HONOR BOUND (The Spare Heir) (3 page)

When Jorem turned back to the room he saw Gregorio give him a slight nod.  He almost dropped the sword when the weapons master barked, “Pair up!  Jeseph, I want you to work with Jorem.  Basic defense moves and evasion.  Light contact and focus on stance and sword positions.”  With that the weapons master began moving from pair to pair, giving instructions as he went.

A young guardsman approached Jorem, his tunic coloring marking him as a palace guard.  The guard gave Jorem a deep formal bow then stood stiffly erect.  “Your Highness, I am Sir Jeseph, son of Lord Andrew.  I am to show you the basic moves for defense against an armed opponent.”

What followed for the next half mark was Sir Jeseph explaining a variety of stances, movements and terms that left Jorem more confused than anything.  It might have been less confusing if Jeseph hadn’t begun and ended every sentence with “Your Highness,” “Prince” or “Sire.”  With grim determination Jorem did his best to keep everything sorted out in his mind, though he quickly lost track of which terms belonged to which moves.

Next, Jeseph began instructing Jorem on how to position his body and sword for each of the stances.  To everyone else in the arena it was most likely very amusing.  Each time Jeseph used a royal honorific, Jorem would grit his teeth.  Each time Jorem’s uncooperative body would refuse to move as instructed, Jeseph looked confused and perplexed.

“Let’s try feint and evade,” Jeseph said with a little bit of exasperation in his voice.  “Hold your sword in the guard position.  A little higher Your Highness.  Sire, if you could turn the sword slightly so that the edge is toward me.  Very good, Your Highness.  Now then Sire, take one step forward then two steps back.  As you step back allow the tip of your sword to move slightly away from your body.”

Dutifully Jorem took one step forward, focused on moving his sword point away from himself, stepped back onto his own foot and fell backward with a thump onto his posterior.  Jeseph looked shocked.  “Your Highness, are you alright?  This is totally my fault.  I am so sorry.  Are you injured?”

Jorem looked up to see Jeseph wringing his hands, his eyes wide and an expression of pure panic on his face.  Without thinking Jorem retorted, “So, it’s
your
fault that I am a complete klutz.  And all this time I thought it was me.”

With that Jorem began to laugh and every time he looked up and saw the bewildered face of Jeseph he laughed harder.  What Jorem had said slowly began to sink in and Jeseph’s expression changed from complete shock to one of amusement.  Soon both boys were laughing.

“Is there a problem here?”  The weapons master’s voice cut though their mirth instantly.

“I’m sorry sir.  I tripped and fell.  I fear I may have injured my pride,” Jorem said.  Jeseph’s face turned red with the effort of trying not to laugh.

“More practice, less foolery!”  Gregorio shook his head, turned and moved to another pair of guardsmen.

Picking himself up off of the floor, Jorem stood squarely in front of Jeseph.  “Jeseph, my name is Jorem, not Prince, not Sire, and certainly not Your Highness.  The rumors that I’m sure you’ve heard that I am a bit clumsy are at least partly true.  My mind and my body don’t often agree.  I’ve dreamt of being a warrior for as long as I can remember.  I’ve studied tactics from the writings of some of the greatest leaders of the past.  This is something I want to do, maybe I can even do some good.”

“But you’re a Prince.”  The confusion in Jeseph’s voice was obvious.

“And you’re the son of a Lord.  Shouldn’t you be training to take you father’s place?”

“My older brother will follow father.”

“Right, and I have four older brothers.  I’m a spare—the spare heir as my brothers are fond of saying.  I’m not needed here, not by most.”

“Sire, that’s not true.”

“Jorem, my name is Jorem.  I’ve heard the whisperings at court my whole life.  Even the servants avoid me when they can. 
‘One less heir and we’d still have a queen.’
  That’s not exactly the way I want to be remembered.  I need to be good at this,” Jorem held up the sword for emphasis.  “Really good.”

Jeseph looked at Jorem as if he were trying to see what was on the inside.  “You’re serious?” He asked.

“Yes, I’m serious.”

“You’re not at all like your brothers!”

“I’ll take that as a compliment and I’m sure my brothers would as well,” Jorem said with a laugh.  “So, will you help me?”

“You mean treat you like any other trainee, complete with beating, bashing and abuse?” Jeseph asked with obvious doubt.

“If that’s what it takes.  Just keep the bruises where my clothes will cover them.  Father tends to be a bit over zealous about protecting his family.”

“Why not?” Jeseph shrugged.  “After all, how many guys get to whack a prince on a regular basis?  Let’s get back to what went wrong with that last move.  It should be a simple one, I mean it’s the same as the opening step in the hunting dance.”

“I ummm… I don’t know how to dance.”

“But you’re a Prince.”

“Right, I guess I had better look that up in my scrolls of proper princely behavior.”

“Okay, okay, I get it, no dancing.  Hey that gives me an idea.  I’ll work left handed and you mirror everything I do.  Kind of like dancing.”

“What’s the worst that could happen?  I might fall flat on my, oh wait, I already did that.”

An hour later Jorem’s arms felt like lead weights.  Sweat was running down his back and his hair was plastered to his face.  He had never worked this hard in his life.  Holding the wooden sword up took all of the determination he had.  Holding it steady, well, that wasn’t going to happen.  The sword tip was drooping again and his legs began to tremble with fatigue.

“Enough!” shouted the weapons master.  “Ten times around the practice grounds, then back to your duties.”

“What does that mean?” Jorem whispered to Jeseph.

“Running. It’s even easier than dancing.  Put your sword back in the rack and let’s go.”

Jorem was just finishing his fifth time around when the others had finished ten.  His lungs were burning and his legs felt like mush.  There was a pain in his side that made breathing next to impossible.  He was just starting to stagger a sixth time around the practice ground when a hand grasped his shoulder.  Turning, he found himself looking up into the face of the weapons master.

“That will do for today.  Gather up your things and go see if the cook has something to quiet the beast I hear inside you,” said Gregorio as he turned Jorem toward the arena door and gave a light push.  “Tomorrow bring only your helm and sword.  No sense in hauling armor back and forth until you have need of it.”

When Jorem lifted his bag of armor it seemed as if it had doubled in weight.  Thinking that perhaps someone was playing a joke on him, he looked inside the bag, but it only held his armor.

“I can have a servant take that to your rooms if you would like,” Weapons Master Gregorio said.

“I brought it down, I’d best take it back.  The servants are busy enough without having to pick up after me.”  Jorem swung the bag over his shoulder and headed out the door.

He had just started up the path to the palace when Jeseph jogged up behind him.  “Jorem, I was thinking, a lot of the moves we’ll be doing are just like dance steps.  So if you learned how to dance maybe you wouldn’t have such a hard time with the moves I’m teaching you.  So what do you say, do you want to learn to dance?”

“You want to teach me to dance?” Jorem asked a bit bewildered.

“Well, not me, my sister.  Mom made her learn to dance when she was little.  She’s really good—a bit intense since she found out she has the healing gift, but a really good dancer.  I didn’t realize how much it helped with sword work until I watched you.  You need to learn to move more smoothly, more gracefully.  That’s what dancing is really, following patterns as smoothly as possible.  So, what do you say?  Want to give it a try?”

“Do you really think it will help?”

“Couldn’t hurt could it?  Besides, a prince really should know how to dance.”

“Okay, okay!  If you’re sure your sister won’t mind.  I’ll give it a try.”

“Great!  Meet me at my parents’ suite about half a mark after the evening meal.”

“Right, half a mark after evening meal at Lord Andrew’s suite.  See you there.”

With a wave Jorem started back toward the palace.  He needed to get cleaned up and have a bite to eat before meeting with Pentrothe and Lady Zensa.  It wouldn’t do to have his stomach growling, especially if they decided to do some spell casting.

Chapter III

Pentrothe knew more than anyone Jorem had heard of, but Lady Zensa seemed to have been everywhere.  She was always talking about creatures that most people thought to be mere legend and far away places Jorem had never even heard of.  She was also the most striking woman Jorem had ever met.  Long dark hair framed her dark, delicate features, golden skin and emerald green eyes that could entrance any that looked into them.

Other than Pentrothe, Zensa was the only adult who actually listened to his questions, and she always gave him serious answers.  She didn’t act like the women in the palace.  She never flirted, nor did she gossip, and she treated the King like an errant boy.  Jorem had once seen her nose to nose with a palace guard, none to gently informing him of the consequences should she ever see him again.  Another time Jorem saw her ever so gently scoop up a stricken spider and carry it out of the palace.

Zensa’s visits were rare, perhaps once or twice a year.  She seldom stayed for more than a day, so Jorem considered it a treat when she came.  She had always treated Jorem like an adult, even when he’d first met her and he had only been six years old.  Having her for a friend was very important to Jorem so he did his best to act like an adult. That was usually easy to do except perhaps on those rare times that she didn’t have time for him.

When Jorem reached Pentrothe’s chambers he found Lady Zensa and Pentrothe sitting at the worktable deep in discussion.  Not wanting to disturb what appeared to be a very intense subject, Jorem quietly took a seat at the edge of the room.  Pentrothe glanced at him and gave a slight nod of his head letting Jorem know that it was all right for him to be there.  As Jorem had gotten older he was permitted to listen and occasionally participate in more of the discussions between the Wizard and the Dragon Mage.

When Zensa spoke, though her voice was soft and clear, it was filled with concern.

“Pentrothe, it’s been nearly five years since any have seen him.  Of his bonded servants only five of us remain.  I can still sense him but I cannot find him.  The channel between us is still there but it is blocked by a force the likes of which I have never seen.”

“Only five of you left?” asked Pentrothe.  “What became of the others?”

“Most vanished without a trace,” replied Zensa.  “Only two have been found before their bodies decayed beyond recognition.  There was no sign of attack, physical or magical.  They just ceased to live.  Orglen even tried calling back their shades to no avail.”

“Orglen is among the best at conversing with spirits.  I find it difficult to believe he was unable to trace them,” Pentrothe murmured as he stroked his gray beard.

Zensa sighed.  “He once boasted that he could trace the shade of a fossilized shellfish.  He said there was more to trace in a rock than in the two we found.”

“Were there any marks on the bodies?” Pentrothe asked.  His hand stilled upon his beard and his eyes stared at the ceiling.

Zensa looked at Pentrothe with such intensity that her green eyes nearly glowed.  “Not so much as a scratch.  What are you thinking?  Have you seen something like this before?”

Pentrothe got to his feet and walked to a set of shelves.  “Jorem, I shall require your assistance.”  Reaching up he pulled down a clear glass jar and held it out to Jorem.  “I will need a moth or a fly.  Check the window, I’m sure you will find something there.  To sever the link between any creature and its soul so completely that a mage of Orglen’s ability cannot find one from the other would require a very powerful magic.”

“You think there is a powerful mage out there attacking the servants of Echalain?” Zensa asked.  “That doesn’t make any sense.  A battle between powerful mages would, at the very least, leave signs on the landscape at the scene of the battle.”

“I didn’t say a powerful mage.  I said a powerful magic.  An old magic,” Pentrothe said as he walked across the room.  “There is a spell known to only a few that requires very little magic to be set in place.  I came upon it many years ago and spent some time unraveling its nature.”

Rummaging through a cabinet, Pentrothe reached in and withdrew a wooden box.  There was nothing about the box that would draw ones attention.  It was plain and flat on all sides. The wood was stained with age as though it had been made centuries ago.  It could very well have been a solid block of wood as there was no sign of hinges or a seam.

Placing the box on the worktable, Pentrothe began moving his hands over the box while murmuring odd musical sounds and occasionally touching various spots on the box.  Jorem felt a tingling sensation along his spine.  Whenever Pentrothe used real magic Jorem could feel it this way.  The stronger the magic the more intense the feeling became.  Pentrothe had said it had something to do with sensitivity to conduits or some such thing.  Only when Pentrothe used what he called fake magic, like flash-powder or smoke capsules, was Jorem unable to detect it.

Pentrothe placed his hand on top of the box and gently slid the top surface off.  Reaching into the box he withdrew a velvety black pouch.  Loosening the strings of the pouch, he poured its contents onto the table.  Five stones of various sizes and shapes, each a different color, tumbled out of the pouch.

One by one the wizard moved the stones until they formed a square with one stone at the center.  Pentrothe held his hand above the center stone and began the musical chant again.  When he touched the center stone it began to glow.  Gently he slid one of the corner stones toward the center stone until it touched.  When the corner stone began to glow, Pentrothe moved it back to its position in the square.  He repeated the process with each of the corner stones until all of the stones glowed softly on the table.  Pentrothe gave a sharp whistle, clapped his hands together and the stones went dark.