Relam quickly stowed the carving and went to the door, opening it slightly. When he saw his mother standing there, he opened the door wider, smiling slightly.
“Nearly dinner time,” she said by way of greeting. “Did you have a good day off?”
“I still got some work done,” Relam said, shrugging. “A little training in the courtyard.”
“You may be the most dedicated and hard-working prince to ever live here,” his mother observed, smiling radiantly.
“I just want to make sure I pass the trials,” Relam said, stretching.
“There shouldn’t be any doubt about that,” the queen said. “You’re more than ready.”
“We’ll see. Is father back yet?”
“No,” his mother replied, shrugging. “You know how court days go sometimes.”
“Long,” they said in unison. Relam grinned, remembering long ago times when he had spent entire days in the company of one or the other of his parents. Now, that was restricted to moments like these. Moments he intended to take advantage of at every opportunity.
“How was your day?” Relam asked after a momentary pause.
“Empty,” his mother replied, smiling ruefully. “I got bored enough that I decided to visit some of the other ladies of the court.”
Relam nodded, remembering what the guards had told him when he returned from practice that morning. “Yes, the guards said you were visiting friends.”
“That may be stretching it,” the queen murmured. “The lords and great lords are difficult on the best of days. Their ladies are nearly as bad, and perhaps more dan-” She broke off, biting her lip worriedly.
“More dangerous?” Relam asked gently.
His mother shook her head. “Forget I said anything. They may be unpleasant, stuffy, and full of themselves, but what royal court isn’t?” She gave a wan smile and sat near the fire, shivering slightly, the traces of a frown still lingering on her face.
Relam leaned against the mantle, supported by his left arm, braced against the rough stone just above head height. “Do you ever get the feeling some nobles don’t like us?” he asked quietly. “That some may actually hate us?”
His mother looked up, startled. Then, just as quickly, she wiped the expression from her face, feigning puzzled concern. “Hate us? What makes you say that?” Then, she faked an understanding smile. “Young Garenes again, I suppose?”
Before Relam could answer, she plowed ahead. “You are young yet, Relam. These squabbles and rivalries will pass with time. Your father had some disputes with nobles growing up as well, but now he gets along with them.”
“Only when he has to,” Relam murmured thoughtfully.
“Well, you can’t blame him. He has a warrior’s heart after all. Both of you do, actually.”
Relam stared into the flames thinking, wondering if his continual spats with Garenes were just what his mother made them out to be. Or if they were something more significant. He was startled from his reverie when the outer door slammed open. Relam spun in a flash, reaching for his left hip, where his sword normally hung.
He relaxed as he recognized his father stumping wearily across the room, scowling fiercely. If he had noticed Relam’s reaction, he gave no indication.
“Perfect timing,” the queen said, rising. “How was your court day?”
“Waste of time,” Relam’s father muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “Why do I care if some idiot keeps piling cargo on the side of the harbor road to where only one cart can get past at a time? There’s more than one road in this city!”
“That nonsense again? I thought that had been resolved three weeks ago?”
“No, Relam, but I wish it had been. The man who keeps bringing this up wanted permission to check ship manifests and arrivals over the last several months to see if he could pin the blame on a ship owner.”
“And?” the queen asked.
Orram snorted. “Of course I let him, provided that he is supervised at all times with the harbormaster and the guards tasked with guarding those records. Should keep the fool out of my hair for another week or two.”
“Any other disputes?” Relam asked as they started moving towards the dining alcove.
The king sighed. “A broken fence between two neighbors along the river, an estate owner complaining about garbage floating up by his private dock. A few others. Somebody that fell through a roof trying to fix it and wants compensation from the owner of the house.”
“All in all, a typical draining day at court,” Relam’s mother observed as she took her seat. “But it’s behind you now. You won’t have to go back until next week.”
“Yes, that’s something,” Orram said, heaving a great sigh. He brightened then as he remembered something. “And we’re sparring in the morning! I nearly forgot. Are you ready son?”
“We’ll see,” Relam replied grinning. “I got in some more work this morning.”
“I hope you didn’t wear yourself out,” his father admonished. “I want some good bouts to take my mind off of all of this business with nobles and courts and trade talks.”
“You’ll get them,” Relam promised. As Griff entered through the side door, the young prince hoped fervently that the bouts would not be ruined by a confrontation over Aven’s future.
Chapter 4
When Relam woke the following morning, he frowned, puzzled. He was not sore or stiff, a phenomenon that was completely new to him. For as long as he could remember, his morning routine had been plagued by muscles protesting from the exertions of the previous day. Today though he felt incredible. He felt strong.
Relam rose and stretched, reveling in the range of painless movement. Grinning, he hurried to the washroom and cleaned up, then dressed. He paused at the weapon rack, hesitating as he reached for his sword belt. Today could be an incredible day. Or, it could be disastrous. The young prince wasn’t sure which was more likely, but he fervently hoped for the former of the two options. He didn’t care if he lost every bout to his father, as long as he could convince the king to let Aven into the guard.
The young prince belted on his sword, smoothing wrinkles from his tunic. Then, he pulled on his leather jerkin and boots. Thus prepared, he paused before the door, then took a deep breath and stepped into the common room of the royal apartments.
His father was already up and sitting in the dining alcove, tearing into fresh bread and sausage with messy, unreserved gusto. Hardly the behavior of a king. Grease coated his fingers and mouth, and there were bread crumbs scattered down his front.
“Morning,” the king said softly around a full mouth. “Your mother is still sleeping. She wasn’t feeling well again last night.”
Relam frowned distractedly as he sat and began to fill his plate. “Is she all right? She doesn’t have some kind of illness or disease?”
The king shrugged. “As far as I can tell, she’s just tired. Which is odd, since she’s spent the last couple of weeks resting for the most part.”
“She did visit the court,” Relam said around a mouthful of sausage. “That may have worn her out.”
“Maybe,” the king agreed. “Whatever the case, this means I can get by without court manners this morning.” Deliberately ignoring the napkin laid out for his use, he wiped his greasy fingers on his jerkin. He smiled, almost boyishly. “Your mother would have my head if she’d seen that.”
“Seen what?”
Relam jumped and turned. His mother was just emerging from his parent’s room, wrapped in a thick shawl and frowning at her husband with mock severity.
“Nothing, dear,” the king replied quickly, wiping at his jerkin with a napkin. The grease stain remained, silent and condemning evidence.
Relam’s mother smiled patiently. “Sorry to ruin your fun, but I was hungry.”
“Understandable,” the king muttered before filling his mouth quickly with more food.
The queen shook her head and filled her own plate, opting for fruit rather than the greasy sausage. “At lea
st you don’t eat like that at court dinners.”
“Eat like what?” Orram asked innocently.
Relam gave a spluttering, choking cough. His father thumped him perfunctorily, helping clear the prince’s airway. “Thanks,” Relam gasped.
“You need to be more careful, son,” his father observed. “That’s twice in two days.”
“Not my fault,” Relam muttered as he continued eating.
The king snorted. “Anyway, are you ready for today?”
“More than ready,” Relam replied immediately. “I wasn’t even sore when I woke up this morning.”
“Hmm. I’ll have to have a word with Tar,” his father observed, eyes twinkling mischievously. “If your soreness only took a day to fade he’s not working you lot hard enough.”
“Talk with him all you want,” Relam replied, grinning. “After the trials, I won’t be training under him anymore.”
“Hah! You’ll wish you still were though,” the king said, shaking his fork at Relam. “Training under Tar Agath may have been grueling, but training under a master after the trials will be even harder.”
“What are the trials like?”
The king frowned with mock severity. “Only those who pass can know the answer to that question. As a cadet, you must go in not knowing what you will face. It is the only way.”
“Lovely,” Relam muttered. “I hate surprises.”
“You’ll have to put up with this one,” his father said with an air of finality. “Now,” he added, pushing his chair back. “How about some practice bouts? See how ready you really are for the trials.”
“Ready when you are,” Relam said eagerly, rising. In his haste, he forgot he was wearing his sword. The scabbard had slipped between the arm and seat of the chair, and as Relam stood it caught, tripping him up. The young prince flailed, off balance, and tipped the chair over with a crash. He struggled with the scabbard for a moment longer, finally freeing it, then straightened nonchalantly, looking back at his parents. They were both barely controlling smiles.
“Not a great start,” his father observed drily. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Be careful,” Relam’s mother called from where she still sat at the table. Relam waved in acknowledgement, then followed his father out the door.
The young prince had to hurry to keep up with the king. Orram was taking long eager strides, slowing for nothing. His boots rang on the stone floors, the noise echoing up and down the mostly empty corridors.
“You’re in a hurry,” Relam panted as he drew level with his father.
“No time to waste,” he replied brusquely, turning left and nearly flattening Relam in the process. “Let’s see, another right coming up . . . and here we are!”
They emerged onto the training field Aven and Relam had used the previous day. Everything was just as they had left it, the equipment stacked neatly in the lean-to, a single, solitary target at the far end of the field.
“What’s that target for?” his father asked, frowning.
Relam froze midstride and stumbled. Of course! There was no reason for him to have a target out for sword practice. Why hadn’t he put it away the previous day? And what excuse could he use to deflect suspicion?
“Ahh . . . . . knife throwing,” Relam said finally, wincing slightly. The excuse sounded foolish leaving his mouth.
“Knife throwing? I didn’t know you knew how,” his father said curiously.
“Master Agath showed me. I’m not very good yet,” he added as an afterthought, in case his father asked for a demonstration. He’d have to remember to mention this to Tar Agath, just in case his father asked.
“Hrmph. Never mind. Are you ready?” the king drew his sword and stood at the ready.
“Against each other? With sharpened blades?” Relam asked. “Hardly seems safe.”
“How else?”
“We usually use practice swords,” Relam replied, glancing at the lean-to. “That keeps us from accidentally lopping each other’s limbs off.”
“What is the world coming to?” the king muttered, sheathing his sword. “Very well, we’ll try it your way.”
Relam breathed out a sigh of relief and ducked into the low shelter, scooping up two practice swords. He tossed one to his father, then set his real sword to one side. There was no reason to have the extra weight hanging from his hip.
“Balance is a little off,” his father muttered as he swung his own wooden sword experimentally.
“It won’t be perfect,” Relam admitted. “But it’s a pretty fair approximation of the real thing.”
“I like my sword better,” Orram sighed as he set his usual blade next to Relam’s. The two swords gleamed dully in the gray morning light.
“Ready?” Relam asked quietly, adopting a ready stance.
His father spun the practice sword experimentally. “Ready.”
Relam stood motionless, waiting, watching for the first movement from his father. The king stood a few meters away, staring back impassively, practice sword at the ready.
The young prince began circling nervously. His father matched him step for step, advancing slightly as well so that the circle they traced grew smaller and smaller.
The circle shrunk until they were two meters apart. Relam gripped the hilt of his practice sword tighter, eyes narrowed in concentration.
Then, like lightning, the attack came.
The king stepped forward and thrust at Relam. Even as the young prince reacted, the blade had withdrawn. Orram spun quickly and struck again, from the opposite direction. Relam parried awkwardly, and a loud THOCK! echoed through the courtyard as the wooden blades collided. Relam winced as shockwaves ran up his arms, and quickly backed away, stunned by the speed and power of the attack.
His father came after him, leading with an overhead cut this time, then switching to a devastating backhand in a blur of wood. Relam parried again, but nearly lost his grip on his drill sword. He realized that playing defense was not a winning strategy against his father.
Instead of backing away, Relam stepped forward, hoping to slip past his father’s sword. He feinted an overhead cut and tried for a thrust. But his father avoided both easily. His free hand snaked out and caught Relam’s wrist, pushing it and the wooden sword away. Then, his own blade came up to rest on Relam’s collarbone, ending the bout.
“Not bad,” the king allowed, smiling slightly. “But it seems I still have it.”
“Not bad? I got slaughtered!” Relam replied, backing away and flexing his fingers around the hilt of his drill sword. “You nearly had me on the first blow.”
“You’d be surprised how many fights can be won in a couple of quick moves,” the king replied. “That particular trick won me many fights when I was a cadet. There are several variations too, depending on how your opponent reacts.”
“Could be useful,” Relam observed. “Care to teach me?”
“Not yet,” his father replied, smiling. “Let’s see what you’re capable of first. Go to!”
Relam sprang back as his father’s practice sword darted out, then swept his own sword around and batted it to one side. Rather than try and bring the sword back to its original position, the king went with the movement and brought the blade around in a crushing overhead blow. Relam turned sideways and deflected the sword as it descended, then spun and thrust at his father. The king leapt back nimbly, avoiding the questing, rounded tip of the wooden blade.
“Not bad,” he said approvingly. “Not bad at all.”
The prince continued advancing, sweeping low with the wooden practice sword, deflecting a thrust, spinning and attacking at shoulder height. His father gave ground slowly, parrying every blow. His face was expressionless, giving Relam no hints as to how well he was doing.
Determined to break through, he began recklessly combining attacks learned from Tar Agath, always driving forward, but constantly on the lookout for a retaliatory strike. His father continued to retreat, but never did it appear that Relam was on the verge of
breaking through.
Relam lunged forward and spun as his father had, bringing his sword around at head height. His father parried easily, smiling grimly.
“Nice try, son. I wondered if you might try that.” He shoved at Relam’s blade, locking the hilts so they were straining against each other. “But I didn’t show you all of my tricks.”
He twisted his practice sword savagely, wrenching Relam’s sword downwards. The prince released his right-handed grip on the hilt and caught the falling sword with his left, executing a clumsy thrust to buy some time. His father evaded it easily, but it gave Relam time to switch back to his right hand.
“Impressive,” his father observed. “Skillfully done.” Then, in a flash of movement he lunged forward, feinted a thrust and spun. As Relam parried the blow, something hard caught around his ankle and his legs were swept out from under him. He fell heavily, his lungs emptying in a rush of air. He groaned and looked up to see his father smiling quizzically.
“Does that count as a victory?”
Relam nodded, wincing. “I’ll give you that one.” He sat up slowly and looked around. “What happened?”
“I took out your legs,” the king replied. “Same move as earlier, but I kept spinning and hooked your left ankle with my right leg while you were distracted with my blade.”
“No fair,” Relam muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. “You cheated.”
“I prefer to say that I out-thought you. Or, perhaps, that my superior experience allowed me to exploit a weakness in your defenses.”
Relam stumbled towards the water barrel, filled a cup to the brim and took a long drink. “And here I thought maybe I had learned something from Master Agath,” he said ruefully.
“Oh, you did,” his father said, grinning. “You fight very well for someone who has not passed the trials. Quite impressive, actually, what you were able to do in those few bouts. Now, how about I spend some time teaching and then we go at it a few more times?”
The Prince (Heirs of Legacy Book 1) Page 5