by Philip Smith
The prince took the winding tower steps two at a time, his heels scuffing in the dust as he leapt up the granite staircase. He burst through the gilded door and into the domed chamber he occasionally called his home when he wasn’t campaigning or taking residence in his castle at Aschin. Feridar now had an excuse to leave behind a king who had no use for him and a father who held no love for him.
Feridar opened his campaign chest and threw in maps, charts, and other such things from his writing desk. A collection of servants scuttled in behind him, their bald and tattooed heads bowed as they entered.
“How may we serve you, Prince?” a mousy female voice chirped. Feridar gestured to the giant closet where ranks of armor, clothes, and boots stood at attention.
“Gather my belongings and have them put in a royal wagon.”
“Shall we pack the blue or yellow marquee for the tournament?” the young woman peeped.
“Neither. Pack my campaign armor. Not the tournament set.”
“You’re not attending the tournament, sire?” another slave asked. This man was old enough to be Feridar’s grandfather; his white mustache trailed towards the ground.
“No, Malacath,” the prince smiled. “I’m heading back to Aschin. I know where Ala’haran is now.”
The slave’s eyes widened as he ushered the other servants to continue packing the prince’s valuables. He scuttled over to Freidar’s side and bent his head low as his voice became a whisper.
“My lord, can it be so? And does…the creature…does she still live? How can this be?”
“Ala’haran appears to have cut off his brand, so until now we had no idea where to begin tracking him,” the prince growled. “But both he and the creature still live. And now that I know where, I will make them both suffer for their crimes against the empire.”
“Their crimes against the empire? Or against you, my lord?”
The prince snarled at the old man, who kept his eyes downcast.
“If you had not bounced me on your knee as a boy, Malacath, I would have you thrown from that balcony,” the prince growled. Malacath nodded his head.
“Understood, sire,” the old slave muttered, backing away in submission. Feridar snatched up his sword belt and clipped the scimitar to the embossed leather. He crossed over to the veranda on the far side of the room.
The cool breeze of the sea swept through the balcony overlooking the great harbor of Telhesan. The sun had already disappeared beyond the eastern sky. The two moons, Tavian and Suntra, rose high in the west and cast two shimmering orbs across the surface of the vast ocean. The tower faced northeast, the circular city sprawling out before him. The desert sands to the north glowed a creamy blue in the light from the moons.
Most of the Shauden people took great pride in their city; the Jewel of the Empire. But Feridar chose instead to cross the balcony and gaze down at the palace courtyard. He could see the men scurrying about the barracks and stables, packing the carts and loading up the horses for the long journey ahead. Feridar relished in that sight more than a thousand moons casting light upon the sea. The frontier was where he belonged; the battlefield was his home, not Telesan.
If he had believed the gods had any real power, now would have been an ideal time to pray. Feridar believed in one thing: the might of his own saber, limited only by his own ambition. He smirked as he saw the columns of men being formed and set before the quartermaster’s from each battalion for roll-call and equipment checks. The pagans in the Wild wouldn’t stand a chance, even if the “Creator” they worshipped was real. No deity could stand up against such an army; the last two hundred years of Shauden dominance were a testament to that.
“Fool,” Feridar muttered, twisting his own signet ring around the smallest finger on his left hand. He pulled it off and glanced at the scarred tissue beneath where the ring sat. Ala’haran had been smart to cut off his brand. Luckily the renegade hadn’t known the ring did more than brand its wearer; it could also recall scenes from where it had been. It was a lucky break for the prince, and he trusted it would be a fatal one for his adversary.
The prince returned his ring to his finger and passed through his room to head downstairs once again. His long strides carried him to the kitchens which led out to the royal stables in the rear palace courtyard. As he exited the kitchen doors, he almost ran into a young man only a few years younger than himself, who was dragging an even younger male back into the castle by the collar of a beautifully tailored shirt.
“Watch it!” Feridar barked as the first young man bumped into his chest.
“Feridar, where you off to? It’s late!” The offender laughed, taking a giant bite out of an apple as he leaned against the doorway, blocking Feridar’s path. He was only a few inches shorter than Feridar, dressed in a simple linen shirt and buff breeches tucked into a pair of immaculate riding boots, which were now speckled with dust. His tousled black hair and close cut beard gave an interesting contrast to the youthful nature of his face. His brown eyes searched Feridar’s face.
“Move, Tybahaz,” Feridar growled. “Don’t you have better things to do like charm another milkmaid?”
“She was a scullery maid, big brother,” Tybahaz corrected. “And if you had seen the princess Father tried to pass off on me with that envoy from the Carellian Islands, you would have run for the scullery as well!”
“Quite,” Feridar muttered. He glanced from Tybahaz to the boy his half-brother was dragging by the collar, and his glare deepened.
“What is wrong with Jaiden?”
“Just caught him doodling behind the livery,” Tybahaz laughed, giving the teenager a ruffle of the hair. “Skipped out on his fencing lessons this evening again, so Master Alsaibeh sent me looking for him.”
Feridar grabbed the teenager by the scruff of his neck and pushed him back outside and against the palace’s coral-colored granite wall. The lad kept his eyes shut tight, refusing to look at his older half-brother.
“You call yourself the son of the Shahir!?” Feridar snapped, throwing the younger prince to the ground. Jaiden stumbled backwards, a notebook he’d been carrying hit the dusty ground and papers scattered everywhere. Feridar picked up a few of the charcoal sketches depicting horses and soldiers. Though he could not deny the sketches were accomplished, his anger and frustration at his youngest half-brother would not let him consider complimenting the seventeen-year-old.
“You are a Prince of the Shauds!” he spat, crumpling the papers in his fist. “You were born to ride horses into battle, not sit on your shanks and draw them!”
“I was just—”
“You were just ignoring your obligations and playing like a little school girl!” Feridar shouted, throwing the wad of crumpled papers into the dirt. They blew away like tumbleweeds in the desert. The younger prince looked up at his brother with fear in his blue eyes.
“Get up,” Feridar commanded. The boy scrambled to his feet, his gaze downcast and hidden in a shaggy mess of light brown hair.
“Get to the armory and maybe give some heed to the teachings of Master Alsaibeh. How can I trust you to carry a sword for me in battle one day if I can’t even trust that you’ll be where you’re supposed to be?”
He held up the charcoal pencil that had fallen out of the notebook and pushed it against Jaiden’s nose.
“You can’t win a battle with one of these.”
Feridar drew his scimitar and placed it to the boy prince’s throat.
“You have to know how to use one of these.”
The crown prince shoved Jaiden back through the door into Tybahaz’s arms. Tybahaz looked annoyed but said nothing as he brushed the dirt off Jaiden’s back and pushed him into the kitchen.
“Where is Ghaze?” Feridar demanded. Tybahaz shrugged.
“Probably in the library like he always is.”
“Send him to the livery,” Feridar demanded. Tybahaz rolled his eyes at being ordered about like a house slave, but nodded as he stepped back inside the palace kitchens. Feridar sn
iffed indignantly and made his way past the far side of the courtyard to the livery. He dismissed the two stable boys with a gruff wave of his hand as he entered the columned archway that led into the stables built into the courtyard wall.
The livery had over fifty large stalls and three separate tack rooms for use by the royal family. In his youth, this was one of the few places Feridar genuinely loved to be in Telesan. The smell of the beasts mingled with the scent of sweet, freshly-cut hay the slaves hauled in daily. The leather in the tack rooms reminded him of the countless tournaments he’d fought in his brief twenty-eight years. With each victory, his glory and ego grew, yet for all his trophies and victory banners, his father still looked at him like a second-choice son and heir.
Feridar walked over to the stall of his favorite war horse. The beast stood eighteen hands high, with a silky charcoal-grey coat fading into black feathering on large, heavy hooves. His mane was the same dark ebony color as his feathering, braided the full length of his hefty neck. He was a barbarian breed. The southern horses were one of the few things the prince did not despise about the lesser peasant kingdoms they had conquered over the last decade.
“What say you, Calif?” the prince said softly, offering the great war horse a sack of oats. The horses in the next two stalls whinnied in jealousy, but Calif paid them no mind as he buried his bulbous muzzle into the treat. The prince smiled for a moment. He began brushing his steed with deft strokes along the back of his high withers and down past the creature’s loin. The minutes rolled by, and Feridar lost himself in the smooth, uncomplicated motions of the task at hand, the flickering lantern light teasing the shadows in the marble stall.
The sound of a throat being cleared pulled Feridar from his meditation. He looked up to see another young man closer to his age standing in the doorway of the stables. He had a shaved head tattooed with snakes and dragons intertwining in knotted patterns, his dark eyebrows hiding deep set brown eyes. The man was wearing the loose-fitting robes of a cleric with a pair of expensive magnified reading spectacles perched atop his thin nose. He was shorter than Feridar by almost a full hand’s width, but he had a sharp, keen look about him that was enough to intimidate the brawniest of officers in the Army, regular and irregular alike.
“You asked to see me?” the young man queried in a higher-pitched voice than one might expect, yet every word was measured and precise.
“Yes, Ghaze. I need to ask you about the Branding Spells,” Feridar grunted, pulling the loose hair from Calif’s brush and tossing it on the floor.
“A favor for information.” Ghaze demanded. Feridar almost smiled as he tossed a thick wool blanket on Calif’s back. Out of all four of his brothers, Ghaze was his only full brother and the only one he did not loathe. As the second eldest of the Shahir’s palace-born princes, Ghaze was as intellectual as Feridar was militant. He had studied the dark arts and barbarian’s magic almost as well as his father, and had read almost every book in the vast library of the palace.
“Name it,” Feridar said, pulling his travel saddle out of the tack room and setting it atop the saddle blanket.
“To be determined. But don’t worry, it won’t be above your mental faculties.”
The crowned prince snorted in disgust.
“Fine. A favor. When I get back.”
“Back?”
“We’re leaving tomorrow for the Wild.”
“So soon? I hadn’t heard of any impending campaigns at court.”
“It just came up,” Feridar muttered.
“Has our father calculated the cost of a second campaign in the season? Fall is already underway, the troops will be needing to settle into winter quarters and the treasury can only handle—”
“We’ve got Ala’haran,” blurted out Feridar, cinching the saddle belt tight. Calif stomped, irritated, and Ghaze’s jaw dropped.
“Ala’haran is alive?”
“For the moment.”
“I see. And your question about Branding Spells?”
“Yes. I need to know if it’s possible to rid yourself of one.”
Ghaze leaned against the stable wall and folded his arms, rubbing his stubbled chin thoughtfully.
“In theory. It would take some strong concealment magic most likely.”
“What about removing the actual physical brand?”
“You mean like a surgery?”
“I mean, if I cut off this finger,” Feridar snapped, pulling the signet ring off his little finger and showing the scarred tissue the ring had branded him with all those years ago. “Will father still be able to see visions of me?”
“Probably not,” Ghaze speculated. “Why?”
“I think Ala’haran cut off his finger to avoid being tracked,” Feridar muttered.
“That would definitely help. Too bad Father didn’t brand him somewhere he couldn’t cut off.”
“Is there any other way of tracking him through the ring now that it is in our possession? Father was able to get vague placement with some sort of ‘Last Sight’ spell, but I need to be more precise than that.”
“Not that I know of. Without the brand he’s still a ghost in the Wild,” Ghaze said, face contorted in concentration.
“No. Not a ghost,” Feridar said, mounting Calif and wheeling the war horse around in the stable’s hallway twice. It felt good to be back in the saddle. “Ghosts can’t bleed. And I fully intend to make that a priority.”
“Well then, best of luck to you, my Prince,” the younger prince said, nodding courteously to Feridar. “Try not to make too much of a mess?”
Fereidar laughed cruelly and spurred Calif into a full gallop out of the livery. He charged through the courtyard on his way to meet with his generals, the two moons lighting his pathway from their perch the night sky. He had a hunt to conduct, and the sly fox would not slip past him. Not this time. It would be a long night, but for Feridar, the fun had just begun.
CHAPTER 1
Up Top
"Nice and steady, now. That’s a good girl.”
Paige held her breath, sighting the shaft of her arrow as she pulled back on the braided sinew bowstring. She drew back until her right thumb grazed her smooth white cheek just above her jawline. The deer that stood twenty yards ahead of them slowly raised his head. His jaw rolled as he chewed on the lush green grass of the meadow. The buck turned and glanced in their direction while Paige exhaled slowly. His ear flicked when he caught a whiff of something on the wind. Paige tightened her grip on her polished yew bow, then released.
The arrow slid off the notch with a sharp schick, and the white goose feathers flashed as the arrow wobbled and righted itself through the air. The buck tensed his slender legs. Before he could spring away, the arrow thudded into the deer’s side, down through the middle of his ribcage. The beast bleated in alarm and staggered before bounding into the thicket.
“Aw, come on!” Paige spat, wrinkling her face in frustration and disgust. She huffed, sending blonde bangs flying up. A deep, soft chuckle emanated from behind her. Paige turned to scowl at her father.
“You got him, that’s all that matters,” he encouraged, his sapphire eyes twinkling with mischief. “Of course, now you’ve scared off our dinner, which means that much more walking once we get him carved up.”
Paige rolled her steel blue eyes and headed for where the deer had stood before he bolted. Her moccasins brushed the leaves of the forest floor with a deft whisper. Her father sauntered along behind her, chuckling. His boots kicked up sticks and twigs without a care in the world.
“How far do you think he would have gotten with that shot?” Paige asked.
“A lot farther than if I had shot him.”
“Well, it’s a new bow,” she countered, scrunching up her face.
“Excuses, excuses.”
Paige picked up a pinecone and chucked it at her father’s head. He ducked and scooped up a handful of leaves, dumping them in her hair.
“You really need to improve your aim all around, it looks like
,” he teased.
“You’re the absolute worst!” She lightly hit his shoulder. He leapt back to avoid her second swipe and tripped over a root, crashing into a pile of crimson maple leaves.
“Serves you right!” Paige quipped, pulling leaves out of her braid. Her papa snickered, shaking the leaves out of his hair and tossing more handfuls at his daughter.
“What can I say, I’ve got to get all my mischief out while I can!” He smiled at her. “In the next year or two, some young fella is gonna whisk you and your sister off your feet, and I’ll be left all alone with no one to mess with!”