4

The rusty hinges creaked and reverberated in the dark limestone hall as he pushed the door. The candles in the study flickered as the air changed and the room came alive with the dance of shadows. The king sat behind the wooden slab that tried to pass for a table and occupied the center of the room. His white bed robes tainted a light orange by the bathe of candlelight. He wrote something. A letter, Brendart supposed. And only the hasty scratch of quill on paper was heard. He stopped to dip the quill twice in a small ink flask and resumed his writing. Brendart closed the door to his back and let a few heartbeats pass before speaking.

“I was told you called for me, father,” he said.

Only then King Bodreg Manthyr lifted his eyes and set the quill aside, parallel to the sheet of parchment. Light flickered in his eyes, giving some life is what otherwise would be dark pools.

“Sit.” The king said with his face devoid of expression.

The prince had always been told he was a much younger and beautiful version of his father. Unlike his father, he had preferred for a clean shaved jaw. But it was the same squared jaw, thick brows and dark golden hair. His nose was his mother’s same as his dark blue eyes. He was taller and less plump than his father. The king always seemed proud in that, as if he had achieved in his son’s life something he could not do in his own.

Somewhat hesitant, Brendart pulled one of the chairs and eased himself in it. Brendart Manthyr was in delicate mood to begin an argument with his lord father, but as how things had begun now he thought it unavoidable. Something had been neglecting him sleep the past months. He would roll in his bed for hours with no avail, stare at the black ceiling with racing thoughts, or walk silently the halls of Greatkeep only to come back for some rest minutes before dawn. Later he would hear the castle folk talk and call him The Sleepless Prince. The sole thought of a single good night’s rest stolen from him made him feel like throwing the chair out the balcony.

It was well past midnight when he woke to the steward’s face intent on him. “His Grace beckons you, my lord. He says it is of urgent matters,” was the only thing he told him, and disappeared with the only light he had brought before Brendart could ask what those urgent matters were that could not wait for the morrow.

He brought all this to himself, and he is dragging everyone along, he pieced together.

The king took his time. He had his fingers crossed on top his belly and distracted he admired a month flapping against the candle on the table.

“Gerart said it was urgent,” the prince said sharply.

King Bodregg Manthyr reached for a folded letter with a broken seal from all the scattered papers and tossed it across the desk. Brendart glanced at it suspiciously. The seal was black, but small shimmers of light on the engravings made it easier to discern its fashion: and alder tree on a mosaic field. Dire news come sealed in black. Brendart let out a small breath and gave his father a short glance before reaching for the letter.

“This…” he said when he was done with the reading. All the tiredness washed off of him, but the anger remained, and probably worse. For a moment he was bereft of words. “This cannot be! My uncle… Curses, father! You should have known better!”

The king sneered. “That we were to be betrayed by your mother’s own kin?”

“That as long as Dasmond Arnor lives he is the rightful king, and nothing is assured in the meantime. Trusting Galdwein… Father, my mother was the only reason he was our ally in the first place. Losing her meant losing that alliance.” Brendart noticed his father’s grief show. Even after a year, the wound was still fresh. “The kingdom is falling apart, father. A king can own two kingdoms, but no kingdom can have two kings. You see how that is turning to be, don’t you? All because you wanted to play Ellth’s soldier…”

Bodregg Manthyr slammed his fist on the desk cutting Brendart short. The king’s neck had turned red and his chest heaved. The taper candle almost fell, and sprinkles of wax had scattered all over the papers. Neither spoke for a few seconds.

“Lorvanar,” King Manthyr began with clenched teeth, “is a place of Ellth. Arnor deciding to aide those filthy heathens in their pagan lands shows he is not what Lorvanar needs. Anyone sided with Arnor have fallen from Ellth’s grace and deserve to be burned in His name.”

The wind could be heard from outside the balcony’s door. The prince straightened the taper candle to prevent it from falling. A knock came before the door opened. The young page scurried in with a pitcher of wine. He set the tray and served two green bronze goblets. The king gestured the page out and the boy disappeared as fast as he had come, shivering on his way. The muffled pattering of his leather soles on stone gradually faded in the hallway.

The mere smell of wine made the prince’s stomach argue, so he pushed the cup a little farther. The king, on the other side of the scale, finished his first cup in such a hurry that dark streaks spilled from the sides down his chin. He served himself another and stood with a growl, goblet in hand, and opened the balcony door. Brendart followed.

The king put the cup on the rails and rested his hands on it. The sky was starred but for strains of clouds with silver edges. The city of Greatkeep extended outside the castle walls, lines of torches marking streets and alleys in all directions, sectioning the city in a myriad of dark shapes. All over the castle battlements torches bobbed, marking the outline of the marching sentries who held them.

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“The princess,” he said suddenly. “You are to marry her, and cannot wait.”

Brendart was taken aback and took a time for him to clear his mind and speak.

“Marry her? She is a child! Half a score younger than I, or even more.”

“Word has come she is recently flowered,” the king said over his shoulder. “By the law of Ellth she is a woman grown. And a beautiful one. Gerart is under orders to make ready the ceremony.”

Brendart snickered and shook his head.

“And how do you think Arnor will react to this? His sweet sister married to a traitor. He will rush south and use full force with Langarde and half the kingdom.”

“That bloody craven has been stalling for over two years. As long as princess’s within the city walls we are safe from him and that Langarde pup.”

Brendart glowered at his father.

“That Langarde pup is the son of Ryvian.”

“Sons seldom get out from under their father’s shadow by their own merits.” The king cleared his throat and drank from the goblet, emptying it. “We are lucky Arnor rushed North before begetting. Without an heir of his, marrying his sister before the town and nobles will make it clear for them who truly holds their best interests. Once Dasmond Arnor is dead, the quavering nobles will have no other choice but to bend the knee.”

Brendart’s jaw tightened and tried to find an answer but failed. He is right, he thought, as much as he hated to admit.

“She… she barely talks, and is always alone. She might as well fancy herself a halfwits. I could not—I will not sacrifice my image for—”

“She is not a bloody halfwits,” the king spat. “She is just afraid. And if she turns to be an idiot just fuck her and plant a child in her. It does not take a lot of brains to bear.” He took another gulp and belched, sprinkles of wine sparkled in his beard and mustache. “You can go.”

Brendart glared at his father, unmoving. The king would not even turn to look him in the eye, but only drank with his view lost in the city beyond the castle walls.

“I said go.”

There was nothing more to do for Brendart Manthyr than to swallow what words he had left, as well as his pride. His father would remain adamant, that he knew well. With a tight jaw, Brendart bowed his head and stormed out the study, not bothering to close the door.

He found himself walking through the hallways again, silent and solemn like a stray ghost. He thought about going to his chambers, sleep what he could, but he would only fool himself. The wind howled as it filtered through the arched windows and rushed down the hallways and into the many rooms and chambers. Lines of sconces were lit on the walls, flickering and striving to keep living. The wind chilled and Brendart shivered, regretting not bringing his cape. This castle was cold, and after two years he still felt alien here. It was big and raw, and the walls seemed to be carved from a single, massive stone. In summers, when there was light outside and the world was awake, it kept cool and the shadows inside were a prosperous shelters. But at nights, especially ones like this, the wind filtered and the stone the walls were made to never keep the warmth of day.

Two bloody years, he thought As his steps echoed under the bathe of torchlight. We had taken residence in this castle for two years and it still feels as if we were strangers to it. Maybe it had been better for them to never leave the Olmant. If only his father had not wanted the throne for himself, taking advantage of a young and stupid king.

Dasmond Arnor was the first and only son of Normad, a lad of only six-and-ten. Eager for battle and hungry for glory, he left Lorvanar in Bodregg Manthyr’s care to join Farregant in battle in the northern lands of Akrevann only to come back and find a fragmented country under an usurper king.

Brendart scoffed and shook his head. By bloody Ellth, father. Ellth’s jokes are cruel, aren’t they? He sighed as he remembered that night two years past. The running, the fire, the screams as they ran through the woods. When Arnor arrived in Lorvanar the night was painted in flames and blood. You traded a wife and a mother for a crown you still try to convince yourself you are worthy of. He stopped by an archway that overlooked the eastern courtyard and regarded the waxing moon. This castle never wanted us here.

He walked the halls and climbed down the long spiral stairwell and ended in one of the main corridors, where rows of arches led to one of the many courtyards. Clouds had vanished and the moon shone, painting silver hedges and walkways. In the center laid a fountain, big enough to be a small pond, and lonely figure sat on its stone basin. Brendart Manthyr watched the princess from the archways for a few moments. He seldom saw her about Greatkeep. Not that he was bothered by it, she only spoke when addressed and spent most of her time in her chambers, alone or with her maidens.

Brendart sighed.

“My lady,” he said when he drew near.

Princess Ardinette Arnor traced circles in the water with the back of her fingers, but stopped with a start and a small gasp when he called. Her face was cast with ripples of light from the fountain and she wore a thin white silk nightgown that shaped her firm little breasts. She was tiny and seemed as if the next gust of wind would send her far over the courtyard walls. Her shoulders shrugged under her auburn hair, and her hands rested on her lap. She is indeed beautiful.

“M-my Lord,” she stammered, not taking her eyes from the water’s ripples.

“My prince,” he corrected her. “I am a prince. Remember that well.”

“Yes,” she said after a few heartbeats. “My apologies, it won’t happen again.”

“No, it won’t.” The prince stood in front of her with his hands to his back, casting his shadow on her. Ardinette Arnor shuddered and pressed her elbows to her ribs. “Word came from the north, It seems your brother is marching south. He won the battle in the plains.” The princess did not speak, but he heard her inhale in surprise and her shoulders relaxed a little as well. “Don’t you get any wrong ideas, this war is far from over. Your brother is a traitor, fallen from the grace of Ellth. We will wait for him, and deliver him what he truly deserves.”

This time the princess rose his stare and fixed her golden eyes with his. There was an amused glow in them, as if she knew something no one else did.

“You do not know my brother as well as I do,” she began calmly. “He will win, and you all will get what you deserve.”

Those words made Brendart boil inside and by pure instinct the back of his hand flashed towards the princess’s face. The blow thundered in the silence of the garden. Brendart breathed heavily, and his fingers stung. The princess was bent with her hands clapped on one side of her face but let out no sound. “Look at me,” he growled as he clasped her cheeks and forced her to face him. “I said look at me.” Her teary and shaky eyes met his. They were full of anger, of pride and challenge. Insolent bitch, Brendart thought. “Measure your words, woman,” he said with clenched teeth. “Know who you are speaking with. Your brother will die. He and all who side with him. That is how things are.” He disgustingly let go of her. Her shoulder heaved as she breathed.

Brendart scoffed and spun on his heels, making his way no towards the inside of the castle. Just fuck her and put a child in her, he remembered his father’s words as he walked. I will break those eyes.