A King's Caution

by Brennan C. Adams

  Raimie gasped, supported by Kheled who’d waited in the wings for just such an occurrence. The crutch was on the ground, most likely abandoned when its user threw Ele between his fighting subordinates. Kheled glared at Oswin, and he, in turn, swallowed guilt.

  “The injury wasn’t Little’s fault,” Raimie said once he’d recovered. He retrieved his crutch with Kheled’s help. “A storm snuck up on us while I fixed Qena’s tear. A pebble and especially fierce winds did this to me.”

  Oswin narrowed his eyes. Did he believe this tall tale? If Raimie was ever to lie, it was in service to the people he cared for, but even in such circumstances, his deceptions were easily pierced. Oswin couldn’t detect falsehood in this story.

  “You and I need to have a very long chat,” he informed Little who nodded and slunk away, “and you! Why do you make life difficult for me? Sir.”

  Tack on the sign of respect, Oswin.

  When he was emotionally compromised as he was now, such signs of formality were quickly forgotten as he slipped into the jargon and beat of conversation they’d used as kids.

  “I promise, that’s not my aim.” Raimie smirked.

  “At least tell me you’ll rest until the investiture. In a proper bed, sir,” Oswin added.

  “That was the plan, but then, I remembered I don’t know which wing holds the bedrooms,” Raimie grimaced. “Would you mind showing me?”

  “Not at all, sir,” Oswin answered, relieved his charge was showing some sense. “This way.”

  As he led Raimie and Kheled through the palace, he could feel the Eselan’s stare drilling into his back. He probably should have waited to discipline Little when Raimie wasn’t in sight, but he’d been so angry to see his childhood friend’s body broken again he hadn’t considered what he was doing.

  This was why a member of the Hand couldn’t make personal attachments. Once that happened, mistakes rapidly increased in frequency, and Raimie couldn’t afford a spymaster who was worn out and emotionally entangled, not when danger courted him with every breath.

  Oswin should step down. It was a prospect he’d toyed with on and off in the last year, but the timing had never been right. Not that four days before the investiture would be good timing either. Dealing with a host of new responsibilities and handling a new, inexperienced spymaster would prove difficult for Raimie, but it might be for the best.

  He knew it was only a matter of time before exhaustion caused more than simple mistakes. Before long, he’d fail to assign one of the Hand to bodyguard rotation instead of forgetting to read a report for two weeks. Before disaster occurred, someone else should take up the reigns, and Pointer, the one Oswin had groomed for years, was ready for the job even if he didn’t know it yet. Yes, Raimie would be safer with the other spy occupying his current role.

  “Here we are,” Oswin said, gesturing toward the closed door he faced. “It should be to your liking, sir. The occasional diplomat’s guard sleeps here, and I’m next door if you require anything.”

  “Sounds perfect,” Raimie said.

  He shuffled into the small room, and Kheled helped him into bed.

  “Thank you, Khel,” Raimie said. “Get some rest yourself before you start with the school, all right? You and Oswin should have many interesting conversations concerning logistics before we’re set up.”

  “Are you sure you’ll be fine by yourself?” Kheled asked.

  “More than sure. I’m not entirely helpless. I can hobble far enough to get help if needed.” Raimie grinned.

  The expression didn’t help his case, emphasizing how sickly he appeared at the moment. It pulled his chalky skin tight as a bowstring over his cheekbones.

  “If you say so,” Kheled said. “I’ll come by later this evening to check on you. Stay in bed until I return!”

  “I’ll see you then,” Raimie chuckled.

  Oswin made to follow the Eselan when he left, but Raimie called him back. “We need to talk.”

  Closing the door behind him, Oswin unconsciously pulled the bullet from its resting place in his pocket, tumbling it through his fingers. Settling against the wall, he awaited the berating which was sure to come.

  “Did you ever figure out how that thing works?” Raimie tiredly asked.

  Surprised, Oswin almost dropped the bullet. “This?” he asked. “No. Its trigger continues to elude me.”

  “That's a shame. I know how much the differences between the pistol from the tear and the flintlock you devised bothered you,” Raimie said. “If it helps, I always thought your design was brilliant. Applying the massive explosion which massacred a Daira gang to the tiny one our guns employ was pure genius. Made me a tad jealous if I speak true.”

  “Yes, well, your mastery of anything written made me want to tear my hair out at times.”

  Oswin stilled. Had he heard Raimie right? Because before his friend returned to Daira, Marcuset had insisted this would never happen.

  “Sir, I don’t mean to pry, but would you mind clarifying what you meant for me?” he asked.

  “I remember, Oswin. I’m sorry it’s taken so long.”

  He squeezed his eyes closed, combatting the burn which threatened to conquer them.

  “When did this happen?” Oswin faintly asked, recalling recent times when Raimie had flipped and sped in the opposite direction on his appearance.

  He could hear Raimie scratching something while he considered how to respond.

  “My memories returned a little over two years ago, but they didn’t fully assimilate until the last anniversary celebration. I may be ridiculously quick to recall anything written, but it appears my speed suffers when it comes to my mind,” Raimie answered.

  “It’s been that long?” Oswin gritted through his teeth, cracking his eyes open.

  Raimie wouldn’t meet his gaze, focused on his twiddling thumbs. “I didn’t know how to broach the subject,” he muttered. “So, I avoided you. Then, I almost died. I realized how easy it would be for me to disappear from the world without you knowing I remembered. So, I’m sorry for avoiding you. I’m sorry for taking so long to tell you. Mostly, I’m just godsdamn sorry.”

  Was there a pre-written response to this sort of confession? Because if there was, Oswin didn’t know it. He fought the irresistible urge to clock Raimie for not coming to him earlier, but at the same time, joy crackled across every inch of his skin. His friend was back!

  The revelation raised a host of practical concerns.

  “Where does this leave us?” Oswin asked. “I could act as your bodyguard when you didn’t remember me, but if we’re friends again, perhaps someone else should take my assigned slots.”

  “We’re friends?” Raimie asked in a rush. “Even now?”

  Huh?

  “Why wouldn’t we be?” Oswin asked.

  “I don’t know,” Raimie answered. “I suppose, I thought you might hate me for how long it took to approach you.”

  “I’m certainly not happy about it, but since when has such a lapse come between us?” Oswin asked.

  Raimie slumped, fluffy pillows almost eating him alive. “Oh, thank Alouin,” he mumbled. “All those months running away from you, I was terrified to discover you hated me for forgetting our friendship. Forget losing the presence of another friend watching my back, I was afraid I’d lost you!”

  “Does that mean you want me to stay on as your bodyguard?” Oswin asked.

  A snore answered him, and he smirked. Of course, Raimie had fallen asleep. He’d traveled hundreds of miles after a life-threatening injury. Oswin should only expect sleep from him.

  He slipped through the door with a decidedly jauntier step as he headed to his office. His workload hadn’t decreased in the slightest, but Raimie had remembered their friendship. For some reason, that simple fact made the burden lighter.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  8th of Thirteenth, 3476

  This will be my last entry.

  Ring has come to a conclusion regarding who killed my father. The perp
etrator wasn’t a foreign nation as we’d suspected. It wasn’t a member of the heretical Matvai in the north, intent on destroying the leader of the kingdom which systematically wipes out their religion. No, the assassin was someone much closer to home.

  Ever since Nebailie’s return, mother has grown increasingly erratic. While my brother served in the army, I thought maybe, just maybe, she and father would mend fences and allow past mistakes to stay in the past, but then, father summoned ‘bailie home.

  The day he arrived at the palace, mother and father broke into a screaming match, the likes of which I’d never before seen. People on the far side of the palace heard them! In the end, father won, as he always did, but his victory wasn’t to last.

  Months passed with no further drama. Father, ‘bailie, and I assumed mother had accepted the situation and had learned to deal with my bastard brother living in the palace once more. We were so wrong.

  Mother spent those months quietly scheming and plotting, acquiring and preparing her poison of choice, and planning how she’d deliver it to its intended target.

  And that’s why this will be my last entry. Since my eighth birthday, Mother has given me these journals every year, but she’s broken from tradition to gift something different for my thirtieth.

  For, you see, diary, she’s ensured my first official act as king will be to decide whether or not to put my mother, the woman who murdered my father, to death.

  The robes were extraordinarily heavy. Ring finished smoothing some unseen crease and stepped back, her nose wrinkling.

  “Are you sure you won’t let me add some color to your cheeks?” she asked.

  “Let’s see how I look without it first,” Raimie answered.

  Ring retrieved the full-length mirror she’d found gods knew where. She rolled it to a stop before him, and he examined her work in progress.

  Sometime in the four years since the fire which had destroyed his family’s farm, Raimie’s frame had filled out. The effort spent training and fighting had demolished the image of a gangly teen. Now, he could boast of a soldier’s body, if he so desired.

  Even his face had made an improvement. His nose no longer occupied a focal point. Since cheekbones had decided to make an appearance and frame it, the crooked imperfection only added character to his otherwise drab features. Gods help him, his ears would always remain a detractor to his appearance, but with his hair grown long, they could hide as two, small bulges beneath the brown mane. As always, his eyes took the prize as his best feature. Pale blue piercingly radiated disapproval from the mirror.

  Viewing his reflection, however, Raimie could see why Ring wanted to apply her powders and creams. His skin was stark white, almost gaunt from the lack of color, and while this paleness certainly helped feature his eyes, it also exuded a sickly aura which hovered over him. An aura exacerbated by the crutch he gripped so hard his knuckles skeletally protruded.

  “We look awful,” Nylion commented. “You should have rested at least a day more before making the journey back.”

  I was eager to get us home.

  “More like you wanted to return to Ren and the conundrum with which she has left us.”

  Raimie glared at Nylion.

  “A little color might be called for,” he reluctantly agreed with Ring. “Not too much, though. It can’t look unnatural.”

  “I don’t do unnatural,” Ring huffed as she pushed the mirror away. “Sit.”

  Raimie was more than happy to comply. Holding his weight on his leg, even if only for a short period, dragged on his already flagging supply of energy.

  While she worked on his face, Kheled slipped into the room.

  “Wow, look at you!” his friend exclaimed. “I can almost believe I didn’t patch you up two weeks ago.”

  “Are you here to scold me about the plan again?” Raimie asked.

  “No,” Kheled said with a smile, “you’re too stubborn to listen to my advice, so why should I give it? I’m here to offer my congratulations.”

  “Whatever for?” Raimie asked. “I didn’t want this.”

  “I’m well aware,” Kheled chuckled, “but that’s why you deserve the congratulations. If you were eager, I might be worried for Auden.”

  “Would you two stop talking?!” Ring snapped. “Fixing this wrecked masterpiece will be difficult enough without the canvas moving!”

  Raimie promptly closed his mouth and held it still despite Kheled’s attempts to make him laugh.

  “That’s the best I can manage,” Ring sighed after a short delay. “Hopefully, it’ll do.”

  Kheled moved forward to take a closer look. “Oh, it’ll do,” he confirmed. “He doesn’t appear as if he’ll keel over at the faintest breath of wind which is a marked improvement. Considering the before, I’d say your work is nothing short of miraculous, Ring.”

  She blushed a deep, cherry red, mumbling her thanks.

  “Will you be there to watch your ‘masterpiece’ revealed?” Raimie asked.

  “I won’t be observing people’s reactions to my work if that’s what you’re asking, sir. I’ll be looking for trouble, same as the rest of the Hand,” she informed him. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get ready.”

  After she’d gone, Raimie silently waited for the signal. Butterflies fluttered in his belly, and his good leg nervously jittered. He inspected his friend to keep his mind off what awaited.

  Today, Kheled claimed the most animated state Raimie had seen from him in the last two weeks. Ele must be firmly under his command. Contained energy made his friend positively vibrant, a nice change from the depleted state in which Kheled had stumbled since Qena.

  The change probably wasn’t perceptible to the day-to-day people who Kheled encountered, but Raimie noticed it. He wasn’t sure if his insight was because his friend let his guard down around him or if he’d grown to know the Eselan well enough to read such tiny alterations.

  In the last two years, Kheled had ranged between exhilarated and exhausted, depending on how much support Ele provided on any given day. When his friend seemed to stagger through a fog, Raimie raged at Ele-Bright had probably wearied of his human’s abuse-but on days like today, he positively cheered to see Kheled returned to the man he’d first met.

  Although, honestly, Kheled looked much more striking than he had four years ago. He’d neatly pulled his hair into a tail and shaved, dispelling the scruffiness which had accompanied him since Doldimar's disappearance. He’d discarded his ratty cloak, tattered by years of travel and combat, and replaced the disheveled clothes beneath with a modest tunic and trouser combination. A smart, waist-length jacket went over that, and knee-high boots finished the ensemble.

  After a rap on the door, a soldier poked his head inside. “Nearly ready for you, sir.”

  Which meant, get moving if you plan to shuffle into position.

  “Thank you! I’ll be there soon,” Raimie replied.

  He grunted with effort, trying to rise from the chair, and Kheled was beside him, supporting one arm.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  They slowly limped toward the hall of worship, Kheled taking the brunt of Raimie’s weight.

  His body was a mess of broken pieces, even two weeks after Qena. Not counting his leg, Raimie struggled with a cracked sternum and several bruised ribs caused by his tumble onto stone. The leg itself always ached, a throb of pain which never quite went away, but the worst of it was the exhaustion.

  He’d lost far too much blood with the nicked artery, so much so that, without Ele’s help, he’d have become a cold corpse before he left Qena’s tear. As it was, Ele had assisted his cling to life, but as with anything magical, it came with a price. Raimie survived, but a long recovery afflicted him, not only because of the very real blood loss he’d endured but also due to the interest Ele demanded, the price of which extended beyond total exsanguination.

  Raimie waved to take a break. Leaning both palms against obsidian, he struggled to stop the uncontrolled wheezing which
rattled his lungs.

  “Would you like me to take this from you?” Kheled softly asked. “Ele might allow it today.”

  Raimie sharply glanced at his friend and at Bright standing beside the Eselan.

  “He overestimates his strength,” the Ele splinter said in answer to his human’s unspoken question.

  “I can handle it, Khel, but thank you,” Raimie told his friend. “Besides, you said I’ll be fully recovered in, what was it? Another month?”

  “Give or take a few weeks,” Kheled confirmed.

  “After it’s complete, I don’t plan to do anything as physically exerting as this ceremony until I’m healed,” Raimie said. “Town mayors can bring their problems to me, for once.”

  “I don’t think you realize how much work the first month will pile on you,” Kheled protested.

  “I said I’ll deal with it,” Raimie replied. “I’ve recovered. Let’s continue.”

  After what felt like an eternity, the hall of worship neared. Raimie tugged his arm from Kheled, reverting to sole dependence on the crutch for support. The reason for his sudden insistence on self-reliance leaned against their destination’s doors, arms crossed.

  “Kylorian,” Raimie greeted the other man with a nod.

  “Raimie,” Ren’s adoptive older brother replied.

  If Kheled had made a delightful transformation for today’s proceedings, Kylorian’s was stunning, even subtle as it was. Ren’s big brother had always been a handsome man, but in military dress, he exuded appeal. Every crisp fold, every gleaming button, and every shine on his boots multiplied his legitimacy.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to trade places?” Raimie chuckled.

  “I’m absolutely positive,” Kylorian answered.

  “My friend,” Kheled softly said, “I must get into position. Can you handle him by yourself?”

  “Sure! Me and Ky will have a pleasantly short chat, and then, we’ll join you,” Raimie answered.

  “And I will watch over him,” Nylion told Kheled even though the Eselan couldn’t hear the assurance.