The Prince (Heirs of Legacy Book 1)

by Paul Lauritsen

  “Ah, yes,” Clemon said, nodding. “I had forgotten. The trials are at hand?”

  “Master Agath says next week,” Relam confirmed.

  “A shade earlier than usual!” Clemon remarked, straightening his robes and running a hand through his thinning hair. “You and your fellow cadets must be good.”

  “We try.”

  “I should certainly think so,” Clemon replied. “But I also would have thought that Master Agath would have been more careful about high blows around the neck area.”

  “We all make mistakes,” Relam said generously, grinning wryly, wishing the chatelain would back off.

  “Yes, but we cannot make mistakes with you. You are the heir, after all-”

  “Not officially,” Relam broke in. “Seeing as I’m not of age.”

  “Well, yes, but you will be the heir,” Clemon forged on, frowning at the interruption. “You are the future. And the future must be preserved.”

  A door opened further down the hall and a willowy woman with straight, ash-blonde hair stuck her head out, looking one way then the other. “There you are!” she said as she noticed Relam, smiling. “I was wondering why you weren’t back yet.”

  “Practice ran long,” Relam lied, smiling at his mother as she approached. “And I nearly ran over Lord Clemon trying to make up for it.”

  “No harm done,” the chatelain said airily. “Best use a little more caution though, your highness.”

  Relam struggled to keep from scowling at the nobleman’s patronizing tone. Instead, he bowed slightly to conceal his expression. “Of course.”

  Lord Clemon bowed to Relam and to the queen, then turned away and stalked down the hall, nose high in the air.

  Relam’s mother smiled up at him and took his hand. She was more than a head shorter than her son, though Relam was only a little over average height. “How was training?” she asked gently.

  “Tough,” Relam said truthfully, leading the way back towards the royal apartments.

  “Are you hurt?” his mother asked, reaching up and tracing the bruises on his neck and face.

  “No, just . . . took a bad fall.”

  His mother looked up at him, biting her lip. Relam knew she didn’t believe him, and that she was worried. He hated to cause her pain, but he wasn’t going to complain about Garenes junior. His parents had enough problems trying to run the world and keep it from imploding.

  “Well, I suppose you’ll have some time to recover once the trials are over and done with. Twelve months off before you can seek a Master, right?”

  “Yes,” Relam confirmed. “Not sure what I’m going to do with that time. Assuming I pass the trials of course.”

  “You’ll do fine,” his mother replied, leading the way into the royal apartments. “Tar has never had a student fail the trials. He’s the very best at what he does.”

  “Some of the others think D’Arnlo could do a better job.” Relam closed the door to the hallway and locked it, shaking his head. “I think learning the basics from D’Arnlo would be a bad situation for all involved. He’s not the most patient of trainers from what I’ve heard.”

  “That’s Master D’Arnlo,” a voice boomed from further into the room.

  Relam turned away from the door and looked across the sitting room. The space was comfortably furnished with several armchairs and a low table facing a stone fireplace. And in the farthest armchair, facing the door, was Relam’s father, the ruler of the Sthan Kingdom.

  King Orram was not a large man, but he was certainly fit and powerful. He had been a skilled warrior in his youth, but some of his muscle had turned to fat. So much of his time was occupied with running the kingdom that he rarely had time to practice his weapons skills. The glittering golden hair and well-trimmed beard were the same though, even if there was some gray starting to appear.

  “Father,” Relam said, bowing slightly. “I thought you had a meeting with the Mizzran delegation this evening?”

  “They encountered some bad weather on the journey and were delayed. The meeting has been rescheduled to tomorrow. Lord Clemon just informed me of the change minutes ago.”

  “Ah, he didn’t mention that,” Relam muttered.

  “You saw him on your way up?”

  “Er, you could say I ran into him,” Relam muttered. His mother smiled slightly.

  “Not literally, I hope,” the king replied distractedly, looking into the flames in the fireplace. Relam suddenly became aware that the room was overly warm and rather stuffy.

  “Do we really need a fire?” the prince asked, half laughing. “It’s summer outside, father.”

  “I’m afraid that’s my fault,” the queen said, moving across the room to join Orram by the fire. “I was feeling cold earlier and had the servants light it.”

  Relam frowned as his mother drew her shawl closer around her. Were those shadows under her eyes? And was it a trick of the light or did she look paler than normal? “Are you . . . well?” he asked carefully.

  His mother smiled wanly. “Yes. I’ll be fine. Go and get ready for dinner, Relam.”

  Relam nodded and turned left, towards the door to his room. He paused with his hand on the latch and looked back. His mother was staring into the flames sadly, her eyes fixed on some distant scene that no one else could see. The young prince shivered and pushed through the door into his room.

  Chapter 2

  Inside, Relam sighed heavily and looked around the small room. It was sparsely furnished, because Relam had refused to let the royal decorators clutter the space with all manner of furniture. A large, comfortable bed stood against the same wall as the door, a few feet to Relam’s right. To Relam’s immediate left stood a chest of drawers. Across from the door was a trio of tall, thin windows. Between two of them stood Relam’s desk, and to the left of the leftmost window stood his weapon’s rack. He walked quickly to this now and hung up his sword belt and practice gear, wrinkling his nose at the smell clinging to the leather. He would have to air that tomorrow, if the palace’s small army of servants didn’t beat him to it.

  He snorted derisively. Anyone else would love to be in his position, being waited on constantly, having every minor thing looked after. But to Relam, the servants were a little overzealous, taking on even the simplest of tasks, even though Relam had no problem taking care of them himself. At times, the palace staff seemed to be constantly underfoot, getting in the way or meddling with his life and every detail related to it. This was one of the reasons Relam had taken to locking all of the doors in the royal apartments. That way, the servants had to request access and could be sent away if Relam wanted to handle things himself. He wondered briefly what Sebast would think of such behavior, then pushed the thought aside. He had only a few minutes until dinner, and no time to waste dwelling on his rivalry with the Garenes lordling.

  When he emerged from his room fifteen minutes later, hair still damp from his bath, his parents were waiting in the sitting room. Relam’s father looked at him curiously.

  “Where’d you get the bruise, son?”

  Relam winced, touching the spot gingerly. “Fell,” he said, glancing at his mother. She was still bundled up close to the fireplace, though some of her color seemed to have returned.

  “Must have been a hell of a fall,” the king muttered. “No other bruises or contusions?”

  “No.”

  “Remarkable.”

  Relam said nothing, deciding that silence was the best option. He and his father stared at each other for several seconds, then the king nodded sharply.

  “We’ll speak more on this later. For now, dinner. In light of your impending graduation from basic training, I had the kitchens prepare something special.”

  Relam straightened when he heard this. Being waited on by the best chefs in the kingdom was one perk of royalty that he did enjoy. “Really? What did you request?”

  “You’ll see,” his father replied, smiling and extending a hand to the queen, drawing her to her feet. Relam’s mother
smiled and her old, vibrant self shone through her radiant expression. But only for a moment, the way the sun appears briefly on cloudy days before being hidden again.

  Relam’s parents led the way to the small dining room, which stood opposite the door to the rest of the palace in a large alcove-like area. It was nearly perfectly circular, with the end that adjoined the sitting room sheared off. The entrance was a wide, shallow arch with no doors or curtains to separate the two spaces.

  Relam sat at his place on the left side of the round table, to his father’s right. On the king’s left side and opposite Relam sat the queen. Relam’s father sat facing back towards the sitting room.

  The royal family had scarcely settled themselves before a white clad servant wearing a spotless apron entered through a narrow door in the wall between Relam and his father. “Your majesties,” he said, bowing deeply. “As always, it is an honor to serve.” As he spoke, he set three plates of summer salad and a loaf of fresh, crusty bread in front of them. “If there is anything at all that you need, I would be most happy to fetch it.”

  Relam grinned at the server, only a few years older than himself. He knew the man well, and had for a long time. “Thanks, Griff,” he said.

  “My pleasure,” Griff said smoothly, bowing again. The king and queen ignored Griff as he retreated through the doorway to check on the next course.

  “You should not be so friendly with the staff,” King Orram remarked, tearing a slice of bread in half and frowning at it.

  “Why not? They’re people after all and Griff has served us admirably for a long time.”

  “But you will be a king, Relam. People like Griffin are born to serve and that is all they will ever do. They will not become great lords or soldiers or generals.”

  “So they are not worth our time?” Relam asked, a hard edge to his voice. “We should ignore them, treat them like scum?”

  “Well . . . not exactly,” the king said, backtracking, trying to find his footing again. “It’s just that it doesn’t do to get too friendly with them. You are of higher birth and have a greater responsibility and greater status. If the future king is seen to be spending more time with his servants than other future lords would that not suggest he is ill-suited to manage the nobility?”

  “Or would it imply the nobility is ill-suited to be nobility?” Relam asked darkly, thinking of the Garenes house.

  His father ignored this and pressed doggedly on. “If you are seen with people of lesser status it lowers your status and power in the eyes of others.”

  “Why should it?” Relam demanded. “I will rule the whole kingdom one day, and all of the people in it. All of the people, not just the nobility.”

  “That may be, but-”

  The king broke off as Griffin entered again, bearing a trio of goblets. Relam wondered briefly how much the servant had overheard. “Your dinner is on the way,” he announced, smiling. “A special meal for a special day. Congratulations, your highness.”

  “I haven’t passed the trials yet, Griff,” Relam pointed out. “But I’ll admit, it’s nice to have training over with.”

  Griffin smiled and bowed again. “Then when you pass the trials we will celebrate again,” he said magnanimously.

  As the servant retreated, Relam saw his father scowling over the fact that Relam had dismissed his counsel and engaged Griffin in conversation again. The young prince shrugged mentally. Griff was a friend. And friends were not people you ignored or pretended not to notice.

  Stony silence ensued until Griffin swung the little door open once more, this time followed by another servant, a rotund woman staggering under the weight of a large platter. Relam’s mouth immediately began to water as the aroma filled the room. A roast! He watched impatiently as the massive slab of meat was lowered onto the table and Griffin began slicing off portions. He served the king first, as was proper, then Relam and then the queen. The moment Relam took his plate, he noticed that it weighed rather more than usual and that he had been given an exceptionally large portion. His eyes widened slightly and he glanced at Griffin. The servant merely winked and smiled slightly. Relam smiled in reply, looking around the table surreptitiously. Was it his imagination, or was his father’s plate a little emptier than usual? Again, the young prince wondered how much Griffin had overheard.

  The aroma of the roast caught his attention and all other thoughts were driven from Relam’s mind. He quickly cut a large piece from his portion and tasted it, chewing thoughtfully. The beef was cooked perfectly, tender and juicy, somewhere between pink and red in color. The outside of the roast had been encrusted with powerful spices. Relam swallowed and cut another piece hastily, suddenly realizing that he was terribly hungry.

  Over the next half hour, the royal family ate while servers came and went. Potatoes, baked in their jackets, were brought out to go with the meat, and another loaf of bread. Relam ate ravenously of everything that was put before him, until at last he was forced to admit defeat, having well and truly overstuffed himself. His mother had stopped eating some time earlier, as had his father. The king looked on with a bemused expression as Relam sat back with a sigh.

  “Wish I could still eat like that,” he remarked. “One of the unfortunate things about growing old.” He patted his expanding middle for emphasis. “But you’ll work it off during the trials and then with your master.”

  “You could train with me for a day,” Relam said slyly. “Help prepare me for the trials.”

  “Would that I could,” his father grumbled. “Meetings all day every day, listening to everybody’s problems and trying to find answers. Then there’s the negotiations with local rulers, the-”

  “What your father means to say is there are many demands on a ruler’s time,” the queen explained, interrupting the litany of complaints. “It is not an easy job.”

  “But necessary,” the king sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. “And it is our burden to shoulder. We are born into privilege and power, but also into duty.”

  Relam nodded soberly. He had observed before that royalty was not all it was cracked up to be. His father had only confirmed it.

  “But you don’t have to worry about that yet,” the king said briskly, pushing back from the table. “You are only a prince, and not yet confirmed in your duties. You have plenty of life ahead of you before you have to take over my job.”

  “So enjoy it,” Relam’s mother added, smiling gently at him.

  Relam nodded. “I will.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, then the king stood. “Well, I have some things from Marc to read over before the meeting tomorrow. And I daresay you could use some rest, son. Unless Tar Agath took it easy on you for the last day of training?”

  “Not hardly,” Relam replied with some feeling. His father laughed and his mother smiled widely. Relam grinned in turn. He was warm and safe, with a full stomach and he had gotten a celebratory meal with just his parents. A rare occurrence for the royal family. All in all, a perfect night.

  As his father disappeared into the next room, grumbling about trade negotiations, Relam retreated to his room and shut the door, groaning as his stomach protested. He would regret eating so much later. But it had been worth it.

  As he started across the room to his desk, a tentative knock sounded from the outer door. The prince sighed and turned around, wondering who it could be, a half-formed suspicion lurking in the corners of his mind.

  Relam paused at the door, left hand resting lightly on the latch. Then, he pulled the door open suddenly, his right hand dropping to his dagger, just in case.

  But his precautions were for naught. Standing in the doorway was a slight boy of thirteen years with straight blond hair and a rather impudent smile.

  “Didn’t even flinch!” Aven said, smiling.

  Relam shrugged. “It’s not as though I haven’t gotten you before.”

  “Yeah,” Aven admitted, digging the toe of his left shoe into the floor and twisting disconsolately. “But I’l
l take even a small victory. Anything you need me to do? Practice gear to air out, maybe?”

  Relam grinned. “Isn’t there always?” He ushered Aven in, shutting the door. He liked the younger boy’s total disregard for protocol and formality. It was refreshing in the normally stuffy palace. And Aven was totally devoted to Relam. The prince was something of a hero to the young servant.

  “Phew!” Aven said, holding his nose as he examined Relam’s practice gear. “Hard day today?”

  “Lots of practice bouts,” Relam confirmed. “To prepare us for trials next week.”

  Aven’s eyes widened. “Trials?” he asked excitedly. “Then you’re nearly ready to begin training with a master?”

  “Nearly,” Relam agreed. “I’m not sure I’m ready, honestly, but Tar Agath thinks I am.”

  “I wish I was older,” Aven said, his expression clouding. “I wish I was being trained to fight.”

  Relam sighed. Aven was from a poor family, the sort that could work all week and still barely have enough to put food on the table and rent a space in the loft of a stable. “I’m sure Master Agath would take you on if you explained the situation,” he said encouragingly. “Worst case scenario he says no and you’re still working here at the palace. But he could say yes, and then you’re in training.”

  “My parents . . .” Aven shook his head. “I’m small anyways,” he said dejectedly. “I’d never make it.”

  “I’m not exactly a giant,” Relam snorted, stretching.

  “Yeah, well, you’re bigger than I’ll ever be,” Aven muttered, pulling Relam’s practice gear down from the stand. He wrinkled his nose again. “And smellier, too.”

  Relam grinned. “Watch out, or I’ll have you thrown in the dungeons.”

  “There are no dungeons,” Aven reminded him. “Only cells. And they’re warm and dry.”

  “There’s still rats.”

  Aven shifted uncomfortably. “Well . . . yes. But there’s also food and water.” He shuddered and looked away.

  Relam let it go. He knew he shouldn’t antagonize the younger boy. Aven had a deathly fear of rodents. Relam didn’t know why though.