by Guy Antibes
“What do you want?” A magician said.
Perhaps these few magicians had re-warded the officers who rode with them.
“Peace. We don’t want to fight our fellow Imperials,” Pol said. “Do you really want to kill us?”
Pol walked Demeron close enough to place shields on the non-magicians in the group.
“We don’t want peace. We want to dominate Phairoon.”
“Without Grimwell, your leader?”
The magician glanced at the other magicians. “What do you know about him?”
“I removed him from our world,” Pol said. “Do you want a description of your western camps and the compound surrounded by fabric and the burning tents? Did you know Namion Threshell? He died without a sign of blood on his body. Shall I go on?”
The magician looked uncomfortable. “I haven’t had new orders in regards to you.”
“That’s because your highest ranking magicians are all dead,” Pol said. “Disband the army. We’ll let you return to your homes and families. We have no desire for revenge.”
The officers looked at each other. They weren’t controlled.
“NO!” one of the magicians said.
An officer withdrew his sword and plunged it into the magician’s side. “He boasted how he never needed a protection ward.” He looked at Pol. “When can we leave?”
“As soon as we’ve removed the wards and mind-control from everyone in your army. Will you permit us to do so?”
The officers nodded.
The remaining magician looked shocked. Pol used a splinter to eliminate the Winnower’s concerns.
“Are there many more magicians?”
The officers shook their heads, looking at the magicians’ bodies on the ground. “Not many. Most were with the main group. We were ordered to turn around and attack you, but we were instructed to wait for the final order.” The officer looked down. “It never came.”
~
Pol had a long conversation with Malden. The Emperor faced a larger army and did not expect the same results. After dispersing the Eastern Winnower army, Pol moved his forces towards the forces facing Baccusol.
They attempted something similar on both sides but met with mixed results. Fighting erupted in pockets. Pol and his magicians put as many men to sleep as they could, but conflict could not be avoided.
Biloben came up with the idea of carving out pieces of the army. His strategy was costly in lives, but it eventually worked, and the Winnower rebellion finally fizzled.
Pol still felt the cost was too high, but it would have been many times worse had the Shinkyan army not attacked the flank of the Winnowers.
A week later, Pol reunited with Malden, Akil, Gula, Deena, and Vactor, who ended up leading the Deftnis monks. They commandeered a large tent and celebrated their victory, filling out the group with the officers and Elders of Pol’s armies.
Akil and Deena were more than happy to relate their war stories. Landon had proven to be a great support even after he suffered a wound in the fighting.
Pol listened along with the rest. His victories had come with a cost, and now he faced an uncertain future.
The celebration stopped when Hazett III walked into the tent after having arrived from Yastan. Handor walked at his side. Farthia and Ranno walked in next. Farthia hurried to reunite with Malden.
Hazett raised his hands. “The Winnower War, as it shall be known in our histories, would have turned out differently without the valor of the people in this room.” He walked over to Pol and put his hand on Pol’s shoulder. “I’m especially proud of the efforts of my son, Pol.”
Pol cringed as they cheered him.
“How can I repay you for rallying the Shinkyans and creating havoc in the East?”
It didn’t take a moment for Pol to respond. “I’d like your permission to marry Shira and retire to Redearth.”
Hazett pursed his lips. “I have other plans for you.”
Pol thought the Emperor would. His heart sank. He dreaded living in Yastan, even with Shira at his side.
“But what if we come to a compromise?” Hazett pulled at his chin.
The Emperor would compromise with him? “I’m willing,” Pol said.
“Marry Shira in Shinkya. I will make the trip myself. I think Jarrann needs to get out of Yastan.” He nodded to himself. “Have an extended honeymoon on your estate and then come to Yastan for a season, let’s say next summer. We will have a better idea of how you can serve the Empire then. There is a lot of smoke to clear.”
“I can start with that, Father.” Pol said. He called Hazett ‘Father’ on purpose.
The Emperor’s eyes twinkled. “You cause so much trouble wherever you go.” He shook his head. “I think it’s time to resume your celebration. While I am in this tent, I am Hazett, just another member of this august group. Would someone get me something to drink?”
Pol was fine with that, too.
~~~
Chapter Thirty-One
~
P ol leaned across the gap between Demeron and Amble and snatched Shira’s hand as they turned down the tree-lined avenue leading to the manor house at Redearth. He stood in his stirrups and twisted back to look at the troops following.
Little Tishiko wouldn’t need as many soldiers now that peace had returned to the Empire, but some Shinkyans had asked to serve in his duchy. He sat back down and rode towards Redearth. Before when he visited the house, he never felt it was his. It seemed to him that Shira owned the place, and he just stayed there from time to time.
He looked over at his new wife. Legally what was his was hers. She had made it that way when they wed in Tishiko. Paki and Fadden stayed in the Shinkyan capital city. Fadden took Val’s place as the Imperial Ambassador, and Paki would spend some time as his aide. The Emperor and his wife were thrilled to visit Tishiko, and even Queen Anira managed to act graciously. Pol did not expect her good humor to last.
Their first days of marriage had been chaste ones, surrounded by the soldiers who elected to return to Redearth. Even a few of the Elders and Grand Masters returned with them to their village named Honor.
They rode up to the front steps. Pentor greeted them, along with his wife and Kelso Beastwell and his wife, with Darrol standing at the end. Pol and Shira joined them on the steps and let the soldiers parade by them on their way through the back gate towards Little Tishiko.
They left, and Pentor turned to them.
“I have refreshments prepared.”
Pol let the others pass and entered the manor holding Shira’s hand. “Now this is our house. He stopped to kiss her under the doorframe. Emotion filled him as he ushered her into the house.
He looked around. It had not changed from what he could tell. They walked into the war room. Without maps and tables, the place turned back into a ballroom.
“I am happy to say this is a ballroom, once more,” Pentor said. “At long last,” he sighed.
They had a quiet dinner, just the seven of them, as Pol and Shira answered questions about their campaign after they had left Covial.
“You didn’t miss me on the road?” Darrol asked.
“I wished you were there.” Pol said.
“Do you have room for another in your party?” a familiar voice said from the doorway.
Pol rose from his seat. “Val, come in.”
They all rose.
“The Emperor gave me a vacation, so I thought I’d drop by to scout out what stony dry plot of infertile land you’ll stick me with.” He pulled out the written agreement Pol had scribbled out in Tishiko.
“Come in!” Shira said. “I am the lady of the house.” She beamed. “It’s official now. We can go out tomorrow morning, first thing, to see what you would like. Pol has more than enough land in Redearth.
“Not tomorrow morning,” Pol said. “I’ve decided to sleep in.”
“Do I get some land?” Darrol said.
Pol made a face. “We don’t have an agreement.”
�
�But I’m your sworn man.”
“Now that I’m Duke, how many sworn men do you think I have?” Pol said with a smile.
Darrol looked hurt.
“I will think of something,” Pol said.
They talked for a bit more
“I think it’s time to retire,” Pol said. He yawned.
Pentor and Kelso stood, along with their wives. Darrol and Val remained seated.
“We’d like to chat for a while, but you’ve been traveling all day. I will make sure the manor is closed,” Pentor said.
“Good. Darrol, will you find Val a place to sleep in your barracks? I’ll find a room more appropriate for an ex-Ambassador tomorrow,” Pol said. He took Shira’s hand, and they walked up the stairs. A maid bowed deeply as she passed them.
Pol stood in front of his rooms. Shira turned to her rooms across the hall. Pol located into his room and found it empty.
“Where are you going?” Pol asked.
Shira blushed. “To my bedroom.”
Pol smiled and threw the door open to his suite. “These are our rooms now. It was a struggle, but you must have noticed that I arranged it so we can sleep in,” he said as he lifted her in his arms and carried her into their suite.
~~~~
Thank you for reading the final book in The Disinherited Prince Series. I hope you enjoyed all the books in the series. Please leave a review wherever you purchased this book.
An Excerpt From
The Sorceror’s Song
Book One of
The Song of the Sorcerer series
~
Chapter One
~
T hirteen-year-old Hendrico Valia admired the candied fruit behind the counter. He had only a few coins in his pocket, but enough to purchase what his taste buds desired.
“Can you give me a discount, Karian?” Hendrico said.
“Ricky, I always give you something off,” the shop’s owner said.
The boy pulled out the coins in his pocket and held out his hand. “Take what it will cost,” he said, closing his eyes not wanting to know if he’d be paying all he had with him for the treat. He hadn’t been able to afford any sweets in weeks.
Ricky heard the sounds of horses and carriages in the street increase as the door opened.
“There you are, you good for nothin’”
Karian quickly put a handful of fruit in Ricky’s palm without withdrawing any coins. “It’s time for you to go. Enjoy.”
Ricky looked up at his friend and beamed. “I will!” He jammed his treasure in his dirty pocket and turned to confront his grandfather, Gobble Bangetel. “What is it this time?” Ricky asked.
Gobble threw an angry face at Karian and took Ricky by the shoulders, leading him roughly outside. The old man looked down both sides of the street before putting his face right in front of Ricky’s nose. “I have a job. There is a trinket being sold in the market that someone wants. It’s up to you to retrieve it.”
“Can’t you find me a decent apprenticeship or something?” Ricky whined. “I don’t like going out on jobs. You know that.”
“But you are special,” Gobble said. “I only got one grandkid, and that’s you. Ricky doesn’t want Old Gobble to starve, do you?”
Gobble never looked like he had starved a day in his life, even though Ricky had gone without food enough times. He had helped a farmer unload his cart in the market the previous day and the proceeds from that work was meant to pay for the candied fruits. But Gobble was his only relative, so Ricky had to do what he said.
Ricky sighed. “What is it?”
“It’s a jug, a special jug from Vorria. It is said to hold liquids hot for long periods of time. There are only few in Paranty and none exist in our beloved city of Tossa.”
“Show me the way,’ Ricky said, resigned to demean himself, yet again. When other children learned their numbers and letters, Gobble taught Ricky how to steal without being caught. Ricky would rather know how to read, but he had no means to do it. His grandfather couldn’t read, so he never saw the need for his grandson to do so.
They threaded their way across the cobbles on the busy street, evading carriages, carts, horses, and horses’ droppings. Gobble grabbed Ricky’s hand and squeezed it hard, like he usually did. Ricky forced himself not to cry out. Doing so would only get a slap from Gobble. They walked through a couple of alleys, threading themselves through the streets of upper Tossa, before they emerged into the Farmer’s Market.
Ricky never had figured out why it was called that. Only a third of the market sold produce of any kind. He learned that years ago the city had torn down a few blocks of tenements to expand the square. He looked out at the vast array of tents and the temporary shacks that made up the place. The city council had put black cobbles outlining the stalls when they reconfigured the market, making orderly rows of stalls.
He often wished for less organization when he had to escape from stealing. Gobble generally put him up to jobs stealing in the marketplace since he was smaller and more evasive. Ricky suspected that his grandfather had other illegal pursuits, but he had never seen the fruits of those endeavors.
“Next row, two stalls down. It’s a copper cylinder with engraved decorations on a blue velvet cloth.”
Ricky rolled his eyes. He’d have to steal in plain sight of everyone. It’s a wonder he hadn’t been caught yet. He shivered at the thought of being sent to the dreaded Applia Juvenile Home. That was where the city council sent thieving boys. It had a dark, dark reputation as a place where boys were tortured more than fed.
He shuddered as strolled past. His grandfather hadn’t told him of the glass case that surrounded the urn, or the vase, or whatever it was. The thing did look expensive.
Gobble grabbed Ricky close to him as they turned into the next aisle. “Do it now, before the crowds begin to thin.”
His grandfather didn’t have to tell him that. “I’ll bring it to the boat,” Ricky said.
“No. I’ll take it on North Street by the feed store.” Gobble gave his upper arm a painful squeeze and slipped through the crowds. He wouldn’t even be close when Ricky took the strange vessel.
The crowds thinned for a little bit when Ricky walked past the first time. The glass case was just set over his target, so he would knock it over and snatch the urn, then disappear through the stall directly across the aisle, slipping underneath a simple railing and into the crowds on the far side. With his special technique, it would be easy to get away, but he worried about being seen.
The crowd thickened, giving Ricky a bit of cover. He slid between two couples with their arms filled with bags and packages. Just before he approached the urn, he bumped into an older woman, who frowned as she looked down at him. Ricky hoped he had kept his head down, but he wouldn’t stop now.
Just before he stepped towards the urn he shouted from the top of his stomach and concentrated on time stopping. He knew he only had a couple of seconds, so he knocked the case over. It slowly tilted back, revealing the urn. Ricky quickly grabbed it and slipped across the aisle and through the stall opposite.
He turned to look at the woman, who gazed at him quizzically. Why didn’t she stop like the others? Ricky didn’t pause to wonder as he took a position in front of three women on the next aisle over when time began to work again. He turned down another aisle, hiding the urn in his shirt. The path continued as Ricky spotted Gobble standing on the other side of North Street.
Ricky looked both ways and ran across, just behind a cart filled with produce drawn by a huge plow horse.
Gobble peered over Ricky’s shoulder. “Good no pursuit this way. Come with me.” He led Ricky past a tavern and down an alley. “Give it to me.”
The urn felt oddly heavy. “What’s so important about this?” Ricky said.
“Never you mind.” Gobble said. He shook his head, exasperated, and said, “Like I said, it keeps things hot and cold. There are two urns fastened together, but the Vorrians have done something else to keep liquids
cool or hot. This is going to a metalworker’s factory to pry the secrets from it.”
Ricky furrowed his brow. His grandfather’s explanation didn’t seem right. “Why doesn’t the metalworker just buy it legally?”
Gobble grinned. “Why pay full price when you can get it for half.”
“And you get the half?” Ricky wondered if it was time to talk about getting some kind of commission for taking all the risk.
“Oh, not me. I’m merely a middleman.” Gobble’s eyes narrowed as he gazed at his grandson.
“And what am I?”
An angry look matched Gobble’s eyes. “You are getting too old and too big for your short pants, Hendrico.” Gobble only called Ricky by his formal name when he became furious with him.
Ricky watched Gobble stalk off, leaving him standing by himself at the edge of the road. He knew enough to keep walking. He wondered where his grandfather went, but Ricky headed north to the river, his hand touching the candied fruit in his pocket. He would eat it out of Gobble’s sight in his special place.
The stench of the river, his destination, always hit Ricky before he could see it. He could see how some could be repelled by the odor, but it only took a few moments before he couldn’t smell it at all. Ricky spent his whole life surrounded by the the reek of Shantyboat Town. He looked across from the south shore. Small boats lined the stone edges of the town.
Ricky found his tied up with a length of worn rope. It took him two months to repair the little skiff after he stopped one of his neighbors from cutting it up into firewood in exchange for Ricky cutting down a cord of wood from the forest still lining the north side of the river.
If scrounging paid actual coin, Ricky would be a rich man, he thought as he began to row across the river to Shantyboat Town. Over two hundred shanty boats huddled together on the other side, away from the Tossan constables and the Duke’s guard.
Most of the residents had been down on their luck or minor criminals of one sort or another, like Gobble. Occasionally, the city constables would come over and grab a resident for some crime, but no one ever made a move to stop them. A little passivity had kept most of the Shantyboat Town intact.
