The Disinherited Prince

by Guy Antibes

  “So I’m making information out of nothing?”

  Malden nodded. “Not nothing, but out of little bits here and little bits there. That’s what an astute spy does. A good spy like Val can connect the words up in a flash.”

  “But what does this have to do with magic?”

  After shrugging, Malden smiled. “I told you most of what I do doesn’t involve magic at all. This is a lesson on that aspect of what a good magician does.”

  ~

  After closing his eyes and attempting to pick up patterns in the room with his eyes closed, Pol walked around his sitting room, nervous about the dinner. His mother had sent him a note that explicitly commanded that he come to dinner and that he was not permitted to back out.

  He walked along the corridor to the family dining room. He nearly turned around and fled back to his room. Pol had successfully avoided all his family since Mistress Farthia had returned with news of the Emperor’s visit, and now that day was nearly upon them.

  The door separated Pol from visions of his doom. Four guards stood at the door, two in the livery of North Salvan and two in South Salvan’s colors. He walked through and saw the eyes of his siblings swivel towards him. A girl a bit older than Amonna turned her head along with the others. None of those eyes gave him an encouraging look, even his youngest sister’s.

  “What are you doing here?” Landon said. “Shouldn’t you be out grubbing in the dirt?” Pol had expected such a greeting from his oldest brother.

  Pol lifted his chin and tried to smooth out his face. Landon’s anger hadn’t pierced his newly formed reserve. Another time, weeks ago, it might have, but not now, so he just ignored the comment. Pol noticed they all stood holding drinks, so Pol walked to the buffet, now arrayed with a few snacks and various carafes of wine and other spirits.

  He looked at the servant manning the buffet. “Any fruit juice?”

  The servant looked a bit embarrassed. “I was told to remove it.” The man gave a quick glance at Grostin.

  “Watered wine?” Pol said.

  A look of relief made the servant smile. “Yes, of course. This is a sweet wine that should work well.”

  Pol nodded and took a sip. The drink was still too strong for him, but a few more sips were all he would chance anyway.

  A man in South Salvan colors slipped into the room. “King Aston and Queen Isa.”

  All of them turned to the door. Farthia had prepared him for this. He bowed, but not deeply. Pol noticed that Landon bowed deeply and Grostin barely at all. The girls had long since mastered a royal curtsey.

  The announcer stepped to the wall, when Malden, of all people entered the room. “King Colvin and Queen Molissa.” He gave Pol a wink and left the room, urging the South Salvan man to leave with him, just after his father and mother entered.

  Pol gave his father a bow and his mother a separate bow. Again he had done it properly, as far as he could tell.

  “Sit, sit,” His father said. “We actually have place cards on the table.”

  Pol hadn’t noticed and walked around looking for his place. He sat between Amonna, who sat on his mother’s left, and Honna. Queen Isa sat on his mother’s right. Bythia sat next to her mother with Landon next to her. Pol nearly smiled at the thought that he formally had a place at this dinner, just as Farthia had predicted.

  No one talked to him. Amonna and Bythia seemed to have hit it off since she had arrived at the castle. Pol sat across from Queen Isa, but he had nothing to say to a grown woman. He looked down the table and could only grab snatches of his father’s conversation with King Aston.

  “Pol?”

  His mother had broken Pol’s concentration. “Mother. I’m sorry. I was listening to another conversation.”

  “Queen Isa wanted to know what went through your mind when we were attacked in the city.”

  Pol looked at the queen. He really hadn’t noticed the woman’s poor complexion compared to his mother’s. He took a sip of the wine, his second, and described his feelings without getting too graphic. Farthia had drilled him about how to treat that subject if the Emperor should ask, so he was prepared.

  “I assure you I wouldn’t have done anything so bold,” Queen Isa said. Was it an act of boldness to give alms to the poor or an act of kindness? Pol didn’t get the impression that Queen Isa was very kind. He would remember that comment as part of a possible pattern.

  He listened to his mother talk and draw information out of the queen. His mother skillfully kept the conversation going and Pol listened for patterns in his mother’s questions and in Isa’s answers. He suddenly found a thread and continued to listen as the pattern established itself in his mind.

  The South Salvans wouldn’t be so overt, but he got the impression they wouldn’t bat an eye at something subtle. Pol listened for a signal of intent, but couldn’t find one. Bythia changed the subject when she asked her mother about clothing styles. Pol wouldn’t find anything of interest in that.

  Servants arrived with dinner, and Pol pretended to concentrate on his food while the others picked at their meals. Landon drew Bythia into a conversation with Honna and Grostin about the upcoming tournament.

  Pol discovered that his three oldest siblings had the impression that the common folk were going to let them prevail in the tournament. While he understood what Landon claimed, he realized that they were boasting without true confidence, and Pol decided to detect the patterns in that line of their conversation. Pol knew that the boys he practiced with every day had no intention of going easy with him. Paki didn’t express any reluctance about mixing it up with Grostin, so Pol knew Landon’s talk was all bluster.

  “Will you be participating?” Bythia asked Pol.

  Pol could feel a blush creep up from his neck, but he bit the inside of his lip to calm down. “I will be. Swords for thirteen and fourteen-year-olds. Grostin will be in the next higher classification and that is swords-only, as well.”

  She giggled. “Wouldn’t it be interesting to see the both of you in a match. Perhaps the Emperor will let you fight.”

  Where did that comment come from? Pol looked at Grostin, sitting next to Landon. He looked a bit too smug. Unlike Landon’s boast just earlier, Pol saw the confidence exude from Grostin. His brother had something up his sleeve, and whatever it was, it would not benefit Pol.

  “Grostin is much better than I will ever be.”

  “What does that matter? A friendly match among brothers?” Grostin said, puffing up his chest. Who was he trying to impress? Bythia?

  Pol turned to look at his mother, whose eyebrows were slightly raised. He recognized, for the first time, that her expression was part of her pattern of being subtle when she was unpleasantly surprised. He wondered if his training had given him that insight.

  “Wouldn’t it be fun?” Amonna said.

  Pol sighed a tiny bit, a very controlled sigh. His sister was in on it, whatever ‘it’ was.

  Landon returned to his boasting. His oldest brother was the least subtle and seemed to resent not being the center of attention.

  “What events are you in?” Pol asked.

  He pierced through Landon’s studied disregard because it gave his oldest brother a chance at more boasting.

  “Lance, sword, and melee,” Landon said.

  “Not melee.” King Colvin had interrupted his conversation with King Astor, wagging his finger as a sign to prohibit Landon. “It’s too dangerous for a man in your position.”

  Landon assumed a smug grin. His gaze went to everyone at the table and lingered, so it seemed on Pol. “And what position is that?”

  King Colvin colored and glared at Landon. “My oldest son and heir.”

  Landon looked a little crestfallen. Did he want his father to proclaim him rightful king to the Listyan throne during the dinner?

  Pol had seen enough and had no desire to stay, but Mistress Farthia was quite adamant about his enduring through dessert. He continued to look for patterns, since everyone began to ignore him again.
He didn’t feel like initiating any conversation or participating on subjects that were ostensibly above him.

  Pol did have opinions when they talked politics, but his brothers’ comments were simplistic. He had no desire to demonstrate a superior grasp of geography and the interactions of the various kingdoms, so he restrained himself from correcting them as he had in the past, much to their ire.

  Pol did listen when his father brought up that the Taridans were arming again and that he’d bring that up with the Emperor since Hazett’s Procession had just come from that country. Their northern border with Tarida had always been a subject of skirmishes, and under the loose rules of the Empire, the exact border was defined by whoever could defend it.

  North Salvan and South Salvan generally clashed about trade routes between the countries on the west side of Volian continent and Eastril, the continent that held the Baccusol Empire. Borstall traditionally took the lion’s share of shipments and transported them to the rest of Eastril. Pol didn’t think a royal marriage and the installation of Landon far to the west in Listya would solve that rivalry. He mentally shrugged. Landon would better serve his country by marrying an eligible high-ranking Taridan than Bythia. However, Pol knew his father was getting increasingly anxious to get the Emperor to approve of Landon’s elevation, and that meant a wedding as quickly as possible.

  Dessert rolled around, and Pol quickly devoured his serving, allowing him to make his excuses to his mother and father and to the King and Queen of South Salvan. With relief, he headed for his rooms while the other siblings had after-dinner drinks with their parents.

  Pol sat at his desk and began to jot down the patterns that he had noticed. He tried to separate his true feelings and hoped that he did a good enough job for his observations to look objective. His breath caught as he again reviewed Grostin’s statement. His brother would assault him, and Pol had to be prepared for that.

  ~~~

  Chapter Eleven

  ~

  KELSO HANDED A WOODEN SWORD TO POL. Previously he had sparred with blunted metal weapons that would be used by the two youngest age groups in the tourney.

  “I have been instructed by the king to assess your abilities in a sparring match with your brother Grostin,” Kelso said. “Out in the yard.”

  So his humiliation would be very public. Pol didn’t know about the wisdom of that, but from the expression on Kelso’s face, it looked like he hadn’t been given a choice.

  “Same rules as in the tournament,” Kelso said, and then reviewed the rules. Thirty or forty spectators watched. Pol’s eyes looked on Amonna, Bythia, and Landon. Paki gave him a nod, but Siggon didn’t look very pleased.

  Kelso took Pol aside. “Make this as short as possible. If Grostin prolongs the match, he’ll have you as soon as you lose your strength.”

  Pol already knew that but nodded anyway.

  Both brothers stood facing each other wearing padded jerkins and wooden swords. Pol noticed that Grostin’s sword was brand new and had sharper edges than Pol’s. He grimaced. His brother really would enjoy hurting him. Pol didn’t feel the same, but he was determined to make a good showing, even though Grostin was more than a head taller.

  Pol tried to improve his spirits by reminding himself that he had fought a life or death battle before and had prevailed. Grostin certainly hadn’t. At least he’d get Grostin’s threat over sooner than he had expected, and he would just have to accept the public humiliation.

  The circle of spectators grew, and now both kings were in attendance. Grostin would revel in Pol’s disgrace. But then what kind of disgrace was there for a seventeen-year-old boy, already growing into a man, against a fourteen-year-old boy who hadn’t yet begun?

  After gritting his teeth, Pol walked into the center of the ring. Grostin spoke in whispers to Landon and the two girls, and they all laughed. Pol’s heart sank when Amonna joined in without hesitation. He truly felt alone.

  Grostin strutted to Pol. “Ready to be hurt? I mean hurt, really bad?” Pol didn’t appreciate his brother’s taunting.

  He looked at the way Grostin waved his sword. It was much heavier than it should be. Someone had converted his practice weapon into a real one.

  Kelso also looked at Grostin’s weapon and cringed. He put his mouth close to Pol’s ear. “I’ll call the fight the minute you hit the ground. Beware of that weapon.”

  “Why don’t you make him change it?” Pol said.

  Kelso looked pointedly at Landon and frowned. “I’m sorry.” He backed away.

  Pol observed Grostin’s warm-up and could see clumsiness in his swings. How could Pol put that to use? Perhaps Grostin wouldn’t be able to swing accurately, so he could push Grostin’s blade away with parries. Thrusts might be more problematic.

  “Fight!” Kelso said.

  The spectators had grown to more than Pol could count. He had to ignore the onlookers and maintain his concentration on Grostin.

  His brother ran at him, sword raised high. He swung down, but Pol found he had a speed advantage if he used a sip of his magic to predict the timing of the blow and stepped away from the strike. It left Grostin open, so he poked Grostin in the side. A point could have been called, but Kelso remained silent. Perhaps his tap was too light.

  Grostin stood upright and swung his blade wildly. Pol could tell that it weighed more than a regular sword because Grostin had trouble stopping his swing. Pol poked his brother on his upper arm again. Still no point was called.

  He took a chance and looked at Kelso, who stood still, looking away from Pol. He would get no help from Kelso. Had everyone betrayed him? Grostin thrust again, but this time Pol jumped back and parried with his wooden sword. It was like hitting the side of the castle’s stone wall, but he managed to make Grostin miss; however, his brother stepped closer and threw a punch at Pol, which knocked him to the ground. Even the crowd groaned. That would have disqualified Grostin from a tourney match. Pol glanced at his father who now frowned.

  He had to roll over to miss a downward slash that ended up sending up a plume of dirt. Pol backed up. His brother was so wild with his swings that he couldn’t find a pattern. Grostin began to put the sword over his head and began to pound down like chopping wood. That drove Pol back and back again. He stumbled on the wooden walkway in front of the armory and rolled over just as Grostin drove the sword into the planks.

  Pol heard a plank break. He looked at Grostin’s sword and half of the blade had broken off, revealing a flattened iron rod. He backed up, but no one moved to stop his brother who advanced on him. Pol could see murder in Grostin’s eyes as he scrambled into the armory, in hopes to find a metal blade. Grostin ran at him, and as his brother swung, Pol parried with his blade, but it broke in two from the ferocity of the swing.

  Scrambling backwards he slammed into the wall. Grostin advanced. Pol bit his lip. He refused to die, so he looked for the pattern in the room and found Grostin’s advance as part of it. He tweaked the pattern like he had done with the big religion book, and, in his panic, threw Grostin across the room. His brother slammed into the wall. His head jerked back and his eyes rolled up.

  All of Pol’s energy departed, and he could only lie there, looking at Grostin’s comatose body.

  Kelso ran in and picked up Grostin’s sword. He looked at Pol and nodded grimly. No one had seen Pol use magic, so for all anyone knew, they had fought, and Pol had managed to overcome his brother.

  Guards kept the crowd from entering the empty armory. His father pushed the onlookers aside and looked at Pol and then at Grostin.

  “How did you?”

  “I shoved him against the wall and he hit his head. It was that or let him kill me. He wasn’t going to stop, Father.”

  King Colvin didn’t look happy at all. He hoped his father directed his anger at the lack of honor that Grostin showed rather than at him. Malden talked his way through the guards and quickly looked at Pol and then attended Grostin, who began to stir, but then he went limp again.

  A hea
ler arrived and directed two guards to carry Grostin to the infirmary.

  “He is concussed as far as I can tell,” Malden said. “Prince Poldon is weak from the fight. I’ll help him to his rooms.

  Pol lifted up his broken sword. “According to tourney rules?” He waved the sword at Kelso, who looked away. “Who told you to take a blind eye?”

  His father took up Pol’s cause. “Yes. I’m interested. Who threatened you to allow Grostin to use that travesty of a sword? Landon?”

  Kelso looked up at the rafters of the armory and nodded his head. He looked King Colvin in the eye and took a deep breath. “I’ll be leaving North Salvan when either of your two oldest sons become king, sire.”

  “Not until then,” Pol’s father said and put his hand on Kelso’s shoulder. “Don’t succumb to their requests again. That is a royal order. If you want me to put it in writing, I will.”

  “I would appreciate that, Your Majesty.”

  Pol wondered what dire threat Landon had made. His oldest brother stood at the door, his face red with anger.

  “You cheated, you little slug.” Landon said. “Grostin—”

  Pol’s father raised his hand. “Grostin lost at two touches. I saw them both. Kelso should have stopped the match then. A blind man could see he swung a weighted sword.” He looked at Kelso, who looked thoroughly chastened. “Bring it to me.”

  The weapon was an iron bar, flattened and slipped into a hardwood shell. “Who made this, Landon?”

  “Uh,” Landon stuttered, but didn’t give his father the name.

  “Who!”

  Landon gave him the name of a blacksmith in town. Banson Hisswood, the King’s Landsman and principal advisor, stood at the door looking on.

  “Banson, arrest the man. Right now I can’t trust the Captain of the Guard.” King Colvin looked evenly at Kelso. “I will interrogate him myself.”

  Banson bowed his head and quickly left.