Borric began to quip, ‘Only if that parry—’
‘Enough!’ cried Arutha, his temper frayed beyond his ability to control it. He gripped Borric’s tunic and pulled his son forward, off-balance. ‘You will not end this with a joke and smile! You have defied me for the last time.’ He punctuated this with a shove that sent Borric half-stumbling into his brother. Arutha’s manner showed he had no patience for the flippancies from his son he usually ignored. ‘I didn’t call you back because the court missed your peculiar sort of chaos. I think that another year or two on the border might have settled you down a bit, but I have no alternative. You have princely duties and you are needed now!’
Borric and Erland exchanged glances. Arutha’s moods were old business to them, and they had endured his anger – which was usually justified – before, but this time something serious was occurring. Borric said, ‘We’re sorry, Father. We didn’t realize it was a matter of duty that called us home.’
‘Because you are not expected to realize anything, you are expected to obey!’ shot back their father. Obviously out of patience with the entire exchange, he said, ‘I am done with you for now. I must compose myself for the business of dealing in private with the Keshian Ambassador this afternoon. Baron James will continue this conversation on my behalf!’ At the door, he paused, and said to James, ‘Whatever you need do, do! But I want these miscreants impressed with the gravity of things when I speak to them this afternoon.’ He closed the door without waiting for a response.
James and Locklear moved to either side of the young Princes, and James said, ‘If Your Highnesses would be so kind as to follow us.’
Borric and Erland both glanced at their life-long tutors and ‘uncles’ and then at each other. Both had an inkling of what was to come. Their father had never laid strap nor hand upon any of his children, to the profound relief of his wife, but that still didn’t prevent regular bouts of ‘fighting practice,’ when the boys were unruly, which was most of the time.
Waiting outside, Lieutenant William quietly fell into step with the twins and the Barons as they moved down the hall. He hurried to open the door, which led to Prince Arutha’s gymnasium, a large room where the royal family could practise their skills with sword, dagger, or hand-to-hand combat.
Baron James led the procession down the hall. At the door to the gymnasium, William again moved to open the door, for while he was second cousin to the twins, he was still merely a soldier in the company of nobles. Borric entered the room first, followed by Erland and James, with Locklear and William behind.
Inside the room, Borric nimbly turned and walked backwards, his hands raised in a boxer’s pose, as he said, ‘We’re a lot older and bigger, now, Uncle Jimmy. And you’re not going to sucker punch me behind the ear like you did last time.’
Erland leaned to the left, clutching his side in exaggeration and suddenly developed a limp. ‘And faster, too. Uncle Locky.’ Without warning, he threw an elbow at Locklear’s head. The Baron, a seasoned soldier of almost twenty years, dodged aside, allowing Erland to overbalance. He then turned him in a circle by hauling on one arm, and pushed him into the centre of the gymnasium with the sole of his boot.
The two Barons stood away as both brothers stood poised for a fight, fists upraised. With a wry grin, James raised his hands palms out and said, ‘Oh, you’re too young and fast for us, all right.’ The tone of sarcasm was not lost on the boys. ‘But as we have to be clear headed over the next few days, we thought we’d forego the pleasure of seeing how far you’ve come in the last two years.’ He hiked his thumb behind him, indicating a far corner. ‘Personally, that is.’
Two soldiers, stripped to breeches only, stood in the corner. Each had massive arms crossed over impressively muscled chests. Baron James waved for them to approach. As they did, the boys glanced at one another.
The two men moved with the fluid motion of a thoroughbred war horse, supple, but with power waiting. Each looked as if he was carved from stone, and Borric whispered, ‘They’re not human!’ Erland grinned, for both men had large jaws, suggesting the protruding mandible of mountain trolls.
‘These gentlemen are from your Uncle Lyam’s garrison,’ said Locklear. ‘We had a demonstration of the Royal Fist-Boxing Champions last week and asked them to stay with us a few extra days.’ The two men began to move away from each other, circling the boys in opposite directions.
Jimmy said, ‘The blond-haired fellow is Sergeant Obregon, from the Rodez garrison—’
Locklear injected, ‘He’s champion of all men under two hundred pounds. Ah, Erland should be your student, Obregon; his side is injured. Be gentle with him.’
‘—and the other,’ continued Jimmy, ‘is Sergeant Palmer, from Bas-Tyra.’
Borric’s eyes narrowed as he studied the approaching soldier. ‘Let me guess: he’s the champion of all men over two hundred pounds.’
‘Yes,’ said Baron James, with an evil smile.
Instantly, Borric’s field of vision was filled by an oncoming fist. He quickly tried to move away from it, but abruptly discovered another had found the side of his head. Then he was considering who painted the frescos on the ceiling of the room his father had converted to a gymnasium. He really should ask someone.
Shaking his head as he slowly sat up, he could hear James saying, ‘Your Father wanted us to impress upon you the importance of what you face tomorrow.’
‘And what might that be,’ said Borric, allowing Sergeant Palmer to help him to his feet. But the Sergeant didn’t release Borric’s right hand, but rather held it tightly as he brought his own right hand hard up into Borric’s stomach. Lieutenant William visibly winced as Borric’s breath exploded from his lungs and his eyes crossed as he sank to the floor once more. Erland began warily moving away from the other fist-boxer, who now was stalking him across the floor.
‘If it has escaped your notice, your uncle the King has sired only daughters since young Prince Randolph died.’
Borric waved off the offered hand of Sergeant Palmer and said, ‘Thanks. I’ll get up by myself.’ As he came to one knee, he said, ‘I hardly dwell on the fact of our cousin’s death, but I’m aware of it.’ Then as he started to stand, he drove a vicious blow into Sergeant Palmer’s stomach.
The older, harder fighter stood rock steady, forced himself to take a breath, then smiled in appreciation and said, ‘That was a good one. Highness.’
Borric’s eyes rolled heavenward. ‘Thank you.’ Then another fist filled his vision and once more he considered the wonderful craftsmanship displayed upon the ceiling. Why hadn’t he ever taken the opportunity to notice it before? he mused to himself.
Erland attempted to keep distance between himself and the approaching Sergeant Obregon. Suddenly, the young man was not backing up, but striking out with a flurry of blows. The Sergeant, rather than back away, raised his arms before his face and let the younger man strike his arms and shoulders. ‘Our uncle’s lack of an heir is a fact not unknown to us, Uncle Jimmy,’ observed Erland as his own arms began to tire while he futilely pounded upon the muscular sergeant. Abruptly, the Sergeant stepped inside Erland’s reach, and drove another blow into the youngster’s side. Erland’s face drained of colour and his eyes crossed, then unfocused.
Seeing the reaction. Sergeant Obregon said, ‘Pardon, Highness, I’d meant to strike the uninjured side.’
Erland’s voice was a bare whisper as he gasped, ‘How very kind of you.’
Borric shook his head to clear his thoughts, then quickly rolled backwards and came to his feet, ready to fight. ‘So then, there’s a point to this iteration on our family’s lack of a Royal Prince?’
‘Actually, so,’ agreed James. ‘With no male issue, the Prince of Krondor still is Heir.’
Erland’s voice returned in a strangled gasp. ‘The Prince of Krondor is always Royal Heir.’
‘And your father is Prince of Krondor,’ interjected Locklear.
With a clever feint with his left, Borric drove his right into
the jaw of Sergeant Palmer and momentarily staggered the older man. Another blow to the body and the boxer was retreating. Borric grew confident and stepped in to deliver a finishing blow, and abruptly the world turned upside down.
Borric’s vision turned yellow then red for a long while, and while he hung in space, the floor came up to strike him in the back of the head. Then blackness crowded in at the edge of his vision and he saw a ring of faces looking down a deep well at him. They seemed friendly faces, and he thought he might know who they were, but he didn’t feel any need to worry on it, as he was so very comfortable sinking into the cool, dark of the well. Staring past the faces, he absently wondered if any of them might know who the artists of the frescos above might be.
As his eyes rolled up into his head, William upended a small bucket over Borric’s face. The elder twin came back to consciousness sputtering and spitting water.
Baron James was upon one knee and helped the Prince sit upright. ‘Are you still with me?’
Borric shook his head and his eyes focused. ‘I think so,’ he managed to gasp.
‘Good. For if your father is still Heir to the throne, you royal infant,’ he slapped Borric on the back of the head to emphasize what came next, ‘then you are still Heir Presumptive.’
Borric turned to study James’s face. The point of James’s message was still lost on the young Prince. ‘So?’
‘So, ninny, as it is unlikely that our good King – your uncle – will father any sons at this stage in his life, given the Queen’s age, should Arutha survive him, he will become King.’ Reaching out to aid Borric to his feet, he added, ‘And as the Goddess of Luck would have it,’ he slapped Borric playfully on the side of the face, ‘you almost certainly will outlive your father, which means that someday, you shall be King.’
‘May heaven forefend,’ interjected Locklear.
Borric looked around the room. The two Sergeants had stepped back, as the pretence of a boxing lesson was forgotten. ‘King?’
‘Yes, you stone-crowned dolt,’ said Locklear. ‘If we’re still alive, we’ll have to kneel before you and pretend you know what you’re doing.’
‘So,’ continued James, ‘your father has decided that it’s time for you to stop behaving like the spoiled child of a rich cattle merchant and start acting like a future King of the Isles.’
Erland came to stand beside his brother, leaning upon him slightly. ‘So why not just simply—’ he winced as he moved the wrong way, straining his re-injured side ‘—tell us what’s going on?’
James said, ‘I convinced your father the lesson needed to be … emphasized.’ He studied the two Princes. ‘You’ve been educated, taught by the best instructors your father could employ. You speak … what … six, seven languages? You can calculate like engineers at a siege. You can discourse on the teachings of the ancients. You have music and painting skills, and you know the etiquette of the court. You are skilled swordsmen and,’ he glanced at the two boxers, ‘you are somewhat gifted students of fisticuffs.’ He stepped away. ‘But during the nineteen years since your birth you’ve never given any indication that you’re anything other than spoiled, self-indulgent children. Not Princes of the realm!’ His voice rose and his tone turned angry. ‘And when we’re done with you, you’ll be performing the role of a Crown Prince instead of a spoiled child.’
Borric stood crestfallen. ‘Spoiled child?’
Erland grinned at his brother’s discomfort. ‘Well, that’s it, then, isn’t it? Borric shall have to mend his ways, and you and Father will be happy.’
James’s wicked grin turned on Erland. ‘As will you, my lovely! For if this child of a foolish and capricious nature should go and get his throat cut by the angry husband of a Keshian court lady, it’s you who’ll wear the conDoin crown in Rillanon someday. And should he not, you’ll still be heir until the unlikely event of your brother becoming a father. Even then, you’ll most likely end up a duke somewhere.’ Letting his voice drop a bit, he said, ‘So both of you must begin to learn your office.’
Borric said, ‘Yes, I know. First thing tomorrow. Come, let’s get some rest.’ Borric looked down and discovered a restraining hand upon his chest.
‘Not so fast,’ said James. ‘You haven’t finished your lesson.’
‘Ah, Uncle Jimmy—’ began Erland.
‘You’ve made your point,’ said Borric, simmering anger in his voice.
‘I think not,’ answered the Baron. ‘You’re still a pair of rude sods.’ Turning to the two Sergeants, he said, ‘If you please, continue.’
Baron James signalled for Locklear to accompany him as he quickly left the two young Princes readying themselves for a professionally administered beating. As the two nobles left the court, James motioned to Lieutenant William. ‘When they’ve had enough, get them to their quarters. Let them rest and see they eat, then ensure that they are up and ready to see His Highness by midafternoon.’
William saluted and turned to watch as both Princes tumbled to the canvas mat again. He shook his head. This wasn’t going to be a pretty sight.
• CHAPTER TWO •
Accusation
THE BOY CRIED OUT.
Borric and Erland watched from the window of their parents’ private chamber as Swordmaster Sheldon pressed his attack on young Prince Nicholas. The boy shouted again in eager excitement as he executed a clever parry and counterthrust. The Swordmaster retreated.
Borric scratched at his cheek as he observed, ‘The boy can scamper about, for certain.’ The angry bruise from the morning’s boxing practice was darkening.
Erland agreed. ‘He’s inherited Father’s skills with a blade. And he manages to do right well despite his bad leg.’
Borric and Erland both turned as the door opened and their mother entered. Anita waved her ladies in waiting to the far corner of the room, where they commenced to discuss quietly whichever current piece of gossip was judged most interesting. The Princess of Krondor came to stand between her sons and peered through the window as a joyous Nicholas was lured into an overbalanced extension and found himself suddenly disarmed.
‘No, Nicky! You should have seen it coming,’ shouted Erland, though the glass window prevented his words from reaching his younger brother.
Anita laughed. ‘He tries so hard.’
Borric shrugged as they turned away. ‘Still, he does well enough for a boy. Not much worse than when we were his age.’
Erland agreed. ‘The monkey.’
Suddenly his mother turned on him and slapped him hard across the face. Instantly, the women in the other corner of the room ceased their whispers and stared in wide-eyed amazement at their Princess. Borric looked at his brother whose astonishment matched his own. Not once in the nineteen years of their lives had their mother raised a hand to either boy. Erland was more stunned by the act than any pain from the slap. Anita’s green eyes revealed a mixture of anger and regret. ‘Never talk that way about your brother again.’ Her tone left no room for argument. ‘You have mocked him and caused him more pain than all the unkind whispers among the nobles together. He is a good boy and he loves you, and all you have for him is ridicule and torment. Your first day back in the palace and within five minutes of speaking with you he was in tears again.
‘Arutha was right. I’ve let you go unpunished for your trespasses too long.’ She turned as if to leave.
Borric, seeking to rescue his brother and himself from the embarrassment of the moment said, ‘Ah, Mother. You did send for us? Was there something else you wanted to discuss?’
Anita said, ‘I didn’t send for you.’
‘I did.’
The boys turned to see their father standing quietly at the small door that opened between his study and the family room, as Anita called his part of the royal apartment. The brothers glanced at one another and knew their father had been observing long enough to have witnessed the exchange between mother and sons.
After a long silence, Arutha said, ‘If you’ll excuse us, I would
have a private word with our sons.’
Anita nodded and indicated to her ladies they should come with her. Quickly the room emptied, leaving Arutha with his sons. When the door was closed, Arutha said, ‘Are you all right?’
Erland made a display of stiff muscles and said, ‘Well, enough, Father, given the “instructions” we received this morning.’ He indicated his tender side was not further injured.
Arutha frowned and shook his head slightly. ‘I asked Jimmy not to tell me what he had in mind.’ He smiled a crooked smile. ‘I just requested he somehow impress upon you that there are serious consequences to not doing what is required of you.’
Erland nodded. Borric said, ‘Well, it is not entirely unexpected. You did order us directly home and we did stop to play a bit before coming to the palace.’
‘Play …’ Arutha said, his eyes searching his eldest son’s face. ‘I’m afraid there will be little time for play in the future.’
He motioned for the boys to approach and they came to him. He turned back into his study and they followed as he moved past his large writing table. Behind it was a special alcove, hidden by a clever locked stone, which he opened. He withdrew a parchment bearing the royal family crest and handed it to Borric. ‘Read the third paragraph.’
Borric read and his eyes widened. ‘This is sad news, indeed.’
Erland said, ‘What is it?’
‘A message from Lyam,’ Arutha said.
Borric handed it to his brother. ‘The royal chirurgeons and priests are certain the Queen will have no more children. There will not be a Royal Heir in Rillanon.’
Arutha moved to a door at the back of the royal chambers and said, ‘Come with me.’
He opened the door and moved up a flight of stairs. His sons followed quickly after, and soon all three stood on the top of an old tower, near the centre of the royal palace, overlooking the city of Krondor. Arutha spoke without looking to see if his sons had followed.
Prince of the Blood, the King's Buccaneer Page 3