Kinghood

by Joshua Rutherford

  Gerry curled his fingers around the medallion and necklace as Symon turned his sights back to the Voiceless. “Are you ready for a good fight?” Symon asked them.

  Am I? Gerry asked himself. Symon’s gift had softened the rebuke he had given him, yet the words he had imparted still stung. Though Gerry knew his skin was thin when it came to affronts and insults, at times such as this there seemed little he could tell himself to curtail his reactions.

  Dawkin has his books, Gerry thought. He is the most learned among us. The prince who should have been a mage. He is not so much a man as he is a scholar. And Ely! That snake. I almost wish he did have a forked tongue, that others may know his powers of manipulation and deceit. Yet I must credit him, as he has a way with words. Especially when ladies are concerned. He can woo the most innocent and most unattainable amongst them. Not always, but a great deal of the time. Then there is Symon... Marland’s new savior. The best fighter of all of us. He can spar with the best of them two at a, no, three at a time. Give that man a sword, spear or axe and he will triumph. Truly, he is his father’s son.

  Dawkin the scholar. Ely the seducer. Symon the warrior.

  Where do I fit? What is my calling?

  His footsteps rang hollow as the sandstone corridor gave way to one of harder rock. He went onward, the hall constricting and winding, then curving up and spiraling as the flat surface rose in a series of steps. By the time he came to the wooden planks of the walkway, surrounded on both sides by gears and wheels, he had to stop to catch his breath.

  This is ridiculous, he scolded himself. Symon has just won a great battle. I cannot enter the castle some cowardly fool. Control your nerves, Gerry! Dear Mar, learn to be a man!

  Exhaling, he pushed open the door. The mechanisms all around him sputtered to life as the entryway parted, revealing the great study, and the sound of furious knocking at his bedroom door.

  So it begins, Gerry thought, sighing.

  He hurried to the door that separated the study from his sleeping quarters. Upon opening it, he discovered Wystan’s apprentice, Myko, tapping on the other side.

  “I thought I was nervous,” Gerry whispered to himself.

  “Your Highness?” Myko squeaked.

  “Not important,” Gerry replied. “What may I do you for, Apprentice Myko?”

  “I apologize for disturbing you, Highness. I realize you must have important affairs to attend to, as I’ve been knocking for some time.”

  “I was deep in thought, studying,” Gerry lied. “Ibia has a rich and varied history. Appreciating it takes a great deal of time and concentration, hence the reason for secluding myself here.”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “I have been clear that while I am in here I am not to be disturbed.”

  “You have, Your Highness. It’s just that...”

  “What? Speak up, Apprentice, speak up.”

  “Your father commanded my master to send for you, which prompted my Mage to send me, to retrieve you personally.”

  Gerry froze, the moment nearly overtaking him. “My father?”

  “He waits at the docks. The Ibian Armada, I mean, its flagship. It is here.”

  All thoughts rushed from his mind in the flurry of his movements. Gerry’s steps began as a quick gait, as he went from his room to the parapet and the bailey, with Myko in tow. They turned into a jog, then a run, as he came to the stables. Even when he mounted the fastest horse, a beast that often gave him pause and even frightened him now and then, his appreciation for time heightened.

  Racing through the streets of Arcporte provided some relief, as did the entourage of guards around him. Their speed softened his anxiety, albeit because in their presence it seemed shared. I am hurrying. My guards are too, Gerry knew. We will part the crowd at the docks and make a grand entrance. That will impress Father, perhaps make him forget that he was waiting.

  The audience amassed at the wharf stood shoulder to shoulder, halting their progress. Those mounted guards at the front of their retinue drew battle horns hanging from their waists and blew.

  “Make way for Prince Jameson!” demanded a guard.

  “Stand aside, Marlishmen!” shouted another.

  Gerry, though accustomed to attention, nonetheless rode a little taller in his saddle as they passed by throngs of onlookers. For this situation was different, with no pompous audience in the Throne Room, nor barons to feign respect for and entertain. Those who saw him now were commoners, of low birth or the merchant class, who witnessed royalty only sparingly. Even then, displays of Court were so often staged to impress, lacking authenticity or purpose.

  Today I have both, Gerry affirmed, his thoughts giving him confidence. I am Prince Jameson of Marland, riding through the royal capital of Arcporte to welcome the Ibian monarch to our shores. I have guards at my side, men sworn to protect me with their lives. My father will see me riding in, the masses parting, to stand by his side.

  The guards continued to usher the crowd aside as they led the prince from the cobblestones to the wooden planks. The dock, the longest in the city, stretched like a tongue into the harbor. On both sides, Ibian ships rested, having been secured to the iron cleats. Gerry noted that despite the ones he witnessed earlier, much of the fleet was comparable to the Marlish in hull and sail. Only a handful had been built to impress. Including the one at the end of the dock.

  There, Gerry spotted the familiar garb and grooming of the Court attendants. Though the dock was long and wide, simply not enough room existed for all of Marland’s elite, thus the audience of nobility stood at a fraction of its full strength. The entitled straddled the edges of berth, so as to allow the monarchs to leave side by side. Gerry, the opening clear before him, broke from his guards to ride ahead to his father.

  No one could mistake Audemar for anything less than a king. He stood a few inches over most of the Marlish, his stature made more impressive by his broad chest and massive shoulders. His auburn hair and whiskers were immaculately trimmed and groomed, their sheen apparent even in the low light of the clouded harbor. For garb, he had chosen his favorite hunting outfit, one with polished boots that stretched up to his calves, complimented by tan trousers and a forest-green doublet trimmed with gold thread. Unlike the barons in the crowd, who flaunted their wealth on their hands, Audemar wore no jewelry save one piece: his signet ring. Carved from a single piece of golden amber, it bore the family insignia and doubled as a seal.

  Finally, the crown upon his head. The circlet was a thick rim of gold fashioned so that each crest looked like a wave. Every swell atop the headband bore a four-sided precious stone, the gems alternating between sapphires, rubies, diamonds and emeralds. In the center of the crown, flanked by a wave curled inward on each side, stood the symbol of Kin Saliswater, one fashioned of gold with a blue pearl at its heart: a fourpointe compass.

  Audemar narrowed his eyes as Gerry approached on his horse. Gerry, noting that the mood of his father had soured, nonetheless put forth his best greeting.

  “May Mar bless this afternoon, Father.”

  Audemar nodded to the spot beside him, which the attendants were quick to clear. Gerry dismounted, straightened the creases of his clothes, and took his place.

  “Had I known it was your turn... never mind.”

  Gerry flinched.

  Before them, a flyboat sailed toward the dock, the Ibian flagship at its rear. Though smaller than the galleons, the flyboat still stood out as an impressive sight, as it was nearly as tall as the Marlish ships it passed.

  “Will it not dock?” Gerry asked.

  “Tis too massive,” Audemar replied, pointedly. “Only the fjords of the North are deep enough to accommodate such a vessel.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you?” Audemar prodded, shooting a glance at his son. “The harbor needs to be dredged, as we expect the Ibian Armada to port here for many years to come.”

  “Mage Wystan knows a colleague... what is his name? Evermore? Emor...”

  “Emery.
And he is no mage. He is merely a knight, of Har-Kin Furde, family of your own Right Captain. Though of no formal training, he has extensive knowledge of siegeworks, including dredging of swamps, rivers and harbors. You would do well to learn from a man like him.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  Audemar turned away. “Mage Wystan.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” From the crowd of attendants, the mage appeared.

  “Send word to Sir Emery of Creekbend Manor. We require his expertise within the week.”

  “As you say, it shall be done.”

  The Ibian flyboat swung around in an arch, nearing the dock. Audemar, seeing it approach, breathed deeply.

  “Stand straight, my son. King Felix is no mere commoner.”

  I know that, Father.

  Ibian sailors with ropes in hand stepped from the railings effortlessly, securing the royal flyboat to the dock. With similar ease, they positioned a connecting plank from the dock to the ship just as King Felix appeared on deck.

  Musicians stepped up to the ship railings, horns in hand, to play a brief interlude as King Felix descended the plank. Much like Audemar, his presence exuded a regal air, though in a much different way. A foot shorter than the Marlish sovereign, with a slender frame and low shoulders, Felix could never be mistaken for a warrior-king. His sense of power came not from his physique but from his face. His angular jaw and cheeks made for a man with a stark look always upon his face, whether deserved or not. Complimenting this stoic mask were his eyes, tiny hazel orbs that dazzled as they shifted even the slightest. His black hair managed to be both thin and wavy, right down to the curls of his moustache. Then there was his scar, subtle yet present, that stretched from his left sideburn down to his collar bone. Word had it that whenever questioned about its origin, the king would tell a varied tale, so that no one knew the true source of the fabled mark.

  The Ibian monarch stepped onto the dock at the very moment the crescendo reached its zenith. Felix, his gaze meeting Audemar’s, bowed. Audemar, his face remaining as stern as his guest’s, returned the gesture in kind. Gerry, acting in the role of the obedient son, dipped his head as well.

  The music continued as Felix extended his hand to the deck of the ship, where his wife, Queen Belitta, appeared. Though rumors of her radiating beauty had swirled through Court for years, at first glance, Gerry decided much of her elegance stemmed from artifice. Her face, not homely yet not deserving of a second glance, had layers of powder and paint. Their application hid some of her creases and wrinkles but not all, making those left behind stand out even more. Her hair bore much of the same problem, for although Queen Belitta had jet black hair, both thick and luxurious, strands of gray distracted Gerry from their composure. As did the bodice she wore, which was too tight, and her cleavage, which was supported a tad bit too high.

  Gerry glanced at his father, wondering if he thought the same. If he did, his face did not betray his sense of duty. Rarely anything ever made him.

  Audemar, upon seeing the foot of the queen step on the dock, bent at his waist in a deep bow. As he rose, Gerry mirrored him, along with every Marlish gentleman behind him, as was custom on the island. Queen Belitta, soaking up the attention of so many, put her fingertips to her lips and grinned.

  “My dear King Felix,” Audemar announced. “Welcome to Marland. It is a pleasure to see you again.”

  “My King and my Prince,” King Felix began, his voice rich and crisp, like one of a choirmaster. “You do me a great honor by your invitation. May I present my wife, Queen Belitta of Ibia.”

  “Your Majesty,” Audemar said, stepping forward to bow again.

  “King Audemar,” Queen Belitta replied, her voice plain, lacking the refinement of her husband’s. “Thank you for your gracious welcome.”

  “May I present my son, Prince Jameson of Marland,” Audemar said, motioning to Gerry.

  “King Felix. Queen Belitta.” Gerry bowed to them both.

  “A fine young man,” King Felix affirmed. Gerry, not able to help himself, grinned.

  “You are too kind,” Audemar replied.

  “As for my kin, I present my daughters.” King Felix offered his hand to the plank and ship deck behind him. However, he found no one to greet them.

  “They wanted to make themselves presentable to his Majesty and his Highness,” Belitta whispered to Felix.

  “They had an entire voyage to do that!” the king announced, a tad louder than necessary. Those among the Marlish Court chuckled and whispered until Audemar gave the lot of them an icy stare.

  “Coming, Father!”

  Gerry raised his gaze to the ship’s deck as an angel in a dress of cream-colored satin, rimmed in silver thread, hurried to the plank.

  “My dear, your manners!” Queen Belitta bleated. “Do not rush.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “My dearest King Audemar and Prince Jameson,” King Felix announced, a bit perturbed. “May I present my eldest daughter, Princess Taresa.”

  The monarchs exchanged further pleasantries. Gerry made out none of them. All his other senses halted save his sight, which remained transfixed on the princess.

  Despite her mother’s caution, Taresa made her way down the plank at a brisk pace. Curls of her thick dark brown hair bounced, trailing behind her exposed neck, which like the rest of her skin was as white as a spring dove. Her lips, soft and supple as the petals of a rose, parted slightly into a smile, revealing the pearls that were her teeth. Her eyes – hazel much like her father’s, yet brilliant in a way all their own – gazed upon his as she took her place beside her parents.

  “Your Majesty.” Princess Taresa bent her knees and curtsied toward Audemar. “Your Highness.” She shifted to Gerry, her stare never leaving him even as she bent.

  Gerry, hearing his father clear his throat, stepped forward. “My dearest Princess... it is a great honor to meet you.”

  “The honor is mine, truly,” she replied.

  “My other daughters,” King Felix interjected. “The princesses Ermesinda and Nataliya, my second and third born.”

  Out of obligation and respect, Gerry turned from Taresa to look up the plank, knowing that no other could match the woman he just met. He was not wrong. Ermesinda, though a fair maiden herself, lacked the natural radiance of her older sister. Like her mother, her face had been painted a tad more than necessary, even if she was less in need of it. Unlike her sister, her hair was braided and hung over her left shoulder to drape over her breast. She carefully made her way down the plank, stepping lightly to wedge herself between Taresa and her father.

  Nataliya, on the other hand, lacked the refinement of either sister. Gerry assumed she had not yet bled and was too young to be managed like a lady. Still, she wore a bodice similar to her mother’s, and a dress to match. To elevate her stature and make her look more feminine, Gerry noted that she wore heels a size too large. With every little sway of the boat against the dock she buckled.

  Standing beside her, his arm serving as a support, was a thin Ibian. He sported a trim moustache and had black hair much like the king, along with some of the angular features of his face. Yet in some manner Gerry was unable to pinpoint, he seemed as far from a royal as one could be.

  The thin Ibian took to the plank first, lifting his arm behind him as Nataliya gripped it like a railing.

  “And this young gentleman is my nephew, Xain, Grand Duke of Almata. He is the son of my brother, Sebastian, may he rest in peace.” Felix crossed his right fist over his heart, as did Audemar. Gerry followed suit a moment too late, adding a bow of his head to compensate. Taresa, seeing his mistake, grinned.

  “King Felix,” Audemar began. “You and your family must be weary from your voyage. We have carriages approaching to take you and your kin to the castle. There you may rest and refresh before tonight’s festivities.”

  “You are too kind,” Queen Belitta purred.

  “That you are,” King Felix added. He turned to his wife. “My dear, the king and I have dutie
s to discuss. I do not mean to be hasty, but I would like to start the conversation with him, if I may.”

  “Go on,” Belitta said. “Your daughters and I will make our own way.”

  “No Saliswater ever stood aside while a lady walked alone,” Audemar boasted. He shifted his sights to Gerry, motioning to Belitta and her eldest, Taresa. “Son.”

  Gerry’s heart fluttered as each woman fell to his side, with the queen on his left and the eldest princess to his right. Together, they strode down the dock as the two kings advanced ahead of them and the courts of both nations followed.

  Gerry remained careful to smile and nod to the queen every few steps, so as to not neglect her or come off as inconsiderate. However, his focus always returned to the beauty by his side. With each moment, the rest of the world became more insignificant. The figures before him melded into one another, save her. As all else blurred, she shined.

  Gerry - his anxiety gone, his concern for his fathers, or his brothers, vanished - smiled. A sense of calm and comfort permeated his mind.

  May this walk never end.

  Chapter 9

  “Gerry! Gerry!” Dawkin yelled.

  “Where is he going?” Symon asked.

  “Your hunch is as good as mine.”

  “The noise!” Ely threw open his door and leaned out into the hallway. “What ruckus!”

  “Throw some clothes on, you fool,” Symon insisted. “Our brother needs us.”

  The three followed in the footsteps of Gerry, who barked and screamed at what seemed nothing. He hurried on through the Siren’s Cavern, bellowing at the top of his lungs, toward the underground bailey.

  Upon arriving at the bailey, the brothers found Gerry drenched in sweat, battling one of the mannequin warriors with a javelin.

  “I – will – show – them!” Each word came with a thrust of the weapon into the mailed chest of figure. None pierced the mail, enraging Gerry all the more.

  “Damn it by Mar!” Gerry shouted following the tenth attempt. He threw his weapon aside. It clattered against the stone floor as he marched to the weapons rack.