The Disinherited Prince

by Guy Antibes

  Grostin sneered, but that didn’t matter to Pol. The sneer was an intimidation tactic, and it didn’t work on Pol. If Grostin was truly overcome with hate, the wild swinging would appear again. His brother looked over his shoulder towards a man Pol didn’t recognize. The man pushed down with his arms, which Pol took to mean calm down, so the man was Grostin’s coach.

  His brother took a deep breath and resumed his guard. Of course he couldn’t resist attacking first. Pol concentrated on looking at Grostin’s footwork. That hadn’t improved, but as Grostin slashed and Pol parried, clearly his brother had a more compact, controlled swing.

  The pattern was even more evident, but Grostin just overpowered Pol and eventually after a flurry of thrusts and swipes, Grostin pushed the tip of his sword into the padded jerkin and Pol couldn’t help but gasp at the sharp pain. His rib felt like it had a hole in it, but Pol let Grostin gloat while he quickly slapped Grostin on his rear end with the edge of his blade. That part was not padded and Grostin winced before he turned and glared at Pol.

  Pol expected the rush from Grostin in much the same fashion as his earlier flurry, but this time Pol used his knowledge of his brother’s pattern and the little sips of magic that gave him the information to anticipate Grostin’s moves, which meant he used much less energy to deflect his bother’s onslaught.

  For a moment Pol thought he had a chance, but then something from the crowd hit him in the neck and distracted him enough for Grostin to score the winning point, a vicious slash against his arm. Pol went down.

  Grostin raised his sword for another blow. “Do that, and you’ll be spending the night in my dungeons, Prince,” King Colvin said.

  Grostin made an unpleasant face and withdrew, but not before Pol saw his brother nod to his coach in the crowd and lift up the corner of his mouth in a sly smile, but Grostin walked tenderly out of the training grounds.

  Pol’s father and Kelso helped him up. “Your brother didn’t pull the blow like an hon—”

  “That’s enough, Kelso,” the King said. “Take Prince Poldon to the healers. I would guess he has a broken rib and maybe a broken arm.”

  “My arm is bruised, but my rib really hurts,” Pol said. He thought he could tell the difference and his arm only hurt where Grostin had hit it. He thought that the pain of a broken bone would go up and down his arm and inhibit his movements.

  “Still, you see a healer. I’ll send Malden down to check you.”

  “I’m right here, My King,” Malden said. “You can walk, Prince?”

  Pol nodded, but he had barely enough strength to take off his jerkin.

  “Sit for awhile,” Malden said. “I can look at you here as well as in the infirmary.”

  Kelso and Malden helped Pol to the large table in the armory. Someone had rolled up his jerkin and put it under Pol’s head.

  Malden started with the arm and concurred that it was only bruised. He prodded the red mark below Pol’s heart and when he touched the welt on his skin, Pol couldn’t help but wince.

  “You’re lucky. I think it is only cracked, or there is a deep bruise. You’ll still be able to participate in the tourney,” Malden said. “Two days in your rooms doing nothing more taxing than reading Mistress Farthia’s religion text should do the trick.”

  Pol smiled through the pain and nodded.

  “No need to walk all the way to the infirmary. I’ll help you to your rooms,” Malden said.

  King Colvin came into Pol’s view from the table. “What is this smudge of blood on your neck?”

  Pol instinctively put his hand up to his neck and looked at the speck of blood on his hand. “Someone used a pea shooter on me, but that was no pea, and they were very accurate.”

  “Prince Grostin found a way to cheat yet again, eh?” Kelso said.

  Pol remained silent.

  “You had him figured out until that…whatever it was hit your neck,” King Colvin said.

  “I’d like to think so, Father, but…” Pol managed a shrug.

  “You did well again, Poldon,” his father said, patting Pol’s forearm. “It’s too bad.”

  “What?” Pol said.

  The king shook his head. “Never mind. I must attend to King Astor.” He looked at Malden. “Take good care of my boy.”

  ‘My boy.’ Pol took that as a high compliment from his father, who rarely interacted with him. His most intimate moments with his father always resulted from Pol being ill or injured. Life was so unfair.

  ~

  “Let me look at your neck,” Malden said after Pol collapsed on his couch.

  Pol winced as the act made his rib injury hurt.

  Malden looked closely and grunted. “That was a metal pea. It looks to me that it had a rough texture on one side that brought out the blood. Your brother is rather creative.”

  “Or whoever is helping him.”

  Malden chuckled. “So you think he has help?”

  “I do. I can’t see Grostin hiring the thugs or making that illegal practice sword by himself. How did Grostin get an idea for the peashooter and then find an expert? I saw a man who was coaching him from within the crowd. I’ll bet he was the one.”

  “Grostin would deny all of what you said.”

  Pol ground his teeth. “Except for the sword.”

  Malden pulled up Pol’s tunic to look at his chest again. “Right. Now I’m going to use a bit of magic on you, but it’s a secret between you and me.”

  “We already have secrets. One more won’t matter.”

  Malden laid his hand on the wound and closed his eyes.

  “It helps to close your eyes if you are trying to do something beneath the surface, doesn’t it?” Pol said.

  “Quiet.” Malden continued until Pol could feel the pain in his rib start to burn.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Fusing bone. It’s an easy enough technique. The pain will be gone in a few days instead of a few weeks.”

  Pol had never heard of bone fusing before. “That doesn’t seem like a tweak to me.”

  Malden nodded his head. “Quite the opposite, really. I re-established the pattern of your bone, and as I apply magical power to do that, the cracked bone fuses again. Consider it accelerated healing.” Malden helped him pull down his tunic. “How did you know about looking past the surface?”

  “Another secret, but it’s mine. Promise you won’t tell my father.”

  That got a smile out of the magician. “I won’t.”

  “Paki and I were arrested yesterday at the festival fair.”

  “I know you were.”

  “How did you find out?”

  Malden thought a bit. “I get reports from the guard. Not Kelso’s group, but from the city guard. I read a report about two boys who were able to somehow escape from the detention shack. You were late for our session yesterday, so it must have been your friend and you.”

  Pol shook his head. So much for the secret escape. “We got out because I tried a bit of magic on the lock. Nothing worked at first. I couldn’t access the pattern of the lock until I closed my eyes. Like when I did when I first learned to notice people around me.”

  “Good, so far.”

  Pol felt a bit frustrated with Malden’s nonchalance. “Suddenly a picture of the workings of the lock popped into my head, and then it was only a matter of tweaking the pattern. The tweaking involved moving the pieces to get the lock to open.”

  “I am impressed, as always. That is something you would learn in your second or third year at the Tesnian monastery. How did you feel afterword?”

  “I didn’t think it affected me, but later on, I could feel less energy.”

  “Make sure you get plenty to eat. You need it to continue to heal your rib and to build up some energy for the upcoming tournament. King Colvin has decided that the two youngest categories, the one that you and Prince Grostin are in, will fight with wooden practice swords. Not swinging a steel sword about will help you get through the day a bit better.”

  Th
at put a smile on Pol’s face. “I worried about Paki fighting Grostin in that age category. My brother might take out his anger on my friend.”

  “Always a possibility.” Malden turned towards knocking on Pol’s door. “I’ll get it.”

  Mistress Farthia walked into the room following a gesture from the magician.

  “I am bringing a formal invitation to the both of you. It seems there will be a small state dinner tonight honoring King Astor and his wife. Close advisors are invited, and I guess they considered me a close advisor of our invalid here,” Farthia said.

  “I will still be hurting,” Pol said. He glanced at Malden and was rewarded with a conspiratorial wink.

  Farthia shook her head. “No excuses, except you can use your injury to retire from the dinner a bit sooner than the others.”

  Malden brightened up. “Oh, and I’ll probably be needed to attend to the prince.”

  She gave the magician a scolding look and thrust two sealed parchments into his hand and left.

  “Formal invitations. This is a state dinner. Good practice for you, Prince Poldon.”

  Pol scowled. “Grostin will be there lording it up.”

  “I didn’t heal your neck, My Prince. Just flash it to him and your father if the conversation gets unbearable. King Colvin knows about the cheating, remember?”

  “I do. I hope he doesn’t forget.”

  Malden pursed his lips. “Not an irrational hope, but you won’t be able to count on that.”

  ~~~

  Chapter Fourteen

  ~

  POL MANAGED TO TALK MALDEN INTO ARRIVING AT THE DINNER at the same time. A small state dinner meant there might be fifty or more attending. Pol wondered where he’d be expected sit. When the both of them were announced, a servant led Malden to a table next to Mistress Farthia. Pol wished he could sit with them, but that would never happen.

  Pol was led to the end of the royal table stretching across a temporary dais. Amonna had already arrived and luckily separated Grostin from him. There wouldn’t be room for him when Emperor Hazett and his retinue arrived, if his presence was requested. Pol still felt that he was too young for state events. All of the adults in the room intimidated him, although he didn’t feel the same in regards to his siblings.

  Landon sat on the other side of table with Bythia, who sat next to her mother.

  “Aren’t you too damaged to attend?” Grostin said.

  Pol leaned back and saw the pillow that Grostin sat on. “I should say the same to you. Does your bottom still hurt?”

  Grostin ground his teeth and turned to say something to Honna, who sat next to his mother. Pol sat down.

  Amonna leaned over. “That wasn’t very nice, Pol.”

  “Tell my broken rib that and my bruised arm.” His arm went up to the wound on his neck. The bruise had faded a bit since the match.

  “You were injured?” Amonna looked a bit confused. She turned to Grostin. “You said you didn’t do any damage when you won.”

  Grostin made a disagreeable face. “No lasting damage.” He chuckled and turned back to Honna, who leaned over and gave Pol an angry look.

  “Can you at least give me a smile?” Pol said to Amonna.

  “Like this?” She grinned at her brother.

  Her smile made Pol laugh. At least she hadn’t absorbed the talent for scowling that her other siblings had. “Just like that.”

  “What’s on your neck?” she asked, touching the scabbed spot.

  “It’s a bite from an angry insect,” Pol said, loud enough for others to hear.

  His mother turned his way and gave him a nod and a smile that looked more like a grimace. He hadn’t talked to her since the match, and he wondered if his father had told her anything.

  “Are you all right, dear?” his mother said. “I heard you were hurt.”

  “I still am, but I seem to be recovering just fine. Maybe a little faster than my opponent.”

  Grostin glared at him for a moment and then turned back to Honna. Pol hoped his brother would get a stiff neck from looking at his oldest sister all night.

  His father rose from his seat. The babble immediately stopped. “I wanted us to get together and enjoy each other’s company in a more relaxed gathering before His Excellency Emperor Hazett III arrives in Borstall. He is obviously behind schedule, so we haven’t been told how long he will stay. The tourney will begin the day after he arrives. The Emperor might not attend all the events then, as he might be recovering from travel.

  “I have received word this afternoon, that he intends to test for magic potential while he is here. Some of you already know and have sent out riders to inform those outside of Borstall. We haven’t had a magician of note from North Salvan in a decade, so who knows who might show the potential that our Emperor seeks?

  “Magician Malden will work with the Emperor’s magicians administering the testing. That is all the business for this evening. Enjoy your dinner and spend some time and some coin supporting the festival fair since they had to set up their booths somewhat early.”

  The king raised his hands and the audience applauded.

  “There!” Pol’s father said to King Astor, loud enough for Pol to hear. “I’m hungry enough. Let’s get dinner served.” King Colvin snapped his fingers and signaled for dinner to commence.

  “How are you getting on with Princess Bythia, Princess Amonna?” Pol said.

  “She is like a best friend.”

  “Like? She isn’t your newest best friend?”

  Amonna looked across the table at Bythia and Landon. “She won’t be here for long, but at least I can keep company with her.”

  Pol followed her eyes. The pair seemed to be getting along just fine. Although Pol couldn’t hear what was said, it appeared that Landon did all the talking, and from his gestures, it looked like mostly boasting.

  “You’ve been keeping busy,” Amonna said. “I’ve hardly seen you these past few weeks.”

  Pol hadn’t changed his habits as much as his sister had. “I spend my early mornings in the gardens training with Siggon and Paki. Then it’s the rest of the morning in the classroom. In the afternoons, I train for the tourney, followed by a session with Malden, if he is available.”

  “What is Malden teaching you, magic?”

  “About magic, I guess, and he has a lot of practical experience with politics.”

  Amonna’s eyes narrowed a bit. “I thought you weren’t training to rule.”

  Pol shrugged. “I’m not.” He lied. Malden and Mistress Farthia taught him subjects that weren’t as directly related to rule as his brothers might have learned, but Pol knew how to connect the subjects to their practical application. “But I have to learn more than geography, religion, numbers, and history.” He shrugged again.

  “I’m glad I’m past all that.”

  She should be if she was to be married off to another royal family, thought Pol. Amonna had a more pleasant personality than a thorough intellect. Did he have a thorough intellect? Pol had to admit that he thought he did. He pressed his lips together and didn’t say anything while dinner was served.

  Grostin looked over and began to engage Amonna in conversation, to the exclusion of Pol. Honna joined in, and as quickly as that, Pol ate by himself. His mother caught his eye and gave him a sympathetic smile.

  Pol ate more than he normally did because of Malden’s suggestion. He looked over at Malden and Mistress Farthia engaged in a lively conversation, and Pol realized that they were a pair, more suited to each other than Landon and Bythia. He could see that they liked each other, and although Pol had caught them in an embrace in the classroom, their intimate behavior at the dinner made him feel more isolated.

  He mused that when he sat in the classroom reading the religion text or just puttering around in his rooms all by himself, he didn’t feel as lonely as he did surrounded by people. He looked down at his cleared plate and rose from his chair. He walked over to his mother and father.

  “I’m still
hurting from my injuries. May I be excused?”

  “Certainly,” his father said. “How is your neck?”

  Pol’s hand went up to his wound. “Healing like the rest of my body.”

  His father glanced at Grostin and grunted. Pol looked at his brother, but Grostin hadn’t noticed the king’s glance.

  Pol bowed to King Astor, who turned to them. “Quite a match today. I thought you had figured your brother out and might have gotten that last touch,” Astor said. “But your brother is older and taller. The match always goes to the bigger man.”

  Pol knew that wasn’t the case, and King Astor’s comment bothered Pol. He looked over at Landon, who turned his eyes away to Bythia. Landon had been listening, so his brother would feel good about the comment.

  “Your Majesties,” Pol said, and then bowed before leaving the room.

  ~

  Pol stewed about King Astor’s comments when he reached his rooms. Kelso had specifically told him that size wasn’t the principal factor, although it wasn’t to be dismissed. Technique and strategy could prevail, especially in tourney sword fighting.

  He wondered if King Astor had been subtler than he gave him credit for. Was he referring to the suitability to rule Listya? Pol thought that he just might.

  He collapsed on the couch and felt a twinge of pain in his ribs, and then he rubbed his bruised arm. A twinge was better than the agony he had undergone earlier when Grostin first jammed his sword into him. Bigger and stronger? Pol wished he were seventeen, but would he still be undersized at that age? If so, an twenty-year-old Grostin would still be much bigger than a seventeen-year-old Pol.

  The thought frustrated him. He would think about it more tomorrow.

  ~

  Pol decided to adhere to the schedule that he had provided Amonna at dinner. Siggon still toiled in the gardens with Paki and the other gardeners. Today’s lesson would be making fire without a tinderbox. Pol could see the advantage of that, even without being a scout. Siggon tossed branches and a few logs down on the ground underneath a tree in the little wood.

  “This won’t take too long, if you can get the hang of it,” Siggon said. He pulled a cord out of his pocket. “If you can use a shoe lace or some other kind of cloth strip, it makes the process easier. You will need a knife to cut wood and file off some shavings. “We’ll do it all together.”