Travel over the border into Nearhon had its complications. Southern Nearhon had been known as the ‘Bandit Country’ for fifteen years since the Battle of Beldon Valley. In the beginning, the bandits were desperate men, Nearhon survivors from the Battle of Beldon Valley who were too afraid to return home. It was often said that where King Klonag and his archmage, Magnar, were concerned, there really were fates worse than death. Desertion was tantamount to treason by Klonag’s reckoning. In time, some had become used to and even preferred the bandit lifestyle. Prince Karl took advice from experts experienced at guarding trade caravans and individuals wealthy enough to afford their services. He sent forty heavily armed men with his daughter behind the Plain Lake City banner. It had proven an adequate deterrent.
Like the rest of the welcoming party, Cory was in dress uniform and polished boots befitting the state occasion. He stood in the cobbled palace courtyard that was open to the city roads. His brothers were either side of him and his father, King Ceoric, stood in the background. This was Cory’s diplomatic mission and it had taken Garon some time to convince his son, the king, of its merits. ‘To promote understanding and greater familiarity between nations,’ he had said.
Naturally, Garon was there, and his old friend Ranold, the archpriest, stood with him to represent the church. Cory saw the archpriest turn to his grandfather and mutter something. He couldn’t hear what it was, but his grandfather smiled and winked. It was a lot of ceremonial splendor, but nothing Cory hadn’t learned to handle by his twenty years of age. ‘I hope this doesn’t turn out to be too much of a chore,’ Cory whispered to his brothers. ‘Maybe I can teach this girl to ride or something.’
‘I don’t envy you,’ replied Sebastian. ‘You set yourself up for this one — too late to back out now.’
A brown carriage drew up, pulled by four sleek horses; a fifth horse followed, tethered behind the carriage. Descending from beside the driver, a footman opened the door. After a slightly longer pause than was expected, hands appeared, holding the doorframe. Then a wide-brimmed leather hat emerged, followed by a booted leg wearing loose-fitting leather trousers and then a matching brown jacket. Prince Karl’s daughter stood barely two inches shorter than Cory. Her face was still hidden under the hat. She took the hat off and looked at him nervously with big, blue eyes. Straight, dark blonde hair unfurled to her shoulders. Cory’s expectations of a fourteen-year-old girl evaporated, along with all his intelligent thoughts. It was as if a trapdoor in the bottom of his mind had dropped open and everything within fell through it. Any plan for what he might say or do vanished faster than a battle plan after the first contact with the enemy. Cory flushed and beamed a smile. She appeared to relax a little and smiled a broad and slightly relieved smile.
‘Hello, I am Julia Ferand.’
She had a deeper, huskier voice than he had expected. She also had a noticeable accent that put a strength and rolling characteristic to the ‘r’ in her name. She held out her hand to shake his. Despite her less-than-ladylike attire (by Valendo standards, at least), Cory’s mind only seemed to have a storybook prince and princess world left in it. He took her hand, kissed the back of it and put it on his arm, as if he were escorting her into a ballroom. She assumed this was normal custom and, faced with an entire royal household, took comfort in having someone to hold onto. Cory somehow found the presence of mind to start introducing her to everyone.
Prince Sebastian turned and murmured to his older brother, ‘I take it all back.’
‘Yes, quite,’ Prince Pragius replied.
Cory introduced Julia to his grandfather and the archpriest. Still nervous, she would glance back to Cory with a smile and relax a little before greeting the next person. Cory never saw or heard it, but his grandfather turned to Ranold and said, ‘My ship is built.’ It was an old Artifex family saying originating from the times a newly constructed ship would be handed over to her new captain to sail away to whatever fate lay in store.
‘That has the potential to become “complicated”, as you would say,’ replied Ranold.
Garon just chuckled.
Cory escorted Julia to a suite of guest rooms in the palace where she would stay with her assistant while final preparations for long-term accommodation were made. A welcome dinner with the whole family was planned for that evening. ‘I’ll come back later and escort you to dinner, just until you find your way around,’ Cory said from the doorway.
Julia suddenly looked worried. ‘Wait — err — you must help me to pick the right dress. What do ladies wear to dinner here?’
He wished she had just asked him what kind of weapon she should select to defend herself against bandits. A light short-sword perhaps. Better yet, ask him to fight the bandits for her. ‘I’m not really an expert on these things,’ said Cory, already walking into the room.
Minutes passed as the two women hurriedly unpacked trunks. They laid out several dresses; all quite different. A shoulderless sky blue dress caught his eye. He thought he’d love to see her in that, but at the same time it felt wrong. Dinner dresses tended to be more conservative in cut, covering most of the shoulders and chest.
‘Oh, the green one over there,’ Cory said, pointing. ‘That’s the kind of dress ladies wear to formal dinners here.’
She looked relieved and flashed him a smile. ‘You are an expert, after all.’
He smiled back. ‘I’d best leave you to get ready.’ As the door closed behind him, he slowly blew out a long breath and went straight to his grandfather’s rooms. ‘I can’t do this!’ he blurted out.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Garon, a half-smile hiding beneath his beard.
‘I feel awkward around her. I can’t keep this stupid grin off my face. I must look ridiculous.’
‘Would it be easier if she was the child you were expecting, or a bent-up old crone with cracked teeth?’
Julia’s teeth made the perfect smile. Well, maybe her mouth was just a tiny bit larger than average, but somehow even that was endearing. Cory shook his head vigorously to clear his thoughts. ‘You’ve got to help me!’
‘Ah, my dear boy. This is something you’re going to have to figure out for yourself.’ Garon couldn’t keep the mischievous grin off his face, but Cory wasn’t looking to see it. ‘So far you have behaved like a gentleman — the perfect gentleman, even. You introduced her to everyone, made sure she knew where to go and told her when dinner was going to be…’
‘And helped her to choose a dinner dress,’ Cory added.
Garon’s eyes widened. ‘You see, you’re already better at this diplomat lark than I was at twice your age.’
Cory sighed. ‘I’d better get ready myself.’ He left, not feeling entirely convinced.
Entering the dining hall on Cory’s arm, Julia relaxed as she quickly scanned the room for what the other women were wearing: dresses in a variety of colours, but all very similar in cut and design to hers. They took their places with the rest of the family, who quickly engaged the newcomer in conversation. Cory was content and quiet as he listened to Julia, who was far more ladylike now she was out of her travelling clothes.
Sebastian, who was in the mood for a little mischief, decided to bring up the subject of horse-riding.
‘Cory was saying he might teach you to ride while you’re here.’ Sebastian had already seen her horse stabled — a lean brown mare with plenty of energy.
‘Ha, well, we Plainlanders are born to the saddle, as we say. I have my own horse with me.’
‘Maybe Cory can take you for a ride down the valley,’ Garon suggested. ‘The waterfalls flow this time of year. It is breathtaking to see.’
She looked to Cory with a warm smile. ‘I would like that.’
Cory looked at his grandfather for a reaction, but he had quickly moved on to a conversation with his father. After dinner, he escorted Julia back to her rooms and the care of her assistant. ‘Thank you for today, Cory. You have been a real, um, we say horruslios.’
; Cory smiled, wished her goodnight and left pondering exactly what ‘horruslios’ meant. Some kind of man, he supposed.
The following day, Cory showed her around Tranmure, introducing the major features, mostly with single sentences. She seemed content and in some moments took his arm as before. They spent quite some time in silence as they looked around and in the orchestra house. That was the night the old general, Cory’s grandfather, passed away in his sleep. The following week had been so full of official duties preparing for the funeral that he had only seen Julia long enough for her to express sympathy. She left to take up residence in the lodge at the edge of the palace grounds.
***
In the briefing room, Cory cleared his mind with a single thought, grief’s wounds now forgotten. Time I called on Julia and arrange that horse ride, he thought. The brightest path in that grey mist of his future was now lit by the image of one person. He dropped the wooden pieces representing army units onto the briefing room table, retrieved the horse from the stable and rode slowly down the cobbled road, heading away from the castle. He tried to figure out what he was going to say to Julia, keeping the pace sedate as the woods swallowed him. The woods were quiet, as if the trees and birds held their collective breath, waiting for something. The horse and the waterfall ahead were the only sounds. The waterfall’s sound grew into the familiar roar he passed by most days of the week. It was one of those journeys in which he could lose himself in thought and arrive at his destination with no memory of how he got there.
Nearing the pool, something out of place snagged at his attention like a piece of clothing suddenly caught on a thorny branch. He heard an unfamiliar voice speak, but the sounds were not words he recognised — in fact, they weren’t words at all. They were sounds that had an odd slippery, silvery quality; they wormed their way through his ears and burrowed into his mind. His mind reeled, rejected, turned over and then accepted. It could do nothing else.
His vision blurred and cleared. He felt odd; he didn’t feel right in his own skin or in his own mind, somehow. The feelings passed as fast as they came and he thought it would be a good idea to take a look at the pool. There it was, that something out of place — a rowing boat had been dragged up onto the muddy bank. Footprints were still there in the mud, but he only concentrated on the boat itself. What was in it? Oars and a brown leather bag with a shoulder strap. He thought he better take a look inside the bag.
Dismounting from his horse, he walked over to the boat, feet dragging in the sticky grey mud. Unbuckling the bag, he pulled out a heavy book covered in pale, slick leather and turned it over to see the front cover. A skeletal hand sealed beneath the book’s covering startled him — his fingers sprang open and his hands shoved the book away. The sickly tome thumped onto the boat seat.
The first instinct of repulsion turned over in his mind, replaced by how intriguing the book was. He picked it up again and the simple thoughts continued to come.
Pragius likes interesting books… I should take this book to him and see what he makes of it. That thought made Cory happy, and he pushed aside thoughts of who the book belonged to or whether it was right to take it. Placing the book back in the leather bag, he swung the strap across his body, mounted his horse and headed home.
He passed the lake and the glowing embers of his grandfather’s funeral pyre in the churchyard. One of the young priests was busy collecting some of the ash in an urn, but Cory passed him without so much as a glance.
On the streets of Tranmure, a few people called out to express their sympathy at the passing of his grandfather. The thought of stopping to talk to them brought on a sudden headache. There was only this featureless tunnel through the grey mist of the future to travel down. He rode on towards the palace.
He left his horse at the stables, walked through the main entrance and found the cupboard in the palace keeper’s office. There he found a bunch of keys, took them and left for Pragius’ private office.
A thought entered Cory’s mind that wasn’t his own: It is taking longer than I thought to get there.
He unlocked the door to the office. Once inside, he unshouldered the bag and paused for thought. That thought was to take the book out of the bag and leave it on the desk. Pragius might not see it otherwise.
Satisfied, he left, locked the office, returned the keys and went to his own private room. There he undressed, put on his nightshirt, got into bed and was asleep in a matter of heartbeats.
Did he dream Archpriest Ranold standing over him? ‘Better let him sleep, see how he is in the morning.’
Julia dined with the family that evening to celebrate the life of Garon Allus Artifex-Dendra. The chair at the table beside her was empty and the place setting unused.
***
It was a cold throne room. So cold, breath came out as white fog. Blue, red-rimmed eyes stared into a coal fire that fought valiantly to push back the frigid air. Footsteps squelched their way into the room. The sound stopped. Beneath the damp hem of a long purple robe, the shoes that made the sounds were slick with grey mud.
‘All is well, Your Majesty. I attended to the delivery… personally. As always, the young prince returned home via the waterfall. Controlling him was a simple work of magic.’
‘This plan of yours will work, won’t it, Magnar?’ King Klonag did not look up from the fire as he spoke.
‘Of course, my king. I have had many years to plan.’
Magnar bared his teeth in a grin.
Chapter 2
The Meeting of Minds
The Battle of Haliford 1821 — ‘The Battle That Was.’
People's and Kingdom Army of Valendo, led by Mercenary General Garon Allus Artifex-Dendra.
Deaths: Approximately 1200.
Kingdom Army of Nearhon, led by King Kaligan Ferand the Second.
Deaths: Approximately 2500.
— Excerpt from the War Histories of Valendo
Prince Pragius, eldest son of King Ceoric of Valendo, now in his twenty-eighth year, contemplated the role he now played as he pulled on shiny, calf-length black boots. He often contemplated what he was doing with his life on days like today. His had been a life largely insulated from the outside world — until his thirteenth year and the Battle of Beldon Valley. It had all changed then. Valendo was becoming an increasingly complex country to govern. The days when the king’s word was law were now a distant memory only for the older generation. Now there were three representatives elected by the people to deal with. People with needs, expectations, dreams and fears.
Despite loyalty for the monarchy in the capital city of Tranmure, there were calls for the northern region to have their own representative. Theoretically, the monarch had final authority. In practice, the culture of Valendo had changed and ‘the will of the people’ forever played off the leadership as Valendo stumbled forward into her future.
Pragius fastened the shining silver buttons on his blue velvet jacket, inspecting his shaving efforts in a polished mirror. Once the top button was fastened, he rubbed his hands over a now-sensitive face and looked into his green eyes in the mirror. He winked at himself and combed the fingers of both hands through rebellious brown hair before heading out of his bedroom door.
Pragius took a casual walk down the corridor; holding his hand out, he slapped palms with his brother passing the other way.
‘Hey, Seb.’
‘Hey, Prag! Don’t let the reps get you down,’ Sebastian replied.
At times, dealing with the representatives was like dealing with three young boys. His father’s words, not his. Pragius hadn’t got around to the ‘finding a wife’ bit of his responsibility as heir to the throne, so he had no children of his own. His father was speaking from experience. You couldn’t give one something and not the others. The tantrums of little boys could be dealt with by shutting them in their rooms until they calmed down. A representative and his electorate were so much more complicated to deal with. Pragius worked with his father much of the ti
me ‘in apprenticeship’ to become king. It was an accepted duty, a birthright, but deep down, in a place he no longer spoke about, being king was not really something he was interested in.
Fifteen years ago, while on a tour of the kingdom, he had travelled to Breen — or, as it was most often called, ‘Mage Island’. It was an independent island where, on rare occasions, some people discover their mind’s ability to sense and connect with magic. These people then stay to study and develop their magical ability in a controlled environment. A future king has other responsibilities, a duty to leave the island behind and go home. Pragius barely remembered Breen’s golden beaches, the palm trees lining the pathways or the whitewashed sandstone buildings sprawling across the grassy island. However, Pragius did remember observing the awakening ceremony in a dry sandstone cave lit only by a glowing white sphere suspended in the air. He remembered the scratching between his toes as he curled them into the sand while watching the barefoot candidates fidgeting nervously on the spot; the magical sphere’s light stretched their shadows long on the cave floor. He remembered the abrupt end to the old archmage’s chanting and the sudden, blindingly white light only he could see that sent pain lancing through his head so fierce he fell to the sandy floor, clutching his head. None of the other teenagers at the ceremony reacted. The surprise awakening of Pragius’ mind to magic could not be left behind. It could not be undone. It was there right now, all these years later, a part of him as surely as the head upon his shoulders. He wished he had refused the old archmage’s kind invitation and never gone into that cave on the island. He knew his hatred of that green-eyed old man with the flowing grey hair and beard was irrational. He wished his awareness had never been opened to what was there, glowing brightly at the edge of his mind. It was an opening to a place that seemed everywhere to Pragius but few could perceive, and it was where the power of magic lay. He had to ignore its presence now. At least this is how he dealt with it, ignoring it and focusing on what he was expected to do as the heir to the throne.
The General's Legacy_Part One_Inheritance Page 4