The Call of the Crown (Book 1)

by T. J. Garrett

  * * *

  “What of duty?” Mairi asked. “Freezing your bones to the marrow atop the castle parapet or marching the ward all alone at night. I do not see duty there. I see servitude!”

  “He will be in service to the crown!” Daric insisted.

  “He will be a slave to the crown! Duty and honour come to a soldier in battle, not guard duty—clearing the streets of drunkards and loafers… or… or… standing in line with your buttons polished.”

  Gialyn’s mother was a beautiful woman, even when angry. She held herself with grace, even under the direst of circumstances, yet her clear blue-grey eyes gave Daric an unyielding stare from under her furrowed brow. She folded her arms, tapped her foot, and bit at her bottom lip. She was not going to be budged on this argument.

  “Or is it your plan to pray to the gods,” she yelled, poking a finger hard against the back of the chair she was standing behind, “ask them for the old wounds to reopen, for our enemies to rise again, so Gialyn can taste this… this duty you are so keen on? Is it your hope to see our son to WAR?”

  Mairi stopped. The sheen on her normally calm exterior had cracked. Shaking, she put her hand to her mouth. She backed off, staring in shame at her husband. “I’m so sorry… I—I didn’t mean that… I should not have shouted. That wasn’t called for.”

  She cleared the pots lying by the stove and pulled the large chairs out of the way, in readiness for their supper at the table. “It wouldn’t trouble me so, Daric,” she said in a calmer voice, “if Bailryn were not so far away. By Ein’laig, you could scarcely go farther without falling into the sea.”

  Daric listened silently to Mairi’s comments. There were times he wanted to cut her short, shout back, and even throw something. He had turned wide-eyed and fidgeted with irritation at some of her remarks, but he let her finish—he let her be angry. How could a good mother not be angry at what he was suggesting for their son?

  “Then what would you have him do, my love?” Daric asked. “If it is thought for his safety that holds your fears, then there can scarcely be a more dangerous place than the Rundair Mines, nor more tedious. To say nothing of how woefully miserable it will make him. Would you see our only child sent to the pits of Speerlag for the rest of his days? You know that is the most likely outcome, if he stays here.” Daric thought his rebuttal to be fair indeed, though knowing Mairi—as well he did—there was little doubt in his mind that she wouldn’t let it lie.

  “He could work with you, labour around the farm!”

  Her reply was pitiful. Daric knew she was reaching, at best. Yet she delivered her plea with all the grace she could muster, as though she believed every word.

  Daric dipped his head, put his hands flat on the bench, and sighed deeply into his aching chest. “Mairi, my love, if only we could. The farming life is a way off yet. You know that. It will be at least another year before we can afford to plant the orchards, and then another three before we make any real money from it.” He stood up straight, sighing and gesturing openly as he tried to explain. “Right now, were it not for my guard’s pension, we would scarcely be eating, to say nothing of the debt on the farm! We would be forced from this house, probably back to Bailryn and your—, your mother’s. By Ein’laig, pray that never happens, for I would be the one to jump into the sea!”

  Mairi’s eyebrows rose as though she were waiting for him to bring up their woeful lack of income. “If money is so tight, how is it you can take three months off work to deliver him to Bailryn?” She stood in an all too familiar pose, arms folded below her breasts, tapping her finger on her elbow, gazing at him with a triumphant expression, as if the argument were all but over.

  “I have already told you. The Tanner girl is coming. Her father is paying me handsomely to see her safely to the capital.”

  “Pft.” Mairi turned away from the table, shaking her head. She clicked her tongue. “Damn, I forgot about that,” she whispered, then quickly turned to see if Daric had heard.

  An awkward silence settled heavily on the room. Both stared at one another. Both convinced in the wisdom of their arguments, yet equally confused by their fears. Daric began to speak and then stopped with his mouth half open. He knew he had to drive his point home if he were to get his way, but the thought of hurting her…

  “If your argument is no more than a wish to see Gialyn tied at your apron for the rest of his days, then, my love, I have no answer to satisfy such a need, none that would change your mind, at any rate. You are his mother. I understand you cannot find this easy; you would not be the mother you are if you did. But Gialyn is eighteen and a man. He cannot stay your child for long.”

  Mairi’s lip quivered. She stared aimlessly at the floor. Daric knew he must have been upsetting her. Any other day, the pitiful look she gave would have been enough to stop him, but so sure was he of his plan.

  “If you have a good argument, save that of a mother’s coddling, then I would hear it spoken now.” Daric waited for a response. Mairi didn’t so much as move her lips. He continued, “He must see the country. Whether he chooses the guards or ends up in the mine is not important. He must grow up. He is drifting into oblivion, wasting his life. He will come to Bailryn with me. He will seize this opportunity. What he decides to do with it is up to him, I swear it, Mairi. It … is … up to him! But I will not have him sitting here as though his life has already been carved in stone.” Daric stood up straight and folded his arms. “That is my word on—”

  * * *

  A door slammed. Gialyn stomped through the kitchen, eyes front, ignoring his parents. He swung the outer door wide and left the house. The door banged hard against the kitchen wall. It was still shaking when Daric shouted after him.

  “Where are you go—Gialyn!”

  Gialyn ignored his father’s cry and left him standing on the threshold of their home. He skipped the fence, pulled his coat around his shoulders—even though it wasn’t particularly cold—and made off at a brisk pace towards the town square.

  He strode determinedly along the track towards Albergeddy, only pausing briefly at the edge of the farmyard to glance over his shoulder. His father had already gone back into the house, probably to continue the argument with his mother. Gialyn had no doubt Daric would use his sudden exit as yet another reason to prove himself right, prove that his son was “an irresponsible child,” but he didn’t care, not right then. He was already numb from all the thinking he had done. One more thread in his father’s ridiculous plan wouldn’t matter too much. He knew the man had already made up his mind five minutes after talking to Theo at the Spring Feast—and that’s if it took five minutes.

  From the hilltop, Gialyn could see the entire town. Town? Only settlers would call fifty homes a town. The lamps of the town square shone bright in the near darkness. Lights flickered in the windows of many of the homes, too, none more so than the Tanners’ house—it was the biggest, after all. Gialyn wondered if Elspeth was home. He knew which room was hers but couldn’t tell if her light was on, not at this distance.

  “She’s probably polishing her trophy,” Gialyn whispered to himself. “I bet her father has thrown a party.”

  It was true. To listen to Theo after the prize-giving ceremony anyone would think he had won. Elspeth, for all her arrogance, had looked embarrassed by his constant prattle and praise. And what do I get for winning? Gialyn thought. Dragged off to Bailryn.

  All was quiet when Gialyn reached the outskirts of the town. The day’s activities had sent most to their beds. Or so it seemed…

  He glanced briefly between two houses. Ealian and his friends leaned against the low wall of Mayon Bower’s cottage. Gialyn quickly averted his eyes; he didn’t want to deal with them right now, not tonight. He spread his arms and pulled his collar up around his chin, trying to hide his face. Ealian and his cronies were laughing and joking. Gialyn held his breath and trod quietly until he was well past the alley. They didn’t notice him, thankfully.

  The town square was quiet but brightl
y lit. Every window of the Lesgar Inn shone with the flickering glow of oil lamps. It appeared not everyone had gone to their beds. Is drinking ale all day not enough? Gialyn shook his head and made his way to the well. He pulled himself up onto the circular wall and sat watching the folk go by, listening to snips of their conversations. It always irritated him how people could be happy when he was upset. Of course, he knew that made no sense, but still, it annoyed him.

  As if his ill mood needed further aid, Ealian and his friends waltzed into the square. Clearly, they’d been drinking—either that or one of Ealian’s legs had suddenly grown a foot longer than the other.

  “Here he is… the hill climber. That prize should have been mine, Re’adh.” Gialyn sighed heavily. “What… what was that for? Y-you think you deserved to win, do you? You cheated!” Ealian staggered as he attempted to point at the well.

  Gialyn stood and began to walk towards the canal where his father worked. “Best way to avoid an argument is not be there.” That was one of his father’s sayings. For once, Gialyn agreed.

  “Where are you going? Re’adh!”

  Surprisingly, Ealian’s friends didn’t help spur him on; maybe even they had realised how pathetic he acted. However, it didn’t stop the emissary’s son. He threw his quarter-full bottle of ale at Gialyn, missing him by barely a hand—a lucky throw in his present condition.

  “That is enough, Ealian.” Elspeth’s shout came from inside Gobin’s, the blacksmith—she was often in there, sharpening knives or arrow tips.

  Ealian turned, or rather swayed, in her direction. “This has nothing to do with you, sister,” he said, pointing at where he must have thought she stood, though his aim was off by a good span.

  “Go home, Ealian. You’re making a complete fool of yourself. Astin, take him home.” Astin Barrair raised an eyebrow. “Yes, you heard me, Astin.” Elspeth pointed directly at him. “Take him home before I tell your mother you’ve been at the ale.”

  Startled, Astin nodded furiously in Elspeth’s direction. He wheeled Ealian around—ignoring his complaints—and together with the other three marched the drunken fool in the direction of home.

  Elspeth stood with her hands on her hips and her jaw clenched, watching as they disappeared around the corner.

  “You shouldn’t let them treat you like that, Re’adh,” she said, taking a pace towards the well.

  Gialyn raised his head slowly to look at her. For once, he wasn’t nervous, despite how close she was. The events of the evening had overshadowed his usual butterfly stomach. “Only a fool fights a fool’s battle,” he said in a clear, firm tone.

  Elspeth looked taken aback by his comment. She didn’t speak to Gialyn very often, and when she did, she probably expected to hear little more than an incoherent, nervous prattle. The surprise reached her eyes and she giggled. “Where did that come from?”

  “It is one of my father’s. He has dozens of them.” He laughed a little, too, although his grin never reached farther than his mouth. He dipped his head and slowly bit at his lip. A strange sense of calm had come over him since leaving his home, almost a dazed calm, as if he were walking in a dream. He fished through his pockets, looking for a sweetroll he thought he had—nothing. Sighing, he turned to the large wooded bucket hanging from the rope of the well winch. Pulling the bucket to him, he picked up the ladle and took a sip before emptying some of the water into his hand. Slowly, he washed the water over his face. It was hot. Why did I bring this coat?

  Elspeth looked puzzled. Doubtless, she was accustomed to having folk’s full attention. Yet, Gialyn, of all people, was turning his back on her. She walked over and sat on the wall next to him.

  After a few moments, she spoke. “Are you looking forward to seeing Bailryn again?” The smile on her face said she certainly was—Gialyn knew Elspeth had been to Bailryn before, but just the once, and then only passing through. She had spoken of the tall towers, the white marble, the pristine fountains, and polished cobbles of the palace square. The smile on her face lit up her eyes; she sighed like a girl waiting for her first dance at the ball.

  Gialyn huffed. For a second, he wondered if he should sit down next to her. What would she think? Would she assume him too presumptuous, too bold, maybe? He decided he didn’t care and sat down anyway.

  “Lightfoots, Shrillers, the Black Hand, open sewers, food shortages, rats, and the blight—what is there to look forward to?” Gialyn asked.

  Elspeth looked at him askance, open mouthed, as if about to say something. Folding her arms, she appeared to think for a moment, every now and then creasing her brow as though puzzling through a problem. “What are Shrillers?” she finally asked.

  “Beggars—but none like you have ever seen. They will plant themselves in front of you, bar your way, scream how their children are starving and will die without food. On the other hand, they might say their mother is sick, and if you don’t give them a silver bit or some coppers… Then, once your back is turned, they run into the nearest tavern and buy ale with the money you gave.”

  “So why do people give it to them if they know that is all they do with it?”

  Elspeth looked straight at Gialyn, straight into his eyes. Her stare cracked through his dazed disposition. For a second, he began to remember he was supposed to be nervous around her.

  “Most people don’t. Nevertheless, enough give in to keep them at it. I suppose they think a few coppers are a small price to pay to be rid of them.”

  “And what are these… Lightfoots?”

  “Local thieves. Groups of them roam around the streets in search of easy victims—single women with a child, too busy protecting them to fight back; rich men too fat to chase them; hawkers and peddlers too busy with customers to notice thieving. They will filch from anybody.”

  “Gods, where are the guards? Why doesn’t someone do something about it?”

  Gialyn laughed. “The guards only patrol the palace square; the rest of Bailryn fends for itself. A few inns and taverns hire men to keep order, but often enough, the men they hire are little better. the Black Hand was the worst of them. My father thought Lord Breen—patron and founder of the Black Hand—was actually working with the Lightfoots to force folk into paying for protection.”

  “I see. Of course, I wasn’t expecting it to be all roses.” Elspeth lifted her chin—there was that arrogance again. “I expected it to be difficult. I mean, after all, it is the palace guards.” A self-absorbed grin covered her face.

  Gialyn thought she was imagining herself clad in shinning dress uniform, a palace guard captain’s insignia on her shoulder. I wonder if she knows what the barracks looks like. He laughed at the thought.

  “Now what?” Elspeth sat up, staring.

  “Nothing. I—I think you’re going to be in for a surprise.” Gialyn laughed nervously. The calm daze was wearing off.

  “I’m sure I will be able to handle anything.” Elspeth’s chin rose even higher. She crossed her legs and folded her arms tight. Blinking, she turned her gaze away and looked towards the blacksmiths. “I expect I will do very well. Of all the women chosen to guard the court, I’m sure none will be able to shoot like me.”

  “Doubt you will have much chance,” Gialyn mumbled.

  “What was that?” Elspeth asked. She sounded annoyed now. “You really should speak up.”

  Gialyn huffed indignantly. Damn her if she thought to get the better of him—not tonight, of all nights. “Most of the women who guard at the courts are little more than housemaids who know how to fight. You will probably spend most of your time fetching and carrying for one of the ladies of the court. You might be lucky and be assigned to a princess. But then, I don’t know if you would call that luck; she will probably have you hemming her dresses.”

  “Pft… I won’t do it!”

  “You will do what you are told!”

  “I… argh… I don’t believe you.”

  Gialyn felt strangely empowered, using his knowledge of Bailryn to get the better of her. No.
Stop it. Stop teasing, you fool.

  He lowered his tone. “All the guards do their share of fetching and carrying, Elspeth. Even my father did, and he was a captain. And if there is a war… If there is a war, you will fight alongside the men—and die alongside them, too.” He whispered the last part.

  Elspeth bit her lip. Her face flattened at his last comment. She stood, brushed down her breeches, and straightened her blouse. “I should be getting back. It’s late.”

  Gialyn stood, too, and bowed, then immediately wished he had not. Why do I keep doing that? They don’t bow around here. He coughed in embarrassment.

  Elspeth laughed a little. Once again, she mimicked a curtsy—f it wasn’t so dark, he might have seen the red in her cheeks and the glint in her eye. He did another half bow before turning for home. Now and then, he watched her over his shoulder. Elspeth walked back over to Gobin’s, probably to gather her belongings. A second later and she was gone. She didn’t turn back.

  Gialyn sighed before he, too, turned back toward the road. He wondered if he could sneak around back without anyone noticing, he didn’t want any more talk, not tonight at least

  CHAPTER 4

  New Friends

  The path to the footbridge was hard-baked—same as all the rest—by the seemingly ever-present sun. The thickening afternoon air lay still and heavy around Gialyn, making him blink dusty pollen away as he eyed the early shoots of lemon grass that lined the edge of the field. They stood tall in their roadside battle for the sun, a contrast to the short-cropped grass of the king’s pastureland, which lay beyond the colourful border. Silky dogwood grew along the boundary, too. Their green-topped leaves with silver bellies flickered in the high sun. White blossoms hung in clusters, dancing at the faintest unfelt breeze, as if poked by an invisible finger. The buds of their pale fruit—a rare feast for the birds come summer—were just beginning to show on the thinly-lined, green-stick branches.