Young Haikor
by: Mette Ivie Harrison
Copyright 2013 by Mette Ivie Harrison
Young King Jaap had come to Rurik this summer to improve relations between the two kingdoms. He had been invited nominally by King Heeron, but the old king was in his dotage. He was nearly sixty years old and had withered into a skeleton of a man. Jaap had seen him briefly on his first day here, carried on a pallet by guards dressed in livery with the red lion emblazoned on the front. The old king had waved a hand, but he had not spoken, and then he had been taken inside the castle to “rest.” Jaap had not seen him since.
Aart was his eldest son and expected to inherit the throne within months or perhaps only weeks. Jaap had not realized that it must have been Aart who issued the invitation to him, and not King Heeron. But he had come because he had always believed in the prophecy:
One child shall hold two weyrs.
One child will hold two thrones.
Two islands shall be one.
Or the sea will swallow all.
The two islands must be united. Weirland was the smaller island to the north where Jaap ruled, and it was a wild place, so deeply covered in snow in winter that it was often impassable even by horse. It had always been Rurik, the more southern and larger of the two islands, that was the important one. Rurik had a far larger population, and more trade with the continent. Rurik grew more food and many believed that it had stronger magics, taweyr and neweyr.
Which was why until this invitation, Jaap had believed that the kings of Rurik did not believe that there was any point in courting the king of Weirland, despite the ancient bond between the two kingdoms. They had once been one island, one kingdom, until old King Arhort had torn them apart in an anger so great that it reverberated into the earth itself. The prophecy was to heal the wound, but it was surely Weirland that would gain more in the change.
Upon Jaap’s arrival, Prince Aart had been the one to step forward and welcome the new Weirese king officially to the palace. It was an elaborate structure, and far larger than anything Jaap had ever seen before, though he tried to keep awe off his face and remain as impassive as Aart himself as he stared at the outside stones, all of gray, brought from some other part of Rurik. His own palace was no more than one of the noble estates outside the gate of the palace, small enough to fit in one wing with an army to spare.
But inside, the palace, King Jaap struggled against the enormous stench. There were dirty rushes on the floor and no attempt at cleaning the wood underneath. There were no herbs or flowers to decorate or disguise the scent of so many men living all in the same place, and Jaap saw more than one woman holding a ball of scents to her nose as she passed by. But Prince Aart showed no sign of being bothered by it. It seemed uncivilized to Jaap, but who was he to say such a thing?
At first, the meetings with Aart had gone well enough. He had asked for a pledge of loyalty to Rurik, which Jaap had at first agreed to make, with some changes in the wording. He had assumed that Aart would be prepared to negotiate. But this morning, Aart had demanded for the fifth time that Jaap sign the pledge of loyalty without any changes to it at all.
“It reads that I am to be your loyal servant!” Jaap had shouted. “I am a king of my own land. I cannot agree to be anyone’s servant, even if the words are meant only figuratively.” His temper had gotten the best of him, and he regretted his tone immediately afterward.
But perhaps Prince Aart was the sort of man one had to shout at. Certainly nothing else had seemed to penetrate his cold, impassive demeanor.
“You are a king of Weirland, a tiny island no bigger than a boat, I think,” said Aart. “It is like a man who lives in a privy claiming he cannot be a servant because he is king of the dung.”
Jaap had felt his face flushing. “You will excuse me. I think that we both need some time to ourselves to think more clearly. Perhaps when we come together again, we will be able to speak more civilly.” He had inclined his head slightly, and then stiffly walked out. He had not waited for Prince Aart to offer permission.
Jaap had heard dark stories of Prince Aart when he was still in Weirland, and he had dismissed them all. The kings of Rurik were powerful, and they ruled differently than in Weirland. Here, a king—or prince—would never be seen without a court surrounding him, and in fine clothing suited for the station. It was not at all like in Weirland, when the king spoke to the shepherds in the nearby fields, and consulted them on the treatment of a hoof disease which had plagued the castle sheep.
But it seemed that he stories about Prince Aart being intractable, and even inhuman, were true. He had never showed any sign of kindness in all the hours that Jaap had been with him. He had ordered about his servants as though they had no minds of their own. Even his own lords he did not ask for opinions from, but demanded them to kneel before him or serve him. One unlucky duke had been standing by the prince when his foot itched.
Prince Aart had called the man forward to take off his boot and scratch his foot until the itch disappeared. And then he had shouted at the duke and beaten him about the head with his own hands rather than punishing him with a single burst of taweyr when the man had mistakenly taken off the wrong boot and “touched the royal foot without permission.”
Jaap had stood by while he saw it done, wondering if this was part of Aart’s message to him. Or to his own lords, perhaps. This was the kind of king he wanted to be seen as, a man who expected his mind to be read, and who would punish anyone who did not please him, no matter how hard that man was trying.
Now Jaap had a decision to make. He could return to the palace and try to negotiate once more for a reasonable treaty. Or he could leave abruptly and never return to Rurik.
He knew which he wanted to do. He longed for his own kingdom. In summer, there was nothing quite as beautiful as the hills of Weirland. The purple and gold flowers that covered the tips that he could see from his window in his own castle and the smell of fresh grass and herbs growing in the castle garden. He could close his eyes and imagine he could hear again the sounds of the lowing animals nearby.
There was a long, lowing sound. But it was not from a cow.
Jaap opened his eyes and looked about. He was near the river, past the ancient walls to the back of the entrance he had come in through. He had not thought anyone would find him here, but when he looked up, he could see that the voice came from the young Prince Haikor, Aart’s younger brother by some seven years. The boy had seemed terrified when Jaap had met him on the second day. He had been visibly shaking, and Jaap had worried he would fall down. He had disappeared after that and Jaap had not seen him since.
But here he was, standing at the edge of the river Weyr, singing beautifully to the water itself. He was so intent on his own sound that he did not notice Jaap approaching him.
“Good morning, Prince Haikor,” said Jaap.
The boy, not quite twelve years old by Jaap’s estimation, was startled and stopped singing instantly. He glanced at Jaap.
“King Jaap,” he said and bowed deeply. He looked very little like his older brother, except perhaps about the eyes. Both had deep, blue eyes that penetrated. But Prince Haikor had pale, freckled skin and bright red hair of the sort that was considered a common hint of madness. “Are you lost? Perhaps I can help you find your way back to the throne room, where I am sure my brother awaits you.”
He spoke perfectly clearly, no hint of the stutter that Jaap had heard the first time they had met. Perhaps it was because he was not nervous here, by the river, away from his brother and the court.
“I thank you, but I have no intention of returning immediately to talk to your brother. I think it best for both our kingdoms if we have a period of cooling down.”
There was a flicker of light in Prince Haikor’s eye
s. “Ah. What has he done now, then? Threatened to murder your mother? Or burn your sister at the stake?”
“No,” said Jaap. “Only to take my crown from me and make me into a king of dung.”
“Ah, well, then, you have the best of it. Most of the rest of us are not as lucky as that.”
Jaap eyed Haikor more carefully. He showed no sign of nerves at all now. And he seemed quite intelligent. Before, Jaap had assumed that he was touched in the mind. But a weak-minded brother was no threat to Prince Aart. A wily one who was capable of pretending to be weak-minded, however, was something else entirely.
“You must hate him,” said Jaap.
“Hate him? He is my elder brother, soon to be king,” said Haikor. “I honor and support him, as I should.” He spoke flatly, but not with clear sarcasm.
“You may be the only man in the kingdom not eager for your father’s death,” said Jaap.
“And why should I care about my father? He is an old man, ready for his end,” said Haikor. “The only thing that saddens me is that he did not die in battle, as any proper king should.”
This was perhaps the strangest conversation Jaap had ever had. Young Haikor was not play-acting as he had before, but he was not speaking directly to Jaap, either. It was as if they were involved in a game of some sort and so far, Haikor was
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