Kinghood (The Fourpointe Chronicles Book 1)

by Joshua Rutherford

  “Damn it by Mar!” Gerry shouted following the tenth attempt. He threw his weapon aside. It clattered against the stone floor as he marched to the weapons rack.

  “Gerry! Watch yourself!” Symon rushed to his brother’s side just as he wrapped his hands around a halberd.

  “Away from me!” Gerry insisted. He shoved Symon, who did not budge. He reached for another weapon, a three-pronged spear, only to find Dawkin’s hand around his.

  “Gerry! Stop this at once!” Dawkin insisted. “What has become of you? You are what, three days early?”

  “Four,” Ely yawned, coming up behind them. “If you note that it is not yet the mid of night. What’s the matter, Geremias? Were the tales of Taresa far too outlandish? Would even a swineherd consider her?”

  “You dare not sully her good name!” Gerry swung around and lunged at Ely. Ely dipped back, dodging Gerry’s reach. Dawkin and Symon managed to pull Gerry away from the rack and into the center of the bailey, where they released him.

  “You take back your words!” Gerry demanded, pointing at Ely.

  “Gerry! Control yourself!” Symon roared. His voice echoed through the vaulted room, so much so that all wondered if the castle above would hear. Symon cared not though as he turned to Ely. “Apologize to our brother! Do it!”

  “Very well. Fine.” Ely shifted his attention to Gerry. “I am sorry for offending you, brother.”

  “Good,” Symon declared. “Now that that matter is settled, Gerry, we demand an explanation. This is not like you. Tell us what happened above.”

  “First, I must practice...”

  “No. No more delays. No more excuses. Speak.”

  Gerry surveyed his brothers, all of whom stared upon him, waiting.

  “As you wish,” he relented. “To the Chamber.”

  The three kept a short distance between themselves and Gerry as he journeyed back through Terran to the Fourpointe Chamber. They paused as Gerry poured himself a glass of wine and drank. Only when he had emptied the glass did he nod and motion to the couch. “I am at the ready,” he declared.

  Dawkin withdrew to his room, where set a kettle over the brazier in the corner and went to work with mortar and pestle. He had the ingredients for truth serum already laid out, in anticipation of Gerry’s descent towards the end of the week. But he decided on a fresh batch, knowing his brother would need a deep sleep following his session.

  With the whistling of the kettle, Dawkin finished preparing his tray. He returned to the Fourpointe Chamber to catch Ely shaking Gerry, who had reclined on the couch.

  “You better hurry,” Ely urged. “This one is falling asleep.”

  “I need another,” Gerry announced, holding up his wine glass.

  “You will,” Symon assured, taking the glass from him. “But not of that.”

  Dawkin traded with Symon, taking the wine glass in exchange for a cup of truth serum. Symon, lifting the cup to his nose before pulling it away, gave Dawkin a wry look. Only after Dawkin nodded did he extend the cup to Gerry.

  “Can’t this wait?” Gerry pleaded.

  “Not after your behavior. Now, drink.”

  Gerry threw his head back as he downed the cup of serum in one swig. He plopped the cup back into Symon’s palm. “Satisfied?”

  “Depends on what you have to say.”

  “You won’t like it.”

  Dawkin strolled up to Symon, a cup of memory tea in hand. “Yours.”

  Symon gulped his portion as Dawkin repeated the steps with Ely and himself.

  “You think Father got to him again?” Ely asked.

  “Perhaps,” Dawkin said as he watched Gerry close his eyes, his lips starting to twitch.

  Chapter 10

  The maidens danced in pairs, one Marlish to an Ibian, each facing the other. Music of flute and string guided their steps. They clasped their right hands together and locked gazes as their feet pivoted and paced in unison. Every maiden held a length of ribbon, which whirled and fluttered with every turn and bow. The Marlish women wore pastoral dresses, long ones of cream color with simple lace trim. The Ibian ladies were clothed in green dresses with no trim, but bore garlands of daisies and other wildflowers atop their heads, as was their tradition when dancing.

  From under the awning of an open pavilion, Gerry sat and watched. All others around him mingled and ate, while the food before Gerry turned cold. He cared not, for among the dancers was Taresa, who moved as gracefully as a feather in the breeze.

  A servant stepped before Gerry, holding a model galleon. Gerry craned his head to look past it before a tap on his shoulder broke his gaze.

  “Your Highness,” Everitt whispered.

  “Sir Everitt, I’m trying to–”

  “My boy,” Audemar interrupted.

  Gerry shifted in his seat to pivot toward his father, who sat at the neighboring table beside King Felix.

  “The ship,” Audemar continued. “Tis a gift from our guest, the honorable sovereign, King Felix.” Audemar tilted his head to the king, who turned from his wife upon hearing his name.

  “Of course,” Gerry replied. He addressed King Felix. “Your Majesty, you do me a great honor with your generosity. I am humbled.”

  “You need not mention it, Your Highness,” Felix said while raising his glass. “Your gifts are grand as well, a mark of true craftsmanship.” Felix lifted one before him, a Marlish hunting dagger housed in a leather and bronze sheath. Gerry saw that it was finely crafted, having an embossed scene of a fox hunt – with a vixen crossing the length of the sheath, dogs and mounted hunters trailing her – of intricate detail, one that could only have been made by Marland’s best arms makers.

  Gerry turned back to Felix’s gift to him, which the servant had laid on his table. The galleon was indeed impressive, with every sail, railing and rope to scale, constructed of Ibian cedar. Gerry even spotted a tiny compass before the helm. To his amazement, when he turned the small ship, the needle of the compass moved as well. Gerry grinned, considering the collection of compasses he and his brothers had in Terran.

  The music paused, leading to an eruption of applause. Gerry looked up to find the maidens curtsying toward the royal pavilion. He rose, clapping louder than necessary until all the rest quieted. He took his seat as Taresa and her sisters strolled to the table where their parents sat, bending down to kiss each of them on the cheek.

  “You mustn’t stare too long.”

  Gerry cringed. Is he still here?

  He looked over his left shoulder to find Xain, inebriated and in between two Marlish maidens, who struggled to keep him upright.

  “My cousin, she has a sense for those with impure thoughts.”

  “You will find nothing impure with our prince, Your Grace,” Everitt interrupted.

  Xain bowed his head to Everitt in acknowledgement. “Still,” he continued, turning back to Gerry. “If your look lingers, she may think you to be such a man.”

  Gerry forced a smile. “My intentions are not to cause any discomfort or insult to your family, Your Grace. Especially the ladies of your Court.”

  “Yet, here you remain.”

  “As is my place.”

  “And mine, young prince. Out of curiosity, how old are you now?”

  “Nineteen. And yourself?”

  “Old enough to know your age well, time and again. Isn’t that right, ladies?” Xain dug his nose into the nook of each women’s neck. The maidens responded with smiles and giggles, as Xain pulled them away in the audience, his laughs melding with theirs.

  Everitt placed his hand on the pommel of his sword. “Just say the word, my Prince.”

  Tempting though it was, Gerry, looking after them, shook his head.

  “Your Highness!”

  Gerry swung around to discover Belitta, her hand gently clasped around Taresa’s arm. Both curtsied to Gerry, who stood to bow. Everitt, after bowing, stepped back.

  “Your Majesty, Your Highness,” Everitt said to the ladies, before bowing to Gerry. “I w
ill take my leave to allow some privacy.”

  “Queen Belitta. Princess...” Gerry said as Everitt left. “Your dancing, it was lovely.”

  “Thank you, Prince Jameson,” Taresa replied.

  “She has always danced well,” Belitta affirmed. “Not as well as I did at her age, but a decent effort nonetheless.” The queen pinched her daughter on the underside of her chin before nodding to the galleon replica on the table. “I see you have accepted my husband’s gift.”

  “I have, and I am humbled by your family’s generosity. You do me a great honor.”

  “Honor, pssss...”

  “Mother!” Taresa chided.

  “What? Oh, I don’t mean that it’s not a fine gift. But these foreigners make such a fuss over our cedar. I realize it is a rarity to this island, but back home even the commoners use it to build their homes.”

  “Please excuse my mother, dear prince. Her tongue seems to loosen when she goes abroad.”

  “Child, really. I am not so old that you need to explain my behavior. My Prince, I only express my candor because I know our families will be joined by union soon. After all, I have seen the way you look at my daughter.”

  Taresa gasped while Gerry, caught off guard, blushed with embarrassment. Taresa glared at her mother before storming off while the two watched.

  “Should I...” Gerry began.

  “No, my dear prince, no need. She only needs to cool, as she has her father’s temper. And courtship can be such a tender topic. I’m afraid the last one with what’s his name, Prince...”

  “Denisot?”

  “Yes, Prince Denisot. I fear that the long engagement – which as you know, ended terribly – left Taresa sensitive to such matters.”

  “It did?”

  “Indeed. Her next courtship will have to be shorter. I trust that will not be an issue.”

  The queen tilted her temple toward Gerry. The prince, put on the spot once again, only smirked and shook his head. Belitta, satisfied, grinned and strolled away after her daughter.

  Gerry stared down at the replica. All this trouble for an alliance. And this is only the first day.

  “Now for the procession of his Majesty’s royal stable,” Reysen announced. “The most prized horses of Marland, led by the riding master, Sir Waldeve of Har-Kin Hamage.”

  Sir Waldeve and a number of knights rode in on finely-groomed steeds. The crier made his way toward the prince. Gerry, seeing him approach, could not help but roll his eyes. The royal announcer, Sir Kenard, had taken ill that morning, so in his infinite wisdom Audemar commanded that the next readily available crier serve in his stead. Reysen, in attendance in the commoner section of the Court, had come forward eager and willing.

  Now, he came before the prince. “Your Highness,” he proclaimed.

  “Yes?” Gerry asked, blinking as he coped with the crier’s louder-than-necessary voice.

  “His Majesty, King Audemar, has asked that you and the Grand Duke join him and King Felix in his pavilion.”

  Gerry turned to where his father and Felix had been sitting, to discover their seats empty. “To think they snuck away,” he said to himself.

  “Pardon, Your Highness?”

  “Nothing.” Gerry then glanced all around, finding no sign of the Grand Duke either. “Have you seen Xain, Master Reysen?”

  “Of his Grace, the Grand Duke of Almata, I have seen no sign.”

  “Very well, I suppose we should go and find him.”

  “Your Highness, you need not concern yourself with trivial matters such as fetching or searching. I will grab one of the servants—”

  “No,” Gerry interrupted. The pomp and circumstance of Court had been enough to sour Gerry’s taste for royal life for one day. Queen Belitta’s meddling, along with his and Taresa’s embarrassment, had not helped matters. “I will lead the effort to find Xain. I insist.”

  “As you command, Your Highness,” Reysen declared, followed by a bow.

  Gerry sighed. How I miss Terran.

  He marched from under the awning. Reysen followed. Everitt, having been watching from afar, hurried to join them.

  “Have you seen the Grand Duke Xain?” Gerry asked.

  “Nay. He disappeared,” Everitt answered.

  Seeing a crowd ahead, Reysen raced before the two. “Make way!” he announced.

  “Shhh, not now,” Gerry urged.

  Reysen withdrew to Gerry’s side.

  Gerry, now in the center of the encampment, scanned the lot. The Marlish Court had been careful to select a site for the midday banquet and hunt away from the capital walls yet not so far as to strain the Ibians with a lengthy journey. The king’s advisers had settled on Raineminster, so named for the Har-Kin that once overlooked the land but had since married and been dissolved into other families. A small hamlet, it boasted a wide meadow beyond the town center that the Saliswaters used from time to time for stately affairs.

  Though no stranger to guests from afar, the impromptu accommodations swelled with attendees since the Courts of both nations arrived earlier that morning. Townsfolk from not only Raineminster, but also Over-the-Straitford, East Fletchley and Meanderstead had trekked in, making their way first to the servants’ pavilions before filtering through to those of the lesser nobility. In turn, the lesser nobility mingled with the higher ranking barons and dukes, so that now the whole of two kingdoms seemed to converge with no barrier or delineation between them.

  This security concern was not lost on Gerry, nor the prince’s Right Captain. “Your Highness...” Everitt started, his tone tinged with worry.

  “I know,” Gerry admitted. He turned his attention to Reysen. “Find my father’s guards. The Day Captain should be found in the pavilion next to his.”

  “As you wish,” Reysen said, bowing lower than needed.

  “And you need not bow every time I speak to you.”

  “My apologies,” Reysen said, catching himself in a bow before straightening. “Your Highness,” he added before taking his leave.

  “A peculiar little fellow,” Everitt stated, once Reysen was out of earshot.

  “Yes, but loyal, I suppose.”

  “Shall we start this search?”

  Gerry nodded as Everitt took his place by his right side. The two meandered through the throng of nobles and commoners, soon realizing the Grand Duke was not among them. They widened their arc, going beyond to the outlying tents. Upon finding no sign of nobility, save a few drunk barons and their kin, they turned to the cook fires, makeshift barracks and rope corrals. Still, they encountered no sign or clue of the Duke’s whereabouts, the result of which weighed on Gerry’s nerves.

  “Where now?” Gerry asked.

  “Perhaps he started the hunt early?” Everitt ventured. “The outlying woods are the only place we have yet to check.”

  “The forest?”

  “Aye, I like the idea of poking my head in there no more than you do. We are without a proper retinue of guards. Tis a poor idea.”

  Gerry paused for a moment. If indeed Xain had gone hunting while Gerry had not – notice or no notice given to his father – he could only imagine the sharp words his father would have for him.

  “We had better stroll the perimeter, just to be certain,” Gerry commanded. “That way, no one can accuse us of failing to try.”

  Gerry thought he caught a glint in Everitt’s eye, as though the knight knew his fears, what he was thinking. “Very well, Your Highness,” was all Everitt said, as he fell in to his right side once more.

  Though freshly dug, the stench from the latrines proved enough to make Gerry regret his decision. Nonetheless, he pressed on, with Sir Everitt faithfully by his side. They rounded the privies, along with several wagons, coming across commoners until they ran into Baron Tristan.

  “Prince Jameson... Sir Everitt. What brings you to these commoners’ quarters?”

  “We could ask you the same.”

  “Why, I’m searching for my kin, of course. Too many townsfolk on the
grounds have forced some of us to seek refuge in quieter parts. My brother and I thought to whisk away to the forest to partake in some ale while we prepared our weapons for the hunt. But then, he fell in with the crowd and disappeared. Oh, wait, speak of the devil...”

  Slipping between wagons and crates of goods came Sir Ernald of Har-Kin Boivin. Gerry stood, his mouth agape. Nearly a year had passed since he last saw the knight, and in that time, much about him had changed. Though in his early twenties, Ernald – who once bore the moniker “weelamb,” on account of his small stature – had managed to shoot up in height, so that he now stood shoulder to shoulder with Gerry. His hair, which Gerry remembered to be dark brown, had lightened and even exhibited reddish streaks. Most impressive, though, were the angular features of his face, as the baby-faced boy he had once known had grown into a man.

  “Your Highness!” Sir Ernald waved, smiling.

  “Sir Ernald,” Gerry replied. “It has been a while.”

  “Too long. By Mar, look at you. Princehood has treated you well.”

  “And nobility, you.”

  “Yes, yes,” Baron Tristan added. “We are all fine and well. My brother, I see you returned empty handed.”

  “I did.”

  “With that small barrel of ale you were carrying gone.”

  “Your powers of observation have not waned today, Tristan.” Ernald winked at his brother as Gerry grinned. Never the center of attention due to his runt-like status, Ernald had developed a raucous wit. Though at times crass, he remained as unapologetic as any baron.

  “Well, brother, though you are not concerned with us going thirsty, now we have no drink to offer our guests.”

  “No need for concern on that front,” Gerry assured. “We are not here to mingle so much as to search.”

  “Have you seen Grand Duke Xain?” Everitt asked.

  The Boivin brothers shook their heads. Gerry and Everitt were about to move on when a cry captured the attention of all.

  The four paused, trading glances, when it erupted again. Everitt, never one to take chances in his duty, drew his sword. Gerry rested his hand on his own pommel as both Ernald and Tristan unsheathed their hunting knives. Everitt motioned to the bushes that bordered the forest around them, tilting his head as more indistinct sounds – low, muffled moans – emanated from the woodland cover. In a succession of silent steps, he proceeded to the largest bush before them, pulling back its low-hanging branch.