by T L Drew
‘You’re forbidden from drinking.’
Jorgen allowed a light laugh to escape from his full lips and scratched his short, dark beard with his pale hands before covering them with his thick leather gloves. ‘But I have barely started, and you’re not my mother. There is another long hour until the tournament begins, an hour to enjoy all the rum and mead I can muster.’
‘Since when did you become a drunk?’ Abigail spat with disappointment, yanking tighter on Jorgen’s long, dark hair.
‘Abby,’ he hissed as she kept pulling. She loosened her grip, but she didn’t let go. ‘I began to drink more when I was forced to spend my summers in this fucking castle with the people who murdered my father-by-law and ripped my wife from me,’ he seethed, almost as though he spoke to himself, trying not to think of the wife he had lost. ‘Not to mention all the madmen and rich bastards and petty feuds between brothers that end in bloodshed…my blood boils in Askavold without the drink,’ he uttered quietly, even though it was not the half of it. ‘This world has gone to shit since...since Ragnar died.’
Saying his name reminded him of Caeda. His gut twisted.
‘It has always been a shit world,’ Abigail’s voice was barely a whisper as she removed her hands from his tied hair and allowed them to fall upon his shoulders. ‘You think I want to be here, in this kingdom? I want to leave this place and I want to come home, to the west.’
‘Although I wish you were in Balfold, this is your home now – you’ll be a queen here, one day.’
‘It will never be my home.’
‘You have been here for years, Abby. Almost a decade. You have lived in the Stone Keep longer than you lived in Balfold with father and I... almost.’ Jorgen said quietly, taking a stand, and his eyes found his sister’s dark eyes. There was sadness in them.
‘Please, take me home with you when you leave. I have but one person in this damn castle who cares for me…one! It is only these summer months when you and Erik come to me that I have some joy in my life.’ Her eyes began to water. He saw a deep sadness in her eyes that he had never seen before, not even when she learned her marriage had been arranged and she would have to leave Balfold to live in the harsh south of Askavold, another kingdom. Jorgen reached for her hand, taking it in his, and feeling the coldness of her, like sinking his hand into the snow.
‘What troubles you, dear sister?’ Jorgen asked, looking into his sister’s sullen eyes, neglecting his drink.
‘I should not say.’
‘I am your brother; I would not tell a soul.’ Jorgen promised, grasping onto her hand tighter. Her eyes moved from his, and he quickly tried to find them again as she bit her tongue between her teeth. He wondered how long she had been keeping a secret from him in the weeks he had resided in Askavold, to be with his sister. Had it been days? Weeks? Perhaps before he even arrived? He caught her eyes again, and her tongue was quick to slip.
She almost choked on her words. ‘I loved him, and...and my husband has been unfaithful – he’s been laying with her, with Margot Rose, for years, Jorgen, years.’
‘You’re certain?’ Jorgen breathed a pained sigh as he heard the name of Andor Grey’s wife. ‘I can’t say that I’m surprised, Abby. Goran is a dishonourable man.’ He dropped his sister’s icy hand; Jorgen began to frantically pace the room, scratching the short beard upon his chin with gritted teeth. The black-eyed man turned his gaze back towards his sister. ‘Does Andor know that Goran is laying with his wife?’
Abigail nodded her head with surety.
‘Has he said anything? Done anything?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘I’ll kill Goran myself, heir to the fucking throne of Askavold or not.’ Jorgen spat as though there was poison upon his tongue, reaching for his long sword, Night. What do I do, he wondered furiously, what can I do?
‘No, don’t fret yourself brother.’ Abigail placed a hand upon his shoulder, reaching high to touch him. ‘I’ll handle it myself.’
‘What do you plan on doing?’ Jorgen asked, seeing a look in his sister’s eyes he had never seen before. He dared not admit that the look in her eyes frightened him – they were dancing with malevolence and fire, all sadness suddenly void from her gaze.
‘I should not have said anything…it was all become too much to bear, I suppose. We’ll never speak of it again.’
‘Abby–’
‘–You’re packed, ready to leave in the morning?’ She asked, avoiding his question and motioned to the filled satchels at the foot of Jorgen’s bed. It was true that when the sun came up over the Craghollow ruins, the Prince of Balfold was leaving the south until the next summer, even though it was not truly summer at all, plagued in an endless snow – he had many things that he left behind to travel to Askavold, things he had to return for, but how could he leave his sister now, after hearing her words, seeing her tears? ‘Perhaps even sooner,’ he admitted. ‘You know how I hate goodbyes. I should likely be gone in the night.’
There was a quiet knock upon the door. Goran’s voice was easily recognisable from behind the oak, deep and rough. ‘My father has called for all the lords and ladies to accompany him in the throne room before the tourney begins, and that includes you both.’ Goran shouted through the solid oak doors, the sound of his voice boiling the Prince of Balfold’s blood. Goran did not speak with common courtesy.
‘We will be there in a moment, Your Grace’ Jorgen shouted back to the heir to the throne of Askavold, trying to hide the anger and frustration in his deep voice. He heard Goran’s footsteps disappearing down the corridor, thuds of steel against the cold stone. He wrestled with himself not to chase the prince and strangle him in his own castle with his bare hands, cold like ice. ‘To the throne room…’ he whispered under icy breath, the last room in all of the Stone Keep he wished to go. It was where he would be, what remained of his father-by-law, where Ragnar’s bones were kept and displayed for the world to see.
‘Come brother; let’s not keep the King of Askavold waiting.’ Abigail smiled at her brother, too sweetly, too calm, the malevolence void from her eyes, burying it deep inside of her, and yet there was still a coldness in her voice that frightened her younger brother.
‘Did Goran father Margot’s children?’ Jorgen asked under his breath as he followed Abigail to the doors. She threw it open and disappeared swiftly into the corridors, her tongue bitten between her teeth, eyes pressing forwards, passing by the Black family’s guards that stationed themselves outside of their prince’s chambers. Jorgen was quick to keep up with her, but she gave him no response, even as the guards were quick to chase after their prince. He took Abigail’s arm lightly, enough to slow her rapid, desperate pace. ‘Did you hear me, Abby?’
‘I heard you.’ His older sister muttered sternly.
‘Did he father her children?’ He asked again with bitterness on his tongue, firmer through gritted teeth. She didn’t answer his question, her lips sealed into a hard, straight line, her eyes focused forward down the dark corridors as their guards caught up with them, clunking underneath thick armour with each heavy movement.
‘What do you think the king wants?’ Abigail uttered bitterly to her brother, a foul mood overtaking Jorgen as they moved through the icy corridors.
‘To humiliate his youngest son further, no doubt.’ He said, but still the Prince of Balfold could not forget the truths he had learned. Abigail’s words in the courtyard suddenly made sense to him; truly, Abigail and Andor were plotting, plotting to murder the man who had betrayed them. Jorgen swallowed his thoughts, and tried to block them from his mind.
The son of the King of Balfold found himself walking arm in arm with his older sister into the throne room, where they were ushered to the front of the crowd and closer to the throne of bones than comforting, the King of Askavold’s most honoured guest and his daughter-by-law. Jorgen could see the bones of the old kings wielded together into a giant, haunting chair. King Kodran was already sat upon their yellowing bones. Jorgen and Abigail we
re forced to stand beside Andor Grey, his hair a tousled mess and his beard outgrowing by the day. He appeared dressed for battle. Jorgen wondered whether Andor was thinking about his wife’s betrayal, or his brother’s – how long have they known? He wondered. Are they truly plotting murder? To his other side was Thorbjorn Grey, the king’s nephew and Andor and Goran’s older cousin. Thorbjorn was the commander of the king’s army, and Thorbjorn Grey was an impressive sight to behold. His armour and his blade had been crafted by the finest blacksmith in all of the six kingdoms of Askavold and his handsome face was laced with battle scars. Tall and dark, Thorbjorn’s eyes were an inhuman blue, like ice floating on the surface of the sea. Jorgen watched as Goran appeared from the king’s side and stood beside Abigail, his wife of many years who had yet to give him a son – Jorgen wondered whether that was the true reason behind Goran’s betrayal, or perhaps he felt as though he could do as he pleased, and not face the consequences. Jorgen thought the second option seemed more likely – he wondered whether he was staring at a man who was soon to die. Like Andor, Goran was dressed for a fight, and his long sword was holstered on his hip with malevolence. Jorgen felt an anger course through him towards the man that he had never felt; memories of drunken nights and hunts quickly transformed in Jorgen’s fury.
The crowd was quietened, and an old, skeletal man moved in front of the throne of bones, dressed in a black fur-lined cloak and silver armour, branded with the Grey sigil of the white fox. His head was bald and scarred from the Great War, part of his hand burnt from Ragnar Lienhart’s dragon fire. ‘Lords and ladies of the south of Askavold, and our honoured guest, the Princes of Balfold, welcome to the capital,’ King Kodran’s brother Hakon Grey, the father of Thorbjorn Grey, sung from the king’s side. As well as being the brother of the king, Hakon Grey was his most trusted adviser. The crowd fell silent as the old man’s voice echoed through the dark, cold throne room. ‘The tournament will commence shortly, but first, our king wished to thank all who have come to Tronenpoint in celebration of his tenth year upon the throne.’ Hakon’s icy eyes drew to the king and the old man stepped to the side of the throne. ‘Your Grace.’
The king nodded his head at his skeletal brother. Kodran opened his thin lips and drew dull eyes to the crowd, his voice rough. ‘Today I thank each and every one of you, for your undying loyalty to the crown during my first decade upon the throne of bones. Ten years prior, to this exact day, I became your king. You chose me to lead you, and lead you I have done,’ the king spoke boldly. The crowd was as silent as the grave. ‘So today we celebrate ten years of peace, ten years of my reign, and ten years since we vanquished those who do not belong in our lands. Let us celebrate our victory, and their demise.’
King Kodran rose a glass and stood from his throne. The royal family all mimicked the king’s motion, twisting towards the throne of bones, and raising the glass of blood red wine towards the skull that was mounted at the centre of the bony chair. It was not only Ragnar’ skull that was mounted in the centre of the throne, but his entire skeleton, used as the new king’s back rest. Jorgen would not raise his glass. Andor and Thorbjorn wouldn’t raise their glasses, either. ‘To the disgraced King Ragnar, King of Askavold and the Isles of Mór, protector of the cursed men, King of the Beasts, and father of many bastards,’ Kodran’s lips twisted into a sadistic smile. ‘May your suffering continue in the afterlife, old friend.’
Whilst the crowd cheered, Andor and Thorbjorn Grey, and Jorgen Black and his family, dared not raise their glass. They didn’t cheer, nor did they smile at the king’s words. All three of the men, as well as Jorgen’s brother Erik, and his sister, all loved Ragnar Lienhart with all of their hearts before his head was taken. How could he cheer the death of his father-by-law? Anger raced through them as the crowd and the king rejoiced in the death of the old king – Jorgen’s thoughts kept finding Caeda Lienhart, the old king’s daughter, with each glance at Ragnar’s skull. He thought about everything he had done for them, everything that had been for nothing.
Kodran’s glass was empty when he sat himself back upon the throne built from the bones of the old kings, resting his hunched back against Ragnar’s skeleton, and danced his dulling eyes upon the lords and ladies who surrounded him in the giant throne room. The murmuring of mankind came quiet as the king coughed for silence and parted his thinning lips. The king’s voice came from his throat dry and hoarse. ‘Before we proceed to my tournament in celebration of my reign, first I must do what I should have done a long time ago, but promised myself that I would wait until this moment,’ the king motioned his squire to come forward with the wave of his bony fingers. The tousled young boy bounded across the stone floor with two small white silk pillows in each palm. ‘Two rings, the same as the one I wear upon my own finger, to be gifted to my sons. For those who know little, these rings – which once belonged to the old king and the king before him, and so on – were a tradition passed through the ages from royal father to sons, a sign of love and trust and loyalty, a token to show the realms of men who were the most beloved men in a king’s life. After each decade upon the throne, the cursed kings would give these gifts to his children.’ The king’s eyes found his eldest son. ‘Goran, my son, step forward.’
Goran did as his father pleased; the heir to the throne moved in front of the throne of bones and knelt upon the stony floor, his tousled head bowed in front of the king. Goran Grey knew of the honour that was to be bestowed upon him, for a ring of Hircane was the most precious gift a king could give his sons. Wearing the ring was to make a promise to the king, to protect him, to love him, to kill for him. The squire lowered one of the silk pillows before Goran’s green eyes. The heir to the throne gazed upon the ebony black band that lay still upon the silk and Goran’s lips twisted into a smile as he stared upon the ring. ‘For my love of you, son, for being a son I can be proud of, a son I know can trust the rule of this realm when I am no longer here to care for her. You’re a brave man, and a man I am proud to call my heir.’ The black band was placed in Goran’s hand. He rose from the stone floor and placed it upon his finger. The metal was surprisingly hot in the coldness of the castle.
‘Thank you, Your Grace.’ Goran bowed his head, smiled a wide smile at his aging father, and moved to his bitter wife’s side. The crowd clapped their hands together as Goran reassumed position in his silver armour, more eager to fight in the tourney than ever. Goran Grey flashed the metal band on his finger at Andor. His brother ignored him, and the king spoke again.
‘In tradition, the second ring goes to another child of my seed, another son, if he has one, a child that he loves and trusts – if the king is without a second child, it goes to a man that he loves as his own. My daughter lives upon the Frozen Isles, but my youngest child still lives upon the southern soil.’ Kodran’s voice quietened and his eyes drew to his lap. His words trailed off, his voice barely a whispered under his wispy breath. The crowd barely heard his words, and Andor involuntarily took a step forward to hear his father’s quietened voice. ‘It brings me no guilt to say that there is another that will wear this ring, and not my second son.’
The crowd began to mutter. Andor’s heart skipped a painful beat, but his face remained hard and stiff. Jorgen shot Andor a gaze, but the youngest son of the king did not look away from his fat father with wide eyes, wondering if he heard Kodran’s words correctly. Jorgen noticed that Goran was cruelly grinning, almost as though the oldest son of King Kodran had been whispering in the king’s ear convincing him to give the ring to another.
Hakon Grey stepped towards the king and whispered in his ear angrily. The king shooed Hakon from him. ‘Sometimes, traditions are made to be broken,’ Kodran hissed to his brother, and Hakon’s lips sealed closed. The king’s eyes found Jorgen.
No, not I, Jorgen prayed. Don’t let him say my name.
‘Prince Jorgen, son of Reidar Black, the King of Balfold and ruler of the western lands, step forward towards me and kneel at my feet.’
There were sudde
nly a thousand eyes upon him. Jorgen realised he wasn’t drunk enough. In truth, he was stone cold sober. Jorgen felt Abigail’s hand pushing him forward as his feet remained still. ‘Move,’ she whispered. A chill ran through him, all eyes upon him, and he felt his feet involuntarily moving underneath him until he was stood in front of the throne of bones. He silently and stiffly knelt before the King of Askavold. Jorgen sneaked a careful look at Andor Grey. The youngest son of the king held a straight face, but his eyes were dancing with fury and humiliation. His eyes found the king’s eyes. Kodran’s lips tilted into a surprisingly loving smile.
‘You are the second son I wish I had,’ the king said quietly, his eyes focused upon Jorgen. He did not look towards his true born son, only the Prince of Balfold. ‘You’re brave and strong. I have watched you grow from a scrappy young boy to a handsome man I wish I could call my own. Your mother would have been proud of the man you’ve become. I care for you as though you are of my own seed. I care for you more than blood. Wear this ring as a token of my love. One day I hope you will become so much more than the King of Balfold – you deserve the world, Jorgen.’
The crowd were displeased in their silent mutters and angry stares. Although Jorgen was a popular, well-loved man throughout Balfold and Askavold, their love for Andor Grey was greater. In a world of slavery and a never-ending winter, the youngest son of the Askavold king did all he could to end the tyranny of the slavers and provide all that the common folk needed to survive the decade of snow and ice, despite the anger is caused King Kodran. Jorgen wasn’t a southern man. He was a westerner, and a drunk. The south wasn’t his home, and the southerners were not his people. They loved Andor Grey, and his humiliation caused them despair.
The ring was placed into Jorgen’s palm. Jorgen felt the burning of the hot metal as Goran had, and wondered whether it had just been forged, despite the king’s tale of traditions of the rings being passed from monarch to son for centuries. He twisted it silently in his fingers, hearing the mumbling of the crowd, and wondered if there was anything he could do to spare Andor Grey the embarrassment. I cannot reject a gift from the king, he was certain. No ideas came to mind. To reject the king’s gift would be an insult to the man who ruled over these lands.
