The Prince (Heirs of Legacy Book 1)

by Paul Lauritsen

  “Not many options, are there?” Relam asked. “Just D’Arnlo really. Unless you are looking for older students?”

  Master Agath laughed and sat back in his chair. “No, I am not, your highness. I enjoy training cadets and that is what I will continue to do. But, I would like to point out that you have options in front of you.”

  “Such as?”

  “Yavvis may train mainly those of common birth, but I do not think he would be opposed to taking you on,” Agath explained.

  “My father may not like me training outside the nobility,” Relam murmured quietly. Fortunately, the king was deep in conversation with Narin, who was sitting by the queen, and he failed to notice.

  “There is also Oreius,” Agath replied, leaning closer to the prince.

  “I’ve heard he no longer takes students,” Relam replied, wishing that the sword master had offered some real alternatives and not far-fetched dreams.

  “The fault has been in the candidates,” Tar Agath said slowly. “Not in Oreius. He will take on a worthy student. And he is the finest sword master the realm has to offer. Better than D’Arnlo. Better than me.”

  Relam blinked in surprise. “You think so?” he asked.

  “I know so,” Agath replied gravely. “And there are other advantages to training with Oreius that you may have already guessed at.”

  “I can think of a few,” Relam agreed, glancing down the table to where the other cadets sat.

  “Yes. But tonight is a night for celebration,” Agath said, raising his glass in a toast. “You still have nearly a year until you can train under a master anyways. To you, Relam! May you live a long and fulfilling life.”

  “And you, Master,” Relam replied generously, drinking from his own glass. His eyes widened in surprise as he realized that for the first time his wine had not been watered.

  “I am not your master any more, my prince,” Agath said. “Call me Tar. All of my friends do.”

  Relam smiled and raised his glass again. “Very well, Tar. I’ll do the same.”

  The meal turned out to be a far more cheerful and pleasant one than Relam had dared hope. The bothersome lordlings were spread out and reasonably far away, Marc Clemon was absent, and the great lords with their talk of politics were just far enough away that they could not bore the royal family or start any arguments with the king.

  The sword masters, who had ended up seated between the royal family and the great lords, were not great conversationalists, but Relam did not mind. His old master, Tar Agath, sat by him through the entire meal, D’Arnlo on Tar’s other side, paying no heed to his potential student and instead ardently discussing something or other with a frowning great lord. The sword master Yavvis, from the heights, sat across from Tar, largely ignoring the others at the table. He struck Relam as a rather solemn man but he was massively built and muscular.

  Beside Yavvis was the fourth sword master Oreius. While the other three sword masters seemed accustomed to court life, Oreius seemed uncomfortable. He scowled around constantly and talked to no one. He did not look the part either, clad in a simple tunic and pants with a cloak over top, his grizzled mane of gray hair wild and untamed, though his beard was short and well-trimmed. Altogether, he was an unnerving sight surrounded by the glittering, elegant nobles and their families.

  As the plates were being cleared away, a thought occurred to Relam. “Tar, what happened with Sebast? If he didn’t pass, then why is he here?”

  Agath’s expression tightened. “It was deemed an accident, a heat of the moment type thing. His father complained bitterly and demanded that I rescind my judgement.”

  “And you did?”

  Tar shook his head. “No, I most certainly did not! But he went to the Citadel and had Sebast tested by another trainer and approved as a soldier. They did not tell me who, nor why they saw fit to override my decision.”

  “That’s ridiculous! You’re the one who trained us, you should have final say in anything that-”

  “Relam,” Agath said gently. “This is a tangled world that we live in. What’s right and what’s wrong does not always matter, nor what is fair or unfair. More often than not, it is who has influence, power, or money and who does not.”

  The young prince nodded soberly. “I understand,” he said softly. “Do you see any way that the world could change? For the better?”

  Tar shook his head sadly. “I have lived long, Relam. I have seen multiple kings ascend the throne, lived through several wars. But the world we live in has been constant. And I don’t think any one man can change it.”

  Relam sighed with frustration and sat back in his chair. As he did, he felt eyes on him and glanced across the table warily. His eyes met the flat gaze of Oreius, the sword master. They stared at each other for a moment, then the grizzled master turned away slowly and drank from his goblet.

  “All pay heed to his majesty, the king!” the herald shouted suddenly, startling Relam.

  Orram stood, holding up his hands for silence. “What a feast! A fitting way to celebrate the accomplishments of these young men. Once again, congratulations to all of you. We are all very proud of each of you.”

  Polite applause followed this declaration, the cadets grinning at each other, Sebast looking exceptionally smug. Relam scowled at the lordling briefly.

  “Before we depart, I would like to speak briefly with the lords in attendance,” the king said. “I apologize for marring the evening with business, but it is absolutely necessary. I will only take a few moments of your time. Again, congratulations, and thank you for being here tonight.”

  The king withdrew from the table and the guests rose quickly. The lords strode purposefully towards the back of the hall, where Relam’s father and Narin were waiting, Narin whispering urgently in the king’s ear. Orram was frowning as he listened. As the lords drew within earshot, he held up a hand and shook the guard commander off.

  Wondering what that had been about, Relam stood and began walking towards the entrance to the hall, hoping to make a quick escape. To do so though, he had to walk past the place where the other lordlings had been seated.

  As Sebast saw Relam approaching, he got to his feet and moved towards Relam, followed by Knet, Delan, and Jatt. Relam adjusted his course to loop around them, but they followed stubbornly. Finally, Relam reluctantly accepted that he would have to face them.

  “Quite the celebration,” Relam said amiably as they approached.

  “Yeah,” Sebast grunted as though he could care less. “I bet you feel real special don’t you princeling?”

  “Well, tonight was a night for all of us,” Relam said, stressing the word all. “Seeing as each of us passed the trials, after a fashion.”

  “After a fashion?” Garenes spat. “Do elaborate.”

  “You know what I mean,” Relam growled. “There’s no sense in pretending otherwise. ”

  Sebast scowled while his friends shifted uncomfortably. “I suppose that your father has fixed you up with a sword master as well?” Relam asked, pressing his advantage.

  “Not yet,” Sebast replied. “We have months to do that.”

  “Hmm,” Relam replied. “Well, why don’t we use this as another competition, Sebast? A way to prove who is the better student.”

  “I’m listening,” Garenes said.

  “Have you heard of a man called Oreius? The greatest of the four sword masters?”

  “The greatest?” Garenes said, laughing.

  “Relam’s right,” Cevet said, having just joined them. “Oreius is a legendary warrior. A hero of the realm too, named many years ago though.”

  Relam hadn’t known that particular detail. “Do you know when the last time was he took a student?” he asked curiously.

  Cevet nodded. “A long time ago, twenty years or more. He took two students, brothers, who went on to save the south from a Vertaga invasion nearly ten years ago.”

  “Sounds like a master anyone could be proud of,” Relam observed.

  The oth
ers shifted uncomfortably, some even flinching. Sebast rolled his eyes. “Is this a joke, your highness? You want to see who can be the first to train with someone who hasn’t taken a student in years?”

  “Pretty much,” Relam agreed.

  “Problem is, he won’t take any of us,” Delan muttered. “He never takes students anymore.”

  “He has high standards,” Relam replied. “The question is, are any of you up to them?”

  Sebast snorted. “I suppose you are?”

  Relam smiled confidently. “Oreius will take on a worthy student,” he said, to the group at large. “Good luck, my friends. Using that term loosely, of course.”

  “Of course,” Sebast said, smirking. Then, he turned away and left the banquet hall, followed by Delan and Knet. Jatt wandered back to the table where his mother was gossiping with the other ladies in attendance. Cevet lingered, eyeing Relam shrewdly.

  “What?” the prince finally asked.

  “I’m just wondering why you’ve instigated yet another competition with Sebast,” he said slowly. “Especially when he attacked you last time he lost.”

  “Because he can’t bribe his way to success or have his father do it for him,” Relam replied. “From what I gather, Oreius is not one to take orders from puffed-up nobles.”

  “You’re right,” Cevet agreed, shaking his head. “You know what happened to the last candidate, two years ago?”

  “No.”

  Cevet’s face split in a wicked grin. “Oreius threw him in the river. The lordling’s father went to demand an apology and Oreius gave him the same treatment.”

  “I like him already,” Relam said drily, glancing past Cevet. As he did, he noticed a grizzled, gray-haired figure slipping out of the banquet hall. Looking around, Relam realized that Tar Agath was gone as well. The other sword masters were still lingering, D’Arnlo talking quietly with Cevet’s father, Yavvis politely listening to a corpulent minor lord Relam recognized as a member of the larger Assembly.

  “I wish I could train with him,” Cevet said wistfully, turning away from the door Oreius had left through. “But I don’t think it will happen.”

  Relam frowned. “Why not? I can’t imagine he would refuse you.”

  “That’s not the problem,” Cevet replied. “My father has other plans for me.”

  “Ah,” Relam said, nodding. “D’Arnlo?”

  “Yeah,” Cevet said, shrugging. “He’s good, or so I hear. But, I don’t know. I don’t really like him as a person. And if you throw in his political views-”

  “Son!” Lord Thius called suddenly from across the hall, beckoning to Cevet. “Let’s go! I have to be up early for a meeting tomorrow.”

  Cevet waved a hand in acknowledgement. “We’ll talk more some other time,” he promised. “We could meet at Tar’s facility to train if you want.”

  “Done,” Relam said eagerly. “Fourth day of this week work for you?”

  “Yes,” Cevet agreed. “Now that we’re no longer cadets, any day works for me.”

  “Cevet!” Lord Thius called again. “Come on, son.”

  Cevet rolled his eyes. “Sebast isn’t the only one with demanding nobles for parents,” he muttered. “See you later, Relam.”

  The prince nodded briefly in reply. He was looking past Cevet, to where Lord Thius waited impatiently, scowling and flushed. The moment Cevet had joined him, he swept from the hall, closely followed by Lady Thius. Relam looked around to see if anyone else had noticed the display, but they all seemed to be focused on their own conversations. With two exceptions. D’Arnlo was watching the Thius family depart with a puzzled expression on his face, and Narin was scowling.

  Vaguely troubled, Relam followed the minor lord out and made for the royal apartments, two guards trailing him protectively. The young prince had seen quite enough of the nobility for one night.

  Chapter 13

  The next few days passed uneventfully. Relam spent most of his time in his room, either sleeping or working on his dragon carving or making progress on various other minor projects. Time seemed to pass painfully slowly, with the absence of scheduled activities and training. Relam simply did not know what to do with his new-found freedom.

  On the morning of the day he was to meet Cevet, Relam rose early, nearly as early as he would have as a cadet. He washed and dressed quickly and thus refreshed belted on his sword and went into the main room.

  Narin was waiting there. The guard commander was an early riser and he often took the morning shifts standing watch. He nodded briefly to Relam in greeting.

  “All clear,” he reported quietly.

  “Good morning to you too,” Relam said, grinning amiably.

  Narin snorted. “What’s got you in such a fine mood, your highness?”

  “Training at Agath’s facility,” Relam explained. “Cevet and I are meeting up. And a good thing too, I was getting bored of all this lying about.”

  “You are indeed a rare sort of prince,” Narin observed, leaning on his spear casually. “You’ll be taking at least two guards with you, I hope?”

  “Do I need to?”

  “Absolutely,” Narin replied with no hesitation.

  Relam nodded. “As you wish, commander. I’ll take two guards.” The prince knew by now that there was no use arguing the point. Narin was only looking out for their safety, and the assassination attempts had proved that there was a need for extreme caution.

  “Very good, your highness,” Narin said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Breakfast isn’t here yet, unfortunately. They were not expecting you to be up so early, I suppose.”

  “No matter. We’ll take the servants’ corridors down to the kitchens.”

  Narin shrugged. “Works for me. Let me grab two of the guards.”

  The guard commander opened the outer door, murmured quietly to the guards outside, then opened the portal a little wider to allow them to enter. Relam did not know the two by name, but he knew them by sight. They had been palace guards for many years, almost as long as Narin himself.

  “Will that be all, your highness?” Narin asked.

  The prince nodded. “For now, yes. Thank you, Narin.”

  “I live to serve.”

  Relam smiled in reply, then led the two guards to the door that opened into the servants’ corridors. The young prince found his way easily enough, remembering Griff’s directions from that fateful night only a few days ago.

  When they reached the kitchens, they found the servants already up and moving about. Fires were burning in all of the ovens and white clad cooks and assistants were scurrying back and forth, burdened with trays, carts, platters, and vats. Relam stepped smartly to one side as a trolley came thundering through, pushed by a red-faced apprentice.

  “Find yourselves something to eat,” Relam instructed the guards. “We’ll leave in just a few minutes.”

  “Yes, your highness,” one of the guards replied immediately.

  Relam moved to where pastries were cooling on rack upon rack, stretching nearly to the high ceiling. There were six different types of muffins, sticky buns, rolls stuffed with different jellies, and many more treats besides. He briefly thought about seeking a healthier breakfast, then shrugged and grabbed two muffins, a blueberry and a walnut. He was young. He could afford to be unhealthy every now and then.

  Relam leaned against the back wall while he ate, watching the kitchen staff curiously. Hardly any of them took notice of him. Those that did bowed or curtsied quickly, and then went right back to work. Every person in the space had a role, a task to accomplish, a purpose to serve. Nobody was standing around waiting for a new job to pop up, and nobody seemed confused as to what they should be doing. The kitchens were a well-oiled, efficiently run machine, and an impressive one.

  “Everything in its place,” Relam murmured. “And everyone knows their place and accepts it.” Was this what D’Arnlo was after with his talk of enslaving people whose ancestors were not from the Sthan Kingdom? Did he want to sacrifice freedom for t
he type of efficiency that was on display here?

  Relam frowned for a moment, contemplating the last morsel in his hand. These people were servants though, not slaves. Would slaves work just as hard and as well? Somehow the prince doubted it. He popped the last bit of muffin into his mouth and brushed the crumbs from his hands and shirtfront.

  “Is everything alright, your highness?”

  Relam turned and saw his two guards, eyeing him inquisitively. “Everything is fine,” he said, standing up straight. “Have you eaten?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s go, daylight’s wasting.”

  “It is dark yet, your highness,” one of the guards assured him.

  “Then darkness is wasting,” Relam said with a grin. “Come on, off to Tar’s training ground.”

  The guards led the way this time, proceeding through the main door to the kitchens, down a narrow hallway, and right into the main entry hall of the palace. They hardly hesitated before crossing the marble floor to the doors that led out into the city. There, they gestured for Relam to wait a moment, then shoved one door open a fraction and peeked out.

  “All clear,” the guard reported.

  Relam joined them quickly and slipped through the palace door, nodding to the guards outside, who saluted in reply. Relam then led the way down the steps of the palace and then to the River Road that led to Tar’s facility.

  Etares was still muffled in gray, pre-dawn light, hardly stirring. There was noise from the harbor, of course, but there was always noise from the harbor. Ships arrived at all hours of the day and night and left at all hours of the day and night. Time was money to the traders that plied the Sthan Kingdom’s waterways, and there was no reason to idle tied up to a jetty while there was profit to be had elsewhere.

  They passed little traffic on the River Road though, removed as it was from the harbor. Beyond the houses on the left, the Furnier River burbled along sluggishly on its way to the sea. Relam could not see the water, but he could smell it. The foul stench now associated with the river not only made the prince recoil in disgust but also made his face harden with anger. The river had once been beautiful and pleasant and clean, a shimmering ribbon winding through Etares, as spectacular an ornament as any of the richly appointed manors that bordered it. Relam vowed to himself that one day the river would be cleansed. After all, beyond being a matter of pride, the health of the river affected the health of the living creatures inside, namely the fish. If the fish began dying in the river, there would be shortages and empty stomachs in the seaside capital, where many of the poorer citizens relied on fish for their meals each day. And the people were Relam’s responsibility, and his father’s, to look after.