The Disinherited Prince

by Guy Antibes

  Pol became anxious and fought for his breath. He began to sweat, so he wiped his hands as he moved his sword from one hand to the other. He drew in slow, heavy breaths and tried to be as calm as he could. He looked at the men approaching and frantically thought about perceiving a pattern, anything to help save his mother’s life. He pulled the knife from his boot and now held weapons in both his hands.

  The men attacked. Pol flinched at the first clash as the guards began fighting. The guards held the advantage in Pol’s eyes since the attackers were poorly equipped. He remembered Kelso telling him that any weapon was dangerous. A dull sword could still break bones, and a hard thrust with one could still kill a man.

  He gripped and re-gripped his weapons and tried to ignore the screams of the women. He looked back at his mother, surprised that she observed the confrontation with a calm, but concerned face. One of the men evaded a guard and attacked Pol, who had stepped away from the women, so they wouldn’t be exposed to an errant strike. He worried more about his own slashes inadvertently hitting his mother, than he feared the attackers.

  The man stopped to grin at Pol. “You are going to die today, little prince,” the man said. He thrust his sword, but Pol used a sip of magic to predict the man’s movements and slid aside to poke the man’s arm with his knife. Kelso had taught him to use the knife for offense and the sword for defense just last week, but Pol had no idea he would be putting his lessons into practice in a real situation.

  The man began to quickly wear on Pol’s defense and showed frustration on his face. Pol’s breathing had begun to increase, and he knew he had to stop the fight or the thug would wear him out. Pol recognized what the man would do on his next stroke, and in desperation, Pol slid his sword against the man’s edge all the way to the hilt on the next thrust. He followed his parry to plunge his knife into the taller man’s chest.

  The man fell back, jerking the handle of the knife out of Pol’s grasp as Pol quickly fell back to guard the women. He realized that he had just killed a man, but Pol quickly erased all thought from his mind to identify the next threat, even though he could hardly take a breath.

  “Here,” his mother said. Pol quickly turned his head as his mother offered him another knife hilt-first. Her assistance seemed to pump a little energy into Pol, and his breathing eased just a bit.

  Pol nodded his head to his mother as a guard tripped on the body of the fallen thug that Pol had killed. One of the attackers rushed to the guard and looked at Pol for a moment before he raised his sword to strike the tripped man. Pol didn’t wait for the man to strike, but threw his mother’s knife into the man’s stomach. He watched as the attacker fell over on the guard’s back. The guard threw him off and finished him off with his own sword. He gave a little salute to Pol and re-entered the fray.

  The overmatched ruffians began to back up while a squad of more guards pulled the carts aside and joined the fight. The new arrivals chased the remaining attackers who fled back into the town. Pol sat on the ground taking huge breaths. He could hear his heart beating in his ears and felt light-headed. The street began to tilt as dizziness overcame him. Pol dropped his sword. He noticed his mother picking it up and laying it close to him.

  “Stay here. I’m checking on our guards,” she said. She looked at the lead guard, who held his bleeding forearm. “Don’t let them get away. The King will want to question the attackers.”

  Pol looked up at his mother. He had never noticed how strong of a person she really was. “Are you all right, Mother?”

  “I am fine. You just rest. You did as well as any today,” she said, surveying the carnage in the street. She left him to help the injured men, urging the ladies-in-waiting to follow. None of the guards was killed, but all of them seemed to be clutching wounds, except for the guard who Pol had saved.

  Leaning against a wall helped clear Pol’s head. He still breathed heavily, but the dizziness had stopped.

  “Thank you, My Prince.” A guard bowed deeply to Pol. “It is the first time my life has been saved by a fourteen-year-old prince. I am your man forever.” The guard bowed his head again. “If you ever need anything, you seek out Darrol Netherfield. That’s my name.”

  “Saving you helped me save my mother. You don’t owe me anything.”

  “Forgive me for differing, My Prince. The debt is mine, no matter what you may think.”

  “Netherfield, over here,” the lead guard said. “I need you to help me figure out what happened.”

  The guard bowed again. “I am called to consult with my leader,” he said apologetically and left Pol sitting alone on the ground.

  ~

  “Our hero,” Malden and Kelso said together.

  Pol had accompanied the guards to return the sword that he had borrowed from the armory. “It wasn’t much.”

  Kelso shook his head. “Fourteen-year-old princes generally do not kill two of the enemy in a skirmish, and yet you managed brilliantly. Tell me all about it.”

  “Yes,” Malden said. “No magic?”

  Pol shrugged and gave a detailed blow-by-blow account.

  “It looks like a knife is your friend,” Kelso said. “All of your practice with two blades made the difference.”

  “Even picking up some throwing skills,” Malden added. “Good for you.”

  Pol wasn’t particularly proud of his deeds, but he had saved at least five lives, including his own, by taking an active defense.

  “One thing though, the first attacker knew who I was, and I got the impression that he was out to kill me, not Mother.”

  Malden looked at Kelso and nodded. He turned back to Pol. “You don’t tell anyone this, but I think you were the target of a hastily-arranged assassination attempt.”

  “Grostin wouldn’t do such a thing,” Pol said looking at both men. “Would he?”

  “We interrogated a few of them that we caught,” Kelso said. “They all claimed that the King of South Salvan hired them to kill the both of you. They had South Salvan coins on them.”

  Pol squinted his eyes. “That doesn’t mean King Astor hired the men. Anyone could pay the thugs in South Salvan money and make it look like King Astor ordered them to kill.”

  “You could be right. All the more reason not to say anything. Stay within the castle grounds until the Emperor arrives, and if you leave, I’ll have a squad of guards out to accompany you. Your mother shouldn’t be out delivering alms until after all this is over,” Malden said. “I’ll let King Colvin know of my opinion when I report to him on the incident.”

  Once Pol would have thought his mother would do anything her husband asked of her, but after seeing her so calm in the midst of the melee, he wondered if that were the case.

  Malden grabbed Pol on the shoulder. “Your mother said you nearly collapsed in the street.”

  Pol nodded. “After the fight, I could hardly breathe, and my heart began to pound. I was dizzy, but I sat down and recovered.”

  “The extra effort saved a guard’s life and likely your own.” Malden put his hand to his chin. “When did you decide to go with your mother?”

  “I didn’t have anything this afternoon, since Mistress Farthia and you were meeting with Father. I chanced to encounter my mother on her way out to give alms, and I decided on the spur of the moment to join her.”

  “Who knew you accompanied them?” Kelso asked.

  Pol thought. “Any number of people. I went to the kitchen with Mother and her two ladies and ran to the armory for the sword. I honestly can’t remember saying anything to anyone. She did announce to the kitchen staff that I’d be going with them.”

  “That’s an assassination attempt organized on the fly,” Kelso said. “Couldn’t be King Astor, since he isn’t here yet, plus I don’t see why he would see you as a threat to his country.” He looked at Pol. “It still might be your brothers’ work.”

  Pol could understand pranks and tricks, but assassination involved the intent to kill. “I’d rather that not be the case,” he said, tryi
ng to mask the feelings of fear and anger fighting within him. His stomach began to churn, and he could feel his heart pump again, making Pol feel a bit nauseous. “I don’t feel well.”

  Malden grabbed a bench and pulled it behind Pol. “Sit for a bit.” The magician looked at Kelso. “I’ve got to get back to King Colvin. Let Pol rest up for a bit and let him choose a new knife.” He nodded to Kelso and hurried out the door.

  “You rest up for a bit,” Kelso said. “I’m going to find the best knife I’ve got here.”

  ~~~

  Chapter Nine

  ~

  POL HUFFED AND PUFFED AFTER A PARTICULARLY HARD SESSION at the training yard. He could still tell he had a long way to go to fight as well as the instructors that Kelso had assigned to tutor him. It only showed that the men who had attacked his mother were inexperienced and raw in their sword skills.

  He felt drained of energy and sat down for a moment.

  “Tired?” Paki said, coming from nowhere to sit next to Pol on the bench. “The rest of the thirteen-fourteen group of fighters in the tourney are crying foul now that you have real life experience, and they don’t.”

  Pol shook his head. “As if I care. I could just as easily have died in the street. If I hadn’t been training for this stinking tournament, I would be.”

  The group of boys for the next higher age classification took the training ground. Pol looked on with weary eyes. “My stamina is still the same. One match and I’ll be done for the day.”

  Paki shrugged. “Then win your one match. No one expected much of you before you had to ruin one of your advantages.”

  “Advantage?”

  “Your poor health. It’s still well-known you can only go so far, so go so far. You don’t have much more to prove.”

  Pol barked out a short laugh. “You think the tournament is my only focus? I’m training so when better assassins come for me, I might, just might, have a chance to survive. Whoever tried to kill my mother and me will try again.”

  Paki grinned. “Then find out who it is and kill them first!”

  A trainer called to Paki. “Get out on the field now, or we’ll kick you out of this practice. Move it!”

  Paki had ended up in the next oldest group from Pol in the tournament. If his friend wanted to be a scout, that meant he had to stand out in the tourney.

  “I’ll talk to you later,” Paki said, jumping up and running to his instructor.

  Pol got up and returned his sword inside the armory. He noticed that no one currently used the straw-filled dummies at the time, so he grabbed a few throwing knives and began to practice tossing knives into them, trying to figure out the pattern of the throw.

  “You are getting better,” Kelso said from behind.

  The Captain of the Guards surprised Pol, and his throw clattered against the wooden backdrop.

  “It’s something I can improve. I avoided getting killed only because those who attacked my mother weren’t very skilled with a sword,” Pol said. “My only real success was through using knives.”

  Kelso looked at Pol intently. “Not so. You were only able to get close to one of the assailants because you learned enough to parry off his attacks. Don’t underestimate the use of a sword. Knives have notoriously short reaches unless thrown, and that’s why swords were invented.”

  Pol considered Kelso’s words. His implications made him a bit upset that Kelso didn’t understand Pol’s point the same way that Pol did. The sword did put off the attacker, though. He gave a little bow to Kelso as the man went outside, and then walked over to retrieve the knives.

  He didn’t care what Kelso said. He would become an expert with knives, if only to be able to defend himself without running out of breath so quickly.

  Pol threw a last brace of knives, hitting the target close to where he wanted to with each blade, until he had to leave for a hastily-arranged class with Mistress Farthia. His father had taken up a lot of her time, but perhaps the king had learned all he needed from her.

  He hurried to his rooms, washed his face and changed his clothes, ending up just behind Farthia as she entered the classroom.

  “Excellent timing, Pol,” she said, turning around and adjusting her hair. “Sit. We have quite a bit to discuss.”

  Pol gave her a little bow and sat at the small table in the room.

  “As you know, King Astor comes to Borstall tomorrow, one week before the Emperor is due to arrive. I thought that I’d give you some advanced warning. Both kings seek an alliance in marriage. Your father is so wrapped up in Landon’s elevation that he has invited them for their visit.”

  Pol thought for a minute. “Bythia Hairo and Landon? That is so Emperor Hazett will approve Landon’s elevation to vassal-king while he’s here in Borstall?”

  “Why did I ever pull you from your practice?” she said in mock dismay.

  “Because I want to know what is expected of me when the Emperor stays in Borstall,” Pol said.

  “That is right. We’ve never discussed the just how to behave during this stop on the Emperor’s Processional. Since I have been back, I’ve been doing just that for King Colvin and his court.”

  “I know that King Astor is a rival. North Salvan and South Salvan have had different ways of thinking about a lot of things,” Pol said. “Father is far fairer in treating his people than King Astor is. I don’t think Father should trust him.”

  “Malden has tried to point that out to your father, but it appears he isn’t listening to any counsel that will put off Landon being made King of Listya.”

  “It’s a mistake that even a fourteen-year-old can see,” Pol said.

  Despite thinking that Mistress Farthia would want to talk more about King Astor’s visit, she had Pol learn more than he ever wanted to about the different degrees of genuflection that were proper to use in front of Baccusol’s Emperor.

  Malden put his head in the door. “Are you finished with him, Farthia? I’d like to talk to Pol, if you don’t mind.”

  “He’s all yours,” she said.

  Pol eagerly arose and escaped from the classroom. He had didn’t think he’d have any use for such detailed protocol, but he remembered everything that Farthia had taught him. Pol refused to give anything to his siblings that could be used to criticize him.

  “It seems that your father has wrung all he’s going to out of Farthia and me. I thought you might want another session on magic. We’ve managed to pretty thoroughly neglect your studies since she returned from Yastan.”

  Pol wasn’t so sure he wanted to continue magic studies, since it only distracted him from learning more about how to defend himself from assassins, but he did want to tell Malden about his progress in recognizing patterns.

  Malden ushered him into his chambers. “Since you are so gifted, I think we need to accelerate your magic studies. If you had known how to defend yourself, you might have not put yourself into such peril.”

  Pol didn’t appreciate all of the attention that developed from the alms-giving incident. It seemed that every conversation that he had recently devolved into a discussion of that afternoon.

  “I’m tired,” Pol said.

  “Of what?” Malden said. He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t look particularly tired to me.”

  Pol looked at Malden for a moment and tried to come up with something to put off the lesson. “I’ve done a lot of sword work lately, and I’ve improved my knife skills.”

  Malden didn’t look like Pol’s excuses swayed him. “I don’t care about that. I don’t suppose you’ve practiced locating people?”

  Pol actually had kept that up, but he hadn’t told anyone. “A little. I’ve been trying to see patterns as much as I can. I think I’ve made progress doing that.”

  “What about controlling your emotions?”

  Pol sighed. He felt put upon. “That, too. It’s so much to do. If I practiced everything at once, I’d still be in my rooms figuring out what to wear.”

  Malden nodded. “I see your point. To
day you will learn how to push a coin across a table.”

  “What use is that?” Pol asked. He felt a bit irritable but decided that he had already gone too far in acting surly.

  “It is a first step in letting magic interact with the physical world. Locating people affects no one and the predictive magic that I taught you doesn’t change what your opponent will do, but pushing a coin is an actual manifestation of power. Do you understand?”

  Pol did. “Okay. I don’t know how you would find a pattern surrounding a coin sitting on the table. What is a pattern if it doesn’t move?”

  Malden smiled. “Good question. The answer is that the coin represents a pattern of inactivity, but it takes up time and space. It sits in front of you, and you can see it and touch it. The tweak is to move it from an idle state to a moving state, along a grid, from square to square, if you will.”

  Pol thought he had the gist of what Malden said. “Like the game of Kings and Castles?”

  “That’s an apt comparison. Watch.” Malden’s eyes lost focus and the coin moved from one end of the table to another. Pol looked at Malden’s eyes, and it seemed like they guided the coin.

  “I’ve seen that kind of thing before, even from you,” Pol said. Malden had performed tricks at state dinners before. Pol didn’t think that the magician liked doing that.

  Malden waved the comment away. “The point is to have you do it. This is the most basic physical magic that an acolyte learns in a monastery. Remember how you look at people’s color? This time I want you to imagine a grid of squares on the table, like the Kings and Castles board.” He pulled out a paper and used a charcoal to draw vertical and horizontal lines. “Like this. The coin is here, you want to tweak the pattern so the coin goes there.” Malden pointed to a blank square. “I want you to locate the coin with your eyes closed.

  Pol shrugged his shoulders and was able to get into the same trance he used to find people. He saw Malden’s dot, but then he sensed the table and pictured the grid lying over it and growled with frustration.