Kinghood Page 4

  “Ah, so the wise mage agrees with me,” Thybalt said.

  “Yes, although I must elaborate. The abundance I created most recently was, well, the very wine we drink. And the source? Well, that substance you just referenced: the mud of pigs.”

  Though it was obvious Wystan was joking, the mention made Thybalt pause mid-drink, so that wine dribbled down his chin. Audemar and Symon chuckled, while those in the banquet hall who caught a glimpse responded with more uproar.

  “Well played,” Thybalt conceded, as he wiped his chin with a cloth napkin. “Well played.”

  “High Bishop.” Too much time had passed in conversation without Symon paying his respects to His Grace. He believes I already insulted his Manor once. I should be careful not to error with him twice.

  “Your Highness.” Perceval nodded.

  “How goes it with your cousin? We miss the company of our dear riding master.”

  “Sir Waldeve is well and sends his regards. He will soon return to his duties here in Arcporte.”

  “I look forward to it.” Mar, I hate this part. “And allow me to apologize once again for my less-than-gentlemanly behavior.”

  “Do not worry about the past, Prince Jameson.”

  “It is not worry that compels me to beg forgiveness, but respect. Your Manor deserves better. Har-Kin Hamage and all of Marland deserve better.”

  Symon paused. The softening of clamor around him tipped him to the fact that several close by the head of the banquet hall were trying to listen. This shift in atmosphere did not go unnoticed by Perceval, who leaned back to stroke his chin.

  “My Prince,” Perceval began. “I am touched by your humbleness. In the weeks since your folly, I have seen you hold yourself accountable for the ill feelings that transpired. Many royals your age would not bother to lower their prestige by asking forgiveness from peers not their equals, especially those from a Har-Kin. Yet you did so nonetheless.

  “You need only to profess your apology once, as you have done weeks before. My Har-Kin is an old and proud one. I realize that I am... far-removed from many in my family as of late. However, I have faith that they will forgive you and that my cousin and other kin will return to your service in due time.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment, Your Eminence. Hamage should consider itself fortunate to have one of their own in the Church of Mar.”

  “Wystan,” Audemar interrupted, pointing at Symon’s cheek. “Have you had a look at that scratch of his?”

  “I did,” the mage answered, his tone turning apologetic. “I’m afraid it will scar. Had I seen it on the day of battle, then perhaps some salve may have prevented a longstanding mark. Alas, too much time has passed.”

  “Hmmm,” was all Audemar said.

  “Mage Wystan was thorough in his examination,” Symon assured. “He cleaned the mark, saying it would not fester nor green.”

  “He has the right of it,” Wystan added. “Your lad is tough, through and through.”

  “Oh, of that I have no doubts,” Audemar said, pride beaming in his eyes. To that end, the three nodded as Symon stood. “Son,” Audemar went on as he beckoned him forward. “Come. Sit.”

  Symon took a seat beside his father, who leaned in and lowered his voice. “It is good that you are here,” Audemar began. “Your victory on the Chesa has reached the ears of every baron in Marland. Another notch in the win category of Kin Saliswater.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  “With the nobles here to pay their quarterly tribute, and you here to mark your triumph, I see no reason to wait.”

  “Wait for what—”

  Symon nary had a chance to finish before his father rose, goblet in hand. “My barons! My ladies!” he announced. “Esteemed guests of the Court!”

  The conversation and banter hushed as the guests leaned in towards their king.

  “Today, it a great day for Kin Saliswater! Nay, for Marland! For all the realm!”

  Applause and cheers echoed through the great hall.

  “My son, your Prince Jameson,” he continued, “won a decisive victory in the Upper East Waterlands...”

  The pounding of fists on wood followed, as the barons and knights in the hall rattled the tables. Audemar let it go on for a moment before lowering his goblet, signaling the noise to simmer.

  “It sent a message to our enemies, the Lewmarians: Marland is ours, not yours. Our island is Marlish. Our people are free!”

  Whoops and hollers rose in unison. Voices from all burst with accolades. More fists struck the tables. Soon the chant of “Marland! Marland!” erupted.

  Symon breathed deeply, allowing himself to partake in the spoils of victory. The rush he had felt in battle returned to him. His senses, previously subdued by dull conversation and a bit of wine, heightened. Though he would never admit it publicly, he knew he wanted it. The accolades. The loyalty. The strength that coursed through his veins. He wanted all of it. And more.

  A minute or two passed before the crowd settled again. Symon, still seated, stared up at Audemar, who remained standing. He could tell his father still had something much more important to say.

  “My fellow Marlish men and women! Our victory – and what’s more, our standing as a nation – has not only been made known to our adversaries but to many others. Time and time again, we have beaten our foes, and all others in Afari have taken notice. Thus, we are in a position to better our nation, for ourselves and our children.

  “Therefore, it is with great enthusiasm that I announce our upcoming reception of the Ibian monarch, our newest ally, King Felix.”

  Like a sea before a sudden squall, the crowd stirred. Ladies turned to one another, as barons quipped with knights, servants with squires. Whether the news was well-received or not, Symon could not be certain.

  So persistent was the reaction that Sir Lijart, keeping guard off to the side, had to bang the butt of his halberd on the tile floor. He even approached the mounted ram’s horn, ready to blow it and quiet the banter. However, upon seeing the look of determination in his eye, many of the barons softened. Others followed suit.

  “Mark my words, barons and knights of Marland, this is an opportunity not a threat. This visit from King Felix will mark a long and fruitful alliance between his country and ours. Many bonds will be made. Trade will increase. Pockets will be lined.”

  Some of the barons, now considering their own fortunes, nodded. Thybalt was clearly pleased. Still, the whole of the audience had not been won over.

  “Furthermore, this connection between the two nations will strengthen us where it matters most: the sea. The cornerstone of our relations will be securing the prize of Ibia, the most sought after commodity in Afari. You know of what I speak: Ibian cedar.”

  As murmurs stirred amongst the listeners, Audemar extended his hand to Lijart, who disappeared into the adjoining hall. He reappeared a moment later, carrying a long object wrapped in satin.

  Audemar took it with haste. Servants rushed in to clear the table before him, that he may set it down. Others noticed his newfound item, so that once again, silence fell.

  “Marlish men and women, in celebration of both my son’s victory and the communion between nations that will come, I had the following gift crafted in Prince Jameson’s honor. My son, stand and receive.”

  Symon rose, careful not to appear caught unawares. His father handed him the satin-wrapped gift. Symon weighed it in his hands. It felt sturdy yet light. He placed it before him, unlacing the straps to uncover what laid beneath.

  “Show us,” called some drunk from the hall.

  Symon placed his hands around a polished shaft of dark wood. He lifted it for all to see.

  “A trident!” exclaimed another.

  “Indeed,” King Audemar responded, proudly. “Made of the finest Ibian cedar, a gift from King Felix. I had our master armorer cut and polish the wood himself. It is fitted with the three-pointed barbs our ancestors used to fish from the sea. Of the purest Marlish steel, thanks to our Mage o
f Mages, Wystan of Har-Kin Danverrs.

  “It is a weapon without comparison, combining the best of Marland and Ibia, much like what will occur in the days to come. As we speak King Felix and all his Court are sailing to Arcporte, with the noblest of intentions, offering to solidify our Kin with acts of both pen and royal union.”

  At that, Symon lowered his gift. He turned to his father, as did every eye in the hall.

  “You heard me correctly, my fellow Marlish,” Audemar continued, grinning. “With Kin Guillen largely vanquished, King Felix no longer wants his beloved firstborn to be promised to a dying manor. At his request, the Devout have dissolved the betrothal between Prince Denisot and Princess Taresa. The Jewel of Ibia is now free to marry as she pleases.”

  Whispers permeated the air. Symon, not believing the announcement, knew not how to react.

  “A toast!” Baron Tristan shouted as he rose. “To our Prince Jameson, victor of the Chesa! May he conquer the harbor between Princess Taresa’s legs the way he conquered the Lewmarians. With strength! With power! With force! And may his love-making to her inspire a hundred-thousand songs!”

  Cheers filled the hall. As did more pounding of fists. And calls for a royal wedding.

  Symon, knowing that the mood was beyond control, went along. He picked up the trident and thrust it into the air. The crowd roared with delight. King Audemar placed his hand around his shoulder. The barons clapped. Servants, beckoned by the guests, filled goblet after goblet.

  So this is my victory, Symon considered. A battle won and fought. A new weapon. A treaty with a foreign ally. And a wife, a queen to call my own.

  Not at all how I imagined it. But mine nonetheless. Everything that my father wanted for me.

  Chapter 4

  The hour was late. The crowd had cleared. The air had chilled.

  Symon strolled the covered parapet, his head swimming from the night’s festivities. After the royal decree of his intended union had been made, he was urged to make the rounds with the barons once again. Slaps on the back and pats on the shoulder were aplenty. As was more talk of Symon’s prowess in bed, of Taresa’s supposed performance between the sheets, of the nights of ecstasy the two would have. A lesser man would have blushed through it all. However, Symon had learned long ago to keep his true feelings buried deep. Besides, the embarrassing talk was but a pebble compared to the mountain of effort he had exerted to defeat the Lewmarians.

  From the parapet, he climbed the steps to the East Tower. He passed the two sentinels at the tower entrance, and more along the way to his room. None turned their heads as he approached or passed, nor nodded in his direction. Like statues, they remained upright, unassuming and attracting no attention to themselves.

  At last, Symon reached the top room, his own. With the door shut behind him, he eyed his bed, contemplating a good night’s sleep.

  Wait, he stopped himself. What night is this?

  “Bloody Mar,” he muttered.

  He wanted nothing more than to put off what he had to do until the morning. Or later the following evening. After all, what was another day?

  Rather, his uncompromising sense of duty sent him trudging across the room to his private study.

  Three times the size of his sleeping quarters, the study was an addition to the East Tower in the last days of the Century War, completed in the months following his birth. Arched windows of stained glass extended in a semi-circle on the top floor, where above a marble dome hung, sporting carved scenes of a royal hunt of elk, bear, and of course, fox. A spiral staircase led to the level below, where an ornate table of redwood and oak stood at the center. On both levels, lining every free space of the study, were collections of books and scrolls, all written in Marlish.

  If the construction was done in haste, this augmentation to the castle had yet to show it, for Symon could find no signs of weathering or stress. An impressive feat, given that other parts of the royal residence were starting to reveal their use and age.

  Symon briefly took in the grandeur he had grown up in. While the moonlight shone brightly, he paused to light a candle, taking it with him as he descended to the lower level. Orange glow and shadow danced on the walls as he found his way to the shelf directly beneath the staircase.

  Though the candle flickered, Symon need no light for the books he chose. He grabbed the title on the second to the top shelf, one called Great Sieges & Battle Victories by Baron Symon of the long-gone Kin Dreus. He leaned the book toward him, so that it laid on the edge of its spine, and left it in place. He did the same with the titles Histories of Our Kin by Sir Dawkin of Har-Kin Ylou and The Tragedies of the Blessed by Baron Ely of Kin Rosaii. Finally, he reached for the book on the bottom shelf called The Marlish Fighter by Sir Geremias of Kin Paixton.

  With all four books leaning outward, a series of clanks and creaks followed. Symon grimaced at the sound. We’ll have to oil them soon, he thought. They’re far past needing it.

  The book shelf before him cracked open, revealing itself to be the façade to a hinged door. Symon ducked in, edging onto a walkway between a series of gears and springs, each one twisting and spinning as the door extended, then closed.

  Symon continued on, his candle revealing a spiral stone staircase that led downward. He descended eight long flights before coming to a horizontal shaft that blew cold sea air into his face.

  The salty breeze invigorated him as he cupped the flame of his candle. The hall curved, and Symon along with it, until he came upon a sentinel bearing a coat-of-arms of four robins on his breastplate.

  The sentinel, with halberd tilted outward to prevent passage, made eye contact with Symon. He pulled his weapon back and stood aside.

  The same dance of soldier and steel occurred further on, as the underground passage curved in the opposite direction, the salt air growing fresher as Symon proceeded. He passed five sentinels before the passage finally opened up into a wide hall carved from sandstone, one that sported adjacent rooms and supporting corridors.

  Symon peeked into one of the rooms, a large meeting space with a four-pointed table at its center and with chairs at each corner. Save for the moonlight streaming in from a conical shaft above, the area was unlit. Symon, seeing it unoccupied, sighed in relief. Good. They didn’t wait up.

  He made his way further down, passing a handful of closed doors, until he reached for the knob of one and entered. Like the meeting room, it too was dimly lit from a conical shaft above. Symon, his eyes having adjusted, blew out his candle. He threw off his vest and shirt, along with his boots. He pulled the curtain before the conical shaft, enveloping the whole of his room in darkness, before plopping into bed.

  “Finally,” he whispered.

  He allowed his eyelids to grow heavy, his own sense of guard lifted by knowing of the sentinels outside, by the walls around him.

  “Is he still awake?”

  The voice took care to whisper but it reached Symon’s ears all the same. He laid motionless, hoping the reply would grant him reprieve.

  “He should be,” another answered.

  “I thought I heard him stop by the Fourpointe Chamber,” said a third.

  “Just poke your head inside and check.”

  “The door will creak.”

  “So?”

  Symon sat up. “Oh, in the Name of Mar!” he exclaimed. “I can hear you.”

  The door burst open, and with it, three familiar faces. All of them exactly like his.

  “Don’t yell at them,” Ely pleaded half-heartedly, a devilish grin painted across his face. “I put them up to it.”

  “I’m sorry, brother” Dawkin interjected. “Curiosity clearly got the better of us. We should have allowed you to sleep.”

  “Well, you didn’t.”

  “What happened?” asked Gerry, coming from behind the other two to point at Symon’s left cheek.

  “A scratch. Nothing more.”

  “Did the mage...”

  “He did. The mark will stay.”

  “Gre
at,” Dawkin said. “You know what that means for us.”

  “I do,” Symon replied, smirking. “Serves you right for waking me.”

  Ely grabbed Symon’s shirt from the nearby chair and threw it to him. “Well, since we’re awake, you might as well tell us all about it.”

  Symon mumbled incoherently as he dressed, his three brothers waiting by the door. When he was done, he wedged between them and out into the hallway toward their meeting area, with the others in tow.

  The hour of the strong moon was upon them, for when Symon entered the Fourpointe Chamber, he found it brighter than when he had seen it before. His brothers went through the motions of lighting the sconces nonetheless. By the time they were done, the room radiated with rich, luminous color, as though it was outside during midday.

  With the quarters aglow, Symon studied his brothers. Dawkin had no doubt been at his books again, for stubble had crept onto his face, in contrast to his otherwise immaculate appearance. As the one who prided himself for always being ready to ascend at a moment’s notice, he made sure to keep up his grooming and physique, as much as the resources of Terran allowed.

  Ely, on the other hand, was clearly the most unkempt. The whiskers that sprouted from his chin could have doubled for a small horsehair brush, while the hair on his head appeared more like a dried mop than the receptacle for a princely crown. Symon could tell from the streaks in his locks that he had been experimenting with dyes and colorings again, reflecting his persistent interests in disguises. One day he will dye his hair a shade that will not wash out, Symon knew. On that day, we will all have to shave our heads.

  For all the differences that Symon had picked out from his brothers, he could find none in Gerry. He had stayed as Symon had left him. Not surprising, for among the four of them he had the gift of remaining steadfast, specifically where his looks were concerned. All throughout their childhood, Gerry had lingered. His face, upon close inspection, stood out as the most angelic and unspoiled. It was a subtle observation, apparent to none except his identical brothers. Then there was his height, which lagged behind the other three, who sprouted in unison. The variation between Gerry and his brothers was past two inches, a gap that could not be ignored and had to be compensated with lifts in all his boots and footwear. Symon feared that as they entered their early twenties Gerry’s chance to grow further had passed, his stature destined to remain an impairment.