Prince of the Blood Page 4

  “Not so fast,” said James. “You haven’t finished your lesson.”

  “Ah, Uncle Jimmy—” began Erland.

  “You’ve made your point—” said Borric, anger in his voice.

  “I think not,” answered the Baron. “You’re still a pair of rude sods.” Turning to the two Sergeants, he said, “If you please, continue.”

  Baron James signaled for Locklear to accompany him, as he quickly left the two young Princes readying themselves for a professionally administered beating. As the two nobles quit the court, James motioned to Lieutenant William. “When they’ve had enough, get them to their quarters. Let them rest and see they eat, then ensure that they are up and ready to see His Highness by midafternoon.”

  William saluted and turned to watch as both Princes tumbled to the canvas mat again. He shook his head. This wasn’t going to be a pretty sight.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ACCUSATION

  THE BOY CRIED OUT.

  Borric and Erland watched from the window of their parents’ private chamber as Swordmaster Sheldon pressed his attack on young Prince Nicholas. The boy shouted again in excitement as he executed a clever parry and counterthrust. The Swordmaster retreated.

  Borric scratched at his cheek as he observed, “The boy can scamper about, that’s for certain.” The angry bruise from the morning’s boxing practice was darkening.

  Erland agreed. “He’s inherited Father’s skills with a blade. And he manages to do right well despite his bad leg.”

  Borric and Erland both turned as the door opened and their mother entered. Anita waved her ladies-in-waiting to the far corner of the room, where they commenced to discuss quietly whichever current piece of gossip was judged most interesting. The Princess of Krondor moved to stand between her sons and peered through the window as a joyous Nicholas was lured into an overbalanced extension and found himself suddenly disarmed.

  “No, Nicky! You should have seen it coming,” shouted Erland, though the glass window prevented his words from reaching his younger brother.

  Anita laughed. “He tries so hard.”

  Borric shrugged as they turned away. “Still, he does well enough for a boy. Not much worse than when we were his age.”

  Erland agreed. “The monkey—”

  Suddenly his mother turned on him and slapped him hard across the face. Instantly, the women in the other corner of the room ceased their whispers and stared in wide-eyed amazement at their Princess. Borric looked at his brother, whose astonishment matched his own. Not once in their nineteen years had their mother raised a hand to either boy. Erland was more stunned by the act than any pain from the slap. Anita’s green eyes revealed a mixture of anger and regret. “Never talk that way about your brother again.” Her tone left no room for argument. “You have mocked him and caused him more pain than all the unkind whispers among the nobles together. He is a good boy and he loves you, and all you have for him is ridicule and torment. Your first day back in the palace and within five minutes of speaking with you he was in tears again.

  “Arutha was right. I’ve let you go unpunished for your trespasses too long.” She turned as if to leave.

  Borric, seeking to rescue his brother and himself from the embarrassment of the moment, said, “Ah, Mother. You did send for us? Was there something else you wanted to discuss?”

  Anita said, “I didn’t send for you.”

  “I did.”

  The boys turned to see their father standing quietly at the small door that opened between his study and the family room, as Anita called his part of the royal apartment. The brothers glanced at one another and knew their father had been observing long enough to have witnessed the exchange between mother and sons.

  After a long silence, Arutha said, “If you’ll excuse us, I would have a private word with our sons.”

  Anita nodded and indicated to her ladies they should retire with her. Quickly the room emptied, leaving Arutha with his sons. When the door was closed, Arutha said, “Are you all right?”

  Erland made a display of stiff muscles and said, “Well, enough, Father, given the ‘instructions’ we received this morning.” He indicated his tender side was not further injured.

  Arutha frowned and shook his head slightly. “I asked Jimmy not to tell me what he had in mind.” He smiled a crooked smile. “I just requested he somehow impress upon you that there are serious consequences to not doing what is required of you.”

  Erland nodded. Borric said, “Well, it is not entirely unexpected. You did order us directly home and we did stop to play a bit before coming to the palace.”

  “Play …” Arutha said, his eyes searching his eldest son’s face. “… I’m afraid there will be little time for play in the future.”

  He motioned for the boys to approach and they came to him. He turned back into his study and they followed as he moved past his large writing table. Behind it was a special alcove, hidden by a clever locked stone, which he opened. He withdrew a parchment bearing the royal family crest and handed it to Borric. “Read the third paragraph.”

  Borric read and his eyes widened. “This is sad news, indeed.”

  Erland said, “What is it?”

  “A message from Lyam,” Arutha said.

  Borric handed it to his brother. “The royal chirurgeons and priests are certain the Queen will have no more children. There will not be a Royal Heir in Rillanon.”

  Arutha moved to a door at the back of the royal chambers and said, “Come with me.”

  He opened the door and moved up a flight of stairs. His sons followed quickly after, and soon all three stood on the top of an old tower, near the center of the royal palace, overlooking the city of Krondor. Arutha spoke without looking to see if his sons had followed.

  “When I was about your age, I used to stand upon the parapets of the barbican of my father’s castle. I would look down over the town of Crydee and the harbor beyond. Such a small place, but so large in my memory.”

  He glanced at Borric and Erland. “Your grandfather did much the same when he was a boy, or so our old Swordmaster, Fannon, once told me.” Arutha spent a moment lost in memory. “I was about your age when command of the garrison fell to me, boys.” Both sons had heard tales of the Riftwar and their father’s part in it, but this wasn’t the same sort of old stories they had heard swapped by their father and their uncle, Laurie, or Admiral Trask over dinner.

  Arutha turned and sat in one of the merlons and said, “I never wanted to be Prince of Krondor, Borric.” Erland moved to sit in the merlon next to his father, as he sensed that Arutha’s words were more for his older brother than himself. They had both heard often enough that their father had no wish to rule. “When I was a boy,” Arutha continued, “I had no larger desire than to serve as a soldier, perhaps with the border lords.”

  “It wasn’t until I met the old Baron Highcastle that I realized that boyhood dreams are often with us as adults. They are difficult to be shed of, and yet, to see things as they really are, we must lose that child’s eye view of things.”

  He scanned the horizon. Their father had always been a direct man, given to direct speech and never at a loss for words to express himself. But he was obviously having difficulty saying what was on his mind. “Borric, when you were much younger, what did you think your life would be like now?”

  Borric glanced over at Erland, then back at his father. A light breeze sprang up and his thick, ill-cut mane of reddish brown hair blew about his face. “I never gave it much thought, Father.”

  Arutha sighed. “I think I have made a terrible mistake in the manner in which you were raised. When you were both very tiny you were very mischievous and upon one occasion upset me—it was a little thing, a spilled inkwell, but a long parchment was ruined and a scribe’s work for a day was lost. I swatted you upon the bottom, Borric.” The elder brother grinned at the image. Arutha did not return the grin. “Anita made me promise that day that never again would I touch either one of you in anger. By doing
so, I think I have coddled you and ill prepared you for the lives you will lead.”

  Erland couldn’t help feeling embarrassed. They’d been scolded often enough over the years, but rarely punished and, before this morning, never physically.

  Arutha nodded. “You and I have little in common in the manner in which we were raised. Your uncle the King felt our father’s leather belt on more than one occasion when he was caught. I only took one beating as a boy. I quickly learned that when Father gave an order, he expected it to be obeyed without question.” Arutha sighed, and in that sound both boys heard uncertainty from their father for the first time in their lives. “We all assumed Prince Randolph would be King someday. When he drowned, we assumed Lyam would have another son. Even as daughters came and the prospects for a Royal Heir in Rillanon lessened with the years, we just never considered that someday you”—he put his finger on Borric’s chest—“would be ruler of the nation.”

  He looked over at his other son and in an uncharacteristic gesture, reached out and placed his hand over Erland’s. “I am not given to speaking of strong feelings, but you are my sons and I love you both, though you try my patience to distraction.”

  Both boys were suddenly uncomfortable with this revelation. They loved their father but, like him, were discomforted by any attempt to express such feelings openly. “We understand,” was all Borric could manage.

  Looking Borric directly in the eyes, Arutha said, “Do you? Do you really? Then understand that from this day forth you are no longer my sons alone, Borric. You are both now sons to the Kingdom. Each of you is a royal. You are to be King someday, Borric. Wrap your mind around that fact, for it is so, and nothing this side of death will change that. And from this day on a father’s love of his son will no longer shield you from life’s harshness. To be a king is to hold men’s lives by a thread. A thoughtless gesture will end those lives as certainly as if you had chosen to tear the threads.”

  To Erland, he said, “Twins pose a serious threat to peace in our Kingdom, for should old rivalries surface, you’ll find some claiming the birth order was reversed, some who will raise your cause without your consent, as an excuse to make war upon old foes.

  “You both have heard the story, of the First King Borric and how he was forced to slay his own brother, Jon the Pretender. And you have also heard, often enough, of how I stood with the King and our brother Martin in the hall of our ancestors, before the Congress of Lords, each of them with a just claim to the crown. By Martin’s signal act of nobility, Lyam wears his crown and no blood was shed.” He held his thumb and forefinger a scant fraction of an inch apart. “Yet we were but this far from civil war that day.”

  Borric said, “Father, why are you telling us this?”

  Arutha stood, sighed, and put his hand upon his eldest son’s shoulder. “Because your boyhood is at an end, Borric. You are no longer the son of the Prince of Krondor. For I have decided that should I survive my brother, I will renounce my own claim upon the crown in favor of yours.” Borric began to protest, but Arutha cut him off. “Lyam is a vigorous man. I may be an old one when he dies, if I don’t precede him. It is best if there is not a short rule between Lyam’s and your own. You will be the next King of Isles.”

  Glancing at Erland, he said, “And you will always stand in your brother’s shadow. You will forever be one step from the throne, yet never permitted to sit upon it. You will always be sought out for favor and position, but never your own; you will be seen as a stepping-stone to your brother. Can you accept such a fate?”

  Erland shrugged. “It doesn’t seem too grave a fate, Father. I shall have estates and title, and responsibilities enough, I am certain.”

  “More, for you need stand with Borric in all things, even when you disagree with him in private. You will never have a public mind that you may call your own. It must be so. I cannot stress this enough. Never once in the future can you publicly oppose the King’s will.” Moving a short way off, he turned and regarded them both. “You have never known anything but peace in our Kingdom. The raids along the border are trivial things.”

  Erland said, “Not to those of us who fought those raiders! Men died, Father.”

  Arutha said, “I speak of nations now, and dynasties, and the fate of generations. Yes, men died, so that this nation and its people may live in peace.

  “But there was a time when war was always with us, when border skirmishes with Great Kesh and the Eastern Kingdoms were a monthly occurrence and when Quegan galleys took our ships at their leisure, and when invaders from the Tsurani world held part of your grandfather’s lands—for nine years!

  “You will be asked to give up many things, my sons. You will be asked to marry women who will most likely be strangers to you. You will be asked to relinquish many of the privileges lesser men know: the ability to enter a tavern and drink with strangers, to pick up and travel to another city, to marry for love and watch your children grow without fear of their being used for others’ designs.” Gazing out over the city, he added, “To sit at day’s end with your wife and discuss the small matters of your life, to be at ease.”

  Borric said, “I think I understand.” His voice was subdued.

  Erland only nodded.

  Arutha said, “Good, for in a week you leave for Great Kesh, and from this moment forward you are the Kingdom’s future.” He moved toward the stairs that led down into the palace and halted at them. “I wish I could spare you this, but I can’t.” Then he was gone.

  Both boys sat quietly for a time, then as one turned to look out over the harbor. The afternoon sun beat down, yet the breeze from the Bitter Sea was cooling. In the harbor below, boats moved as punts and barges carried cargo and passengers back and forth between the docks and great sailing ships anchored in the bay. In the distance white dots signaled approaching ships, traders from the Far Coast, the Kingdom of Queg, the Free Cities of Yabon, or the Empire of Great Kesh.

  Then Borric’s face relaxed as a smile spread. “Kesh!”

  Erland laughed. “Yes, to the heart of Great Kesh!”

  Both shared the laughter at the prospect of new cities and people, and travel to a land considered exotic and mysterious. And their father’s words vanished upon the wind to the east.

  Some institutions linger for centuries, while others pass quickly. Some arrive quietly, others with fanfare. In years past it was considered a general practice to give apprentices and other servants the latter half of the sixth day of the week for themselves. Now the practice had come to include a closing of businesses on Sixthday at noon, with Seventhday usually held to be a day of devotions and meditations.

  But within the last twenty years another “tradition” had arisen. From the first Sixthday following the winter equinox, boys and young men, apprentices and servants, commoner and noble, began preparing. For upon the holiday of First Thaw, held six optimistic weeks after the equinox, often despite inclement weather, football season commenced.

  Once called barrel ball, the game had been played for as long as boys had kicked balls of rags into barrels. Twenty years before, the young Prince Arutha had instructed his Master of Ceremonies to draw up a standard set of rules for the game, more for the protection of his young squires and apprentices, for then the game was rough in the extreme. Now the game had been institutionalized in the minds of the populace; come spring, football returned.

  On all levels, from boys playing in open fields up to a City League, with teams fielded by guilds, trading associations, or rich nobles eager to be patrons, players could be seen racing up and down attempting to kick a ball into a net.

  The crowd shouted its approval as the Blues’ swiftest forward broke away from the pack with the ball, speeding toward the open goal net. The Reds’ goalkeeper hunkered down, ready to leap between ball and net. With a clever feint, the Blues’ player caused the Reds’ to overbalance, then shot it past him on his off side. The goalkeeper stood with hands on hips, evidencing disgust at himself while the Blues’ players mobbed
the scorer.

  “Ah, he should have seen it coming,” commented Locklear. “It was so obvious. I could see it up here.”

  James laughed. “Then why don’t you go down and play for him?”

  Borric and Erland shared in James’s laughter. “Certainly, Uncle Locky. We’ve heard a hundred times how you and Uncle Jimmy invented this game.”

  Locklear shook his head. “It was nothing like this.” He glanced about the field at the stands erected by an enterprising merchant years before, stands that had been expanded upon and enlarged until as many as four thousand citizens could crowd together to watch a match. “We used to have a barrel at each end and you couldn’t stand before the mouth. This net business and goalkeepers and all the other rules your father devised …”

  Borric and Erland finished for him in unison, “… It’s not sport anymore.”

  Locklear said, “That’s the truth—”

  Erland inserted, “Not enough bloodshed!”

  “No broken arms! No gouged eyes!” Borric laughed.

  James said, “Well, that’s for the better. There was one time—”

  Both brothers grimaced as one, for they knew they were about to hear the story of the time Locklear was hit from behind by a piece of farrier’s steel an apprentice boy had concealed in his shirt. This would lead, then, to a debate between the two Barons on the general value of rules, and which rules enhanced the game and which impeded.

  But the lack of further comment from James caused Borric to turn. James had his eyes focused not on the game below, which was drawing to a close, but upon a man down near the end of the row upon which the Baron sat, one row behind the Princes. Rank and a well-placed bribe had given the sons of the Prince of Krondor two of the best seats for the match, at the midfield line halfway up the stands.

  James said, “Locky, is it cold?”

  Wiping perspiration from his brow, Locklear said, “You’re joking, right? It’s a month after midsummer and I’m roasting.”