Dirk had been ignorant of the true role of a consort, Kirsh reflected bitterly. As he was frequently reminded by his brothers-in-arms in the Queen’s Guard, his role was to stand at stud, nothing more.
It was obvious that they considered him barely up to even that task.
It was two years since Kirsh had presented himself to the Lord Marshal the day he arrived on Kalarada after an awkward reception held in the palace, to (supposedly) welcome him to Dhevyn. The Lord Marshal had droned on, explaining his duties in the Queen’s Guard and the training regime he would undergo before formally being given a commission as an officer.
“You’ll find things a little different here on Kalarada, your highness,” Rove Elan had explained to him. “You’ll be just another soldier, I’m afraid. Rank is earned on merit in the Queen’s Guard. Your civilian rank, that of the Princess Alenor’s consort, or even our future regent, counts for nothing here.”
“I know that, my lord. I expect no special consideration because of who I am or who my father is.”
Rove Elan smiled faintly. “Oh, you’ll find yourself judged on who your father is, your highness, but it may not be the reaction you imagine. This is the Queen’s Guard. The Queen of Dhevyn, not Senet, and you would do well to remember that.”
“I’m not ignorant of the political situation, my lord,” he said, which was not entirely accurate, but neither was it actually a lie.
“You’re likely to be sorely tested here, until the others have accepted you. You will be judged on how you react to that testing.”
“I believe I can look after myself, my lord.”
Rove nodded. “From what I hear, you’re more than capable of taking care of yourself, but we’re not like your father’s Palace Guard, full of mercenaries and men seeking fortune and position. Here, you are expected to put your comrades and the protection of the queen above personal glorification.”
“And you think I can’t do that, sir?” he asked, a little offended.
“I’ve no idea if you can do it or not, your highness,” Rove said with a shrug. “But it will be up to you to prove that you can.”
The training grounds of the Queen’s Guard were located inside the small keep that guarded the steep access road to the palace. The shadow of Kalarada Palace loomed over the keep, its bulk concealing the sun for a good part of the day and most of the night. Kirsh had found the gloom a little disconcerting at first. He still remembered the first time Rove Elan had led him toward the high paling fence that surrounded the fighting arena in the shadow of the gray stone outer wall.
There were two hundred or more men present, training in pairs with blunted practice swords, thick quarterstaves or short, broad-bladed spears. Kirsh looked around with interest and the professional eye of a man who had been trained to handle weapons as soon as he was old enough to pick up a blade. The men of the Queen’s Guard were competent, he decided, but not outstanding. There was not a man he could see that he did not feel he could best.
“So this is Antonov’s cub.”
They stopped and turned toward the voice. The man who had spoken was about the same height as Kirsh, but of a much heavier build. He had tossed his shirt aside to train, and his well-developed muscles glistened with sweat. He had a head of thick dark hair and a scowl that made Kirsh wonder if he practiced it in the mirror each morning when he shaved. He glanced around to find all activity in the yard had come to a halt. Everyone was staring at him.
“This is our master-at-arms, Dargin Otmar,” the Lord Marshal explained with a nod to the other man. “He’s all yours, Dargin. Try not to break him. Or damage that pretty face of his. I believe the Princess Alenor may have a use for him someday.”
Kirsh stared after the Lord Marshal as he turned and headed back to the barracks.
“I hear you think you’re pretty good,” Dargin remarked, wiping his hands on his discarded shirt and throwing it aside.
“I never claimed to be anything of the kind,” Kirsh answered, glancing around warily. The other men had abandoned their training and were leaning on the railing of the yard, watching him with interest. He smiled disarmingly. “Perhaps my reputation has preceded me.”
“Oh, your reputation has preceded you, Latanya, I can promise you that.”
Kirsh grinned and flexed his fingers in anticipation. “What’s this then? The traditional let’s-beat-the-crap-out-of-the-new-boy ceremony?”
“No,” Dargin replied, “it’s more along the lines of a let’s-make-certain-the-Lion-of-Senet’s-cub-knows-his-place ceremony. We’ve no room in the Queen’s Guard for cowards, boy. It’s time to see if you’re a better man than your father.”
Kirsh’s grin faded. “I may be sworn to serve the Queen of Dhevyn, sir, but I’ll not allow you to insult my father.”
“You’re not sworn to the queen, boy. That’s a privilege you’ve yet to earn. All you’re sworn to do is stand at stud for the crown princess.”
The rest of the guard roared with laughter. Kirshov looked around him, hoping to see even the slightest hint that one of these men was on his side. It was an idle hope. Kirsh looked back at Dargin and then nodded and began to unbutton his coat. “Very well. Which one of you is it to be?”
Dargin laughed harshly. “Either you really are as good as you think, or you’re a damn fool, boy.”
Kirsh threw his jacket over the railing and shrugged his shoulders a few times to loosen them up, before smiling coldly at the master-at-arms. “Let’s find out, shall we?”
Dargin’s fist was like a sledgehammer. It took Kirsh completely by surprise. He staggered backward, blinking back the white spots that danced before his eyes, derisive laughter ringing in his ears. His jaw felt as if it had been relocated on the other side of his head. Kirsh shook his head groggily, quashing the anger that threatened to make him lose his temper, and turned to face Dargin. The metallic tang of blood filled his mouth.
“That wasn’t fair. I wasn’t ready.”
The master-at-arms was standing with his arms crossed, grinning broadly. “It’s fair you want, is it? Is that how they fight in Senet?”
Dargin moved again, faster than Kirsh would have believed possible for such a big man, although this time Kirsh was ready for him. He blocked the blow with his right arm and struck back with his left, scoring a hit in the older man’s gut, hard enough to make him grunt. That small sound was enough to satisfy Kirsh. Dargin could be hurt. It was just going to take an awful lot to do it.
“So, the cub has teeth,” Dargin laughed, dodging away from Kirsh’s next blow.
Kirsh did not rise to the bait. He was not that easily provoked. Anger led to foolish mistakes, and one mistake with Dargin could prove fatal. He stood his ground, consciously controlling his breathing, balanced on the balls of his feet, waiting for Dargin to move again.
The master-at-arms came at him, this time a little more cautiously. The one hit that Kirsh had managed to land was apparently enough to convince Dargin that he would be in trouble if he let his guard down. But with that cautious respect came the knowledge that if he really meant to prove his point, he had to win, and that the young man he faced was unused to defeat. Not because he was arrogant or cocky, but because Antonov had made damn sure his son was more than capable of taking care of himself.
Dargin feinted to the left and caught Kirsh with a glancing blow to the side of his head, which he dodged at the last moment. Kirsh struck back, landing a solid punch under Dargin’s jaw, then, with his right leg, he swept the bigger man’s feet out from under him. Dargin landed heavily on his back, but rolled clear before Kirsh could press home his advantage. He gained his feet quickly, slamming his fist into Kirsh’s chest so hard Kirsh could hear his ribs breaking. He staggered backward, but Dargin gave him no respite. He hammered the younger man mercilessly. Kirsh managed to land a few more blows, some of them even making an impression, but every time he breathed in a sharp pain stabbed at his left side. Relentlessly, Dargin pushed him back until he struck Kirsh’s broken ribs again
. With a cry of sudden pain, Kirsh dropped to his knees. Dargin immediately stepped back, panting heavily. “You’re hurt.”
Kirsh bit back the sarcastic urge to say: “No? Really? ” He looked up at the master-at-arms through pain-filled eyes, breathing as shallowly as possible.
“I can keep fighting,” he gasped.
Dargin smiled. Kirsh was rather pleased to notice blood dripping from a cut over his eye and a large bruise beginning to manifest itself on his jaw. At least he’d given a good account of himself.
“It’s not my intention to kill you, boy.”
“You could have fooled me,” Kirsh muttered, grimacing as he took a breath that sent a sharp spear of pain through his side.
“You’re too used to fighting men who pull their punches. That’ll not happen here.” Dargin turned to one of the men who had been watching the fight. The spectators’ reaction disturbed Kirsh almost as much as Dargin’s obvious desire to beat him to a pulp. They had not cheered and chanted the way men did, watching a fracas. They had stayed silent and observed the entire exchange with the detached interest of men watching some sort of scientific experiment. “Alexin, get him to the physician. He’ll need to bind up those ribs of his if he’s to be of any use to anyone.”
Dargin stepped forward and offered Kirsh his hand. Kirsh studied it for a moment warily, before accepting it and letting Dargin pull him to his feet. “You’ve got guts, boy, I’ll grant you that.”
Kirsh didn’t answer. It hurt too much to speak. He eyed the men surrounding him with caution, but there was no malice in their expressions. They simply thought he needed taking down a peg or two. The realization was something of a shock to him.
“Come on,” said Alexin. Kirshov accepted his assistance reluctantly and let himself be led away. He didn’t look back, but he could feel every eye in the yard on him. He had no idea what they were thinking.
“You shouldn’t feel too bad,” Alexin assured him once they were out of earshot. “You didn’t shame yourself.”
“Does he do that to every new recruit?”
Alexin grinned. “Only the ones he thinks are going to be trouble.”
“Did he do it to you?”
“No.”
“What makes me so special?”
“Dargin just wants to make sure you know where your loyalties lie.”
“By beating the shit out of me?” he asked doubtfully.
Alexin hesitated before answering. “You must know how unpopular the decision was to appoint you Regent of Dhevyn when you marry Alenor.”
“I suppose.”
“Then get used to it, your highness. If you plan to be regent for long, you’re going to have to win these men over.”
“I know,” he agreed, unhappily. “It’s just ...”
“What?”
“I don’t know. I guess I was hoping all it would take is a few rounds of drinks.”
Alexin looked at him, trying to determine if he was joking, then he smiled and shook his head. “I hope you’ve still got your sense of humor by the end of the week, your highness.”
“Could you stop calling me that?”
“What would you prefer to be called?”
“Kirsh. All my friends call me Kirsh.”
“Kirsh it is, then.”
Kirsh smiled, thinking that when all was said and done, he had made a good start. He had survived Dargin’s beating and made the first tentative steps toward friendship with Alexin.
How bad could it get? ...
Chapter 3
Very bad, Kirsh discovered over the next two years. The beating he had received that day was merely the first of many. Every time he stepped into the training arena, somebody managed to get the better of him. He was not badly trained, he knew that, but the men of the Queen’s Guard were superbly trained, and none of them stood to lose his position if Kirsh broke a few bones. He realized now that training with his father’s guard was a world away from training every day, all day, with a squad of men whose dedication to their queen was inspired by true loyalty, rather than a fat purse at the end of the week.
If he had a friend at all in the Queen’s Guard, it was Alexin Seranov, the second son of the Duke of Grannon Rock. The young man was as universally liked as Kirshov was universally despised. He seemed to hold no prejudice, one way or another, about his Senetian comrade, and he was often the only one who bothered to explain rules that the rest of the guard expected him to have been born knowing. Alexin had bailed him out of trouble on more than one occasion, but Kirsh was never certain if it was because he was a friend, or that Alexin was simply a political creature, who was hedging his bets against the future.
The wake-up trumpets had long since faded when his door flew open. He must have been lying daydreaming for the better part of an hour.
“Hey! Latanya! Wake-up was sounded ages ago! Get that lazy arse of yours out of bed, or you’ll be mucking out the stables with your dinner plate for the next week!”
Kirsh groaned again and rolled out of bed. He opened his swollen eyes and glared balefully at the man who had so rudely awakened him. “I heard the call, Tael.”
“Then why aren’t you on your feet, boy?” Tael was the second son of the Duke of Derex, a small, impoverished, insignificant island. The Queen’s Guard was the only place a second son of Derex would be in a position to lord it over a Prince of Senet.
Kirsh gained his feet, a little unsteadily, and squared his shoulders. He was not going to let Tael see how much pain he was in. “I’m awake. Satisfied?”
Tael laughed sourly. “It’d take more than seeing your ugly face first thing in the morning to satisfy me, Senet. Rove Elan wants to see you. You’re to report to him before breakfast.”
“Did he say why?”
“I’m not his damn secretary, or yours either. You want to know what the Lord Marshal wants, you’re going to have ask him yourself.”
Tael left his room, slamming the door with a thump that made Kirsh wince. He sank down on the side of his narrow bunk and, for a moment, let the aches and pains of the past two years wash over him, wondering if the reason Rove Elan wanted to see him was that he had finally decided to throw him out of the guard.
By midmorning, Kirsh had finished his interview with the Lord Marshal and was on his way to the palace, summoned by the crown princess. Kirsh had grimaced when Rove delivered the order, determined to throttle Alenor when he saw her for reminding his comrades that he was her betrothed and very soon to be Regent of Dhevyn. He was so sick of the barbs. So sick of hearing men laugh at him. He had privately sworn to kill the next man who made a snide remark about “damaging that pretty face.” He was going to tear the heart out of the next man who made a comment about not harming his reproductive organs.
As he stewed on it all the way up to the castle, the anger built in him like a slow boiling kettle. It was all Alenor’s fault, he concluded. If not for their betrothal, if not for that wretched agreement between his father and Alenor’s mother over the Regency of Dhevyn, they would have nothing to taunt him with. By the time he dismounted in front of the palace, he was ready to give Alenor a piece of his mind she would never forget.
A groom stepped forward to take his mount. Kirsh handed over the reins gratefully, careful not to turn his back on the beast. The gelding’s name was Sunray, and a more unlikely name had never been bestowed on such an ornery creature. He was a slender chestnut with intelligent eyes and a mean streak as wide as the Bandera Straits. Kirsh had been issued the mount on his third day in the guard, and had been fighting with the beast ever since. Sunray snapped at him as he dismounted, but let the groom lead him away as if he was a child’s pony.
“Traitor,” Kirsh muttered at the beast as he trotted meekly beside the groom.
“Your highness?”
Kirsh turned to find Dimitri Bayel, the Kalarada Court Seneschal, standing in the open doorway of the palace.
“My lord.”
“If you would follow me, your highness, I shall take you
to the princess.”
Kirsh followed Bayel, still angry with both Alenor and his treacherous horse. He knew he had been given the beast as some sort of test, and he was damned if he was going to let the ugly, four-legged fiend defeat him. Kirsh carried more than his fair share of nips from Sunray’s sharp teeth, and his shins were bruised from his unpredictable hooves. But he had not been thrown yet, and Kirsh had not asked for a different horse. They were both minor victories that he clung to.
Dimitri Bayel led him through the palace and left him waiting on the terrace overlooking the Queen’s Garden. The second sun was shining brightly overhead, and he was forced to squint painfully as he looked around the carefully manicured gardens. Alenor was not there, which angered him even more. It was bad enough that she had summoned him like a servant, but he did not expect to be kept waiting like one. He paced the flagstones like a caged cat, silently rehearsing the scolding he planned to deliver.
“Oh, by the Goddess! What have they done to you, Kirsh?”
He looked up to discover Alenor and her lady-in-waiting walking toward him from the gardens. She was wearing a long blue gown with a close-fitting bodice, her dark hair caught up in a jeweled clasp, the curls arranged artfully over one shoulder, leaving the other enticingly bare. Her companion stepped back discreetly as she approached him, staying in sight, but not so close that she could hear what was being said. The days when he was allowed to be alone with Alenor were long past.
It was weeks since he had seen Alenor last, and every time he did, he was struck by how much older she seemed. She was still tiny—she always would be—but she had matured in these last two years. And filled out in some rather interesting places, another, less noble part of him noticed with approval. But even that observation did not soften his mood. He was still angry with her.
“It’s nothing,” he scoffed impatiently, jerking his head away from her touch as she tried to reach for him. “Why did you summon me?”
Alenor seemed surprised by his abruptness. She glanced over her shoulder at her lady-in-waiting and slipped her arm through his. “Let’s walk. The gardens are looking particularly lovely this morning.”
Eye of the Labyrinth Page 2