by Ellyn, Court
Uncle Raed and cousin Rance had returned only three days ago to see how he was doing. Another battle season was upon them, and Raed wanted his sons with him. Too bad. Staring at the roaring bonfire, Uncle Raed looked like a ghost, face long and pale. One arm hugged Istra tightly. She leaned into him and sobbed. Rance stood farther along the parapet, the image of his dead brother. Grandmother whispered to him, words that tumbled away on the wind, and Rance nodded, trying to look like he was made of iron.
Really, Nathryk had to appreciate Raudry’s illness. Over the last few weeks, the invalid had stolen all of Grandmother’s attention, and she’d let up on Nathryk’s restrictions. He’d slipped away from his chaperone and explored the tunnels hidden in the castle. Grandmother hadn’t yelled or nagged. She’d even agreed to let him ride out with Captain Bartran and the garrison to survey the borders of her lands. Anything for a bit of quiet while her other grandson sweated and shivered himself to death. Surely that freedom had died with Raudry. Nathryk anticipated more severe measures after today. Grandmother would be afraid of losing more of her family, and, doubtless, her most important grandson would be the one to suffer for it. “I’ll never get to go fox hunting now,” he muttered, accusing the blackened corpse half-seen among the flames.
The turners in their grim, protective face masks, tossed more wood on the fire, raked in the embers. Ashes swirled and drifted past the mourners. Nathryk made a game of blowing them away from his face. Bits of Raudry, he thought, laughing.
Uncle Raed straightened at the sound. Nathryk swallowed his laughter, but not fast enough. Raed reached around his daughter and slapped Nathryk upside the head. “Leave! If you cannot respect my son, Highness, leave us to mourn in peace.”
Nathryk made a show of raising his chin and promising vengeance through narrowed eyelids, then he brushed a bit of Raudry off his shoulder and about-faced for the stairs. His chaperone followed him closely, across the courtyard and into the barbican where the castellan was headquartered. He had a brisk walk, had Torm the Tormenter, as Nathryk called him; he kept up easily, though he was round in the belly and lumbered like a bear walking upright. Never said a word to the prince, just followed him everywhere, like a shadow or a jailor. Nathryk supposed he ought to get used to it. The White Mantles followed his father everywhere, and one day they would follow Nathryk as well. If only Torm would agree to follow his orders rather than Grandmother’s.
Outside the castellan’s office, Nathryk heard voices. He stopped short. Torm nearly ran over him, the oaf. Elbowing him aside, Nathryk listened at the door.
“… strange orders, certain,” said Captain Bartran in his booming bass. “Sounds like an all-out offensive. Even the fortress garrisons?”
A second voice, too soft to recognize, replied, but Nathryk caught only, “… prepared, in the event that King Rhorek …”
“Very well, m’ lord, we’ll stand ready.”
A rustle of chairs, and the softer voice said, “… attend to the burning now.”
“Of course.”
Nathryk leapt aside as the door opened. A young man in the green cloak of a royal messenger emerged. Upon seeing Nathryk, he bowed and said, “Highness, an unexpected pleasure.”
“Yes, it must be. Who are you?” Nathryk vaguely recognized the face from court.
“Johf, son of Lord Haezeldale and your servant, Highness.”
Ah, yes, the brother of Father’s last queen, the sickly one. Bhodryk’s uncle. Nathryk hadn’t thought of his brothers in months; he didn’t like this man reminding him of them. “You bring word from my father?”
“For you? Of course. He says he’s pleased with the progress you’re making.”
“That’s it?”
“And he sends his love.”
“Hnh, either my grandmother lies to him or you lie to me. You may go.” He’d hoped for one instant that this favored courtier had come to fetch him home, but he wasn’t to be trusted. Doubtless, Johf of Haezeldale favored Bhodryk, just as Father did. The road back to Brynduvh was long and solitary, and much could happen to a boy before he was grown, especially at the hands of men who favored one prince over another. This was no escape.
Johf retreated, eyes lowered, and made for the Burning Yard to pay his respects.
“You came to see me, Highness?” asked Captain Bartran, standing in the doorway.
“Ready the hounds, Captain.”
“The hounds? Highness, we can’t go hunting today. The castle is in mourning.”
“But I’m not. Get them ready. Torm, be useful and saddle my racer.”
“Highness,” Bartran protested, “your grandmother will be furious.”
“Let her. What can she do? She’s already stuck me with this idiot, and he’s going with me, isn’t he. Besides, this is my last chance. Tomorrow you’ll get away with telling me no, but not today. Be ready in an hour.”
The hunt proved nothing but a frustration. The pups were too young and inexperienced to sniff out foxes. They chased after anything that moved on four legs: rabbits, farm cats, sheep. At last they scattered, baying across the countryside, so that for the rest of the day Bartran, his four sons, and three men of the garrison, ranged far and wide to round them up again. By the time the sun settled on the sea, they had caught all but two. Nathryk returned to the castle, sulking and seething.
Lady Eritha was waiting for him in the corridor. “Of all the tasteless, disrespectful things for you to do.”
He tried to edge around her. “You’ll be happy to know it was a complete failure.”
She seized him by the arm, spun him around. “Happy! My grandson is dead, and you order a decent man to turn those damn dogs loose so they go howling across the countryside while the fires still burn! Before we dine tonight, you will apologize to your uncle and your cousins.”
“Princes don’t have to apologize.”
Her grip tightened, and her teeth grit as if she wished she squeezed his neck instead. “Wicked children do, and by the Goddess, you will, or I’ll ship you back to your father in disgrace. So help me, this embarrassment will follow you the rest of your life if you disobey me.”
“Grandmother, you’re being irrational. You’re the one who’s embarrassed, not me.”
She slapped him. Shrieking and sobbing, she kept slapping him until he fell at her feet, dizzy and sobbing himself.
A gruff voice echoed down the corridor, “Stop, Mother!”
Eritha shrieked the louder as her son hauled her back. “If only it had been you on that pyre! Wicked little bastard.”
“Mother, it’s enough.” Uncle Raed held her while she sobbed on his shoulder. With masterful aplomb, he set her aside and helped Nathryk to his feet. His face stung, his scalp throbbed, and he tasted blood on his lip. “You will need ice on your eye. I’ll have it sent up to you. Go bathe and join us for supper.”
It wasn’t Grandmother’s beating that finally shamed him, but gentleness from a man who was not known for it. Nathryk held the ice to his face while Elgia drew his bath water. He dreaded going downstairs to face them, but when he was cleaned up and dressed, Torm the Tormenter was waiting to escort him below. The worst part was standing in the doorway of the dining hall with Uncle Raed, Istra, and Rance staring at him, waiting. All affection, forced or genuine, was gone from Grandmother’s face. Avenger of the dead, that’s what she looked like, glaring with those black stony eyes. At last, Nathryk lowered his gaze and said, “Uncle Raed, Rance, Ch—Istra, I’m sorry.” It sounded sincere enough. In fact, he almost meant it.
~~~~
Grandmother kept him locked in his rooms for five whole days, until Uncle Raed and Rance departed north for Stonebrydge. The weather started to warm by then, and training resumed. Captain Bartran bellowed, “Remember your posture, Highness. Better. Now, mark!” The wooden swords clacked furiously. The enclosure used to train squires was in a weedy, neglected part of the castle. Over the wall, the shing of real swords and the shouts of men announced the diligence with which the garrison had r
esponded to the White Falcon’s orders. Those orders were still a mystery to Nathryk. No one told him anything, but Grandmother carried an extra bit of urgency in her step lately. In the event that King Rhorek did what? So far, only Leanians and naval forces had threatened the strongholds in the west. But what if Rhorek had joined forces with Bano’en and meant to march on Stonebrydge, and then Éndaran? No, Éndaran was too far removed to merit the Black Falcon’s direct attention.
He wished someone would keep him updated on what was happening. Apparently Ulmarr had been destroyed and one of the river twins was dead. The stories always varied in detail; sometimes it was Lady Drona who’d lost her head, sometimes her brother. He’d also heard that a boy commanded Aralorr’s army. Nathryk burned with jealousy at that news. Whether or not these rumors were true, the Aralorris seemed to have strengthened their foothold in Fiera. One day, when he ruled the realm, he would raze every castle in Aralorr. Punishment well deserved. “Raze them all!” he shouted and slashed his way past Istra’s blows. Her wooden sword struck him on the arm, then on the arse, and Nathryk found himself slashing at air. He whirled, his sword a blazing arc, but Istra parried it and shoved him aside.
“Out of practice, Highness?” she taunted. “Must be, after sitting and doing nothing all week.”
“I wasn’t doing nothing!” It was true, too. He ate, slept, ordered Elgia about, watched the ships sailing past, and broke a lot of Grandmother’s furniture.
“You’re slower than ever.”
“You’ll eat those words, Chubs.”
“Reset,” Bartran ordered. “You gonna fight your foes or yell them to death?” Nathryk and Istra separated and crouched in their starting positions, swords poised high over their heads. “Mark.”
Nathryk charged to the attack. Clack-clack! The fury of it startled Istra. She went on the defense, giving ground.
“Pommels!” Bartran shouted, for often his pupils forgot there was more to a sword than the blade alone. “Look for an opening.”
Somehow Istra found one. Her pommel rang against Nathryk’s helmet, and he found himself tasting dirt. He spat, shook the haze from his head, and rolled onto his back, groaning.
The tip of Istra’s sword pressed against his throat. “In the name of the White Falcon, I claim you as my prisoner.”
“Well done, m’ lady,” said Bartran. “Reset.”
Nathryk scrambled to his feet. “Captain, it’s not fair. Chubs has had three more years of practice than I have.”
“Which is pushing you to better yourself, Highness.”
“Or don’t you like losing to a girl day after day?” Istra tossed in.
“You’re not a girl. You’re a chubby little pig.”
“Enough,” Bartran bellowed. “We’re calling it quits before tempers flare.”
“But—”
“I’m talking about my temper, Highness. I have better things to do than referee your rivalry. Go wash up and put your equipment away.”
Abashed, Istra saluted with her sword to her chest, then bowed an exit. Nathryk followed, resentful. At the well reserved for the barracks, Istra drew water, washed the sweat from her face, and patted it dry on her sleeves. Trailing in, Nathryk had to wait his turn. While Istra unbuckled her padded armor and shin guards, a pair of soldiers walked by and stopped their conversation to look her direction. Nathryk’s lip curled, and he tried to see his cousin as they saw her. Hnh, he supposed she wasn’t exactly chubby anymore. She’d grown tall and slender, actually, and when she took off her helm, her braid tumbled down her back, a thick golden rope. She didn’t look like the Éndaran clan at all. Nathryk wondered if his father hadn’t plowed the wrong bed when he’d come to visit his bride’s family. What could be worse than brothers but a sister?
Istra wasn’t inclined to wait for her cousin; she gathered her equipment and headed off for the armory. Nathryk dumped the water she’d used and drew his own. After scrubbing his face, he trudged after her. She was stacking her armor in the chest of training gear and speaking with Ailsa. One of the best archers in the garrison, Ailsa was charged with teaching the two young highborns everything she knew. Their talk, however, didn’t involve bows or bull’s eyes. “I thought, maybe, he would take me along after … Raudry … well, you know.”
Ailsa leant on the rack lined with pikes. She was a long, lanky thing with shoulders like a man. “Surely your da wants to protect you now more than ever,” she said. “Don’t let it get you down, m’ lady.”
Istra nodded. “Yes, you’re probably right. But I’ll not stop worrying about them now.”
Ailsa saw Nathryk enter, drew herself upright and curtsied, a clumsy gesture, given her physique. “I’ll be waiting for you both in the yard. Be prompt.” She retreated, grabbing her bow on the way out.
Istra dusted off her practice sword and put it on the rack with the others. Selecting her favorite bow from another, she wrapped her leg around it, bent it, and popped the sting into place. Glancing up, she caught Nathryk staring at her leg. Her trousers were snug brown suede. “What?” she demanded. “C’mon, Ailsa’s waiting.”
Nathryk set his sword next to hers. “You miss ‘em?” he asked, unbuckling his padded armor.
“I don’t know what you mean.” The wooden, downcast expression on her face, however, told Nathryk she was lying.
“What a stupid way to die,” he muttered. “Pneumonia? A disgrace, really.”
“How can you say that? It wasn’t Raudry fault. He got sick. Nobody can help that.”
“I shall die a hero’s death.”
Istra’s fists doubled at her sides. “You’ll die a wicked little boy’s death if you don’t shut up!”
“Is that a threat? That’s treason, you know.”
Istra spun away, determined to ignore him.
“Why get mad at me anyway?” he added with a shrug. “Your brother was too weak to make the cut. He’s dead. It’s true, isn’t it? But me? Pneumonia, pah! I’ll have the glory Raudry missed.”
“Like hell you will!” Istra grabbed his face in her palm and tossed him onto his arse. “Never speak of my brother again. He was a hero, and you, everyone hates you because you’re cruel and spiteful. You’ll be the worst king ever!”
Leaping to his feet, Nathryk hammered his fist into her jaw. He wished he was bigger so that one hit might knock her out and shut her up, but she toppled into the bow rack and raised her hands to apologize or plead. Nathryk didn’t feel like pardoning her this time. He grabbed a practice sword and whacked her in the head. She gasped and fell. Nathryk thought maybe he’d cracked her skull, but she rolled onto her side, huddling up in a tight, whimpering ball, so Nathryk whacked and stomped her ribs. “I hate you! I hate you!” he shouted.
Arms wrapped around him, lifted him, and tossed him aside. “Goddess, Highness, what are you doing?” Ailsa demanded, dropping down beside Istra. Her face was bleeding. “Don’t move, m’ lady. We’ll get help.”
Nathryk sat against the chests of armor, shaking. Why was his face wet? Tears? He wiped them dry and ran from the armory like a fox afraid of the hounds.
~~~~
Torm found him, gone to ground in the buttery. The man said not a word, but beckoned him out from behind the casks of oil and bags of flour. Nathryk followed without a sound, head down, desperate to appear sorrier than ever. Maybe Grandmother would have mercy on him then. Torm escorted him to his rooms, as he expected, and there Lady Eritha came to him. Hands folded primly, she said, “Tomorrow, you return to Brynduvh. I have written to your father and told him I can no longer take responsibility for you, as you are unmanageable and abusive. Let him deal with you, if he can.”
When she left, Nathryk breathed easier. At least she hadn’t struck him. But the longer he contemplated her dismissal of him, the more he began to panic. Hadn’t he wanted to go home? What would Father do if he came home in disgrace? On one hand, he might be occupied with the impending battle season and spare no time for Nathryk. On the other, he might lock him away as Grandmo
ther did. No, he would take away Nathryk's inheritance, give it to Arryk or Bhodryk. Fight and flail as Nathryk might, Father might do just that. Much can happen to a boy before he’s grown. Yes, even his own mistakes might cost him everything.
No, it was Istra’s fault. She had baited him. And when he snapped, she couldn’t handle it. She deserved what she got, though Nathryk would bet his racer and his knighthood that Father wouldn’t understand that. Maybe he could beg Grandmother to let him stay. Her wrath was powerless in the end, but Father’s wasn’t.
Near sundown, Elgia brought him supper. The food at Éndaran had grown less and less remarkable, the longer the blockade lasted. Cabbage and fish. Plenty of cabbage and fish. He hated cabbage and fish. He couldn’t have eaten anyway; his stomach ached with worry. How could a prince be powerless in shaping his own destiny? Wicked little boy. Little boy, that’s all he was. A little boy whose father happened to be king.
Oh, what had he done?
“Elgia?” he asked. The splash of her filling his tub stopped, and she poked her head out from the dressing room. “Is Istra very badly hurt?”
The woman looked at the rug. “Her nose is broken, Highness. They say she’s got a gash on her forehead that will scar her pretty face. And her ribs are cracked.”
“Did they tell you what she said to me? She deserved it, you know.”
Elgia curtsied. “As you say, Highness.” She went back to warming his bath water.
“It is as I say!” he cried after her, but he knew she didn’t believe him.
While he soaked in the tub, trying not to think about facing his father, Elgia packed his clothes in the trunk. She left out his travel garments and helped him into his sleeping robes. “Best get straight to sleep. You’ll be getting an early start in the morning.”
