Prince of the Blood Read online

  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 favorite 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 moved 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 counterlunge 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-defense, 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 spit 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—”

  “Enough!” cried Arutha, his temper frayed beyond his ability to control it. He gripped Borric’s tunic and pulled his son forward, off-balance. “You will not end this with a joke and smile! You have defied me for the last time.” He punctuated this with a shove that sent Borric half-stumbling into his brother. Arutha’s manner showed he had no patience for the flippancies from his son he usually ignored. “I didn’t call you back because the court missed your peculiar sort of chaos. I think that another year or two on the border might have settled you down a bit, but I have no alternative. You have princely duties and you are needed now!”

  Borric and Erland exchanged glances. Arutha’s moods were old business to them, and they had endured his anger—which was usually justified—before, but this time something serious was occurring. Borric said, “We’re sorry, Father. We didn’t realize it was a matter of duty that called us home.”

  “Because you are not expected to realize anything, you are expected to obey!” shot back their father. Obviously out of patience with the entire exchange, he said, “I am done with you for now. I must compose myself for the business of dealing in private with the Keshian Ambassador this afternoon. Baron James will continue this conversation on my behalf.” At the door, he paused, and said to James, “Whatever you need do, do! But I want these miscreants impressed with the gravity of things when I speak to them this afternoon.” He closed the door without waiting for a response.

  James and Locklear moved to either side of the young Princes, and James said, “If Your Highnesses would be so kind as to follow us.”

  Borric and Erland both glanced at their lifelong tutors and “uncles” and then at each other. Both had an inkling of what was to come. Their father had never laid strap nor hand upon any of his children, to the profound relief of his wife, but that still didn’t prevent regular bouts of “fighting practice,” when the boys were unruly, which was most of the time.

  Waiting outside, Lieutenant William quietly fell into step with the twins and the Barons as they moved down the hall. He hurried to open the door, which led to Prince Arutha’s gymnasium—a large room where the royal family could practice their skills with sword, dagger, or hand-to-hand combat.

  Baron Ja
mes led the procession down the hall. At the door to the gymnasium, William again moved to open the door, for while he was second cousin to the twins, he was still merely a soldier in the company of nobles. Borric entered the room first, followed by Erland and James, with Locklear and William behind.

  Inside the room, Borric nimbly turned and walked backward, his hands raised in a boxer’s pose, as he said, “We’re a lot older and bigger, now, Uncle Jimmy. And you’re not going to sucker punch me behind the ear like you did last time.”

  Erland leaned to the left, clutching his side in exaggeration and suddenly developed a limp. “And faster, too, Uncle Locky.” Without warning, he threw an elbow at Locklear’s head. The Baron, a seasoned soldier of almost twenty years, dodged aside, allowing Erland to overbalance. He then turned him in a circle by hauling on one arm, and pushed him into the center of the gymnasium with the sole of his boot.

  The two Barons stood away as both brothers stood poised for a fight, fists upraised. With a wry grin, James raised his hands palms out and said, “Oh, you’re too young and fast for us, all right.” The tone of sarcasm was not lost on the boys. “But as we have to be clear headed over the next few days, we thought we’d forgo the pleasure of seeing how far you’ve come in the last two years.” He hiked his thumb behind him, indicating a far corner. “Personally, that is.”

  Two soldiers, stripped to breeches only, stood in the corner. Each had massive arms crossed over impressively muscled chests. Baron James waved for them to approach. As they did, the boys glanced at one another.

  The two men moved with the fluid motion of a thoroughbred warhorse, supple, but with power waiting. Each looked as if he was carved from stone, and Borric whispered, “They’re not human!” Erland grinned, for both men had large jaws, suggesting the protruding mandible of mountain trolls.

  “These gentlemen are from your Uncle Lyam’s garrison,” said Locklear. “We had a demonstration of the Royal Fist-Boxing Champions last week and asked them to stay with us a few extra days.” The two men began to move away from each other, circling the boys in opposite directions.

  Jimmy said, “The blond-haired fellow is Sergeant Obregon, from the Rodez garrison—”

  Locklear injected, “He’s champion of all men under two hundred pounds—ah, Erland should be your student, Obregon; his side is injured. Be gentle with him.”

  “—and the other,” continued Jimmy, “is Sergeant Palmer, from Bas-Tyra.”

  Borric’s eyes narrowed as he studied the approaching soldier. “Let me guess: he’s the champion of all men over two hundred pounds.”

  “Yes,” said Baron James, with an evil smile.

  Instantly, Borric’s field of vision was filled by an oncoming fist. He quickly tried to move away from it, but abruptly discovered another had found the side of his head. Then he was considering who painted the frescos on the ceiling of the room his father had converted to a gymnasium. He really should ask someone.

  Shaking his head as he slowly sat up, he could hear James saying, “Your father wanted us to impress upon you the importance of what you face tomorrow.”

  “And what might that be?” said Borric, allowing Sergeant Palmer to help him to his feet. But the Sergeant didn’t release Borric’s right hand. Instead, he held it tightly as he brought his own right hand hard up into Borric’s stomach. Lieutenant William visibly winced as Borric’s breath exploded from his lungs and his eyes crossed as he sank to the floor once more. Erland began warily moving away from the other fist-boxer, who now was stalking him across the floor.

  “If it has escaped your notice, your uncle the King has sired only daughters since young Prince Randolph died.”

  Borric waved off the offered hand of Sergeant Palmer and said, “Thanks. I’ll get up by myself.” As he came to one knee, he said, “I hardly dwell on the fact of our cousin’s death, but I’m aware of it.” Then as he started to stand, he drove a vicious blow into Sergeant Palmer’s stomach.

  The older, harder fighter stood rock steady, forced himself to take a breath, then smiled in appreciation and said, “That was a good one. Highness.”

  Borric’s eyes rolled heavenward. “Thank you.” Then another fist filled his vision and once more he considered the wonderful craftsmanship displayed upon the ceiling. Why hadn’t he ever taken the opportunity to notice it before?

  Erland attempted to keep distance between himself and the approaching Sergeant Obregon. Suddenly, the young man was not backing up, but striking out with a flurry of blows. The Sergeant, rather than back away, raised his arms before his face and let the younger man strike his arms and shoulders. “Our uncle’s lack of an heir is a fact not unknown to us, Uncle Jimmy,” observed Erland as his own arms began to tire while he futilely pounded upon the muscular Sergeant. Abruptly, the Sergeant stepped inside Erland’s reach and drove another blow into the youngster’s side. Erland’s face drained of color and his eyes crossed, then unfocused.

  Seeing the reaction, Sergeant Obregon said, “Pardon, Highness, I’d meant to strike the uninjured side.”

  Erland’s voice was a bare whisper as he gasped, “How very kind of you.”

  Borric shook his head to clear his thoughts, then quickly rolled backward and came to his feet, ready to fight. “So then, there’s a point to this iteration on our family’s lack of a royal Prince?”

  “Actually, so,” agreed James. “With no male issue, the Prince of Krondor still is Heir.”

  Erland’s voice returned in a strangled gasp. “The Prince of Krondor is always Royal Heir.”

  “And your father is Prince of Krondor,” interjected Locklear.

  With a clever feint with his left, Borric drove his right into the jaw of Sergeant Palmer and momentarily staggered the older man. Another blow to the body and the boxer was retreating. Borric grew confident and stepped in to deliver a finishing blow, and abruptly the world turned upside down.

  Borric’s vision turned yellow then red for a long while, and while he hung in space, the floor came up to strike him in the back of the head. Then blackness crowded in at the edge of his vision and he saw a ring of faces looking down a deep well at him. They seemed friendly faces, and he thought he might know who they were, but he didn’t feel any need to worry on it, as he was so very comfortable sinking into the cool dark of the well. Staring past the faces, he absently wondered if any of them might know who the artists of the frescos above might be.

  As his eyes rolled up into his head, William upended a small bucket over Borric’s face. The elder twin came back to consciousness sputtering and spitting water.

  Baron James was upon one knee and helped the Prince sit upright. “Are you still with me?”

  Borric shook his head and his eyes focused. “I think so,” he managed to gasp.

  “Good. For if your father is still Heir to the throne, you royal infant”—he slapped Borric on the back of the head to emphasize what came next—“then you are still Heir Presumptive.”

  Borric turned to study James’s face. The point of James’s message was still lost on the young Prince. “So?”

  “So, ninny, as it is unlikely that our good King, your uncle, will father any sons at this stage in his life—given the Queen’s age—should Arutha survive him, he will then be King.” Reaching out to aid Borric to his feet, he added, “And as the Goddess of Luck would have it”—he slapped Borric playfully on the side of the face—“you almost certainly will outlive your father, which means that someday after, you shall be King.”

  “May heaven forfend,” interjected Locklear.

  Borric looked around the room. The two Sergeants had stepped back, as the pretense of a boxing lesson was forgotten. “King?”

  “Yes, you stone-crowned dolt,” said Locklear. “If we’re still alive, we’ll have to kneel before you and pretend you know what you’re doing.”

  “So,” continued James, “your father has decided that it’s time for you to stop behaving like the spoiled child of a rich cattle merchant and start acting like a fut
ure King of Isles.”

  Erland came to stand beside his brother, leaning upon him slightly. “So why not just simply”—he winced as he moved the wrong way, straining his reinjured side—“tell us what’s going on?”

  James said, “I convinced your father the lesson needed to be … emphasized.” He studied the two Princes. “You’ve been educated, taught by the best instructors your father could employ. You speak … what … six, seven languages? You can do sums and calculate, like engineers at a siege. You can discourse on the teachings of the ancients. You have music and painting skills, and you know the etiquette of the court. You are skilled swordsmen and”—he glanced at the two boxers—“somewhat gifted students of fisticuffs.” He stepped away. “But in nineteen years since your birth you’ve never given a single sign that you’re anything other than spoiled, self-indulgent children. Not Princes of the realm!” His voice rose and his tone turned angry. “And when we’re done with you, you’ll be acting the role of a Crown Prince instead of a spoiled child.”

  Borric stood crestfallen. “Spoiled child?”

  Erland grinned at his brother’s discomfort. “Well, that’s it, then, isn’t it? Borric shall have to mend his ways, and you and Father will be happy—”

  James’s wicked grin turned on Erland. “As will you, my lovely! For if this child of a foolish and capricious nature should go and get his throat cut by the angry husband of a Keshian court lady, it’s you who’ll wear the conDoin crown in Rillanon someday. And should he not, you’ll still be Heir until the unlikely event of your brother becoming a father. Even then, you’ll most likely end up a Duke somewhere.” Letting his voice drop a bit, he said, “So both of you begin to learn your office.”

  Borric said, “Yes, I know. First thing tomorrow. Come, let’s get some rest—” Borric looked down and discovered a restraining hand upon his chest.