The Prince (Heirs of Legacy Book 1)

by Paul Lauritsen

  They moved quickly past the Citadel, whose gates were shut tight. No guards stood by the ground level entrance, but sentries paced the walls above and manned the roofs of the many towers. Flickering orange torchlight shone through the gaps between crenellations, illuminating a face every now and then or gleaming on the metal head of a weapon.

  Finally, they reached Tar’s compound. The gate was already open, and a handful of younger cadets were milling about inside, waiting for the sword master to join them. Relam nodded briefly to them, then moved to one side of the training ground, where he would be out of the way. He glanced around once more, confirmed that Cevet had not yet arrived, then drew his blade and took up a ready stance. His guards looked around, then took seats on the low benches that ringed the training ground at regular intervals.

  Relam started off slow, moving through the patterns Agath had taught him, making each move deliberately and precisely. As his muscles warmed up, he moved faster and faster, though never as fast as he had on the day of the trials. By the time he had reached the fifth pattern, Agath had emerged from his quarters and was starting the younger cadets with the first pattern. They moved at a remarkably slow pace, pausing at the end of each stroke so that the sword master could check their technique. The prince smiled as he watched Tar move among the boys, making miniscule adjustments here and there. Some of the cadets scowled, thinking they had performed perfectly. Others set their faces in determined lines and took up the ready stance again once Agath had moved on, ready for a chance to prove they had learned.

  The prince kept working for an hour, until he had finished all ten patterns. Then, sweating lightly but breathing evenly and without effort, he sheathed his sword and joined his guards on the benches. The two men were watching the cadets curiously, noting the drills Agath was putting them through and how successful each boy was.

  “You did well, your highness,” one of the guards said, nodding respectfully.

  “Thanks,” Relam replied, leaning over and snatching a cup of water from a table. “I felt a little rusty.”

  “It didn’t show,” the other guard promised, watching the younger cadets. “You have a deft hand with a blade. A few of these lads do too. Agath has trained them extremely well.”

  “Especially the one in the last row, closest to us,” the first guard added. “He’s doing very well.”

  Relam watched the boy in question for a moment, nodding slowly. He was not an overly large or muscular youth, but capable, and he took orders well. Every time Tar made a correction to his form, which was rare, he would file the information away and prepare to correct his mistake. No arguing, no complaints. Just efficient learning.

  “Do you know who he is?” Relam asked idly, sipping at his water.

  “No idea,” the first guard grunted, leaning back. “I know most of the nobles’ kids though, and I don’t think he’s one of them.”

  “A commoner then?” the second guard asked. “Pity. He’s a good fighter.”

  “And why is it a pity that he is common born?” Relam demanded, sitting up a little straighter.

  The guard shrugged in an infuriating way. “Well, if he’s a commoner, he’ll have no chance of getting on with D’Arnlo down the road, if he wanted to become a master swordsman, which, by the look of things, he could. And he’d have to have a fair amount of money to learn from Yavvis.”

  “In other words, nobody will take him and this natural swordsman will be wasted?” Relam summed up.

  “Yes,” the first guard agreed, scratching at his beard. “It’s a shame. He really is quite good.”

  Relam frowned, watching the youth perform the second pattern now. He was far superior to his peers in control, placing his blade precisely and stopping it immediately, without any of the wobbling or quivering that the other cadets were experiencing. Every cut was placed at exactly the right angle, every thrust was perfectly timed so that it achieved maximum power. Relam would have quite liked to see this boy matched up with Knet, or Delan. It would not be an entirely fair fight, but it would be a close one if Relam was any judge of talent.

  As the younger cadets finished the second pattern and went on break, the guards’ comments about common birth jogged a memory in Relam’s brain. He looked around quickly to see if Tar was occupied, then rose abruptly.

  “Wait here,” he said to his guards as they made to rise. “I’m just going to have a word with Tar.”

  The guards relaxed, leaning back against the wall again, but Relam could feel their eyes on him all the way across the training ground. Tar saw Relam coming almost immediately and raised a hand in greeting. The prince smiled and replied in kind, lengthening his stride.

  “Well, good to see a former student hard at work,” Tar said when Relam had joined him, clapping the prince on the shoulder. “You already bored of the time off?”

  “A little,” Relam admitted. “It sounds like a wonderful thing until you’re two weeks in and haven’t done anything with your time.”

  Tar laughed, a great booming laugh that echoed around the walls of the training center. The younger cadets looked around in surprise, then went back to their break, joking and shoving each other playfully.

  “Ah, it does the heart good to start the day with a laugh,” Tar observed, glancing at his students.

  “Yes,” Relam agreed. “No better way. The boy on the far left there, who is he?”

  Tar grinned knowingly. “Noticed him, did you? He’s very good for his age. His name is Daram, lives in the eastern quarter near the outer wall.”

  “Not of the nobility then?”

  Tar’s smile faded slightly. “No, and a real shame too. None of the others will take him on, unless he is worthy of Oreius and has the nerve to face him. By the way,” the sword master said, lowering his voice. “Rumor has it that you and your fellow graduates are planning to apply to Oreius. As a sort of competition amongst yourselves.”

  “And the rumors would have it right,” Relam replied easily. “How did you find out?”

  “I know everything in this city,” Tar replied. “Or at least, everything related to the training of young warriors. You intend to follow through with applying to Oreius?”

  “Yes, no matter what he does to the others.”

  A smile split Tar’s craggy features. “Ah, I now divine the true purpose of this competition. Humiliation for the other lordlings, yes?”

  “That is one purpose,” Relam admitted, wincing. The whole thing sounded rather vindictive when framed in that light. A cruel trick played on unsuspecting victims. Although, Relam reflected, there were no better victims for such a ploy than Sebast, Delan, and Knet.

  “I just hope Oreius is sensible,” Tar muttered. “He can be a little testy with applicants sometimes. I don’t want him getting into trouble.”

  “From what I’ve heard, he doesn’t particularly care if he gets into trouble,” Relam said with a slight smile.

  “That is the trouble,” Tar replied grimly. “He has become reckless, careless. He cares not what others think or how his reputation deteriorates. He cares for himself only at this point, and the few friends he has retained over the years.”

  “I see,” Relam said carefully. “Speaking of sword masters, there’s something I wanted to ask you about.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “I have a servant, Aven, who recently joined the city guard part-time, training to be an archer. He’s extremely hard-working, cheerful, helpful, determined - everything you could want in a soldier. Problem is he’s small for his age still.”

  “Hmm. You helped him get into the guard?”

  “My father and I, yes. But . . .” Relam hesitated, then plunged forward. “A few days ago, I went to interrogate the prisoners at the Citadel. The boy came with me as a guard and an extra set of eyes. I wasn’t thinking at the time, but there’s a chance I’ve dragged him into the middle of a very dangerous situation.”

  “You want him trained to defend himself.”

  Relam blinked
in surprise.

  Tar smiled tolerantly. “It really wasn’t hard to discern what you were asking for, Relam. I suppose you are asking if I would train him?”

  “Yes.”

  “He trains with the guard in the morning, I assume?”

  “Usually.”

  “Age?”

  “Thirteen years, no formal training in the sword.”

  Tar rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “He might do well with my twelve-year-old cadets then, especially if he is smaller as you say. They practice in the early afternoon. Does that work with his schedule?”

  “If it doesn’t, we’ll find a way to make it work,” Relam promised.

  “Good man,” Tar said grinning. “I’ll take him, of course.” The sword master scanned his students and his expression softened. “Regardless of age, rank, or talent, if they have the heart I will take them and train them all the same.” The sword master sighed. “If only there were more sword masters interested in the rewards of teaching instead of the profits associated with it.”

  “You do great work, Tar,” Relam said gently. “And for what it’s worth, I’d put you above every sword master I’ve ever met.”

  Master Agath nodded briskly. “Thank you, Relam. It does help to hear encouragement every now and then, even if you love your job. Now, I’d better get these boys working again or they’ll think I’ve gone soft.”

  “You, going soft? Never!” Relam replied with a laugh. As he turned away from Tar to head back to the benches, he noticed a slim figure slipping through the gates that led out to the River Road. Cevet stayed out of the way, nodding to Relam and unobtrusively joining his guards to the side.

  “Sorry I’m late,” the smaller boy said, grinning sheepishly. “Overslept. It’s been a while since I was up this early.”

  “About two weeks?” Relam guessed.

  “Roughly,” Cevet confirmed. “You’ve been here a while?”

  “Little over an hour. I’ll give you some time to warm up before we face off.”

  “Let’s talk first, while they’re practicing,” Cevet said urgently, sitting on the benches, angling his scabbarded sword so that it was out of the way.

  Relam frowned, then sat as well after the slightest hesitation. “What’s going on?” he asked, concerned.

  Cevet hesitated as though not sure how to begin. “My father says that there is a strong feeling of ill will towards your father right now in the Assembly of Nobles, and particularly in their High Council.”

  The prince considered this. Cevet’s father was the Head of the Assembly, and as such led not only the larger Assembly of Nobles, but also the more elite High Council. If there was anyone who would know the general feeling and pulse of the nobility, it was Lord Thius. Then again, in Relam’s experience the Assembly was not a very active entity, all talk and no action.

  “It’s probably nothing,” Relam said finally, glancing sidelong at Cevet. “The Assembly is always finding something to complain about.”

  “Relam, this is serious,” Cevet said quietly.

  The prince stiffened. “How serious?”

  “A list of demands is being prepared by their High Council,” Cevet replied. “There are several issues the nobles feel the king has been too lax about. Security along trade routes is the biggest one, but also the river - all that rubbish washing up beside manor houses on the River Road - the lack of a royal navy to patrol the southern sea, something about taxes and a few other things.”

  “How does this concern me?” Relam asked. “My father is the king.”

  “The nobles seem to think that your father will ignore their demands no matter what they do,” Cevet said grimly. “Of course, if you were to mention their concerns as well, that would help, but what they really want is action.”

  “Action is hard to come by in a kingdom that rules the entire world,” Relam reminded Cevet. “Besides, where will the money for greater security and a royal navy come from? Not from reducing taxes, I can tell you that.”

  “I just thought it fair to warn you,” Cevet said, shrugging. “Also, my father asked me to. Seemed to think that if the prince mentioned it as well things might get done.”

  “Not likely,” Relam said grimly. “And that’s not a comment on my father’s ability to get things done, it’s a comment on the world we live in.”

  Cevet nodded morosely. “One man versus the world. I’m putting my money on the world.” He stood and stretched, drawing his sword a few centimeters and then ramming it home once more. “It’s frustrating, that’s all. Anyway, we’re here to spar, aren’t we? Let’s get started.”

  “Do you want to run a couple patterns first?”

  Cevet shook his head. “Nah. Let’s jump straight in.” He set his real sword to one side, the steel blade gleaming dully, and grabbed a practice sword from a rack, tossing a second to Relam. The prince set his sword beside Cevet’s, then took a few steps away from the benches and took up a ready stance.

  “Begin,” Cevet said, grinning.

  Relam flashed a grin in reply, then went on the attack. The practice sword whistled through the air at head height, cracking against Cevet’s own wooden blade. The sound of the impact reverberated around the training center. Relam drew back the practice sword for another blow, but Cevet was already retaliating, lunging forward with a quick thrust. Relam deflected it to one side and went to cut at Cevet’s left side. Cevet twisted out of the way and struck at Relam’s ankles, forcing the prince to jump to avoid the questing sword.

  Cevet spun with his blade, bringing it up and around. For a fraction of a second his back was exposed and Relam tried to take advantage with an overhead cut. But at the precise moment he struck, Cevet’s own blade came around and smashed into Relam’s. Both fighters grunted in surprise at the force of the contact, but neither lost his balance or backed down, locking the blades. They shoved against each other for a moment, then Relam abruptly disengaged and stepped to one side. Cevet, who had been watching for the trick, fell forward, tucking himself into a ball and rolling past Relam, striking at his knees as he did. Relam jumped back and held his blade ready, Cevet already standing again to face him.

  “Not bad,” Relam observed. “I wish you would stand still though.”

  “I know,” Cevet said grinning. “Every cadet I’ve ever fought said the same thing.” He lunged forward again, feinting a thrust and going instead for a side cut. Relam parried easily, then stepped inside Cevet’s reach, hooking his left leg around Cevet’s right and jerking. The smaller warrior stumbled, hopping on one foot to keep his balance. Relam struck again, with a simple straight thrust. Cevet was forced to deflect it, but lost his balance in the attempt, crashing to the ground.

  “First bout to me,” Relam said, extending a hand to Cevet to help him up.

  Cevet let out a low groan and took the proffered hand. Relam hauled him to his feet. As he did, he looked past Cevet to where the guards were seated. The one on the left muttered something to his companion. The other guard scowled and tossed the first guard a silver coin.

  “I think you just lost one of my guards a bet,” Relam observed.

  Cevet shrugged. “I would probably have bet against me,” he replied. “Obviously your guards have never seen us fight before.”

  “You did well.”

  “Until you knocked me on my back in the space of three seconds, yes.”

  Relam grinned. “Are you up for another?”

  Cevet glanced at the guards, who seemed to have realized Relam had been watching them. “Why not?” Cevet said. “Give that one a chance to win his money back.”

  They fought a dozen more bouts, each fiercer than the last until finally they were too exhausted to carry on, their blows losing power, their thrusts ill-timed and easily avoided. The final fight ended with Relam tripping over Cevet and crashing to the ground, bringing the smaller warrior down with him.

  “Draw!” Cevet announced laughing. “Six apiece and a draw.”

  “That’s what we have too,” o
ne of Relam’s guards grunted. “No winner.”

  “I’m fine with that,” the second guard replied, looking relieved.

  Relam laughed as he got to his feet and dusted himself off. “A good morning!” he declared. “Thirteen bouts. I can’t remember the last time I fought so many in a row.”

  Cevet mopped his face with his shirt sleeve, blowing drops of sweat from his nose. “I’ll need a few days rest before we do this again,” he said. “A week from today, same time?”

  “Sure,” Relam said, shrugging. “Like I said before, my schedule is wide open.”

  “And a good feeling it is too,” Cevet agreed. Then, he leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “Warn your father about those demands, will you? Might make the whole thing less likely to blow up.”

  Relam nodded slowly. “I’ll do that. See you next week, Cevet.”

  As Cevet scooped up his sword and returned their practice blades to the rack, Relam wondered what his father’s reaction to the demands would be. He came up with several possibilities, and none of them were pleasant.

  “Let’s move,” he said to his guards, striding towards the main gates. “We need to get back to the palace.”

  Chapter 14

  When Relam returned to the royal apartments, the guards at the door told him that his father was out, but could not tell him where. The king had left with Narin early that morning with not a word to the guards save to take three men with him. Since there was nothing he could do about the situation at the moment, Relam instead retreated to his room to clean up and change clothes. By the time he had finished, his stomach was growling, demanding food immediately and in vast amounts. Fortunately, the royal dining room was set up with all the ingredients necessary for every sandwich that ever existed. Relam piled ham and roast beef on his, topped off with half a head of lettuce.