by Rob Scott
‘Danae,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘would you have someone send for Tenner?’
‘Of course, dear,’ she said, gesturing to a pageboy down the hallway. She spoke quietly to the boy, who walked quickly off to find Tenner, the prince’s personal physician, and closest advisor.
Danae came up behind her husband and ran her hands under his arms and across his chest. He was still in good physical shape for a man nearly four hundred and twenty-five Twinmoons old, his chest and arms kept strong with continued riding and exercise. He had put on some weight above his belt, though, and Danae grabbed him playfully.
‘I’m not the man you once married,’ he told her quietly. ‘What do you suppose happened to him?’
‘I’d say he was a bit older, much wiser—’ Markon smiled at that, ‘—and about to bring lasting peace to the known world.’ She wrapped her arms more tightly around him, burying her face in his back.
‘I hope you’re right, my darling,’ he said, sighing a little.
‘I hope you’re right, too, my darling,’ a third voice interrupted: Tenner Wynne, the only man in Rona who would dare to enter the royal apartments without announcing himself. ‘You’ve been wrong so many times. I guess I can’t blame you, though: your losing streak started when you chose the wrong husband.’ Tenner was cousin to Prince Markon, the first-born son of Remond II of Falkan. When his father died, Tenner, a medical student at the time, abdicated the Falkan crown to his sister, Anaria: he believed he would make a below-average politician but a superior doctor.
Now, many Twinmoons later his prophecy was realised as he was responsible for training most of the physicians practising in Rona.
Tenner’s friendship with Markon had begun when the two were just boys; it had grown stronger over the Twinmoons that he had lived and taught in the Ronan capital. He was a brilliant surgeon and diagnostician, but he was also respected as the prince’s primary advisor.
‘Tenner, I’m convinced your parents had you out of wedlock,’ Markon grinned. ‘And have you, in your decrepitude, forgotten how to knock?’
‘I would remind his Highness that I am younger than him, and that the door was already open.’ Tenner bowed with false obsequiousness. ‘You two really must learn to be more discreet.’
‘Ha! You’re just jealous.’ Markon turned back towards the window. ‘Now, tell me where he is.’
‘If by ‘‘he’’ you mean your son,’ Tenner said, ‘I believe “he” is hunting in the southern forest. He’ll be back sometime later today.’
‘He ought to be here.’ Danae was anxious; she feared yet another argument between her husband and her son. At one hundred and seventy-three Twinmoons, the young man had grown independent, and Markon found many of his son’s decisions disagreeable.
‘Oh, he’ll be here,’ Tenner said. ‘He knows how important this is to you. I believe he wants to make something of an entrance this afternoon – there are, after all, numerous young and attractive women on hand.’
‘Yes,’ Markon mused. ‘I noticed we haven’t seen the Larion contingent yet. Any word from our friends in Gorsk?’
‘Nothing, but I can dispatch a rider north along the Merchants’ Highway to find out why they’re late if you want.’ Tenner didn’t need to say that he was also worried that no one had yet arrived from the northern nation; they had been expected in Rona two days earlier. Detria and the Pragan envoy had been delayed by raiders on the Ravenian Sea; he had no idea what could be delaying the Larion Senate, which was comprised entirely of peaceful scholars who travelled with little or no money. Raiding parties invariably allowed Larion convoys to pass freely, waiting for more lucrative prey.
Markon felt a familiar sense of fatigue: things had not been going according to plan. He was afraid of the news riders might bring back, but he agreed with Tenner: they had to investigate. ‘I suppose you’d better. Will we see you later this evening for dinner?’
‘Of course – would I miss one of the most important evenings in the past six hundred Twinmoons? Peace in our lifetime, and all that?’ Tenner had more confidence in the prince than Markon had in himself. ‘I think it’s probably rare, your Highness, for anyone to be aware that their finest day lies before them.’ Danae smiled, nodding agreement as Tenner continued, ‘We spend so much time looking forward or reflecting back; today we get to focus on today and recognise that this is the most important thing any of us will ever do.’
‘Trust me; I’ve thought of little else.’ Markon clamped a hand on his friend’s shoulder and squeezed it firmly. ‘I’m glad you’ll be there with Danae and me. Would you send word when our son returns?’
‘Of course,’ Tenner said as he turned and left the couple alone in their chambers.
The heir to the Ronan throne tethered his horse to a low-hanging tree branch and carefully untied a longbow from his saddle. Danmark Grayslip was tall and powerfully built. He pulled his shoulder-length hair into a ponytail, tied it quickly with a thin leather strap and tucked it down beneath his collar, then surveyed the forest, searching for any signs of game: fresh tracks, broken branches or disturbed leaves. Danmark guessed there would be rabbits, a gansel or maybe even a wild pig near the deep eddy that marked the Estrad River’s final turn as it wound its way to the sea.
Stepping carefully towards the edge of a steep slope that ran to the riverbank, he was able to see much of the great bend in the river. A small group of wild hogs were gathered at the base of the slope, rooting for truffles in the mud under a misshapen maple tree. Danmark thought of fresh pork for the reunification feast as he slithered along the ridge on his stomach. He needed to get clear of several small trees to have an open shot down the hill. At this range he thought he could kill two, if they didn’t panic and run off right away.
Excited that he had found an easy target so early in the day, the young prince imagined his triumphant ride through Estrad with a boar or two lashed to his saddle. Hundreds of guests, visitors and merchants, had journeyed to the city to hear his father’s vision for peace. He would ride slowly, stately, to give them all the opportunity to witness his return from the hunt. Danmark had his choice of Ronan women; they were all vying for his hand, and not just for his inheritance – the olive-skinned, dark-eyed young man was considered very handsome. Following his impromptu parade, he would select a companion for the evening from the many lovely foreigners visiting Riverend Palace, he thought smugly. Imagining the evening’s entertainment aroused him, and the future Prince of Rona had to fight a desire to rush the job.
Danmark froze: one of the hogs had stopped digging and turned to look at him. He watched as the small boar began climbing the slope. Smiling at his luck, he was already rehearsing the story of how he killed the ferocious animal with just his hunting knife. He peered down the hill again; there it was, still staring at him and still climbing. He nocked an arrow and moved onto his knees, into firing position, as the pig came slowly but deliberately towards him. Then something strange happened. The hog stopped its relentless climb, gave the young prince a vacuous look, then collapsed as if rendered completely senseless: a child’s stuffed toy discarded in the woods.
Danmark watched it for a moment, shrugged bemusedly, and prepared to fire downhill at one of the larger pigs still digging for truffles.
The ache began as a distant burning sensation in his left wrist. At first the prince ignored it, preparing to fire his bow, but before he could release the first shaft, pain lanced along his forearm. As Danmark dropped his longbow the arrow glanced harmlessly off a nearby tree and fell into the river. Tearing off his left glove, the young man discovered an open wound forming rapidly on the back of his wrist. It was an ugly sore, dripping with strangely coloured pus and dark blood.
‘What in all the Eastlands—’ He had no time to complete his thought. He was going blind, the forest colours fading from green and gold through blurry grey to black. Covering his eyes, Danmark gave a surprised cry and struggled to regain his feet.
As he stood, he realised he c
ould see nothing and his hearing was fading as well. ‘What sort of demon virus is this?’ he screamed, but he could barely hear his own cries. He wiped his palms over and over his eyes, as if to massage sight back in.
Now in total darkness, Danmark tried to make his way back to his horse, hoping that the beast might find its own way back to the stables at Riverend Palace, or at least into the village. His head swam, his equilibrium disturbed by the rapid hearing loss. Crying out once again as he lost his footing, he fell backwards down the slope, hitting rocks and trees as he rolled. Danmark was overcome by fear; he tried screaming for help, but could not tell if he made any sound.
His heart raced: he was dying. He could feel it; the burning, the blindness and the deafness had come on too quickly for this to be anything other than death.
Suddenly everything stopped. As Danmark stared into the endless midnight, brightly coloured shapes and forms drifted through his mind, playfully moving about inside his head. For a moment his loss of sight and sound was forgotten; he was distracted by the hauntingly beautiful rainbow of colours. He found he could make them sing or play music; he could hear it resonating behind his eyes. Giggling, he reached out to touch them with his good hand, and discovered that when he commanded, they obeyed. The Ronan prince joyfully organised shapes and shades into a series of moving pictures, a magical parade through his blindness. They called to him, and he answered, in a language he never knew he could understand, but which he could now speak fluently.
On the slope above, Danmark’s horse stood idly by as the prince waved one hand back and forth through the air above his head. With one leg resting lazily in the gently flowing waters of the Estrad River, the young man grunted, cried out and laughed in a succession of unintelligible noises, but he made no move to rise from where he had fallen.
‘Marek, take a long look at Anis will you?’ Helmat Barstag elbowed his cousin in the ribs. ‘Lords, but she is put together nicely.’ The future prince of Falkan stared unabashedly at Anis Ferlasa’s breasts, displayed prominently thanks to the laced and embroidered bodice she had chosen for the evening’s state dinner. He reached for his wine goblet.
‘She’s your cousin,’ Marek Whitward commented dryly. ‘It’s indecent.’
‘Distant cousin, my friend, and tell me you wouldn’t love a chance at her if you could get one.’ Helmat eyed Marek suspiciously. ‘You do get involved with women from time to time, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do, Helmat. It’s just that I try to limit my relationships with women who aren’t relatives … however distant.’ The young prince of Malakasia lowered his voice when he saw his father scowling at him from across the table. He added, in a whisper, ‘I do admit she is beautiful.’
‘Beautiful? She’s more than beautiful.’ Helmat’s voice rose. ‘She makes me want to forget myself and take her right here on the table.’
‘I’m certain your mother would appreciate that,’ Marek remarked sarcastically, looking pointedly at Princess Anaria, seated at the head of their table. He liked his cousin; he felt disconcerted and somewhat guilty at how pleased he was Helmat would one day rule Falkan now that Harkan, Helmat’s older brother, had been lost at sea seven Twinmoons earlier. Harkan had been distant, serious, and brooding, the very antithesis of the witty and fun-loving Helmat. Marek had dreaded the Twinmoons he and Harkan would have worked together as Eldarni heads of state.
Now that Helmat was the prince-in-waiting to Falkan, Marek looked forward to their collaborations: he would have an ally in the Eastlands when he took his family’s ancestral throne in Malakasia.
But Harkan’s tragic accident, in a storm off the Falkan coast, had broken Princess Anaria’s heart. Now she wore only black, in public mourning for her elder son. In the wake of his brother’s death, Helmat was not sure he would be ready to take control when his mother died: his life and education so far had been preparing him to play a secondary role in governing Falkan. Marek was pleased to see his cousin finally warming to the notion that he would eventually oversee the most powerful economy in Eldarn.
The beautiful Anis Ferlasa, the object of Helmat’s desire, was seated with Ravena, her mother, and her grandmother, Detria Sommerson, Princess of Praga. Calculating the difference in their ages, Marek guessed Anis was now about one hundred and fifty Twinmoons. The Malakasian prince flushed as he recalled the girl he had known and teased mercilessly as a child: tall, gangly, with pale skin, pin-straight hair and high cheekbones. Stealing a glance at her over Helmat’s shoulder, Marek marvelled at how lovely she had grown in the seventy Twinmoons since he had last seen her. He felt his temperature rise, and dabbed at his brow with a brocaded napkin before loosening his collar.
Helmat, not as subtle as his Malakasian cousin, had turned in his chair to gain an unobstructed view of Anis across the grand dining hall.
Noticing their stares, Anis smiled devilishly at the two princes and mouthed the words meet me later.
‘Did you see that?’ Helmat blurted, too loudly. He immediately sat up, ramrod-straight, as Princess Anaria cast him a cold look, her slate-grey eyes staring him down knowingly from the far end of the banquet table. Whispering excitedly, Helmat nudged his cousin. ‘Did you see that, Marek? I tell you, my friend, we are set for tonight.’ Nearly bursting with anticipation, Helmat quickly downed a third goblet of wine to brace himself for the long dinner ahead.
Riverend’s grand dining hall was festooned with fine linen, colourful silk banners and hundreds of freshly cut flowers. A bellamir quintet provided music from an alcove, and dozens of torches brightened the scene with dancing firelight. Warm night air mixed with the faint aroma of woodsmoke to give the chamber a feeling of home, despite the fact that nearly two hundred people filled the long tables: the royal families and honoured kinsmen and courtiers.
Servants hustled to deliver wine and ale around the room; the diners were still awaiting the opening course as Prince Markon II and Princess Danae had not yet joined their guests for the evening’s ceremony. Many of the revellers were beginning to get restless in the stifling heat: the fashionable layers of ornately stitched clothing were causing great discomfort. Several of the elder cousins began grumbling their discontent.
Marek took a long draught from his tankard. ‘I’ve heard a rumour that young Danmark hasn’t returned from a hunting trip. His father’s furious.’
Helmat tore his gaze away from Anis’s ample bodice and looked around: the Larion representatives had not arrived either. ‘Things don’t seem to be going very smoothly for Markon,’ he whispered. ‘Danmark’s missing and no one from Gorsk has bothered to show up.’
‘I’m not surprised about the Larion brothers,’ Helmat answered. ‘They can only lose in this proposal. They’ve been entirely autonomous for thousands of Twinmoons. Now Markon plans to include them in a decision-making body made up of members from across the known world. Their convenient self-appeasement programme is about to get shattered.’
‘I thought they were peaceful,’ Marek said, surprised.
‘They are. There’s no question about that.’ Helmat reached for a loaf of bread, but another withering glare from Anaria made him think twice. ‘But their tendency to be self-righteous will only hurt them when they have to deal with all of us. They won’t be able to just sit back, secure in their belief that they know everything, and make decisions for themselves alone any more. They’re being thrown into a much larger pot.’
‘Why wouldn’t they show up for this, though?’ the young Malakasian asked.
‘That gets me, too,’ his cousin answered. ‘They aren’t powerful enough to ignore Markon if we all decide to adopt his plan. They have no army, no weapons—’
‘They have magic, though,’ Marek interrupted.
‘They do, but you’re right, they’re peace-loving. They’d be overrun before they finished arguing about whether or not to use it.’ Helmat sighed, looking hungrily towards the palace kitchens. ‘I’ll be rutting drunk if they don’t hurry this dinner along, and poor Cousin Ani
s will find only a shell of my former self at her disposal later this evening.’ Helmat nudged his cousin playfully. ‘You know, if we—’
Helmat was interrupted as the music modulated from a stately dance in a minor key to a sweeping fanfare. Prince Markon II and Princess Danae of Rona entered the grand dining hall to join their guests. Markon looked calm but determined; his wife was a vision of elegance, striking in a flowing ivory gown brocaded in silver. Before taking his seat, Markon waved the crowd silent. He asked their forgiveness for his tardy arrival, and encouraged them all to enjoy dinner.
Helmat and Marek ate and drank with abandon: fresh venison, pork tenderloin, roasted gansel and enormous beefsteaks streamed in unending supply from the palace kitchens. Finally, when Marek was convinced he could eat nothing more, the tables were cleared and trays of elaborate decorated pastries were presented. Marek’s parents, Prince Draven and Princess Mernam, tucked into the delicacies, but he could not manage another morsel.
‘Lords, but I am stuffed to bursting,’ Marek commented to no one in particular.
‘Try one of the pink ones, dear.’ His mother wiped puffy cream from the corner of her mouth. ‘They’re quite light.’
‘Maybe later,’ he answered, loosening the belt around his tunic.
‘I’m having a brief meeting with Prince Markon in his audience chamber,’ his father said from across the table. ‘I’d like you to join us.’