Davinya loved and hated this room. She loved the beautiful decorations on the walls, the ornately inlayed table, the way the windows would let a light breeze in, but not bring the stink of the docks with it.

She hated what it and its opulence represented. An upper class of citizens who get and maintain their wealth and power by standing on the backs of those who do the actual work. How many loaves of bread would just one inch of gold in this room buy? How many starving people would it feed? And the room was full of gold.

Lilting melodies from a lutenist behind a screen floated through the air. She idly stirred her tea in its ornate gold-leaf cup. She hadn’t had a sip yet, and it was probably already cold. She wasn’t allowed to drink it yet, since the man at the head of the table hadn’t taken a sip of his yet.

She wished she was, like her mother, allowed to skip these dinners. It was infuriating how much the queen was allowed to get away with.

That man was her father, King Llarwyn I, and he was fuming. Aeolwyn was late. Again. They didn’t have these formal family dinners as much as they used to, but they still had them every month, and everyone was expected to be dressed formally, and more importantly, on time.

No one spoke. They were all afraid of receiving their father’s wrath, so they just sat, eyeing each other nervously. Her blond sister Filliya hadn’t looked up from her tea once. That wasn’t particularly unusual for Filliya though. She was extremely shy, and rarely spoke to anyone except for their brother Ulfnar, though she spoke to his twin Wolfryn on occasions when Ulfnar wasn’t present.

The twins were identical in appearance but couldn’t be more different from each other in personality. Wolfryn wore his hair long, but today had it neatly tied back in a ponytail. He was strong and well-built, usually preferring the company of horses and soldiers to that of his own family.

Ulfnar though, spent his time drinking and gambling with the courtesans and nobility. He was well known to stay up late into the night and sleep most of the morning away. Unlike his brother, the brown hair they shared was well-groomed and greased slick back atop his head. He wore a goatee that was equally oiled.

Where his brother was strong and muscular, Ulfnar was thin, giving him the appearance of being taller when they stood side by side, though the two were of equal height.

In terms of age, the two were younger than Davinya, but older than Filliya and Aeolwyn. Davinya was second oldest. The only one of them older was Alfyn, the crown prince. Though he was the oldest and tallest, he fit between his two brothers in build. He was stronger and bigger than Ulfnar, though not as heavily muscled as Wolfryn.

Alfyn always dressed better than anyone in the room except his father. His wool doublets and trousers were finely embroidered, and he wore his trousers tucked into his boots so that the expensive designs on them were always on display.

He had recently taken to wearing a gold circlet around his head to remind everyone that he was the crown prince. The king himself had said nothing about it, even though he only wore his crown during official state functions.

And at the moment, Crown Prince Alfyn was staring at her. He stared so often that she expected to be used to it by now, but she wasn’t. Uncomfortable was one word she could use to describe how she felt about his stares. Disgusted was a better one.

She wished she had a spell that would force him to stop looking at her.

“Where is that boy?” her father said suddenly. There was an undertone of rage in his voice. He didn’t like to be kept waiting; he saw it as a sign of disrespect to the throne.

“Last I saw him he was in the yard with Sir Jom going over sword forms,” Wolfryn said, no sign of fear in his voice.

“That is not an excuse,” the king said. “He and Sir Jom were both told about tonight’s dinner. Jom would not have kept him. Whatever reason he is late is his alone.”

“I for one am excited to hear the excuse he provides,” Alfyn put in. Though he sounded cheerful, there was a menacing undertone to his voice. A tone he used often, and Davinya didn’t like it.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Wolfryn asked.

“Well, just that he always seems to have an excu—"

The door burst open and Aeolwyn strode in. He was still dressed in a dirty padded training doublet soaked with sweat. His wavy fire-red hair was wild and unkept. He had a lump on his head and a bruise forming on his cheek. His trousers were stained with dirt and grass.

He walked up to their father like he was on his way to get a medal. He bowed when he reached the king and said, “Greetings, father. I apologize for my tardiness.”

“Sit!” the king replied.

Aeolwyn scurried away and sat on the only remaining seat, at the far end of the table, next to Ulfnar and Alfyn who sat at the opposite end of the table from the king.

“What took you so long, boy? We are not servants for you to wait on.”

“I was in the yard with Sir Jom,” Aeolwyn replied.

“And then what? Sir Jom knew about this dinner and would not have kept you. Clearly you were not getting cleaned up. You disgrace this table and your family by coming here dressed like this!”

Her father’s face reddened as he spoke. He was working himself up into a frenzy, as he often did when he was angry. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the edges of the table.

“I should banish you from this table. That would be a fitting punishment, I think. You can get your scraps from the servant’s kitchen.”

Davinya knew, as did her father that Aeolwyn was fond of visiting the servant’s kitchen. That would be no punishment for Aeolwyn. Still, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for her little brother. His shoulders drooped at every word that came out of his father’s mouth, and he hung his head low.

“I have no excuse, father,” he said, looking up, showing the king his blue eyes, which were already welling up with tears. “After I was dismissed from the yard, I took the long way back to my room and got to thinking about the strategy lesson I had with Sir Jom this morning. I went to the garden to review our battle and think on the tactics he taught me, and the mistakes I made. I was so lost in the fight that I lost track of time. Please don’t banish me!”

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She could see her father’s heart melting at Aeolwyn’s explanation. Despite his harsh words, he had a soft spot for the boy. Everyone did. He had a way with people. His mere presence could light up a dull room if he wished it. She sometimes wondered if he had Laryn’s magic and wanted to know where he had learned it.

She wished to learn magic. There were always political and other kinds of scheming in this family. She was not the best player of the underhanded game, Alfyn was the best at that. She wasn’t clever or charming like Aeolwyn, and she’d never have the strength of Wolfryn. She needed some way to protect herself.

She’d asked her father for permission to study under Jor Bashi, her father’s royal mage, but he had not yet granted her permission. He’d said he needed time to think on it, and whether she would have time for her other royal duties while studying with the old mage. That was a year ago.

Their father snapped his fingers, and the servants with trays of food appeared. Davinya wasn’t sure exactly where they had come from. They came from nowhere. She knew they had their own corridors and doors, but to see them manifest without hearing a door open was unnerving.

Three servants brought out an ornately decorated porcelain cup steaming with soup. The other three brought glasses filled to the brim with wine and set them in front of the seated group.

Based on the smell, it was a barley soup, which Davinya and her brothers hated, but their father loved. Which meant, of course, that they all had to eat it and pretend to like it. When they were younger, a 5-year-old Aeolwyn announced to the group that he hated the soup, their father had him taken to the garden and whipped. He wasn’t allowed to eat for a week.

Since then, everyone acted like the barley soup was the best thing they had ever tasted.

“Father, you’ll never guess what I saw down at the docks today!” Ulfnar said suddenly. Davinya groaned internally. The last thing she wanted was for someone to drag her father into a discussion during the soup course. They all had an unspoken rule that no one was to speak during soup so they could all get it over with as fast as possible.

The servants weren’t allowed to clear the bowls or bring the next course until the king was finished, so the longer he took, the longer they had to take.

“What in Laryn were you doing down at the docks? That’s a dangerous place for a royal. Please tell me you took Wolfryn with you!”

“I was collecting on a debt,” her brother replied casually. “Don’t worry. I took precautions. I was disguised well enough that even you wouldn’t have recognized me!”

Ulfnar was well known to all the courtesans as a gambler. He usually lost more than he won, and they liked him for that, but if he won and someone didn’t pay him, he would track them down and insist on payment. It was the principle of the thing, according to him. Even if he didn’t need the money and the debt was a pittance.

“Stay out of the docks,” their father said and went back to his soup.

Ulfnar’s face dropped, and he looked sullen. He was always looking for the king’s approval and rarely got it. Their father saved most of his approval for Alfyn and Wolfryn.

“Ulfnar, what did you see at the docks?” Wolfryn said after a moment.

“A dwarf! Like a real live dwarf straight out of the mines of Wicken’s Hall! It was amazing. He looked exactly like they do in the pictures. Short of stature, stocky of build, flaming red hair and a braided beard. He was even carrying a miner’s pick!”

Dwarves were a humanoid species that was rarely seen in Southern Laryndor. They mostly stayed in their underground cities in the Stormdren Mountains far to the north of Camulan. They were a secretive species, few knew what they did up in the mountains. Most believed all they did was tunnel and forge some of the best weapons and armor in all of Laryndor.

“Really? A dwarf?” Aeolwyn’s excitement bubbled over and he knocked over his soup. The hot liquid raced across the table and down into his lap. He yelped when it hit his legs and he jumped backwards out of his chair, and stumbled, knocking the chair over and falling on top of it.

“And this is why we don’t talk during soup,” Filliya said.

Once again, the servants appeared out of the ether and ran to clean off Aeolwyn and help him back into his seat. He pushed them away and picked himself up, righted the chair, and sat back down.

“Aeolwyn, sit down,” Llarwyn said. “Eat your soup. No more talk about dwarves.”

Thankfully, no one spoke for the rest of the soup course. Everyone mechanically choked down the contents of the bowl, except for their father, who relished every spoonful. Davinya finished as fast as she could, swallowing hot spoonfuls without care of being burned.

Her siblings did the same, which left all of them in the unfortunate situation of now having to wait for their father to finish his soup. The second course wouldn’t come out until he was ready for it. That meant that if they waited too long to finish a course, it would be taken away if the king was ready for his.

They had all tried to exploit this rule to not eat the barley soup, but the king wanted to make sure everyone had the pleasure of the soup, so he would wait for everyone to finish before calling for the next course – or he knew they hated the soup and wanted to punish them by forcing them to eat it.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, their father had finished his soup and called for the servants to take it away. They scurried in and out like the cockroaches that infested the buildings in Lower Teorton. In truth, that’s how most of the nobility thought of the servants. Cockroaches with a function.

The second course came quickly after the soup. Davinya was thankful; she was famished. The soup barely put a dent in her hunger. Today it was roast quail with vegetables. A common enough meal for them, quail were plentiful in the inner reaches of Camulan.

It was a meal for the nobility though. Quail were virtually absent from Teorton. If the peasants wished to have bird, they would have to settle for the many types of gulls that inhabited the docks. This was a common practice for the poor, who were known to eat them raw.

“I hear the elves are getting more active along the border,” Aeolwyn said. “Sir Jom said we should be careful of raids.”

“Elves are always raiding across our border, Aeolwyn,” Alfyn said, shooting glances at her while he spoke. “This is nothing new.”

“Why don’t we stop them, father?” Aeolwyn’s question seemed to pointedly ignore Alfyn’s response. It would have been insulting if everyone didn’t already know how much their youngest brother worshipped the crown prince.

“We raid them, they raid us, it’s happened for centuries,” their father answered around a mouthful of bird. “That’s retaliation enough. Attempting to stop it would mean deploying more soldiers to patrol the region, leaving other areas undefended.”

His father sucked the grease off his fingers before continuing, “Besides, a military buildup in the region would cause the elves to do the same. The increased tension in the region would inevitably lead to a skirmish, and that could explode into a full-on war, something we don’t want.”

“It’s all a careful negotiation of politics,” Alfyn said, his lecturing tone dripping with condescension.

He glanced over at Davinya again, smiling. There was something in his look that she found disgusting. Something that hinted of lust. How could he have such feelings for her? They were brother and sister!

Although he didn’t come out and say he was attracted to her, his comments about her physical attributes made such a confession unnecessary. She worried about what would happen to her when their father died and Alfyn inherited the throne. While the nobility would rebel if he broke convention and took her as a wife, there would be no such outrage if he took her as a mistress, and as king, there was little she could do to prevent it.

She would have to do something to protect herself when that happened, because she was sure it was nothing more than an inevitability. Whether her father approved or not, she would find a way to discreetly approach Jor Bashi. He was sure to listen. Whether or not he would accept her as an apprentice without her father’s approval was another matter.

Perhaps he wouldn’t even tell the king. He was known for his discretion. That was one of the reasons his father had named him Royal Steward of the Chancellery. Not that she knew what that job entailed, though she suspected it was related to the amount of time he spent in the dungeons and the courts.

Well, if Jor Bashi wouldn’t teach her magic, she would find someone else who would. There were other mages devoted to the Temple of Laryn. One of them would certainly be willing to teach a princess, both for the gold, and the reputation it would provide.