by Aldrea Alien
Darshan stalked along the corridor, his displeasure pounding out along the stone. How foolish he had been to think suggesting Hamish taking up the position of Tirglasian ambassador in the Crystal Court would be readily accepted by Queen Fiona.
I should’ve listened to him. Or, at the very least, given a few days thought on how to approach the matter. Sadly, the mere mention of it had gone about as badly as his lover had cautioned.
Queen Fiona stood at her desk, turning as he entered the study. She brandished a slip of paper as if it were a Stamekian starblade. “These figures you’ve negotiated with me daughter. I trust that, if I agreed to them, you would take your demonic influence out of my kingdom sooner?”
Darshan bowed his head. A bitter mixture of rage and sadness briefly clogged his throat. He would regret having to leave so soon, for more reasons than the dreadful sailing journey he would need to take, but that couldn’t be helped. The far greater concern was how could he leave a man like Hamish here with a mother like her? The very thought of it was…
He choked down the ire battling to leap from his tongue. Getting himself banished would do no one any good. “I would have to convene with the council that the percentages are indeed agreeable on their part, but yes.”
“Very well, then. I accept your terms.”
At the queen’s side, Nora shuffled on the spot, clearly uncomfortable. As she should be, given the harshness of some terms he had declared in a childish fit. “Mum, they’re nae in our favour. If we could just—”
Queen Fiona waved her daughter into silence. “I said I accept and that is me final word on the subject.”
Darshan cleared his throat, garnering the queen’s attention. “If our lands are to be allies,” he drawled. If he was ever going to get a moment to discuss this, then now seemed as good as any. “Then sending an ambassador to Minamist would be a prudent move.”
She remained silent. No hint of suspicion or anger lurking in that cool, blue gaze. If anything, she seemed to almost be in agreement with the idea.
He breathed deeply and, in a rush, added, “I would recommend that person be your second son.”
“That is nae possible.” The words fell like shards of ice. No hint of her previous outrage with him showed anywhere on her face.
“Pardon me, your majesty, but I ask you to reconsider. Whilst I cannot claim to know the mind of my father’s court down to the smallest quibble, I do know they would listen more to someone of noble blood better than the keenest, but ultimately common, member of your clan.” It was a terrible truth and he hated it, but if it worked in Hamish’s favour…
There was the flicker of the rage he had expected from her. It burned coolly across those blue eyes, but no deeper. “The answer is still nae. Me son stays right here.”
“Hamish is the more viable option of the three. I would have suggested your daughter first, if it were not for her children.” He indicated Nora with a wave of his hand and the woman straightened, surprise lighting her face. “Seeing your younger son has none, I thought it would be—”
“—easier to throw him into your bed?” Queen Fiona snarled. “I ken exactly what you’re after. The royal line does nae venture so far from its roots and his lack of wife or bairn is a temporary phase, nae a constant.”
He had tried pushing harder only to have her refuse to even acknowledge the matter, much less speak on it. What was wrong with the woman? Did she not understand that her son would be infinitely happier without her judgement breathing down his neck?
What had she meant by temporary phase, anyway? He hadn’t missed Nora’s sudden uncertainty at such a declaration, fleeting though the expression had been. Hamish had already regaled him about Queen Fiona’s incessant insistence when it came to marriage and siring children, but she had been hounding the man since his mid-teens.
According to Hamish, she had even planned on arranging a marriage between him and Countess Harini, the ambassador who was supposed to have been here to negotiate the trade deals. As if any Udynean noble would settle for anything less than the heir to a throne, especially when a marked lack of a magical bloodline was involved.
So why would Queen Fiona believe her son would change his stance decades later? It made no sense.
Maybe it was nothing, maybe Darshan had spent too many years around those who did nothing except conspire against him, but her words smelt of a plan that wouldn’t bode well for Hamish. I have to speak with him. If this was back in the imperial palace, his first step would be to send Daama out amongst the servants and slaves, for most of the nobility had a habit of forgetting those under them still had ears and mouths. If only doing that here was an option. As grossly optimistic as it was, perhaps together they could reach another means of convincing Queen Fiona.
He had taken several steps into the library before the marked lack of light grabbed his attention.
Darshan slowly swivelled on his heel. The prickling of a shield not yet formed hummed around him, ready to appear at a moment’s notice.
The room was a mass of looming shadows, bookshelves illuminated only by the reedy light peeking through the window. The stack of books he had left on the table was relatively undisturbed, save for a few that Nora had brought in.
No sign of Hamish.
Grumbling under his breath, he let the magic fade. He didn’t expect to be ambushed in such a place—unlike back home where quite a few of his half-sisters would rejoice in seeing an end to his life—but that was no reason to become complacent. He had no way of knowing if one of the family’s rivals had sent an assassin to these frigid lands and he would rather not find out via way of a dagger to the heart.
He lingered by the table, running a hand over the spine of the top-most book in the stack. Where Nora had dug them up from, he’d no idea. A few of the slimmer tomes appeared to be missing. Taken by Hamish or another? Thankfully, the man appeared to have taken the box containing Darshan’s toy.
Nothing he had found within the books here gave him a way to free Hamish from this place, but maybe an answer lurked in this pile. Or perhaps they’d hold only more dead ends and empty promises.
Humming an old song to himself, he relit the lantern and opened the topmost book. A skim of the pages revealed the usual laws of his homeland with both Udynean and Tirglasian translations. Serviceable for someone learning about the empire and what was acceptable in her borders, and possibly why Nora had them in her possession, but not much help elsewhere. He put it aside and thumbed through the next book down. That seemed to be more of the same with a smattering of geography.
The third was the slimmest and largely in bulky Tirglasian writing. Like the first time he’d seen the language written down, Darshan was instantly drawn to the similarity between Tirglasian and the Ancient Domian script. Admittedly, there lacked a fluidity to the former’s writing, but that could’ve easily been the fault of the writer. What drew his eye were the additions. All sorts of dots and flicks above the letters that the writer couldn’t quite seem to be unified on which way they went.
Where else could he find what he needed? Who else could he seek assistance from? Nora? She seemed pretty close to her mother. Could he trust her that far? Too risky.
What of Hamish’s brother? If his lover trusted Gordon enough to have him privy to their relationship, then maybe the man might also know a way around this law of keeping the royal line close to home.
He flicked the book shut, extinguished the lantern with a click of his fingers and strode out of the library. Finding Gordon would be a simple matter as the man oversaw the guards and their training. Getting him alone long enough to converse might be trickier, but doable.
He passed several servants on the way to the courtyard. Unlike his first foray beyond the guest quarters, they all eyed him with a cold wariness. That he could handle well enough. It wasn’t the first time, after all. Being the vris Mhanek carried a certain reputation he’d been expected to uphold since his early childhood years.
That a few felt brav
e enough to sneer in his wake was commendable, although back home it would’ve meant the mines if not a beheadal. One, grey-haired man even spat on the floor under the pretence of cleaning away a stubborn stain—at least, he hoped it was a pretence and they didn’t regularly employ such a method.
Still, none seemed brazen enough to outright ignore him when he spoke, nor did they shirk from divulging Gordon’s whereabouts. Not the training grounds as he had assumed, but found within the courtyard nevertheless. He knew the way.
Rather than exit via the large main entrance, Darshan opted for the modest door that backed onto the archery range and led to the stables. His attention slid over the empty range and glided by the stables, which appeared devoid of people save for a few young men tending to the stalls. Even the courtyard was relatively quiet for a—
“Got him!” a small voice cried.
The buzz of danger on his periphery tingled through Darshan’s skin. He jerked back, a clear shield flashing to life around him before momentum had finished with him.
Something bulbous smacked into the gossamer barrier, dispensing a great cloud of blue powder.
Darshan stared at the patch of dust still clinging to the faint static emanating from the shield’s surface. What had been the intention? The voice had sounded young, but children had been used as assassins before. He peered around the blotch, hesitant to release his hold on the shield just yet.
Three small figures rushed his way, their bows held at the fore and waving arrows tipped with what looked remarkably like balls of coloured cloth. Rather than have them run straight into his shield and risk breaking a nose or an arm, Darshan stepped back into the doorway.
A swarm of tiny shocks shuddered through Darshan’s body. He swayed back and bumped into what was most definitely a person.
“Whoops,” a familiar deep voice behind him chuckled. Sure hands clasped Darshan’s shoulders, steadying the both of them.
Regaining both composure and balance, Darshan turned to face the man he’d unfeasibly collided with. Gordon? Impossible. Nothing should’ve been able to pass through his shield. Not here. Unless…
Nulled Ones could, being the antithesis to spellster abilities. But their presence required the same thing as those with magical gifts: A spellster heritage. There were no records of their kind in Tirglas, not even a whisper of the occasional weak spellster cropping up within the royal bloodline.
Gordon turned his attention to the three children, seemingly unaware a shield surrounded him. “Come on, lads, show a little more decorum and watch where you’re aiming.”
All three of Nora’s children slid to a halt and swung about to hang their heads like berated hounds.
“Congratulations, you idiot,” snarked the eldest—Bruce? The name seemed like it should’ve been familiar—his baleful gaze settling on the youngest boy as he gave his brother a nudge. “You just dusted the Udynean ambassador.”
The smallest of the trio attempted shrinking even further into his tunic, those big brown eyes wide with fear.
Darshan’s stomach flipped at the sight. Even back home, where people knew who he was and what theoretical horrors he could rain upon them, the children never looked so terrified. Not even the slaves. “No harm done.” He let the shield drop and the fine blue dust drifted off on the breeze.
“See there, Macco-boy?” Gordon gave Darshan a hearty pat on the back. “Our resident spellster is in one piece. Now, why dinnae you three run off and see if you cannae find your missing quarry? Remember, lads, you’ve only got until the noon bell sounds. Or do you want him to win again?”
Casting each other meaningful looks, the boys dashed off across the grounds.
Darshan picked up the arrow that had struck his shield. The head was wrapped in linen and discharged dust in a garish shade of blue. “What is this?”
“That would be one of Mac’s. The lads use them for hunting practice. They’re nae tipped and the dust temporarily marks their clothes.” He chuckled. “Good thing that shield of yours came up so fast. Works on instinct, I hear.”
“You heard correct.” He waited for some offhand mention of the man passing through it and was met with silence. “So what quarry are the boys missing?” He hadn’t seen a sign of anything that would constitute as prey within the castle walls.
“Hamish,” Gordon replied rather matter-of-factly as if having his nephews racing after his brother was the most common thing in the world. “It’s a game we used to play with our dad. Makes target practice a little more interesting when the target can move and hide.”
“Hence these.” Darshan waggled the cloth-tipped arrow, sprinkling a fine blue powder into the air.
Gordon beamed. “The dust was Nora’s idea. We’d always row over who actually hit our dad until her first attempt.” The fondness of old memories glazed his eye. “You should’ve seen the look of horror on me brother’s face the first time she struck our dad. She used red powder, you see? And it had started to rain about an hour into the hunt.” Laughter, loud and strong, roared from the man. “Scared the two of us half to death before she’d a chance to explain.”
“I can imagine.” Although, he saw little hilarity in the memory of believing a parent was bleeding to death before his eyes. Tirglasian humour was apparently a little stranger than he had been told.
Still wheezing and chuckling at every other breath, Gordon wiped his eyes. “Sorry about me nephews almost dusting you. They can get a little excitable when hunting. I keep telling them that the aim is to only hit your prey, not everything that moves, but…” He shrugged.
“Does your daughter not participate in this game?” He had witnessed her at the archery range on the same fateful day as his innocent kiss with Hamish. Although his judgement of the girl’s talent was perhaps rather less than professional, she seemed to have a fair bit of skill with a bow.
“She used to,” the man confessed, inviting Darshan to walk with him along the courtyard as they spoke. “Me wee lass was damn good at it, too.” Paternal pride puffed out his chest. “But just like it’s me job to keep the country on an even keel and war free, she has to learn how to handle a great many things until the boys catch up and can help her out.” His head turned, his attention drifting to the courtyard, as he half-heartedly added, “I reckon she’ll be with Nora by now.”
“Forgive me, but you do not sound all that happy about it.”
Gordon grunted. “I’d prefer she’d time to find her feet like her sister had.” He rubbed at his neck, his fingers disappearing into the bushy mass of his dark-red beard. “But there are certain ways she needs to ken about and it’s best to get it all into her head now, before she’s old enough for me mum to see her married off and Sorcha has to spend her days chasing her own bairns instead.”
“So young?” The girl couldn’t be more than in her early teenage years. He had heard Tirglasians married early and tended to have several children, generally straight away, but he hadn’t believed it to be that early.
“Aye.” Gordon scuffed a boot along the flagstones. “It never used to be this way. I think grief took its toll after me niece and her father drowned.”
He could see that happening, especially with an older child. His own father wasn’t immune to the call of siring spares should his heir die. “Even so… I have sisters in their twenties who are still unmarried.” Granted, some of that had more to do with his half-sister, Onella, and her schemes.
“But are any of them lined up to be the heir?”
Laughter, far louder than he had expected, burst from him. Darshan shook his head, unable to calm down enough to explain. Judging by the man’s scowl, he didn’t need to.
“A woman cannae inherit the title of Mhanek, then?”
Clearing his throat and fighting off a few lingering giddy hiccups, he shook his head again. “That title always goes to the closest male in the bloodline.” Darshan was well aware the same couldn’t be said of the Tirglasian throne. At times, he wished that was true back home. It would’ve made
quite the difference. Fewer sisters for one.
“And if there is nae male?”
“Then there is generally a scurry to produce one.” A number of his half-sisters had already gone down that route. Onella—the oldest of his sisters excluding his twin—had married some poor lord in Nulshar some years back and had practically paraded her newborn son through the streets of Minamist.
Gordon’s frown deepened, but he said nothing further.
Their little foray around the courtyard, silently tailing the children whilst not appearing to do so, ended at the back of the stables. All three of the boys circled various stacks of hay, their bows half-drawn. Was the hunt almost at an end?
Darshan peered at their surroundings. He didn’t see anything large enough for a man to hide behind, unless he was in one of the haystacks, but surely that would’ve made this game far too difficult for the boys. Not to mention leave a trace. “How long do these hunts usually take?”
Gordon’s shoulders bobbed. “Depends on where he hides.”
Not helpful. That could mean anywhere from now to noon. He glanced up. The sun sat high, shaded by the occasional, fast-moving cloud. How was it not noon already? How did they even tell the hour here? I’d kill for a portable timepiece. The palace courtyard had been constructed as a huge astronomical sunclock, the ancient dwarves that’d designed the building taking advantage of sun and shadow on a phenomenal scale. There were other devices, like the recent mechanical marvel of wheels and weights that was the council room’s chronometer, but none of them were small enough for travel.
“So,” Darshan said as he watched the boys continue their search for Hamish. “If you handle the army and your sister manages trade, what does your brother usually do with himself? On the days that he has not become prey for his nephews, that is.” As much as he would like to imagine Hamish having to actively search for something to fill his days, he rather doubted his lover was allowed to be idle for long.