“You see, King Myrl, the best way to get a ship across an ocean is to make the hull as narrow as possible, and the masts and their booms as easily maneuvered by as few hands as possible…” The man had been talking for what felt like forever as Myrl sat huddled in the bed of the wagon. He drowsed as the wagon bumped and swayed its meandering way up through the dunes to the road. “But any fool can be taught to reef the sails, it takes a careful set of hands to move the lines just right…” he continued.

Wrapped in two layers, one inner layer of incredibly coarse felt and an outer layer of very thick canvas, Myrl had stopped shivering almost as soon as he had been wrapped in the smoky smelling layers. There was also the strong odor of redpine pitch, though Myrl found that soothing.

The itchiness of the felt warred with the scratchy nature of sand that had somehow gotten into the deepest recesses of his smallclothes. His mind tried to fathom how that had happened so quickly when he had thought to have not been in the tide for more than the roiling of a single wave before he had been pulled out. But neither matter kept him from drooping his head and drifting in and out of sleep as the motion of the wagon rocked his exhausted body and soothed his mind.

The Ghorma man, Bychol, was the blacksmith who had helped him up and out of the roiling tide after he had come to a stop from whatever had attacked him, and driven Myrl to use his Talent to force him to attempt Ashe’s Shadow Stepping spell.

It had gone spectacularly wrong with no shadows to step into or out from. …or maybe, and this is just guessing, I’m just not powerful enough of a Talent nor currently fit enough in mind or body to cast that spell… and casting it a dozen times in a row brought me as close to either killing myself, possibly killing others, or suffering asologee as I ever have… he let his thoughts berate him for the dangerous fool he had been. The wagon swayed on the road again, and Myrl half leaned, half rolled to one side.

Bychol had begun to hum some pleasant melody, and occasionally threw a few lyrics out to the winds of Thach. Myrl grinned as his eyes closed again, his mood suddenly lighter than it had been.

He yawned then, wide enough that his jaw cracked at the strain. Now he was tired beyond all reason.

Not an organ to let him find peace, his mind was suddenly again churning and chewing over how this could have been a worse situation when the wagon slowed and he heard Bychol’s jolly voice become a booming laugh riddled storm of surprise and joy as it addressed someone on the road.

Myrl struggled to turn his head, and sit up from his sleepy slouch enough to see who Bychol was greeting as he slowed the heavy brown dray who had been placidly pulling the wagon along the road back to the city of Ghlow proper.

“Oh, my lord! Yes! I’m by name of Bychol, and am the Master Smith of the Eastern Shipyard, which is to say, of the three smiths who work under the royal seal at the shipyard, I speak the loudest. HA!”

Then he heard the voice of his mentor, protector, advisor, and closest companion. Lord Ashe stepped up onto the toe-board of the wagon, and leaned over to inspect the wrapped package in the bed. His gray face smiled down at Myrl, and both men laughed lightly.

“You have been dearly missed, Your Majesty.” Ashe said. “Not only were several members of the guard put into a panic, but I was beside myself with worry. Also, while you have decided to skirt your duties to play at the seashore, you have visitors who want a moment of your time, and would appreciate at least an hour of it if your inspection of the Eastern Shipyard Beaches are complete.

“Well, have I run off, or am I on an inspection of Our industries?” Myrl asked his oldest friend.

“That all depends on who is asking, sire.” Ashe answered with a quick look to their surroundings. “One answer for one kind of busybody, and the other for the other.”

“Well, let’s get back to the palace then. I have several things to talk to you about in your role as my tutor. And I desperately need some non-sand-filled clothing.” Myrl said. “At this point I don’t even need them to be particularly dry. Just not having sand in my britches would be a blessing.”

“My liege.” Ashe said simply.

Myrl shrugged, and twisted, then slumped down.

Then he rolled to his left.

He then contorted and bent his encased body almost double on itself to his right. Then did the same again to his left, doing no more to free himself, but he did run his nose into the top of his remaining crutch.

All the while he remained completely encased in his layers of heavy shrouds.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Ashe turned back to the driver, “Was wrapping His Majesty thusly entirely required?”

“Oh, My lord,” the man said. “He looked so cold, just popping into the water as he did. Wrapping him in the oakum sheet cloth and then in a sailcloth seemed like the better path than stripping him of his finery on the beach and putting the king into some poor plank-cutter’s trews and geansaidh. And he wouldn’t fit into my own clothes, if you pardon me saying. He’s too tall, and not half wide enough. Are you folks feeding him enough at the castle, my lord?”

“Oh, we feed him more than you might imagine. Every morning. Our young monarch eats like a plow horse.”

Bychol chuckled heavily at that.

“Gentlemen…”

“This was a good compromise, Master Smith. You’ve earned His Majesty’s thanks.” Ashe was smiling now, watching the king squirm and flail like a chrysalis attempting release as the rolled up bundle of royalty rolled about in the wagon’s bed.

“I don’t know that I have seen our king look safer than he looks right now.” Ashe said with great solemnity, leaning toward the man driving the small wagon.

“My Lord Ashe, if you would be so kind. Need I remind you that I’m right here?” His muffled voice floated up from the floor of the wagon.

“Ah,” the man sounded contrite. “Yes, your majesty. Too true. Master Smith, if you would be so kind as to drive off the road up ahead to the left, and into the treeline?”

No sooner had the wagon entered the treeline, and the shadows folded about the back of the wagon when the man calling himself Bychol felt a cold wind stir behind him. There followed a chuffing noise, and the sound of several stones of fabric falling back into the bed, shaking the body of the rig heavily as it landed.

An hour later, taking a hopping half step out from his bathroom, the king steamed from the hot water of his bath as he rushed to pull a fresh, clean, NON-sand-laden, black tunic over his still very wet head. He would have lost his balance, but someone, most likely Lord Ashe, had set a pair of maids on him like vicious guard dogs whose sole job was to redress the young king in acceptable fashion the moment Myrl had emerged from the bathing chamber.

He was roughly turned one direction and then another as the two women stripped his back tunic back off from when he had inadvertently wrapped it around his head, and then forced him awkwardly into a pair of wide, bright blue pants, cinching them about his waist.

“GAH!” was all he was allowed to say before he was bodily lifted from the floor from behind by one maid while the other stole his towel, and forced his good leg, and the other one, into fresh smallclothes and pants. Looking at the two petite older women, he would not have guessed at their wrestling prowess, nor would have won any bets he might have chosen to make about their sheer strength.

They then forced him into a chair and one maid applied a dazzlingly woven leg wrap about his lower left leg, while the other pinned up the loose right pant leg before pinning it in place and wrapping the lower thigh, knee and remainder of his lower right leg in a matching woven wrap. He had seen experienced herders not able to subdue their charges with the certainty and economy of motion these two women possessed.

Myrl had tried to object, but was stopped by Lord Ashe placing his index finger on the wide gray lips of his apathetic mouth. From the corner where he stood reading from a song book recently acquired from Parthique, Lord Ashe looked as though he had not been paying the least bit of attention to Myrl’s discomfort, but his simple shushing gesture told Myrl that his mentor was very much present.

A lurid red tunic was suddenly on his body in a dizzying set of motions, and a wide, heavy decorated belt was secured about his waist. A new, soft soled, ankle boot was being tied on to his left foot. Myrl didn’t remember a stocking being put on his foot and pulled up, but it must have happened some time before the leg wrap went on. He was suddenly concerned. Were these maids Talents?

One maid tied his single shoe, and the other moved around to the back of the chair and began to vigorously dry his hair before attempting to brush the tangles out. After the first few jarring, neck bending, scalp tugging moments, the process became very pleasant, but those first dire moments almost made Myrl call out for his guards.

As he sat in the chair, now straight backed and accepting the ministrations of the pair of maids to lock down finer details of his raiment, Myrl heard the sound of a small cart being wheeled into the room from the hall and turned his head to see one of the kitchen staff pushing in a small table set with a repast of sliced meats, a steaming bowl of soup, a heel of bread, and a large mug of tea.

When it reached Myrl’s side, he began to eat at a feverish pace. He devoted himself so fully to the task that he failed to notice the maids finish up with dressing him for public consumption and then swiftly departing the royal rooms. By the time he did notice, Ashe was coming to sit across from him in the small stool that faced the chair he sat in.

“Sire.” his mentor began before pausing briefly, as though what he said next needed its own sentence. “You have have an audience with a representative of Her Grace, Domina Erkinseka Sammish, of the Cloven Peaks’ Clan.”

Myrl slowly put down his tea and asked, “Does Donk know she’s here?”

Ashe raised an eyebrow. “Not through any official channel. Not as yet. They arrived just after the attack, and are now waiting in the guest wing. We will summon their Emissary once you are ready.”

“And what else?”

Ashe watched Myrl.

With a sigh, he said, simply, “We have had news from Her Majesty of Parthique, and she is, once one reads past the diplomatic language if her letter presented to me by HER Emissary, who arrived while you were bathing, she is beyond pissed.”

“Her daughter attempted to kill me.”

“I remember.” Ashe said, “I was there, too.”