist, he recognized the language of Ibia when he heard it. Will I be expected to speak? he asked himself. I will have a translator by my side. That much I know. So will Father, for he never developed a tongue or an ear for any language except Marlish. Will any one of the princesses know Marlish? If they do, and I do not know their words, what will they think of me?

  He stepped back from his brother’s room, pondering the possibilities. Dawkin would attempt to speak Ibian. Gerry was certain of that. He was scheduled to ascend after him, so perhaps waiting for Dawkin to speak would be best. Such a delay in attempting the language may bode well for him and his brothers. It may show the Ibian Court that Prince Jameson took extra care to master the dialect before speaking to the king and his family. Yes, I will wait, Gerry assured himself. Let Dawkin make the effort. What does it matter? The glory belongs to all of us four who carry on as Prince Jameson.

  “Geremias!”

  Gerry stopped and cringed. From the neighboring room, he saw Ely leaning out, poking his head into the hallway.

  “I thought I heard you,” he yelled, a thin fake mustache applied crookedly to his fulcrum. “Come here.”

  “At once, Your Majesty,” Gerry mumbled under his breath.

  He entered Ely’s room to find wigs and facial hair pieces strewn about, in all manner of colors, lengths and consistencies.

  “Careful! Watch your step!” Ely warned.

  “You invited me in here,” Gerry rebuffed.

  “To help. Not to squash.” Ely held a wig of black, curly hair before Gerry’s face. “Here, what do you make of this?”

  “It’s a wig.”

  “I know that, little brother. Despite the rumors, I am not that much of a fool. I mean, do you find anything odd or unusual with it.”

  Gerry stared at the mop of hair and considered it. “It has a peculiar aroma...”

  “I knew it! That scoundrel of a peddler! A wigmaster, he calls himself. If ever there was such a thing, he certainly is not it. He told me the smell had wafted in from a neighboring store. From a butcher’s shop or tannery, he said. He promised that the smell was slight, that it would dissipate within a day or two. It has been four! Still, the stench remains! I have half a mind to report his impudent business practices to the constable. Then we will see what – or who – smells after a night in the stockades!”

  Gerry remained aside, knowing better than to speak when Ely went on one of his rants. He considered pouring him a glass of brandy, to help calm his nerves. However, he thought better of it, for spirits could easily have the opposite effect on his brother. In truth, Gerry never knew how Ely would go on to react, despite the years of experience he and his other brothers had had with him.

  “Are you still here?” Ely asked, seeing his brother standing silently. “Go, be off with you. I will deal with this crisis myself.”

  Gerry hurried out of the room, glad to be rid of the drama. He went on towards the last bedroom, Symon’s, to bid him farewell. Only he found the room empty.

  The clank of steel beyond the hall alerted Gerry to his brother’s whereabouts. He sighed. He went on down the hallway into the Siren’s Cavern. Crossing it, he stepped under another vaulted ceiling into the underground bailey.

  There he discovered Symon in full armor, minus his helm, sparring with three of the Voiceless, who also carried blunt swords like their prince.

  Symon, spotting Gerry out of the corner of his eye, raised his hand to signal a break. “Five minutes,” he commanded the knights, who lowered their weapons and gathered around the cask. “Brother,” Symon shouted as he waved him forward. “You’re ready for some sunlight, I see.”

  “I came to say good-bye before I ascend to do my duty.” Gerry held his head high as he spoke, the presence of men-at-arms not lost on him.

  “You may dismiss the formalities. No need to put on airs for these fine soldiers. We are equals in their eyes.”

  Perhaps you are, Gerry thought. You can best them three-to-one. I, on the other hand, lose breath when sparring a green squire.

  “Care for a round?” Symon asked.

  Gerry’s’ eyes widened. “Now?”

  “You would do well to practice more. Dawkin said you’ve missed two of your last three sessions.”

  Stupid scholar, Gerry thought, fuming. He opened his mouth to protest but before he could utter a word, Symon had tossed him his sparring sword.

  “Come now,” Symon urged as he approached one of the knights, who gladly offered his blunt sword to the prince.

  “But my clothes...”

  “Will be fine. I won’t tear or even wrinkle them. I only want to see if you remember what I taught you last.”

  He remembered. The last time the two were together in Terran for more than a day and a night, Symon had woken Gerry up before dawn every morning to drill him on his sword fighting technique. Four hours of training before lunch, followed by four more after, left Gerry sore and exhausted, yet little improved. Symon would not relent though, and continued to push his brother past the boundaries of his comfort.

  “If you best me,” Symon added. “I will gift you the sword Father gave me for my sixteenth.”

  “Really?”

  “Sword up,” Symon insisted.

  “But I don’t want—”

  Symon lunged, the tip of his blade aimed at Gerry’s chest. Gerry deflected it easily enough, knowing Symon kept it slow at first.

  “Good!” Symon exclaimed. “Again.”

  Symon lunged once more. Finding his thrust thwarted, he swung his sword to the right, then the left.

  The last swing was harder than the rest, Gerry realized, though he blocked it nonetheless.

  “Very well,” Symon assured him. “One more advance, then you can go. Remember what I’ve always told you and our brothers?”

  “Yes,” Gerry sighed. “Good form first.”

  “Exactly.”

  Gerry widened his stance, careful to keep his feet light and loose, just as Symon had showed him.

  “Attack!” Symon charged, his sword arching wildly above his head.

  Gerry, not accustomed to such an unorthodox approach, faltered. He scurried back from his brother. He held out his sword, which Symon was quick to swat away. Before he could withdraw another step, the tip of Symon’s blunt sword was firmly under his chin.

  “And that’s how the Battle of the Chesa unfolded.”

  Gerry gulped. His lips went dry, yet not his eyes, which watered. He shed no tears though. Not in front of the knights, and certainly not in front of his brother.

  “Real fighting is wild. Chaotic. More barbarism than sport,” Symon stepped back from Gerry. He threw his sparring sword back to the Voiceless. “I received my greatest lesson in that truth only days ago. I thought I was ready,” Symon poi
nted to the scar on his cheek. “I was nearly wrong.”

  “I thank Mar you survived,” Gerry squeaked.

  “I know. However, gratitude for safety will not protect you when you ascend. You need more practice. Granted, all of us do.”

  “But you chided Dawkin not to worry. Konradt is in chains.”

  “Yes, that is what I told him, what you and Ely witnessed. I did so to calm his nerves. You will see. Dawkin will put his emotions aside and consider all the facts, as he always does. He will come to the same conclusion I did: we need more training. Granted, he will focus more on strategy and building our reserves of troops, among other grander efforts. Yet no Saliswater ever led from a War Hall or Throne Room alone. All four of us must be confident on the battlefield – even you, little brother – that we may lead without haste, with conviction of skill and purpose.”

  Gerry, his stare fixed on Symon, nodded. For what more could he do? The respite his grandfather had provided him had all but been snuffed out, like a candle flame pinched between two fingers. He fought the urge to run back to his room and hide, or to ascend and lose himself in the many quarters of the castle. Had the silent knights of the Voiceless not been there to watch, he would have.

  Just then, a shimmering band caught the shaft of afternoon light streaming in from one of the conical windows. Gerry, not thinking, extended his hand, catching the necklace.

  “Well done!” Symon congratulated him. “Those instincts will serve you well when you descend to resume your training.”

  “What is this?”

  “A trinket I took from our new friend in chains.” Symon strode up to Gerry, pointing to the iron medallion. “The symbol of Har-Kin Mynhard, the image that adorns their crest: a fanged serpent. If their craftsmen had bothered to paint this piece, no doubt it would have shown a bit of red on those fangs, and green scales to cover the serpent. No matter. It’s yours now.”

  “Mine?”

  “Of course. Yours to wear proudly as you regale our guests with tales of your victory. I suspect a few will want to hear of the battle firsthand. You can’t very well tell it convincingly unless you look every bit the part.”