The Monk's Habit (The Disinherited Prince Series Book 2)

by Guy Antibes

  Pol nodded his head. He laughed. Demeron couldn’t see him from behind. “Yes. Let’s see what we can do.”

  Demeron followed Pol’s instructions perfectly as they practiced turning and going through various paces. Demeron was more talkative than Pol would have dreamed.

  Pol dismounted, and Demeron walked away from him, and they communicated to see how far their link extended. It seemed they could communicate for at least fifty paces.

  Demeron pranced around the plain, jumping and dancing on the turf. Pol could feel the joy Demeron felt. His horse knew he would be three years old in the spring.

  Pol called Demeron back and pulled a brush out from the saddlebag behind the saddle and groomed Demeron with the horse telling him where to brush a bit harder. Pol couldn’t wipe the grin off his face. He had found a new friend in the unlikeliest of places.

  The monk rode up to Pol.

  “You have quite a rapport with your horse.”

  “I can feel his emotions,” Pol said. It was as much as he dared tell the monk.

  “A link? Very good. He is Shinkyan, after all. They are supposed to be the smartest horses in the world. I won’t ask you how you came to own him.”

  “It’s better left unsaid.” Pol put the brush away and mounted Demeron again. “What else are we to do today?”

  “Look at the others,” the monk said. “We’ll have to have a number of classes through winter to get everyone proficient.”

  Pol hadn’t really noticed, but everyone else seemed to struggle with their mounts. Paki resorted to using the reins, and he noticed Kell’s horse sort of ambled on its own, despite Kell’s angry threats.

  “Oh. I’ll still come out and let Demeron get lots of exercise,” Pol said.

  “Demeron? Isn’t that a Volian god somewhere?”

  Pol nodded. “In Fassia. The Sleeping God, but my Demeron isn’t sleepy, at least not today.”

  Demeron answered, but Pol didn’t tell the monk that.

  ~

  A few weeks later, Akonai’s lectures finally arrived at the eastern side of the Empire. Pol knew quite a bit about Tarida. When Akonai began to talk about North Salvan, Pol’s breathing quickened. He stopped taking notes when the monk began to describe the summer’s events.

  Pol wondered if Akonai got his information from Mistress Farthia. Every word he said was accurate. He even included Pol’s movements in his description, but he didn’t reveal his name, since it had a bearing on the political outcome culminating in his mother’s death and his flight from Borstall.

  Tears welled in Pol’s eyes. He wiped them on the sleeve of his robe and caught Akonai’s reassuring smile. But Pol’s tears turned to anger as Akonai moved to explain King Astor’s role in disrupting North Salvan.

  Pol hadn’t realized, but if the monk’s analysis was correct, then King Astor had pushed his daughter on King Colvin. Pol had thought it was the other way around. After putting this new information into the pattern that Pol had spent hours creating on the ride to Deftnis, it all clicked into place. His stepfather had been manipulated by the real villain, King Astor, aided and abetted by his daughter Bythia, recently installed as Queen of Listya.

  Akonai now reviewed the Listyan situation that he hadn’t spent much time on before. Pol expected the monk to forecast the possible joining of the two Salvans and Listya into one, and he knew why. The Emperor wouldn’t stand for a kernel of opposition to grow in the East, especially one with a foothold in the West.

  Darrol had filled a page with notes. “He’s right on target,” Darrol said. “Sorry you had to relive all that.”

  Pol shook his head. “I learned a lot today.” What he really meant is that the uncertain parts of the pattern that Akonai had clarified had changed his perspective of the situation.

  Akonai raised his hand to silence the students. “My time with you has ended. I hope you took good notes. Another monk will administer a written test tomorrow and the next day.”

  Acolytes grumbled about having to take a four-hour test. Pol didn’t mind and looked forward to the experience as a way to reinforce the overall pattern of the Empire.

  Akonai stepped up to Pol. “I’m sorry I reopened old wounds,” he said. “Some of my information about South Salvan is recent, however. I hope that helped.”

  “As much as you probably know.” Pol realized that Akonai wore a gray cord for a belt, the second highest level.

  The monk nodded. “I’m sorry I wasn’t allowed to let you join in the higher level discussions. I’ll be back in two years, most likely, and I think the Abbot will demand that you attend by then.”

  Pol looked at Akonai’s belt again. “What level was Malden?”

  “Black, of course. You’ll get there soon enough,” Akonai said.

  Pol still didn’t expect to live that long, or if he did, gain the strength necessary to achieve the rating, so he just nodded.

  “Any personal words to anyone in Yastan?”

  “Tell Malden, Ranno, and Valiso Gasibli, if he’s there, that I now know why they call Shinkyan horses ‘devil horses.’ Give my regards to Mistress Farthia, and tell her I continue to learn, thanks to you.” Pol thought he might write a letter to Malden, with his impressions of his pattern of South Salvan.

  Akonai put his hand on Pol’s shoulder. “I will. Do well in Deftnis. The Empire needs you.”

  Pol couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of his words, but then he nodded. “I will do my best.”

  Kell watched Pol from across the room and walked over after Akonai left to talk to a few other students. “You were that disinherited prince?”

  “I still am. My mother was the Queen of North Salvan and should have been Queen of Listya.”

  “What was it like having a king for a father?”

  Pol didn’t see any friendliness in Kell’s face. He responded with the literal truth, “I wouldn’t know.”

  ~~~

  Chapter Seven

  ~

  ON A BRIGHT WINTER’S DAY, POL AND DEMERON EXERCISED during another horsemanship session. Monks had set up hurdles around the little plain for the acolytes to practice jumping. Pol and Demeron had no problem negotiating all the jumps on their first try.

  Pol didn’t see the point of doing it again, so he took off Demeron’s saddle and let the horse frolic in the open spaces.

  One of the monks dismounted and sat next to Pol. “You are a remarkable horseman for one as young as you.”

  “Don’t compliment me. Demeron did all the work. It was hard enough for me to hang on. He wanted a romp as a reward, so I gave it to him.” Pol looked across the plain to see Demeron jumping and rearing up, and basically dancing in the coolish winter light. Pol put his hand to his heart. The healers had helped him gain some strength, but running through all the jumps had still made Pol’s heart beat faster.

  “Something wrong?”

  “I have a heart condition.”

  The monk nodded. “I heard it’s better now.”

  Pol was surprised that the monk knew his situation. He looked out at the field. “Better doesn’t mean I’m healed.”

  “We used to have the master of Master Healers on the island.”

  “Searl? I’ve heard his name spoken a number of times. Why did he leave?”

  The monk paused for a bit. “He came to like one of his herbal remedies too much. I was in my third year at the time. Maybe the Abbot knows exactly what it was, but whatever happened affected his ability to heal, and eventually Searl was strongly encouraged to leave, which he did.”

  “A monk on drugs?” Pol said, his mouth dropping open. It assaulted his perception of the Deftnis pattern.

  The monk smiled, a bit too condescendingly in Pol’s view. “We aren’t the paragons of virtue that you may think. I seem to remember you had a run-in at Billious’s? There are other avenues of pleasure or oblivion that monks take from time to time, if you understand, and that includes drugs.”

  Pol had a hard time thinking that monks would go to br
othels, but the monk all but said that.

  “If pursuit of such things doesn’t affect the work of the monastery, no one cares, unless you are here in your first year.” The monk smiled and looked at Pol sideways. “We aren’t a sect of religious monks seeking solace in meditation and deprivation. But don’t get me wrong, most of us would be considered very good men in today’s world and wouldn’t dream of disappointing a young idealistic ex-prince like you.”

  “So where is Master Searl?” Pol had no idea what dreams the monks of Deftnis actually had.

  The monk shrugged and got back to his feet. “I heard he was still in The Dukedoms.” He looked at a crowd of riders clustering around an acolyte. “It looks like I’ve got an injured student. Make sure you don’t let your horse frolic so much he gets injured,” he said as he mounted and left Pol in thought.

  ~

  Although Darrol attended classes for Seeking, he didn’t bring his horse out with the acolytes. Pol found him inspecting practice swords as usual.

  “Did you ever know Master Searl?”

  “Looking for a better healer than what’s in the monastery? There are few better ones roaming the Empire. Searl was a special case. He did some experimenting with herbs and got himself addicted to minweed, of all things.”

  Pol didn’t know what minweed was, but it must have been powerful to take a master healer. “My horse-riding instructor said he didn’t know the details.”

  Darrol grunted. “I did. A friend of mine had taken a nasty slice to his body during practice and was under Searl’s care. That was just before they kicked him out of Deftnis. Searl’s mind was clear only for a few hours a day. Nearly killed my friend with his antics. I’m glad he left.”

  “He might still be in The Dukedoms,” Pol said.

  “What are you interested in an old healer for? Still worried about your health? You look fit enough to me. I can see you’ve even grown some since we arrived.”

  “I’m still not fully healthy. I’m better, but not good,” Pol said. He left it at that. “Are you up to a little sparring?” Pol wanted to know how his improving swordsmanship would compare to a Deftnis-trained swordsman. They had rarely crossed swords after their trip to the monastery.

  “Wooden swords, and,” Darrol jabbed his index finger at Pol, “you wear a jerkin.”

  Pol laughed. “What about you?”

  “Anything I get, I’ll deserve.”

  Master Edgebare walked into the armory. “Ah, a Level Three versus a Level Two.”

  Pol had always wondered how much magic Darrol had command of since he wore leather rather than cord. Being a Second Level, Darrol didn’t have enough capability to fight with anticipation magic.

  “Show me what you have, boy,” Edgebare said. He had only seen Pol working out with first years who didn’t have much sword training and when Pol used the little practice room, he made sure he was never observed.

  Pol selected a sword that was balanced well enough and walked out on the hard-packed dirt of the large indoor practice hall. A few monks stopped what they were doing to look on. Pol didn’t see any acolytes, and that made him feel less uncomfortable about using his magic, but he also didn’t want to get pummeled by the much larger and brawnier Darrol.

  Darrol smiled and lifted his sword tip in the air and swooshed it down in a salute. Pol did the same and shook the tension out of his shoulders.

  Darrol was going to rush him, so Pol, using sips of magic, stepped aside and let Darrol pass him by.

  “You are faster, Pol.”

  Pol had no idea how fast he was to begin with, but he let Darrol come after him. His magic allowed him to elude Darrol’s parries and thrusts. Pol just let Darrol come at him and played defense.

  Darrol put his hand out to grab Pol’s wrist and was rewarded with a loud slap on his own arm. Pol’s opponent shook his hand in reaction. “That hurt!”

  Pol had put a little magic into that slap to see if he could use magic to speed up his movements. He could feel his power drop. Sips didn’t take anything out of him, but enhancing his speed taxed his overall strength.

  In a flurry of slashes and thrusts that Pol had never encountered sparring with the acolytes, or with the thirteen-and-fourteen-year-old swordsmen last summer, Darrol succeeded in slipping the point of his sword into Pol’s stomach.

  Pol grunted and quickly shuffled backwards. His anticipation magic worked with single strokes and simple combinations, but not with something powerful like that.

  “You’ve fought against real pattern-masters before,” Pol said, waving his sword at Darrol, trying to get him to keep his distance while he caught his breath. A year ago, Pol would be gasping for air, but now, he was just getting winded.

  “I have,” Darrol said, grinning. He breathed heavily as well.

  He approached again, giving Pol a chance to see what he had missed before when Darrol used the flurry technique. Pol took two deep breaths, since he was about to run out of breath and successfully countered Darrol the second time. When Darrol withdrew, Pol thrust his sword into Darrol’s chest, right below his ribcage. His friend let out a gasp of air and fell on his behind. The monks in the armory clapped at Pol’s victory.

  That was enough sparring for Pol. He leaned over and grabbed his pants just above his knees as he bent over, out of breath.

  Darrol put his hands out behind him and made a face. “That’ll bruise,” he said. “You were too quick to figure out my offense.” Darrol said slowly, his chest heaved, and Pol could see Darrol was in pain.

  “I didn’t mean that to hurt.”

  Darrol raised a hand briefly and put it back behind him. “You’ll pay for that.”

  Now Pol worried about losing his friend.

  “I’ll have to have that seen to by a healer.”

  Edgebare laughed. “Darrol tried harder than I expected him to,” he said. “Although he gave you chances, you were tested, Pol, and came out a winner. I imagine you wouldn’t have lasted much longer?”

  Pol shook his head. “No, I had to put an end to the fight, or I would have been forced to yield.”

  “I’ve never seen such a judicious use of magic before,” Edgebare said.

  “Sips. That is what Malden called them. If I use too much magic, I wear myself out.”

  Darrol rose slowly to his feet. His hand held his midsection. “He can go much longer now,” he said. “At Borstall, Pol was done in a minute or less. We went four or five minutes?”

  “Closer to four, I would say,” Edgebare said and patted Pol on the shoulder. “You still have some growing up to do, but I’ll be looking forward to it.” He turned around and walked away.

  “I’ll need you to lean on,” Darrol said. “I wasn’t joking about needing to see a healer. We learn in Deftnis that you can be injured without breaking the skin.”

  Pol thought of Siggon when Pol found him beaten. He had sent his son Paki back to the Emperor’s tournament in Borstall last summer, but Siggon had died from internal injuries, as Malden had called them.

  Darrol laid his heavy arm on Pol’s shoulder as they walked slowly out of the armory, followed by the gaze of some entertained monks.

  ~

  Darrol needed a day of rest, and the healers wanted to observe if there was any additional redness or swelling. Pol had winced at the sight of the bruise at the top of his friend’s stomach.

  After telling the healers about Pol’s own stomach, they examined Pol’s bruise, but said he wouldn’t have to do anything special.

  “Good thing we weren’t using real swords,” Darrol said as they walked down the steps from the infirmary wing on the other side of the armory.

  “I wouldn’t have done what I did with one.”

  “Even if I had armor?”

  Pol looked at Darrol. “Would a thrust work if you had your belly covered with metal?”

  “Not with your strength,” Darrol said, giving Pol a grin. “But if you magically enhanced your thrust, you could put it through a breastplate.”

>   Pol thought about that. “A pattern-master wouldn’t be able to keep that up for very long before he lost strength, right?”

  “Right. You found that out on your own?”

  “I’m a Third Level, who doesn’t know very much about Third Level things. It’s just something I picked up listening to Sakwill and Coram. They are training with the higher levels, learning how to use anticipation magic.”

  “You probably know how to do it better than they do. Few pick up the aspects of control and magic versus strength, and I think you could be called a pattern-master once you get a bit of meat on you.”

  “With a little help from Malden.”

  Darrol nodded. “He was very good to you at Borstall.”

  The hourly bell rang in the courtyard. “He was. Speaking of magic, I have my class with Vactor coming up. Can you get to your cell okay?”

  “I think I’ll make it after a good night’s sleep. Go on.”

  Pol hurried to the administrative building and slipped in the door just as Sakwill and Coram turned into the corridor from the other side.

  “You are late,” Vactor said to Pol, reading a page from a stack of papers. “They are later.” The master looked up as Sakwill and Coram hurried to their seats.

  “It is always better to be early to a class than late. Agreed?”

  Pol nodded. Coram poked Sakwill in the ribs.

  “Is there a story behind the nudge?” Vactor raised an eyebrow and looked at Coram.

  “Nothing to report. I was in a healing class in the infirmary.”

  Pol knew that wasn’t the truth since he just came from there. Why did Coram have to lie?

  “How is your swordsmanship coming?” Vactor said.

  “We are doing okay.” Sakwill said, looking at Pol from the corner of his eye.

  “And your anticipation magic?”

  Sakwill grunted. “It slows me down, but I’m getting the hang of the technique. They said the speed will come.”

  Vactor glanced at Pol as if to make sure Pol listened. “Why does it slow you down, Sakwill?”

  “You should know. Knowing what someone is going to do is quite different from being able to react to it. I like putting magic into my swings better.”