Blue Diamonds (Book One of The Blue Diamonds Saga)

by Murphy, R. E.

  Shomnor was lost in madness, and banished Shomnath from the city for a month, forbidding him from even attending his mother’s funeral. “Shame births blame,” his mother used to say, and true to fashion Shomnor would forever blame Shomnath for his wife’s death.

  Shomnath took to the forest, scared, angry, and alone. He could have traversed the surrounding villages, demanding shelter from his small folk, after all he was the prince, but at the time he was too young to understand that power, and commanding was never a natural behavior for him. To add to difficulties, the month that he was locked out of the castle was the first time that he’d ever been without the help of servants. It was terrible, but only at first, because it was during this time that he met Pall and Kala.

  “I asked about my friends,” said Shomnath.

  “Well, he doesn’t seem very happy to see us, does he Alexander? You'd think he would be grateful, considering the trouble he was in when I arrived,” said his father.

  “No, he doesn’t seem very happy at all your highness,” replied the Archbishop.

  “Maybe he’d be happier if the battle was lost? Maybe if I’d left him to die in the forest?”

  "It would have been a tragedy, your highness."

  “I don’t believe you," said Shomnath. "You’re lying.”

  “Oh no?" laughed his father. "Look around boy. You’re back in your bed. How do you suppose that you got here?”

  Shomnath scooted to the top of his bed, until his back was propped against his headboard. He couldn’t explain how he’d ended up back in the castle, but it was equally difficult to accept what his father was saying. He was wearing his politician grin. The citizens might be fooled in believing in his sincerity, but Shomnath knew better.

  “Where are my friends?” he asked again, although this time with more force, and his father's smile faded.

  “They’re alive," he said. "Aren’t they Alexander?”

  “Yes my lord.”

  “And it's quite remarkable how quickly the elf and the dwarf healed. If they were human,” pondered the king.

  “I’m sure the outcome would have been quite different your highness," answered Alexander.

  The only thing worse than being spoken about in the third person, was being patronized in the third person. Although it was nice to know that his friends were still alive. Still, Shomnath knew that his father was hiding something.

  “What about Rolo?” said Shomnath.

  “Ah yes. Your… brute. He was in worse shape than the others,” his father said, and nearly sincerely.

  “And?” Shomnath was finally losing his patience.

  “And… he will survive. Although…” Shomnor looked up into space, as though having difficulty with his memory. “Let’s just say he hasn’t come around yet. I afforded him one of my healers to monitor his condition.”

  “Afforded,” repeated Shomnath. He felt flushed with anger, hardly able to believe that he shared blood with this man. Shomnath wasn’t overly worried about Baymar. After all that he’d seen from the older man in their short time together, he assumed the crafty wizard found his way well out of harm’s reach.

  The aching in Shomnath's skull was beginning to lessen now, and he was tired of sitting prisoner to his bed. If nothing else, if he could get to his feet then he could at least turn away from his father. Shomnath slid his legs off the side of his mattress then, and strained to sit upright on his own. His head swooned, and although the tips of his toes were grazing the floor, the floor surface seemed so far from him. Then, like a boat from dock, he gently shoved off from the bed.

  Once his feet were firmly planted onto the cold, stone floor, he noticed a slight rumbling. Then, as his senses began to clear, he realized that the whole castle was gently vibrating. Images of a giant, angry earth elemental put him on the defense, but his father chuckled.

  “Do you hear them?” said his father.

  Shomnath heard him, but didn’t understand.

  “They cheer for you,” his father said, and the king's voice echoed through the chamber, as well as Shomnath's mind.

  Blank faced, Shomnath shifted all his weight onto his legs, leaving his bed and launching into his first few wobbly steps towards his window.

  “They cheer for the king,” his father said.

  One. Two. After three cautious steps Shomnath was at the window, gripping fistfuls of curtain. He whipped the drapes apart in one jerk, and the iron rings slid down the curtain rod fluidly as rays of sunlight fell into the room. The rings slithering down the curtain rod sang like the sheathing of a giant sword. It may as well have been a sword aimed for the prince's gut, for his stomach twisted into a tight knot from the sight that waited behind the curtain.

  Several stories below, and extending out into the extremities of the city, were an ocean of Somerlund’s citizens engaged in deep festivity. The sun forced Shomnath to cup a hand above his eyes in order to focus, just in time to see the ripple effect opening his window had caused. Whispers started like a rogue wind, billowing through the crowd and displayed by waves of nodding heads and pointing fingers.

  “It’s him,” whispered the wind.

  In no time at all, thousands of faces gazed up at the south tower's window. Every citizen of Somerlund knew that it was the window to Shomnath’s room, and the pattern of look, point, and whisper, repeated over and over, until the entire crowd seemed to be looking up at him.

  For a brief moment the whispers faded into silence, and then the castle was rocked by cheer.

  “All hail the king!" they cheered madly. "All hail King Shomnath!”

  Shomnath staggered back a step from the window, shocked by the crowd. They were cheering for him. Why were they calling him the king? Women, children, even elderly folks strutting canes, everyone filled the streets of Somerlund locked in a frenzy of celebration.

  Shomnath snatched the curtain and whipped them closed. His hands were shaking. He stood there and absorbed the applause for a few moments, incase he might have been mistaken about the whole ordeal, before turning to face his father. He wasn’t mistaken about the people’s words, which were still going on outside, and his father's smile was deep and true. Alexander had cowered to the entrance of the room, suddenly eager to leave, and for the first time Shomnath noticed that Londo had been standing in the doorway.

  “The victory has forged your destiny,” said his father.

  “What do you mean?” said Shomnath.

  “They cheer for Shomnath," he answered. "The mighty dragon slayer.”

  “No.”

  “They cheer for the new king.”

  “No.”

  “They cheer for Somerlund!”

  “But I didn’t slay the dragon!” Shomnath said. Shomnath stumbled back to his bed, but the solace of the mattress was no longer there. He tried standing again, but gave up the effort and exhaled a long, tired breath.

  “It’s already written, King Shomnath, that you did just that,” said his father, and then Shomnor turned for the door, walking tall in triumph. The bishop was already gone.

  “I won’t let you shape history with lies!” called Shomnath.

  This made the king pause for a moment.

  “If you want to change history, go right ahead and do so. It is a king's right after all,” he laughed.

  Once his father disappeared into the hallway, Londo stepped into his room and shut the door.

  Shomnath’s world was lost to him. He felt utterly broken, and for a moment he thought he knew how Horace felt when Baylor shattered the Archmage's frozen body. He felt frozen now. Frozen in time. He looked around his room for comfort, but his eyes kept ending on his new security guard, Londo.

  He wanted to lash out at his father’s crony at first, but Londo’s eyes told a story of pity that he didn’t expect, an understanding developed from taking the king’s boot for so long.

  “Is it necessary for you to stay in my room?” Shomnath said.

  “Don’t make this hard, my prince. You know that I'm foll
owing your father's orders. He's instructed me to shadow you, and so I must, regardless of what room you’re in.”

  Shomnath knew the inevitable answer, but thought he might at least try to play nice. Unfortunately for Londo, it was common knowledge among the castle’s servants that the stoic soldier had one blazing weakness, the kind that came in a bottle, and no one in the castle knew more secrets than Shomnath.

  “Alright, I won’t give you a hard time. But... since you’re here, can you help me out with something?”

  “Help?” said Londo. “Help with what?”

  “For starters, you can fill me in on everything I’ve missed so far, starting with my friends.”

  Londo loosened slightly, but stood resolute. Scenarios ran through his mind as he contemplated what information the king wouldn't want shared with his son.

  “I promise, I won’t give you any problems,” Shomnath added, and this time the prince flashed him an innocent smile.

  “That isn't everything," said Londo. "You're tricking me. What else do you want?”

  Shomnath smiled and tilted his head to the side, mimicking a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar.

  “You’re to fast for me Londo," laughed Shomnath, and he slapped his leg. "You’re right. There is something else I want.”

  “And that is, my prince?” Londo said cautiously.

  “Well, I’m happy to hear my friends are okay, and now I’m in the mood to celebrate!”

  Celebrate? Londo said, and Shomnath noticed Londo's left hand shake.

  “You're too weak to leave your room, my prince.” Londo's halfhearted excuse told Shomnath everything he needed to know.

  “Oh, I don’t want to leave this room," laughed Shomnath. "We have everything we need here, in my armoire.”

  Londo was already focused on the far corner of the room, where the large, dark armoire seemed to be looking back at him. He didn’t realize that the prince slipped the word “we” into the situation.

  “In the armoire?” Londo whispered.

  “I have a stash of cherry cactus stash in there," smiled Shomnath.

  “Ch-cherry cactus?” Londo began to shuffle ever so slightly from side to side.

  "I've never even seen the stuff before," exclaimed the soldier.

  The famed wine was brewed from fermented giant cactus blossoms, which only seasoned once every quarter century. There was no question as to why it was the most highly prized, as well as priced wine around.

  "For the price, I wouldn't expect you have. Also, I bought the last three bottles in the city four years ago," lied Shomnath

  Londo salivated through every word. “You have three bottles?”

  “That's right," said Shomnath. "And since everyone outside is making merry, there's no reason why we shouldn’t enjoy ourselves in here, right?”

  “Well,” Londo was daydreaming, riding the waves of a cherry cactus river. “I can’t see how it would hurt anything.”

  “Great! It’s the red bottles on the top shelf. Grab two, along with two of the glasses,” Shomnath said.

  “Two glasses?” Londo said innocently, although it wasn't in objection.

  "Well I can’t drink alone," chuckled Shomnath. "And it’s cherry cactus wine! Don't you want some?" Shomnath could have been cursing out Londo’s mother, for at this point it didn’t matter. Londo had his eyes on the bottles, and was in for the ride.

  “That’s true,” was all the fight that Londo offered, as the soldier smiled and continued to retrieve the wine.

  As Londo fetched the drinks, Shomnath reached over and slid open the lone drawer to his nightstand. From the drawer he pulled out a small, lime-green leaf and popped it into his mouth.

  “Magnificent!” Londo gasped from the armoire, and then he swiftly plucked two crystal glasses that hung from cup holders built inside the cabinet doors, and swiped two of the three, blood-red wine bottles staring from the top shelf. He tried to keep a stern face as he turned back to Shomnath, but the look did not match well with the way he lovingly hugged the bottles against his chest. The prince was still sitting in the center of his bed, waiting patiently.

  “Can we hurry? I want to hear all the details,” chimed Shomnath.

  Even if Londo knew that Shomnath was chewing on a Babo leaf, a plant that disables the effects of alcohol, it might not have mattered. When the soldier tasted wine all was right in the world, and Shomnath happened to have the best wine there was.

  First, Shomnath intended to get Londo drunk enough to tell him everything he knew. Then he would get him drunk enough to sleep.

  "The castle has many powerful secrets," his father used to say. It was a lesson about the power of listening. The secret about Londo’s addiction to wine was one that should have been better kept, Shomnath thought, as he smiled and poured wine.

  Two hours.

  In the span of just two hours, Shomnath knew more than he ever wanted to know about Londo, as well as a few things he was already trying to forget. Like Londo’s tearful testimony about the constant degradation from the king, day after day, which apparently was eating holes into his self-esteem and driving him to suicidal thoughts. During one part of Londo’s sob story the prince actually felt worried for his father. If anyone was going to assassinate him, it was definitely going to be this guy.

  Shomnath didn't want his father to die, or at least not yet. He wanted the bastard to live to a ripe old age, with his royal ass attached to the throne the entire time. Shomnath wanted to finish up with Londo quickly. He knew that while they were drinking away his father was out campaigning Shomnath’s reign. Londo informed him that he was to receive his title and crown at the next fat moon festival, as was customary.

  Judging by the sound of the cheers, the citizens were all for it. Streaks of orange light slipped through the curtains over Shomnath’s bed, and his heart skipped when he realized that dawn was already near. The next fat moon was only days away, but he knew that the minute he's officially king his father would have the royal guard transferred to him. Once that happened he wouldn’t be afforded the privacy to wipe his ass, let alone a chance to escape.

  “What a waste of fabulous wine,” said Shomnath, as he spit out the stringy remains of the Babo leaf. "But totally worth it," he smiled, and pulled on a fresh shirt.

  Shomnath had to dig deep within his wardrobe to find something that didn’t scream royalty. He looked himself up and down in the large vanity above his dresser and inspected the white, hooded shirt that he found. If someone got close enough they might notice the intricate stitch and fine silk material, but he had no other choice. It was the closest thing to commoner clothing he had. He kept his adventure wear hidden in the royal stables.

  Londo was bound and tucked under Shomnath’s sheets, although he wasn't going to put up a struggle any time soon, as he guzzled down an amazing amount of wine. The prince only drank one glass from the first two bottles, and quite regrettably still had to open the third just to put the lush down.

  Sure enough, Londo collapsed halfway through the last bottle. One moment he was sitting across from the prince crying his heart out, the next slumped forward, with his face planted to the floor. Yet like a true alcoholic he managed to prop his wineglass upright as he went down, and he didn’t spill a single drop.

  “Sorry Londo, but it's time for me leave,” Shomnath said, and then he snatched a pillow and took the cover from it.

  He threw in a few sets of clothes, a picture of his mother, and his gauntlet, which he was surprised to find returned to his dresser. Then he lugged the bag to his desk and shoveled in all his royal jewelry, as well as anything else that looked as though it would sell for a bit of gold. He wasn’t planning on coming back for a long time.

  Satisfied, he took one last scan of his room. Good-bye again, sweet comfort, he thought, before swinging the sack over his shoulder and calmly walking from the room. Once he was free, he wasn't surprised to find the halls of the castle were empty, for his father was throwing a festival of the grandest s
cale. The toast wasn't only honoring Somerlund’s victory, but later in the night Somerlund’s new Archmage was going to be sworn in.

  “Fenwick,” he whispered. “Who in the blazes is Fenwick?” The mysterious name echoed down the stone hall, in rhythm with the clicking of his boots.

  He could hardly believe it when Londo told him that Somerlund’s new Archmage was a complete unknown. Londo also explained how Baymar was found keeping him, as well as his friends alive, which made the decision to choose this Fenwick character for Archmage all the more absurd. Even though his memory of what occurred at the end of the battle remained fuzzy, his gut told him that Baymar had something to do with their victory, if not everything.

  Londo said that he couldn't hear the words that were shared between his father and the wizard, but he did say that whatever was said between them put the king in a sour mood. He said that following their private talk King Shomnor hadn't spoken more than a few words to anyone.

  “Fenwick,” repeated Shomnath curiously, and he strained to place a face to the name, but the name. He only conjured visions of a scrawny servant he’d seen mopping floors. That can’t be right, he thought, and he shook the image from his head. He supposed that there must be another Fenwick within the guild.

  As Shomnath made his way down the tower stairwell, he decided to stop on the third floor. Once there he cracked the door open, but only wide enough to see down the long corridor. He was delighted to see that the third floor hall was also empty. This level belonged to the Mages Guild, and if Londo was right about a certain ring that was found, then he had some business to do before leaving.

  Shomnath limped down the long corridor, and was glad to find that with every step he was feeling better. On this floor the walls were decorated life-sized portraits, each with the bust of one of Somerlund's more famous disciples of the dark arts. Some of them posed with exotic creatures, some with ghosts, and a few were even covered in flames. None of the grand wizards had the same dress, but they all shared one thing in common, they all looked very tired around the eyes.