Heir of Scars I: Parts 1-8

by Jacob Falling

  Her pace was quickened, and she seemed at last to guess her father’s next move, and know her response, a little further and a little further into their future.

  Her father never hesitated, and when at last he seemed to make a mistake, Adria took his crucial defending knight. The exchange that would follow would open up his king to attack in just a few moves.

  But there was only stillness, then. Silence.

  Again, it seemed as if Adria had become a ghost. She dared not speak. She fidgeted with the knight she had just won, watched her father’s face for any sign of awareness. She straightened the pieces on her side of the board.

  Nothing.

  Adria did not know how long she had sat, but finally she dismissed herself, leaving the game in its final position.

  Perhaps, in the morning, he will remember the game we have played. She thought to herself, as she wound the stairwell to her fourth floor of the fourth tower. Perhaps he will remember me.

  Princes of Windberth

  Winter broke only days after Preinon’s final visit, and Father left Windberth for distant unknown fields of battle. Within the keep in the intervening days, conversations had been spoken in whispers, faces had been taut with worry, and messengers had come and gone at all hours. On the grounds, soldiers drilled ardently from the first hint of sun to the last; hawks and doves danced among the spires.

  After a final blessing for battle by Matron Taber and her Prioress, the Knights filed out on horseback behind their king, too-bright silver, black and violet banners, tabards, and plumes wind-caught nearly to tearing.

  The night before the march, Adria was awakened suddenly from a dream, gasping for air and grasping about her, though the memory faded as she was robed. She was brought to the king’s tower, where she and Hafgrim were both ushered into their father’s solar, the dullness of their sleep rapidly replaced by the anxiousness of novelty.

  “He’s leaving,” Adria whispered to her brother as they followed the herald down the last hallway. This much, at least, she had been able to guess.

  “So?” Hafgrim shrugged, irritable in his weariness. “How is that unusual? And hasn’t he been preparing for days or more? Why should he awaken us now to tell us this?”

  “I don’t know, but something is different this time.” Adria shrugged and pulled her woolen cloak more tightly around her. “Do you know with whom we are at war?” She tried to phrase it to sound as if she might actually know.

  Hafgrim only shrugged, annoyed at the question. It was his way of pretending he knew, as well.

  When they entered, Father seemed to be studying a scroll of parchment of some sort in his lap. Instead of his usual robes of state, he wore a gambeson and leather leggings — the first layer of a knight’s war attire. They were finely stitched and embroidered with the star of House Idonea, but nonetheless were obviously meant for service. In his free hand, he held a steaming silver cup, and fortified himself with a drink before motioning for the herald to leave.

  When the door had closed, he spoke without yet raising his eyes from the document below, and after taking a second drink. Adria could smell the spice of it from where she stood, half a room away, but could not identify it.

  “I am sorry to have awakened you both from your rest, but I have need of you before leaving.”

  They might have answered with an affirmative, as was the polite response, but there seemed to be no need.

  “Within three weeks, the whole of Heiland will owe fealty to our house and to my crown.”

  Again, there was little to say. Though she was versed in history, and Hafgrim in the bare rudiments of war, they had little idea how these elements were brought together in the context of their father’s kingdom. Everything she had read and been taught claimed that Heiland was already fully united — there would need be no more wars.

  He glanced up at them, then, and sat the parchment aside, though he kept one hand upon it, almost as if in protection. He smiled slightly, strangely, and leaned forward, and took another sip of his drink. “You will both have a holiday of sorts.”

  Adria and Hafgrim glanced at each other, but still said nothing, though they were not at all certain what he meant.

  “The citadel will be minimally staffed, and the few Knights and Sisters who will remain will be occupied with their own duties. All wards of the house and all the courtiers will also be away. The citadel will maintain servants of only the barest necessity, and even the both of you will have less in attendance than which you are accustomed.”

  They nodded at this, as if in acceptance, for that seemed reasonably proper.

  “Furthermore,” he sighed and rose, and took his scroll up again, though he did not even glance at it as he turned and tossed it into the fire, watching the edges curl and blacken into smoke. “It will be thought by all but the citadel’s remaining staff that… that you have been sent away, to take your education with one of the greater lords — though no one will be certain which. Consequently, you will not be permitted, under any circumstances, to be seen beyond the keep itself. The windows will remain shuttered until my return, and neither of you shall make yourself seen or known beyond these walls — not even in the yard or upon the battlements.”

  He did not look at them. He instead noticed the cup, still in his other hand, and took a sip from it, but he did not turn back as he asked, “Do you understand?”

  Hafgrim was the first to answer, “Yes, Father.”

  Adria repeated him, with a bit more force, and he nodded, his back still to them, before he turned, with another heavy sigh, but with a pleasant enough smile. “Excellent. I am counting on you both to do your part. Much of the keep will, of course, be locked in my absence. But you are free to make use of the rest. You will remember what discipline you have been taught, and I hope that you will continue your studies of your own will. The library here will, of course, remain open.”

  He nodded, and seemed to be looking through the wall of his room, above and a little beside them, before he straightened himself, sipped, and returned his gaze to them.

  “That is all I wish to say.” He turned his head to the side, and cast his eyes down, and returned to his thoughts, without another word or acknowledgment.

  Not completely unused to this, Adria took her brother’s arm, and turned toward the door. As she did, Adria noticed the chess table, and saw that the pieces had not been moved since their game days before.

  The princes took advantage of their strange but strangely qualified freedom. The servants who remained were not only few, but all new and unknown to both of them. They spoke seldom or not at all, and were easily bent to the children’s whims. Adria and Hafgrim ate when and what they liked, slept when they liked, and went where and when they liked, though they kept to the keep as ordered.

  Adria missed seeing the outside, breathing the cool mountain air through her windows and upon the keep’s battlements. She missed the sun and stars and the hawks and the doves, the regularity of guards and servants, Kaye and Twyla, especially — she even missed the Sisters who had been tutoring her. Mostly, she missed the games with her father, but consoled herself and Hafgrim by entreating him to teach her his arms training.

  Hafgrim, of course, enjoyed being more skilled than her at something, and took to her lessons with great relish. His own ability was not substantial yet, but nonetheless he did a reasonable job repeating the lessons he had been given, though the practice of such was restricted in close confines and without full access to equipment.

  He tried to teach her some of the basic riding techniques without the benefit of an actual horse, but this proved difficult, so they stuck to wooden swords and shields, spears and axes, and the requisite bruises which ensued.

  “M’Lady,” her new waiting maid pleaded as she tossed salts and a hot stone into water to soak Adria’s hand for the third time in a week. “You should leave such sport to others.”

/>   It was a remarkable amount of conversation for the dark-skinned girl who had never even provided a name, and had never used Adria’s. Adria had given up trying to seriously converse — the idea itself obviously sent the girl into a state of fright.

  When Hafgrim managed to set up a straw bale on one end of the court, and they shared his bow, Adria felt most fulfilled in her rogue education. Once she was used to the weight of its pull, she progressed rather rapidly, and even Hafgrim admitted her skill begrudgingly.

  “You’re still a better swordsman,” Adria soothed. “I can still barely move half my fingers on one hand from your strike yesterday.”

  “Well, if you’d keep the point down…” he’d lecture, happy in the moment of superiority and the easy change of subject.

  At night, when the servants were abed, they’d explore. There were still guards at all the exits, and they roamed certain hallways, silent except for boot steps and mail — but mostly, as small and quiet as they were, Hafgrim and Adria could roam where they wished.

  Adria knew that there was someone to whom the servants and guards reported while the full court was away, but whomever this was had not seemed willing to restrict the children as yet. Adria was certainly willing to test the bounds of such restrictions, or rather their lack.

  At first, they wandered without much purpose, keeping mostly to their familiar paths, determining which doors were locked. In time, though, it became obvious that they were on a particular quest, and that they had both heard many of the same household rumors — secret passages, secret rooms, and whatever secrets held within.

  Neither of them dared say it aloud, so secret had their thoughts become, but Adria was certain each of them sought the same passage, the same place, the same secret.

  Mother.

  “Who do you think lights all of these sconces?” Hafgrim wondered as they descended into passages they had found little chance to explore before. The hallways were by no means well-lit. Nonetheless, someone had to take care of such details.

  “Perhaps the guards keep them lit,” Adria suggested. “It would give them something to do besides pace.”

  “My maid claims the soldiers are all deaf and dumb.”

  Adria thought for a moment. “That’s ridiculous. They’re just under orders. And the castle is just so... quiet now.”

  Hafgrim maintained an air of nonchalance, though he startled at any noise and hesitated at each corner. Adria would smile at him behind her hand, and taught him that the guards had regular patterns, and that he could figure out where one would be by watching him and counting. Still, they seemed only to end up mostly going in circles themselves, like the guards in their rounds.

  “I think…” Adria sighed, examining a familiar stairwell for definite identifying marks. “…no, I’m certain we’ve been here already. It all seems... much larger than it has before.”

  “I just know there are passages out of this place,” he responded testily. “Everybody says so.”

  Adria only shrugged, though she believed this as well.

  “We should really be told of such things, anyway,” he whispered when they had a moment of obvious safety. “What if our enemies should attack, even now, with Father and the Knights gone?”

  “I assume that they’re fighting our enemies,” Adria said. “Perhaps this is the end of all wars, as Matron Taber has prophesied.”

  Hafgrim, for a change, rewarded her comment with a look of condescension. “Don’t be foolish. Even when Heiland is united, there is still the rest of the world to conquer. What if Somana decides to bring their fleet up the coast and strike from the east or south while Father is away?”

  Although Adria considered this unlikely, she shrugged and tried to salvage her end of the conversation. “You are right, of course — we should be taught such things. We should be taught who our enemies are. What if father should fall, even? What should become of the kingdom? What should become of us?”

  Adria’s own words surprised her, but they surprised her brother even more. He stood quite still, his lips parted a little, and he stared blankly. It seemed as if the thought had never occurred to him. With a sinking feeling, Adria realized that the thought had never occurred to her.

  For a moment, she sorted through her feelings for her father, and what she had been taught by and about him, and she realized the source of her surprise — and likely the surprise of her brother.

  Somehow, Adria had always assumed that her father was the One-Who-Will Come. In the wake of this realization, Adria almost said aloud, perhaps Father is not The One.

  “We should keep moving,” Hafgrim blinked, and shrugged off his discomfiture, and pointed his lantern into a darkened hallway.

  Just as they turned the corner, Adria knew it at once.

  “This is it,” she whispered to Hafgrim, and to the shadows of the long, half-lit corridor ahead. There were no guards and no doors, nothing Adria could see except the flickering light upon the alternating dark and light stone tiles of the floor, the almost seamless gray walls and ceiling.

  There was nothing there. And Adria was afraid.

  Beside her, Hafgrim shivered, and in fact it seemed as if there were a draft, though the flame of the oil lamp and sconces did not flicker.

  “It’s... cold,” Hafgrim said, though she knew he shivered from more than this.

  Still, she nodded once, and whispered, “Yes…” even as her own legs began to tremble. “I feel it too.”

  Neither of them moved for some time, and Adria tried even not to blink. She stared forward, convinced beyond reason that there was something she should be seeing, something there, as if just at the limits of her vision.

  Crows... she thought. Crows and paper leaves.

  She tried to look aside, to see how her brother fared, but was unable. She felt certain that if she looked away, something terrible would happen, or if she took another step forward.

  Slowly, as if it were the bravest thing she had ever done, she moved her hand out from her side, and found Hafgrim’s, and they shivered together.

  “The walls are damp,” Hafgrim whispered, between chattering teeth.

  “It’s very late,” she said, as loudly as she could. “Perhaps we should go back.”

  Hafgrim did not question her bravery, as was usually his wont, and he did not disagree. One step at a time, they backed slowly away, around the corner, and then found themselves in a dead run, up the first stairwell and on to familiar halls, unable for some time even to look back.

  This proved the end of their exploration, and neither of them spoke of it again. Adria came to think of it like a dream, though she knew herself to have been awake. And, in time, the childhood memory slowly made itself a part of her half-remembered dreams and fantasies.

  Adria had always been dimly aware that she was older than Hafgrim, and Hafgrim understood this to be true, as well, though neither of them had ever been told an exact date of birth. She knew her age, and set his a year less, and that was all. It had never seemed that important.

  Nonetheless, a year’s difference, even if only a difference in her mind, made Adria feel a little protective of her younger sibling. His changes of mood, so like that of their father, and her awareness that he was not truly well liked by the other noble children with whom they were partially raised, had made her feel sorry for him somewhat.

  Unlike Adria, he was schooled alongside the other boys, and had to keep some measure of peace with them. And besides the children of the servants, such as Twyla, or the occasional daughter of a briefly visiting lord, not one child among the household was female.

  In retrospect, Adria assumed this had caused her to grow more accustomed to the sport of war than she might have otherwise. Although she was not raised exactly alongside her brother and the various second and third sons of the earls and barons of Heiland, neither had she been completely prohibited from their comp
any.

  After their holiday, the household returned to normal, and Adria and Hafgrim were again schooled mostly apart. Occasionally, she could draw him into teaching her more of what he was learning, but mostly he resented her asking.

  She soon realized that, with the other noble sons and courtiers returned, Hafgrim’s association with his sister would seem a weakness of character, and he would be lessened in their esteem.

  When the boys schooled, they often schooled at war. And though her own education had never included this, the boys also played at war. At first, Adria could not help but learn a little — and later, after her holiday with Hafgrim, she took up much of their sport with real fervor. It was a way to relate to them and to her brother, and more… Adria sensed it was the only way to earn real respect among her peers, for the nobles were themselves born and bred to war.

  At first she watched from a distance, and then taught herself what no one else would, even if it was mostly only acted out without the benefit of even a training sword, and certainly without a sparring partner.

  Adria watched one afternoon from a gallery above the training hall as her brother and Eward, second son of Baron Praetorius, squared off with long staffs meant to represent halberds or long axes.

  The prince was small for his age, and had no immunity from the harm of his peers, regardless of his status. And perhaps because he was the king’s son, more was expected of him — at least this somehow gave even the smallest of his mistakes the air of tragedy.

  After three rounds, Hafgrim’s knuckles were bloody on both hands, and his face was red and wet with tears of pain and frustration. But he would not yield to Eward, nor give in to the taunts of the other boys, and Brother Sergeant Rodham, the trainer for the day, would not call off the fight.