The Prince (Heirs of Legacy Book 1)

by Paul Lauritsen

  “How is my father handling my mother’s death?”

  “Your highness, I really don’t think-”

  “Just tell me,” Relam ordered, cutting the healer off. “Please.”

  The healer sighed. “Your father is not handling the loss well, your highness. He has gone into a state of shock. He hardly eats or drinks and does nothing but sit and stare into space. I do not know if he is merely grieving or if he has sunk into depression. The human mind is a tricky thing, your highness. We don’t understand it fully.”

  “Has he said anything?”

  “Not a word.”

  Relam sat quietly, pondering this. “Thank you,” he said simply. “Do you know . . . do you know when the funeral will be?” He wiped his eyes surreptitiously and sniffed.

  The healer smiled sadly. “Two days. The queen is being prepared for rest by her closest friends, since she has no parents or siblings.”

  “And those are?”

  “The Lady Thius and Lady Laurencian.”

  Relam nodded thoughtfully. Lady Thius had always been a friend, and Lady Laurencian was something of an oddity among the nobility as well: friendly, intelligent, and kind.

  “If that is all your highness-?”

  “You may go,” Relam said, waving a hand to dismiss the man. “I need sleep as well.”

  “Yes, your highness. Good night.”

  The healer slipped out, closing and locking the door behind him. Relam lay back with a sigh, trying to find sleep. But he could not. For the first time since he had heard of his mother’s death, he was overcome not with anger, but grief. Tears poured from his half-closed eyes, blurring his vision and dampening his cheeks. His heart seemed to be rent in two, with no hope of repair.

  “Life goes on,” Relam whispered, remembering his father’s words just two days earlier. But in the midst of that terrible, aching pain of grief, it seemed that even if life did go on, it was hardly worth living.

  When Relam next woke, sunlight was streaming through the windows opposite his bed. Judging by the angle of the golden rays, it was nearly midday. Relam looked around sleepily and smiled with some amusement as he saw the lantern still burning in one corner of the room.

  “No need for that,” he muttered, getting up and extinguishing the soft light. This done, he stretched carefully, wincing as the bruises on his arms and legs twinged painfully. His right hand was stiff and sore where he had been cut, and his fingers did not have their full range of movement.

  After taking stock of his many injuries, Relam stumbled into the washroom. There, he filled the tub with scalding water and sank into it, closing his eyes, willing the water to wash away his hurts and pain. His stiff muscles slowly relaxed and the pain from his bruises dulled to an ache. But the agony in his chest remained crippling, assailing him suddenly and terribly. The grief returned and Relam found himself unable to breathe. After that brief moment of panic, the young prince climbed out of the tub and dried off, his heart heavy but many of his bodily hurts diminished.

  When at last he was refreshed, Relam opened the door to the main room and ventured out, looking around curiously. Not much had changed in the royal apartment. The furniture was all the same, and standing in the same place. The fireplace was cold and empty, swept clean of ash. The floor was spotless, though the rug had taken a beating from the scuffle on the night of his mother’s death. It was dirty and stained in places, flecks of dried blood showing on the lighter portions. But more significantly, it was worn thin where guards had dug their feet in to find purchase during the battle, the fibers twisted and stretched so that they could not return to their original configuration.

  Relam made a slow circuit of the room, looking for something, anything to pique his interest. There was no food laid out in the dining alcove, no messages or reports on the low table in the sitting area. Nobody present to talk to. Aven must have recovered and been returned to his own home, for there was no evidence of the younger boy to be found. There were guards outside of course, but the young prince did not really feel like making idle small talk with them.

  Finally, Relam returned to his room, closing the door quietly so he could be alone with his thoughts. He sat at his desk and pulled out the dragon carving he had started so long ago. It was nearly finished now. The long tail, muscular legs, and triangular head had all been pulled out of the block of wood. He had even finished the spikes along the dragon’s back and neck. But it didn’t look right yet. The surface of the piece was smooth, like hide or hair, and dragons had scales. Relam stared at the carving for a few moments, trying to decide whether to take the plunge and begin the detail work or not. Eventually, he set the carving aside, deciding that when he did start the detail work he wanted to have the full capabilities of his fingers and hands. As things stood, his right hand was still stiff and sore.

  He put the carving back in its secret little hiding place and looked around his room for something else to distract him. There wasn’t much to look at. There was his weapons rack, his sword belt hanging from one of the pegs. And the bed, of course, and the desk he sat at. But there was nothing else that had any chance of holding his attention more than a moment, save the view from the tall windows.

  Even this source of distraction was useless though, for the world outside was dreary and gray, matching the young prince’s mood. Swollen gray clouds hung low in the sky, giving forth occasional flashes of lightning and rumbles of thunder. There was a stiff wind as well, and the trees Relam could see were thrashing back and forth as they struggled to resist it.

  An hour later, it started to rain, great fat drops of water driving against the tall windows with a muffled roar. The force of the storm was impressive for a few moments, but once Relam realized he could no longer see anything out of the windows and that the storm would go on for some time, he stood and paced around the room, looking for something else to occupy his time.

  He had no success finding something to do in his room, so he wandered out into the main room. But there was no one there either. Finally, he came to a halt in front of the door that led into his mother’s sickroom. He hesitated for a moment, then knocked firmly on the door. There was no reply, so he eased the door open and peered through the narrow gap.

  The room was devoid of many of the devices that it had contained for the last year. The dozens of medicine bottles and herb pouches had vanished, as had the healer’s medical instruments. The bed was empty as well, and freshly made, the sheets and comforter drawn tight across the surface. And in a chair beside the bed, was the king.

  Relam’s father looked much the worse for his grieving. His hair and beard were unkempt and there were dark circles under his red-rimmed eyes. His clothes were stained and rumpled, and Relam suspected that his father had not gotten fresh ones since the queen’s death.

  “Father?” Relam said cautiously, not wanting to disturb him. He needn’t have worried though. His father sat as still as statue, gazing at the place where Relam’s mother had lain for so long as she battled her disease.

  “How are you doing?” Relam asked, trying to stir him from the depths of his grief.

  The king did not even acknowledge that he had heard Relam, did not shift in his seat, nor blink. Not a muscle twitched and his expression did not change.

  “Do you want to talk?” Relam asked, his voice trembling. “Do you want to talk about her?”

  His father made no move or reply once again. Relam’s heart was nearly overflowing with sorrow and pity at this point.

  “Father, hear me!” he pleaded. “Talk to me. Just do something!”

  But nothing happened.

  “I need you,” Relam whispered, tears threatening to break free once more. “Now more than ever. Please, come back, I’m begging you.”

  He laid a hand on his father’s shoulder, trying to pull him away. But the king would not move, no matter how hard Relam pulled and tugged at his arm. Finally, Relam admitted defeat and returned to his room. There, he fell onto his bed once more and cried hims
elf to sleep.

  Chapter 23

  Nobody disturbed Relam for the next day and a half. Occasionally, at random hours of the day and night, he would sneak down to the kitchens for food. He would take a little of whatever he could find, speaking to no one, then slip out once more before anyone could ask how he was doing. The rest of the time he spent locked in his room, alternately sleeping and lying on his bed, heart too heavy to do much else. His mother’s death was one thing, but when his father’s condition was added on to that it was nearly too much for him to bear.

  Finally, the day came when his mother was to be laid to rest for good. Relam rose with the sun and dressed mechanically in his finest court garb: green breeches of glove-quality leather, spotless white shirt, silver doublet, and his royal blue half cape swinging from his right shoulder. His polished brown boots and wide belt finished the outfit. He did not wear a sword on this day, ceremonial or real. He carried only a dagger, and this was hung behind his right hip, concealed by the cape. Funerals were not an affair to bring weapons to, with everyone’s emotions strained as they were.

  At the ninth hour, Relam moved out into the main room of the royal suite to wait for the escort to the funeral. His father was not there yet, and Relam wondered briefly if anyone had thought to make sure the king would be ready. He glanced at a water clock on the far wall, measuring the time critically. There was less than an hour until Narin and his guards were due to arrive.

  The hour passed incredibly slowly, each minute seeming to last forever. Relam started out sitting in one of the chairs by the fireplace. Then, he paced the room agitatedly, picking up random objects and putting them down again. Then he returned to the chair and sat there for a while longer, brooding. And all too soon he was up and pacing again.

  Fifteen minutes had come and gone. Relam was thoroughly bored and vaguely annoyed by now. He rummaged through the wood basket beside the fireplace and built a small fire for amusement. But once he got it started, the young prince was quickly reminded that they were in the midst of summer and the heat outside was suffocating enough without a fire. Unfortunately, there was no water on hand to put the small blaze out so Relam pushed the burning sticks away from each other and waited for them to burn themselves out. When the fire was out, he glanced at the water clock again. The distraction of the fire had lasted all of fifteen minutes, which left another thirty until Narin’s arrival. And still no sign of his father.

  Relam stood and moved to the door of his father’s room. He knocked tentatively and, when no answer was forthcoming, kicked the solid wood portal in annoyance. That elicited no response either, so he tried the latch, only to find it locked securely from the inside. Frustrated, Relam tried the door to his mother’s sickroom next. It was also locked, and nothing Relam said or did drew a response from beyond the impassive face of the door.

  Finally, the hour came when Narin was due to arrive. At precisely the tenth hour, a knock came at the door.

  “Enter,” Relam called.

  The door swung open and Narin marched in, leading a double file of eight palace guards, turned out in their dress armor and golden cloaks.

  “Your highness, it is time.”

  Relam nodded and stood, moving to join Narin. The guard commander’s gaze was sad and understanding. He rested a sympathetic hand on Relam’s shoulder and squeezed it gently.

  “I know the pain,” he said softly. “We all do. We are with you, your highness.”

  Relam smiled wanly, grateful for their support. “Thank you, Narin. Have you seen my father?”

  “Is he not here?” Narin replied, frowning worriedly.

  “I can’t get any response from any of the rooms,” Relam said, shrugging.

  Narin crossed to the king’s room and hammered on the door with a gauntleted fist. “Your majesty? We’re here to escort you to the funeral.”

  There was a brief pause, then the door swung open. Relam half expected his father to be clad in the same rumpled, stained clothes he had been wearing since the queen’s death. But the king had managed to stir himself to clean up for the occasion, wearing black breeches, a white shirt, a black doublet, and a silver cape. The crown was on his head, slightly askew, glittering in the light from the lanterns arranged around the room.

  “Are you ready, your majesty?” Narin asked, prompting the king towards the door.

  Relam’s father made no reply, merely taking up a position beside Relam in the column of soldiers. Relam turned to Narin, shrugged, and gestured for the guard commander to lead the way. Narin hesitated for the briefest moment, then left the royal suite, followed by Relam, the king, and the guards.

  The young prince followed the guard commander mechanically, putting one foot in front of the other, doing his best not to trip, to stay at the same pace as those around him and not break formation. His father marched along stoically beside him, saying nothing.

  They followed Narin down to the palace gardens, overlooking the Furnier River. The paving stones were still damp and strewn with puddles from the previous day’s storm, and gray clouds hovered above, threatening more rain. By the time Relam and his father arrived, the mourners had already gathered. Relam recognized most of the faces he saw. Many he wished had not come, such as the Garenes family. Every face bore a suitably sad and compassionate expression, but Relam wondered if perhaps the murderer was somewhere in the midst of the mourners, filled with triumph on this terrible day.

  As the royal party passed, the mourners bowed and murmured greetings. The king made no reply and neither did Relam, marching stoically on towards the high stone table in the center of the gardens that bore his mother’s coffin. The table was twined with flowering vines and bedecked with blossoms, though how this had all been done since the rain stopped was a mystery to Relam. He stopped before the open coffin with his father and bowed his head.

  His mother lay there serenely, hands clasped across her stomach, her face relaxed and free from the lines of pain and suffering that the last year had etched there. In her state of graceful repose, she appeared to be sleeping. But Relam knew better. He knew that this was the last time he would see her face, and he strove to remember every detail so that she would not be forgotten.

  “I miss you already,” he whispered, so quietly that no one else could hear. “And I’m sorry. I will find the ones who did this. You will be avenged.”

  Having said his goodbyes, Relam straightened, waiting for his father to finish. The king took a little longer, but he said nothing. He merely stared down into the coffin, grief-stricken and inconsolable. Eventually, Narin stepped forward and gently led the king and prince off to one side.

  “What now?” Relam asked the commander of the guard, looking around.

  “Now, the queen is taken to the royal crypt,” Narin murmured in reply. “Where she will rest undisturbed forever.”

  As soon as Narin finished speaking, he stepped forward with his eight guards. He moved to the stone table and knelt there, head bowed, for a long moment. Then, he rose and pulled an iron-shod black staff from the midst of the flowers and vines. The staff ended in a silver ferrule at its base, and was surmounted by a glistening silver representation of the crown Relam’s father wore on his head.

  Narin raised the staff high overhead, then smashed the ferrule into the paving stones under his feet. The resultant crack carried throughout the gardens, causing some to jump in surprise. As the sound faded, the eight palace guards stepped forward and slid four blackthorn staffs through carefully designed slots in the base of the casket. The staffs protruded for a half meter on either side, resulting in eight handholds for the bearers. Narin stepped behind the coffin and carefully closed the lid, sealing the queen inside forever. Then, he cracked the staff against the paving stones again and the guards stooped to lift the casket.

  As soon as the casket was up on the shoulders of the eight guards, Narin stepped in front of the coffin and led the guards back through the crowd. Relam and his father fell in behind the guards. After them, the mourner
s began following in a loose column, turning to join the procession after the casket had passed.

  After a short walk, they came to a metal door at the base of a short ramp leading down into the earth. At the top of the ramp the procession halted. Narin went to the door by himself, and struck it with his staff. An echoing boom rolled back up the ramp and over the crowd.

  The metal door swung open and two palace guards in black and silver armor emerged. “Who comes to the royal tomb?” one asked in a carrying voice.

  “It is I, Narin, commander of the guard, bringing our sovereign queen to rest within.”

  The two guards inclined their heads and stepped to the side, standing to attention. “Enter, commander, and commend the queen to our care. She will rest safe with us.”

  Narin bowed deeply and the procession started forward again. Relam and his father followed, but the mourners stayed where they were, clustered around the ramp down to the crypt, bowing their heads.

  The guard commander and the casket vanished into the crypt, and Relam and his father followed. As soon as he entered, Relam felt the temperature drop drastically. While the day outside was warm and humid, the crypt was nearly frigid. Relam shivered slightly and drew his half cape closer about him.

  They walked down a short tunnel, lit by silver lanterns hanging from the ceiling every five meters. At last, the procession came to a wide archway and they emerged into a cavernous space.

  Relam could not help but be awed by the sight, despite his grief. The crypt was larger by far than any of the halls in the palace, or any hall he had ever seen for that matter. The ceiling was not high, only two stories or so, but the room stretched as far as Relam could see to the left and right, the ceiling supported by squat black pillars at regular intervals. Stone platforms, a meter and a half wide by three meters long, were laid out in a grid stretching in every direction with three-meter walkways in between.

  Narin led the procession down the center aisle, deep into the crypt. On all sides were empty platforms, each a half meter high and unadorned. Hundreds of them, all empty, all waiting for the day when they would hold royal remains.