Prince of the Blood

Nicky turned when he heard the door open, and Erland peered through. The youngest Prince grinned at his brothers as they gingerly slipped through the door. Nicky scrambled down the three steps with his canted gait to intercept them, and gave each a hug. Erland visibly winced and Borric bestowed an absent pat on the shoulder.

Nicky followed the twins as they slowly mounted the stairs behind the thrones, coming to stand behind their sister. She glanced over her shoulder long enough to stick out her tongue and cross her eyes, causing all three brothers to force themselves not to laugh. They knew no one else in court could see her fleeting pantomime. The twins had a long history of tormenting their little sister, who gave back as good as she got. She would think nothing of embarrassing them in the King’s own court.

Arutha, sensing some exchange between his children, glanced over and gifted his four offspring with a quick frown, enough to silence any potential mirth. His gaze lingered on his elder sons and showed his anger in full measure, though only those close to him would recognize it as such. Then his attention was back upon the matter before the court. A minor noble was being advanced into a new office, and while the four royal children might not find it worthy of much dignity, the man would count this among one of the high points of his life. Arutha had tried to impress such awareness upon them over the years but continuously failed.

Overseeing the Prince’s court was Lord Gardan, Duke of Krondor. The old soldier had served with Arutha, and his father before him, thirty years and more. His dark skin stood in stark contrast to his beard, almost white in colour, but he still had the alert eyes of one whose mind had lost none of its edge and a ready smile for the royal children. A commoner by birth, Gardan had risen on his ability, and despite an often expressed desire to retire and return to his home in Far Crydee, he had remained in Arutha’s service, first as Sergeant in the garrison at Crydee, then Captain of the Prince’s Royal Household, then Knight-Marshal of Krondor. When the previous Duke of Krondor, Lord Volney, had died unexpectedly after seven years’ loyal service in his office, Arutha had awarded the office to Gardan. Despite the old soldier’s protestations of not being suited to the nobility, he had proven an able administrator as well as a gifted soldier.

Gardan finished intoning the man’s new rank and privileges and Arutha preferred a terribly oversized parchment with ribbons and seals embossed upon it.

The man took his award of office and retired to the crowd, to the hushed congratulations of others in court.

Gardan nodded to the Master of Ceremonies, Jerome by name, and the thin man brought himself to his full height. Once a boyhood rival of Baron James, the office suited Jerome’s self-important nature. He was, by all accounts, a thorough bore and his preoccupation with trivia made him a natural for the post. His love of detail manifested itself in the exquisite stitching of his cloak of office and the pointed chin beard he spent hours in trimming. In pompous tones, he spoke: ‘If it pleases Your Highness, His Excellency, Lord Torum Sie, Ambassador from the Royal court of Great Kesh.’

The Ambassador, who had been standing off to one side, conferring with his advisors, approached the dais and bowed. By his attire, it was clear he was of the true Keshian people, for his head was shaved. His scarlet coat was cut away, revealing a pair of yellow pantaloons and white slippers. His chest was bare in the Keshian fashion, a large golden torque of office decorating his neck. Each item of clothing was delicately finished in almost imperceptible needlework, with tiny jewels and pearls decorating each seam. The effect was as if he was bathed in shimmering sparkles as he moved. He was easily the most splendid figure in court.

‘Highness,’ he said, his speech tinged by a slight singsong accent. ‘Our Mistress, Lakeisha, She Who Is Kesh, inquires as to the health of Their Highnesses.’

‘Convey our warmest regards to the Empress,’ responded Arutha, ‘and tell her we are well.’

‘With pleasure,’ the Ambassador answered. ‘Now, I must beg of His Highness an answer to the invitation sent by my mistress. The seventy-fifth anniversary of Her Magnificence’s birth is an event of unsurpassed joy to the Empire. We will host a Jubilee that will be celebrated for two months. Will Your Highnesses be joining us?’

Already the King had sent his apologies, as had the ruler of every neighbouring sovereignty from Queg to the Easter Kingdoms. While there had been peace between the Empire and her neighbours for an unusually long time – eleven years since the last major border clash – no ruler was foolish enough to come within the borders of the most feared nation upon Midkemia. Those rejections were considered proper. The invitation to the Prince and Princess of Krondor was another matter.

The Western Realm of the Kingdom of the Isles was almost a nation unto itself, with the responsibility for rulership given to the Prince of Krondor. Only the broadest policy came from the King’s court in Rillanon. And it was Arutha, as often as not, who had been the one to deal with Kesh’s Ambassadors, for the majority of potential conflict between Kesh and the Kingdom was along the Western Realm’s southern border.

Arutha looked at his wife, and then the Ambassador. ‘We regret that the press of official duty prevents us from undertaking so long a journey, Your Excellency.’

The Ambassador’s expression didn’t change, but a slight hardening around the eyes indicated the Keshian considered the rejection close to an insult. ‘That is regrettable, Highness. My mistress did so consider your presence vital – a gesture of friendship and goodwill.’

The odd comment was not lost upon Arutha. He nodded. ‘Still, we would consider ourselves remiss in our friendship and goodwill to our neighbours in the south if we did not send one who could represent the Royal House of the Isles.’ The Ambassador’s eyes at once fixed upon the twins. ‘Prince Borric, Heir Presumptive to the Throne of the Isles, shall be our representative at the Empress’s Jubilee, my lord.’ Borric, suddenly the focus of scrutiny, found himself standing more erect, and felt an unexpected need to tug at his tunic. ‘And his brother, Prince Erland, will accompany him.’

Borric and Erland exchanged startled glances. ‘Kesh!’ Erland whispered, astonishment barely contained.

The Keshian Ambassador inclined his head toward the Princes a moment in appreciation. ‘A fitting gesture of respect and friendship, Highness. My mistress will be pleased.’

Arutha’s gaze swept the room, and for an instant fixed upon a man at the rear of the room, then continued on. As the Keshian Ambassador withdrew, Arutha rose from his throne and said, ‘We have much business before us this day; court will resume tomorrow at the tenth hour of the watch.’ He offered his hand to his wife, who took it as she stood. Escorting the Princess from the dais, he whispered to Borric, ‘You and your brother: in my chambers in five minutes.’ All four royal children bowed formally as their father and mother passed, then fell into procession behind them.

Borric glanced at Erland and found his own curiosity mirrored in the face of his twin. The twins waited until they were out of the hall and Erland turned and grabbed Elena, spinning her roughly around in a bear hug. Borric gave her a solid whack on the backside, despite the softening effect of the folds of fabric of her gown. ‘Beasts!’ she exclaimed. Then she hugged each in turn. ‘I hate to say this, but I am glad to see you back. Things have been dreadfully dull since you left.’

Borric grinned. ‘Not as I hear it, little sister.’

Erland put his arm around his brother’s neck and whispered in mock conspiracy, ‘It has come to my attention that two of the Prince’s squires were caught brawling a month ago, and the reason seems to be which would escort our sister to the Festival of Banapis.’

Elena fixed both brothers with a narrow gaze. ‘I had nothing to do with those idiots brawling.’ Then she brightened. ‘Besides, I spent the day with Baron Lowery’s son, Thorn.’

Both brothers laughed. ‘Which is also what we heard,’ said Borric. ‘Your reputation is reaching even to the Border Barons, little sister! And you not yet sixteen!’

Elena hiked up her skirts and swept past her brothers. ‘Well, I’m almost the age Mother was when she first met Father, and speaking of Father, if you don’t get to his study, he’ll roast your livers for breakfast.’ She reached a point a dozen paces away, swirled in a flurry of silks, and again stuck her tongue out at her brothers.

Both laughed, then Erland noticed Nicky standing close by. ‘Well, then, what have we here?’

Borric made a show of glancing around, above Nicky’s head. ‘What do you mean? I see nothing.’

Nicky’s expression turned to one of distress. ‘Borric!’ he said, almost whining.

Borric glanced down. ‘Why, it’s …’ He turned to his brother. ‘What is it?’

Erland slowly walked around Nicky. ‘I’m not sure. It’s too small to be a goblin, yet too big to be a monkey – save perhaps a very tall monkey.’

‘Not broad enough in the shoulders to be a dwarf, and too finely tailored to be a beggar boy—’

Nicky’s face clouded over. Tears began to form in his eyes. ‘You promised!’ he said, his voice catching in his throat. He looked up at his brothers as they stood grinning down at him, then with tears upon his cheeks he kicked Borric in the shins, turned, and fled, his half-limping, rolling gait not slowing him as he scampered down the hall, the sound of his sobs following after.

Borric rubbed at the barked shin. ‘Ow. The boy can kick.’ He looked at Erland. ‘Promised?’

Erland rolled his eyes heavenward. ‘Not to tease him anymore.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘He’s sure to run to Mother and she’ll speak to Father and—’

Borric winced. ‘And we’ll get another round of lectures.’

Then as one they said, ‘Father!’ and hurried toward Arutha’s private quarters. The guard stationed at the door, seeing the approaching brothers, opened the doors for them.

Once inside, the twins found their father seated in his favourite chair, an old thing of wood and leather, but which he preferred to any of the dozen others in the large conference hall. Standing slightly to his left were Barons James and Locklear. Arutha said, ‘Come in, you two.’

The twins came to stand before their father, Erland moving with a slight awkwardness, as his injured side had stiffened overnight. ‘Something wrong?’ asked Arutha.

Both sons smiled weakly. Their father missed little. Borric said, ‘He tried a beat and counter-lunge when he should have parried in six. The fellow got inside his guard.’

Arutha’s voice was cold. ‘Brawling again. I should have expected it, as Baron James obviously did.’ To James he said, ‘Anyone killed?’

James said, ‘No, but it was a bit close with the son of one of the city’s more influential shippers.’

Arutha’s anger surfaced as he slowly rose from his chair. A man able to hold emotions in check, the sight of such a display was rare, and for those who knew him well, unwelcome. He came to stand before the twins and for a moment appeared on the verge of striking them. He stared into the eyes of each. He bit off each word as he sought to regain control. ‘What can you two possibly have been thinking of?’

Erland said, ‘It was self-defence, Father. The man was trying to skewer me.’

Borric chimed in, ‘The man was cheating. He had an extra Blue Lady up his sleeve.’

Arutha almost spat as he said, ‘I don’t care if he had an extra deck up his sleeve. You aren’t common soldiers, damn it! You are my sons!’

Arutha walked around them, as if inspecting horses or reviewing his guard. Both boys endured the close perusal, knowing their father’s mood brooked no insolence.

At last he threw up his hands in a gesture of resignation and said, ‘These aren’t my sons.’ He walked past the twins to stand next to the two Barons. ‘They’ve got to be Lyam’s,’ he said, invoking the King’s name. Arutha’s brother had been known for his temper and brawling as a youth. ‘Somehow Anita married me, but bore the King’s ruffian brats.’ James could only nod in agreement. ‘It must be some divine plan I don’t understand.’

Returning his attention to his boys, he said, ‘If your grandfather still lived, he’d have you over a barrel, a leather strap in his hand, no matter your size or age. You’ve acted like children, once again, and should be treated like children.’

His voice rose as he walked back before them, ‘I sent orders for you two to come home at once! But do you obey? No! Instead of coming straight away to the palace, you vanish into the Poor Quarter. Two days later, Baron James finds you brawling in a tavern.’ He paused, then in a near shout, he exclaimed, ‘You could have been killed!’

Borric began to quip, ‘Only if that parry—’