by Bruce Blake
“Oh did she?”
“You should stay to hone your skills and better defend your honor.” He nudged the trainer in the ribs with his elbow, unsure if his story was convincing him. “If anything catches my eye, I’ll bring it to you before I adopt it as my own.”
“So it shall be, My Prince.” Trenan bowed at the waist. “I shall see you on the morrow, either with sharpened sword or a new weapon for my inspection.”
Teryk nodded his thanks and the master swordsman spun on his heel and left the practice ring. The prince slid the broadsword, which wasn’t dull at all, back into its scabbard and set out toward the armory, relieved.
He strode across the training square toward the archway, the heels of his boots sending puffs of dust swirling into the late afternoon air as he reviewed his plan. He glanced toward the sun—still enough time to visit the armory, retrieve his pack and be on his way before Danya suspected his absence. Once he made it outside the walls of the inner city, he’d be beyond anyone’s reach.
Teryk sighed. Deceiving his sister brought a sour taste to his mouth, but this was his burden to bear, and he’d do anything to keep from putting her in harm’s way. If she came with him and ill befell her, he’d be unable to live with himself, and the king and queen would never forgive him.
The king. He’ll soon see I’m ready to rule the kingdom.
He bit down hard on his teeth, the discomfort brought on by thoughts of their father driving the guilt for lying to his sister out of his head. If only the king recognized his worth, realized his potential to be more than a statesman. This would prove him worthy of their line.
Teryk passed through the arch and paused when he heard a clatter behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he spied the guard who’d been sleeping outside his room jogging toward him, armor rattling, scabbard bouncing against his thigh. Teryk expected the man and had prepared. He raised a hand in greeting before he arrived.
“Ho! Rile, isn’t it?”
“Yes, your highness.” The guard skidded to a halt in front of the prince and bowed at the waist, breathing hard after his armor-clad run in the hot sun.
“You look parched, sir. Are you all right?”
“It is a hot day, my lord.”
“Well, I’m merely on my way to the armory to have my sword sharpened, then I’ll be back to finish my practice with Sir Trenan. Why don’t you take the opportunity to fetch yourself some water and a bit of shade?”
“Very kind of you, my prince, but the king—”
“I’m sure the king did not mean for you to think you should melt while protecting me from a room filled with weapons and armor. Does he worry a stack of bucklers might fall on me? Or perhaps he thinks I’ll cut myself?”
The guard chuckled then cleared his throat. “No, my prince. I s’pose he don’t.”
“Then run along and refresh yourself. It’s too hot for either of us to be up to shenanigans. I’ll see you at dinner.”
“Thank you, my prince.” Rile bowed and walked away at a much slower, more energy-conserving pace than he’d arrived at.
Teryk let the corner of his mouth curl up in the start of a smile. Danya had told him how she’d been unable to wake her guard when she’d returned to her chambers, so it didn’t surprise him he’d so easily convinced Rile. He thought if he’d told the soldier the king required him to feed the chickens, or offered him a roll with the queen, he’d have been talked into leaving the prince be with as little effort.
He strolled past the gardens, forcing himself to a measured pace quick enough to carry him to his destination, but not so fast he’d attract attention. A mix of excitement and fear swirled inside him, making him want to hurry his step. Instead, he observed the array of colorful flora without seeing them, he waved to a maiden sniffing the flowers without recognizing her, his boots clopped on the flagstone path without noticing the sound.
He’d concealed the pack he’d take with him and the cloak for disguising himself in a patch of nerin bush near the armory, hidden behind broad, green leaves. His thoughts slipped back to the bag and the blue-tinted paper secreted within amongst the sparse belongings he’d packed. After Danya left his chambers, he’d sat on the divan and read it over and over again, doing his best to commit it to memory, but the words kept eluding him. A few fragments held on, and he turned them over in his head, attempting to reason through their nonsense.
Man from across the sea...
Small Gods...
Seed of life...
Nothing might be found across the sea but drowning and death. The Small Gods were tales told to young children to keep them from wandering off or a threat of punishment when they chose to be mischievous. And ‘seed of life?’ A foreign, unfamiliar term to Teryk; he had no idea to what it referred.
But he remembered one line, and it came back to him, repeating itself in his mind as the carved stone walls of the massive armory building loomed ahead of him.
The firstborn child of the rightful king.
Nothing else inscribed on the scroll mattered as much as that one line, the one proclaiming him the man to fulfill the prophecy.
A sense of pride that had eluded him through much of his life swelled in his chest as he mounted the steps to the armory; a smile crept onto his lips. He paused with his hand on the door’s polished brass ring.
How strange; I am to become the most important man the kingdom has ever known, and they don’t even know they need me yet.
He let the grin slip from his lips, replacing it with the veneer of command he’d seen his father wear whenever his ass polished the seat of the throne. The huge door creaked open, the bottom of the thick wood scraping on stone, and the prince entered the armory.
He’d been inside the building before, but not since his youth, when he’d accompanied his father during a routine inspection. At the time, he didn’t know what made the review necessary when, other than the odd small skirmish, the kingdom had seen peace for an age. The king had explained the surveys were partly ceremony and partly preparedness, and then instructed the classroom master to increase the length of his lessons on matters of the court. Teryk never went with the king on another inspection, but the time he had was also the one and only time he’d seen Godsbane.
The air within the armory lay tepid and thick with the odor of oiled metal and fresh leather. He yanked the door closed behind him with a squeal of wood on stone, and stood in the antechamber, waiting, his eyes wandering over his surroundings.
A shield mounted to the wall bore the king’s sign: a lion standing astride a fallen dear, the sun rising behind them, a scroll across the bottom that read ‘The Mighty Shall Prevail.’ Two halberds affixed to the stone crossed below the shield, their ornate axe heads framing the coat-of-arms. A low table and uncomfortable-looking chair provided the only other furnishings.
Teryk shifted from one foot to the other and became aware of the sweat-soaked undershirt cooling on his skin, sticking to his chest and back. He pinched it between two fingers and pulled it away, glad to be changing clothes soon.
The sound of metal clanking against metal rolled through the open door beside the shield and halberds. The prince craned his neck, attempting to spy someone to attend his needs, but he saw no one. He cleared his throat, but it surrendered no more than a squeak he’d have been loathe to admit belonged to him.
“Hello?” he called, feeling time growing short.
A scrape of something hard against stone responded, but no voice answered him.
“Hell—?”
“Hold onto ye horses!”
The shouted words bounced along the hall and into the antechamber and Teryk hoped the owner of the tongue that spoke them would follow along close behind. He crossed his arms and set his expression.
Grumbling, indistinct words tumbled through the door, followed by the scrape of leather soles on stone floor. A moment later, a man appeared. He wore a dirty green smock, dark breeches, and worn brown boots. His white hair stuck out from his head at odd angles
and his cheeks and chin appeared as though the knife he’d used to shave had been far too dull.
“Can’t give a man a moment’s peace,” he mumbled, not quite under his breath. “Almost dinner time an—”
He stopped when he saw Teryk standing in the armory’s antechamber, a cross expression on his brow. The man’s grumbles ceased and he bowed deep enough at the waist, the prince wondered if he’d find the strength to straighten his spine again.
“Apologies, my prince,” the man said, his words directed toward the floor. “To what does a humble armorer owe the pleasure?”
“Rise,” Teryk said, and the man did, his expression suitably contrite. The prince pulled his sword out of its scabbard. “My sword needs a new edge. Have you the time to accommodate me? I know dinner time approaches.”
A blush rose in the man’s cheeks. “A jest, my prince. That’s all.”
“Of course.”
“But where is your squire? It’s been so long since we’ve seen your highness in this humble storehouse.”
“Exactly why I decided to come. It seems an age since I last set foot within these walls.”
“I remember. You’d seen naught but ten turns, if’n I remember right.”
“I believe you do.” Teryk raised a brow; the man did have a familiarity about him. “So you have time?”
“For the prince, I’ll make time.”
The man took three steps to close the distance between himself and the prince, then held his hands out to receive the weapon. Teryk relinquished it, placing the hilt in the armorer’s right hand, the blade in his left. The old soldier stroked the edge with his thumb, then lifted it to his eye to gaze past the guard and along the blade. He grunted quietly at the back of his throat as he lowered it and trained his gaze on the prince.
“My lord, this weapon don’t—”
“Sharpen it,” Teryk said, dismissing the man’s words with a wave of his fingers, the way he’d seen his father do a thousand times before. “How long will it take?”
“Not too long, judging by the shape of it, my prince.”
“Fine. I’ll pass the time amongst your stores. Call for me when you’re done.”
Without another word, the armorer bowed his head and retreated along the hallway from which he’d come. Teryk padded across the antechamber to the doorway and peeked around the edge, watching him until he disappeared.
The prince knew he’d be best to wait until the grating sound of the sword grinding against whetstone reached his ears, but he’d already spent more time than he’d intended. The instant the armorer’s dirty green smock disappeared from sight, Teryk stole down the hallway after him, pausing when he got to the doorway to the grinding room.
With the man’s back to the door, Teryk hurried past.
Beyond, the armory was a maze of corridors and doors, storerooms and display chambers. Many seasons had passed since his visit to the armory, but the prince thought he might still find his way.
Behind him, the noise of stone grinding steel began, allowing him to rush along the passages without worry of the hurried sound of his footsteps. He passed closed doors, each marked with a painted sign depicting the type of weapon or armor stored within, and Teryk wondered if the old armorer had drawn them himself.
He took a right, then a left, passed a door labeled with a sign depicting an open-faced helm, then another showing a bow. There seemed no rhyme nor reason to the placement of the different armor and weapons; the room containing arrows was located nowhere near the bows, hand axes and pole axes were stored in separate wings.
Panic built in the prince as he raced by doors marked with daggers, leather armor, pikes, javelins. Finally, he went past one with a sign depicting a sword, skidded to a stop and backtracked to it. He threw it open, convinced he’d come to the end of his search.
Racks of swords lined the walls, organized by size: short swords, sabers, bastard swords, broadswords. It took him but a few seconds to realize this was not the correct chamber. The king didn’t allow Godsbane to be kept in a storeroom with the other swords—the ceremonial sword of the crown required a chamber of its own.
Frustrated, Teryk shook his head and slammed the door. The panic in his gut spread, tingling along his arms and into his chest. He paused in the hallway, looking left then right, unsure which way to go, his breath panting between his lips. Could he have missed it?
He took a step back the way he came, then stopped, considered the other direction over his shoulder, wiped sweat off his palms on thighs. The twists and turns of the halls quieted the grinding sound of the armorer sharpening his blade to a quiet buzz. He didn’t have much time before the old man finished.
Teryk passed the room of swords, continuing along the way he’d been going. Surely he didn’t miss the crown sword’s display chamber. He couldn’t recall what depiction adorned the sign mounted upon the door, but he hadn’t seen one he thought appropriate to label the room containing Godsbane.
He rounded another corner, another. If he were in a forest, he’d have been lost beyond hope by now, but he took heart in the knowledge the armory building had one entrance and exit, and every passage led back to it, given enough steps. But would they lead him there in time?
The sound following him from the sharpening room faded away, replaced by a new one coming from in front of him. Teryk stopped, listened. The noise was far off and harsh. He took a few more steps, passing a sign depicting a round buckler, before realizing the source of the ruckus.
It was the same sound: the armorer sharpening his sword.
Teryk had traversed the maze of the armory building and come out the other side without finding the room for which he searched. His stomach sank, casting nausea into his throat.
The prophecy hadn’t mentioned the crown sword—at least not that Teryk deciphered—so leaving without it wouldn’t mean the end of his undertaking, but he’d convinced himself the sword needed to hang at his side. If he was to prove himself, he should do it with the weapon that represented his lineage and the kingdom in his hand.
But the time to find it was near running out.
Teryk pressed on, the noise of stone grinding metal growing louder as he advanced. He rounded one more corner and recognized the hall leading back to the antechamber, and to the sharpening room if he continued past. His head sagged, a hated feeling of defeat weighing his limbs.
“At least I’ll have a sharp sword,” he said aloud, pushing on toward the archway.
Two final doors, one on either side of the hall, lay between him and the antechamber. He forced himself to raise his eye to each as he approached and found the first bore a sign drawn with fire. Teryk stopped in front of it, his forehead wrinkled. He laid his hand upon the handle and pushed, but it didn’t open.
Locked.
He’d found no other room in the armory locked.
Godsbane.
He bit down hard on his teeth and blew a frustrated breath through his nostrils. If he’d come the correct way, he’d have left himself enough time to figure a way to unlock the door. But as he stood before the door, staring at the depiction of orange and red flames, the dissonant grate of the sharpening stone stopped. Teryk glanced along the hall toward the door through which he’d seen the armorer enter, expecting him to reappear, calling the prince’s name.
He’d failed.
The armorer must have paused to appraise his work and decided the blade required more because, a second later, the sound resumed. Teryk faced the door again, grasped the handle once more.
But why fire?
He stared at the painted lines on the wooden square mounted to the door. Godsbane had nothing to do with fire.
Teryk peered down the hall at the last door, the one closest to the archway leading back to the antechamber. Could it be he’d gone so far only to find he’d been so close?
The prince took his hand from the door handle and jogged the few paces to his last chance, his hand resting on the empty scabbard hanging at his waist to prevent it fro
m banging against his leg. He stopped in front of the door and stared at the sign mounted upon it, his eyes wide.
A crown.
He shook his head and chuckled to himself, then remembered time was short. A keyhole below the door handle gave him pause. The room marked with fire had been locked, but did the other doors have keyholes? In his hurry, he hadn’t paid attention. Neither the sword room nor any of the others had been locked. The prince’s lips pressed into a line, he rested his fingers on the cool metal of the door handle.
And pushed the door open.
Godsbane lay on a display rack near the far wall, strategically placed windows in the ceiling casting light on its blade to make it shimmer as though aglow from within. Its jeweled scabbard lay on the wide pedestal in front of it, rubies and sapphires sparkling along the leather case as the sun dipped toward dinner time.
The grinding sound of a sword being sharpened ceased.
Teryk leapt into the room, rose-scented incense floating in the air finding his nose, and crossed the chamber in five long steps. He snatched the crown blade from its perch, reached for the scabbard with his other hand but paused before taking it. Godsbane’s ornate, gold-trimmed hilt would be enough to garner more attention than the prince wanted; having the gaudy, gem-incrusted sheath hanging at his waist would identify him to anyone who spied it, perhaps get him arrested.
Or robbed.
He shook his head and slid the blade into his own empty scabbard, happy to find it mostly fit, leaving only an inch of Godsbane’s engraved steel sticking out at the top. Not perfect, but better than the alternative.
Teryk spun and hurried back across the room, acutely aware he made the lone noises anywhere in the building. He peeked around the jamb, peering along the hall toward the sharpening room, but didn’t see the armorer. Was he still in the room? Or had he finished and returned to the antechamber to present the prince with his newly-sharpened sword?
No, he’d have called for me.
