Third Prince (Third Prince Series)

by Toby Neighbors

  “Elkain!” shouted Fairan. “Elkain, where are you?”

  “Here,” Kain shouted back with enthusiasm. He felt better just knowing the big warrior was coming to his aid. “I’m over here.”

  There was a rustling in the leaves and grass, and suddenly a man Kain did not recognize loomed in front of the startled prince. The man swung his baton toward Kain’s head. Without thinking, Kain stepped aside and slashed the attacker’s stomach. But before he had finished his attack, he was confronted by another enemy. This time the man swung at Kain’s hip, but the prince brought his sword to block it. The baton broke in two, and the attacker quickly backed away, disappearing in the smoke.

  By now Kain’s throat was burning. He could hear Fairan shouting for him, but before he could shout back, there was a movement in the corner of his eye. He turned, but not fast enough. A wooden baton cracked against the side of his head and everything went black.

  Chapter 4

  Fairan looked around as the smoke began to clear. There were bodies lying around the perimeter of the camp. Fairan rushed to each one to ensure that it was not Kain. He silently cursed himself for letting the Prince be captured. He should have known better than to think he could handle whatever they sent against him. Instead of trying to kill him, they simply kept him busy long enough to capture Elkain. Now he would have to risk pursuing them in the dark.

  He explored his options. He could not take a torch with him; the light would only serve to mark his position to his enemies. They could stand in the dark and shoot him full of arrows, and he would never even see them. He would probably not find their trail in the dark and even if he did, he could only mark it and return to his camp. There would be no tracking from horseback in the dark, and the animal would make too much noise. His best bet by far would be to find them quickly, overtaking them in the dark; but the faster he moved, the more he risked losing the trail and being ambushed himself. Still, it was against his nature to wait, even though he knew it was the wisest option. If he could only find their trail, he would be that much better off come daybreak.

  He hoped that they would not try to interrogate Elkain before dawn. If they found out who he was, they could simply kill him and finish the job they started on the road to Hollist. He cleaned his sword and decided to check on the horses. He thought of moving them to the top of the hill, but if anyone came back for him and found the camp deserted, they would probably kill the horses. It would be better if they were out of sight and out of mind. It was a long time before first light, and Fairan knew he could not sleep, although that, too, would be the wise thing to do.

  After ensuring that the horses were okay, Fairan returned to the top of the hill and looked again at the bodies, this time to see which ones Kain had cut down. The soil on the hill was thin, and although there were footprints, they were impossible to read. He would have to move far enough away from the light of the fire so that his eyes would adjust to the gloom and then hope he could find some sign of the attackers. He decided to move straight down the hill to the forest path they had been on earlier. He moved slowly, listening often, once he had gone beyond the crackling of the fire at their camp. There were only the sounds of the night, nothing more, not the creak of leather, not the clop of hoof, nothing to indicate a party of men was near.

  The thought came to him that perhaps most of the men in the attacking party were still on the hill. In fact, there could be as few as one left. It made sense, the leader of this group knew enough to plan around Fairan’s strengths. He probably knew he didn’t have enough men to kill the old warrior. And unless they were mercenaries, which Fairan did not think they were, if they knew who they were fighting, his reputation would have made them timid. Still, if there were more than one, they would be easier to track.

  Fairan wrestled with a thousand such thoughts as the night passed. He spent hour after hour straining his eyes and ears but finding nothing. It was simply too dark to do anything useful for finding Elkain. Finally, Fairan made his way back to the place of their camp. The fire was now merely embers, still glowing red. The old warrior felt fatigue and hunger rising up to match the anxiety that was plaguing him. He grabbed some sticks and fallen limbs and dropped them on the embers. Soon fresh flames were licking up the dry wood and illuminating the camp site. He ignored the dead bodies that littered the clearing and retrieved the horses. The animals whinnied in protest at being brought closer to the human carnage. They bucked and pulled against the reins that held them, but Fairan gave them no room to protest. He handled them sternly and tied them securely within the light of the fire.

  Now, at last, he looked to the needs of his belly. He heated some vegetables the monks at Aquista had given them and ate them with bread, dried meat, and cheese from his pack. He felt his strength returning somewhat, although the lack of sleep effected him more than he liked. Still, his will was iron, and nothing would deter him from using every moment to search for the prince.

  When light finally came, Fairan had the horses saddled, the equipment packed, and was searching for signs of the attackers retreat. He found one not long after he began, a foot print that was much too deep. Someone had carried Elkain away. The trail led down the hill and ran parallel to the path. The horses were anxious at first but settled down as they moved away from the hill. After some distance, the trail came to a small clearing; it was obviously the staging area of the attack. There were human and horse signs everywhere. It was impossible to know how many men were left. From the tracks, every man had been mounted, and whoever was left had taken all the horses. Fairan guessed the attackers were probably about five hours ahead of him. He mounted his own horse and began the pursuit.

  ***

  The castle at Royal City was a magnificent structure. It was built on a hill that overlooked the city, which was surrounded by a high stone wall. Over the years the city had grown and spilled out of the walls, until the city was surrounded by homes and shops made of wood and thatch, while inside the city all was stone and tile. The castle was actually a large hall, large enough to accommodate 400 people. In the hall was a throne, and this is where the King held his court and celebrated with his people. Surrounding the hall were the kitchens and servants’ quarters. Above the hall was another large room, although it was smaller than the Grand Hall below; this was the council chamber, where the High King would meet with his nobles, or lesser kings. Also on the second level were elegant rooms for those the High King would offer to stay with him at the castle. And on the third level were the private quarters for the High King and his family. Today, this level was empty, save for one person, Lady Sarahain. She stood at the high window of her personal chamber, looking through the stained glass at all the activity below. Her face still held a hint of beauty, although the death of her family had left it ashen and stained with grief. She had not moved from the room since the day of the funeral procession, since she had learned of Derrick’s plan to marry her. The memory of that day, the most horrible day of her life, replayed itself over and over in her mind. She just couldn’t understand how everything in her life had gone so wrong.

  The funeral had begun in the castle, with the nobles and servants having a chance to say their goodbyes to the Royal family. Sarahain had sat at her place in the hall, surrounded by some of the young ladies who served her. The nobles either ignored her or paid her their respects stiffly. She felt like an unwanted observer, but the grief was so real, so painful, that she could not stop the constant flow of tears.

  Once the nobles were ready, the bodies of King and Queen, together on one elegantly adorned wagon, followed by the two Princes, each on their own wagon, were led out by Hypok, the priest of Royal City. He wore resplendent robes and in one hand carried the King’s own lance, with the Royal Banner. In his other hand swung a small, brass bowl, hung on a crimson rope, that was filled with embers and billowing a fragrant smoke. Then came the nobles, riding on horses as if on parade. Sarahain’s stomach twisted as she remembered the way Derrick smiled and waved to the pe
ople. She came in the Royal carriage, at the rear of the procession, all alone. Although she had wanted Evain, her closest friend and servant, to ride with her, the Priest had forbidden it. He seemed to think he was her master now and was quite taken with the task of making sure that she followed his lead. He claimed that her father had asked him to become her patron if anything befell the Royal family. Sarahain would never believe that. She could remember hearing her father and mother talking of the priest, their regret at how obviously power hungry the man had become and the way he lorded over his congregants. He used their fear of the unknown to line his coffers, the weekly worship turning from instruction to thunderous sermons on his own place of favor with the One God. She had even heard her mother talk of replacing the priest, but her father would not. He had said that it was not proper for the King to replace clergy, and that the One God would surely punish this one for his evil ways.

  She wept as she thought of how different things might have been if her father had taken her mother’s advice. She had no proof, but deep in her heart she knew that the priest was in league with Derrick of Westfold. After the funeral procession had arrived at the church, which was a colossal stone building within the walls of Royal City, built mostly by her father’s contributions, the priest gave the most unusual sermon Sarahain had ever heard. He rambled on about the Royal family, giving strange advice for ruling, implying, as he did, that her Father had not governed well. Then he talked of the benevolence of the nobles, especially Derrick of Westfold, who, according to the priest, was the hope of Royal City and Belanda. And finally, to top off the ridiculous sham of a funeral, he announced that he had wholeheartedly confirmed the agreement that her father had made to give Derrick her hand in marriage. She was utterly furious when she heard it. Only her grief and respect for the bodies of her family kept her from leaping to her feet to call him a liar before the whole city. And now she had no support for her claims that her father had not made the agreement. In fact, several of the nobles, those obviously supporting Derrick, had claimed to have heard the King speak of it.

  And so she swung like the pendulum of a clock, first to grief over the loss of her family, then to anger and hatred of Derrick and his priest, and then back to grief again. She had no options; she would never marry Derrick, and she could not leave and disgrace her family. She had considered throwing herself out of the window, ending her life and implicating that Derrick was not what he claimed, but it would do no good. The people would follow Derrick. They knew the King’s death was wrong, that something was happening within their land, but without someone to speak for them, to lead them in the pursuit of justice, they would not stand against the established nobility. Sarahain sighed as hot tears once again ran down her checks.

  There was a quiet knock on the door. Sarahain turned as Evain entered. The Princess’s maidservant looked grieved. She had been ill treated by the priest and had actually been relieved of her duties, although no one had enforced it. Evain approached and held out an unadorned envelope.

  “I am sorry to disturb you…”

  “No, I am glad to see you. How are you being treated?” Sarahain asked.

  “Everything is in disarray because no one knows what to do. I am not mistreated and seeing to your needs keeps me busy.”

  “You do not have to-”

  “No, please,” cried Evain. “It is good that I can serve you.”

  “We are friends,” smiled the Princess, “but I cannot ask you to follow me in the days ahead.”

  “I will not leave you. In fact, the man who gave me this message for you warned me to stay with you.”

  “Who was it? I do not recognize this seal.”

  “I do not know, highness. He wore a hooded robe and was stooped. His voice was raspy, and I think he was quite old. But I have never seen him before.”

  “Well, then, let us see what this message says.”

  Sarahain opened the letter and read the scrawling words.

  Princess, I am Vespin Tooles. I once counseled your father. I was present at your birth. There is hope for you and for Belanda. Seek out the Royal Chronicles, not the public ones, and keep them safe until I come for you. Read of your birth and you will know the hope I speak of. Trust Fairan to deliver. You must take charge of the royal household. Get all in order so that things may be easier in the days ahead. And require six months to grieve before you are wedded. You have friends, I am one.

  Sarahain turned to Evain, who had been reading over her shoulder. They both looked astounded and hopeful at the same time. It was the first moment since the attack that killed her family that she felt her grief might not last forever.

  “Come,” said Sarahain. “We must get the Royal Chronicles and move them here. You shall also get your things and move into my quarters with me. We have hope, and I will not let it slip away.”

  “Aye, my Lady.”

  ***

  The library where King Belhain had kept the Royal Chronicles was dark and dusty. It had never been a place that Sarahain had loved. Now she looked at the dark volumes, at the wisdom kept there, and wondered how she would find hope among the many pages.

  “Do you know what the Chronicles look like?” Evain asked.

  “Well,” Sarahain thought for a moment. She had seen the Royal scribe writing in them often enough. She knew that every decision the Council of Nobles made was kept there, as well as the decisions her father made in court. Also, the history of Belanda was written in the Chronicles, and her father had often recorded the events of his rule that happened outside of Royal City in his own hand. “I believe they are dark brown or black, leather bound volumes. They have the royal seal on them, and they have numbers or dates or something on the cover.”

  They looked around the room, surveying the many books, until at last Evain asked, “Is this it?”

  There were several large, black books in a row, with nothing on the binding. Sarahain shrugged her shoulders and pulled one off the shelf. The cover had the royal seal embossed on it and inlaid with silver. The date was 38 to 14 years ago.

  “This is it,” Sarahain said excitedly.

  “Open it, let’s read it.”

  “No,” Sarahain’s voice was cautious. “We need to get all these volumes back to my quarters. The Priest has no reason to go there.”

  “Do you think they would take them from us?” Evain said nervously.

  “I do not know. But the letter said to keep them safe. And at this point, we have no other options.”

  Several minutes later, the girls had carried all the books back to Sarahain’s rooms. She had only two rooms, with an ornately carved door between them. The first room was small, with only two chairs, covered with soft furs and pillows, which sat facing a small fireplace. The servants kept the fire burning all through the winter, and on chilly nights during spring and autumn. The other room was much bigger; it held a large bed with a canopy and heavy curtains. Also there were several chairs, some by another, larger fireplace. There was a loom and a bookcase of her own, with several books, and some decorations she had picked up in various locals. There were also two large wardrobes, and a large mirror stood before a curtained area where Sarahain dressed and bathed. There were candles everywhere, so that on any given night, her room glimmered with a soft, magical light that felt like a dream. It was into this room that the girls brought their books. And after piling them on the bed, they carried the volume that was dated around Sarahain’s birth to the window.

  They sat in wooden chairs, pulled together, and opened the dusty work. The leather was stiff and the pages were thick. They handled the book carefully, turning pages slowly and reading the dates that were the only headings. On the date of Sarahain’s birth they read:

  The Royal Birth, Graeson Tower, 124 years after the death of ST. Onnasus

  Entry: Vespin Tooles, Chief Councilor,

  By order of Belhain, High King of Belanda, Realm of the West, I am recording this entry in the Royal Chronicles. All copies of this chronicle’s date shal
l read: Queen Mirahain, after a blessed labor, has give birth to a princess. Both Queen and Princess are in good health and spirits, and the Princess shall be christened, Sarahain, at the appropriate ceremony in Royal City.

  All copies shall omit the following: Queen Mirahain’s pregnancy was cut short due to twins, the first of which was a Third Prince. High King Belhain’s instructions are that the Third Prince shall be christened Elkain. The baby bears a mark on his left breast and, by royal command, shall be taken to the Monastery at Aquista, where he shall live his days in peace and reflection of the One God. No mention of his birth shall be made; no copies of this entry into the Chronicles of Belanda shall be made.

  Sarahain and Evain looked at each other in bewilderment.

  When Sarahain spoke, she could not contain the shock and amazement in her voice. “I have a twin brother?”

  Chapter 5

  The first sensation was pain. Kain felt a throbbing pain in his back, like someone was hammering him with an invisible mallet. The pain echoed up through his butt and resonated through his bowels and spine, cramping the muscles in his back and shoulders. His legs were numb and his arms and hands as well. And then the pain in his jaw rolled into his consciousness like the tide of a violent sea. He could feel the swelling in his neck and up along his ear. He was sure the whole side of us head was swollen and bruised. His left eye was sluggish and probably blackened.

  He remembered, with a spasm of fear that shot through his pain filled body, the fight, the killing, the smoke. He wasn’t sure what had happened to him, but he was sure it wasn’t good. It was still dark out. The silhouettes of his enemies were outlined in front of him. He tried to raise his hands to inspect his face, but there was more pain that indicated his hands were tied. He felt a moan rasp through his throat, which was very sore. Then a hand smashed into his head, and he went back into the blackness.