Life as a squire felt like a death sentence to Radviken. Not only did he fight better than most of the knights, King Cian had assigned him exclusively to a squad of pikemen—commoners whose only job in a battle was to aim a pointed stick and brace themselves to the man next to them. Most were so useless they failed in both those tasks.
It galled the young squire to be around them, so close to the real knights and their squires, yet condemned to eat, sleep, and converse with the lowest of the low. It was here, constantly around the noble class but reaching just beneath it, the young man learned to despise all of them completely. But in three short months that hatred waned and something inside of him changed.
Humble yourself, Prince Rashmere had suggested.
Humility. That was the lesson the king had sent him down to learn. It was the reason he found himself cast as a squire. Radviken must show the king proof of mastery if he were to someday be knighted.
Such a simple lesson, but one so far outside Radviken’s grasp. He tried to mimic Oliver, bowing, scraping, and smiling at every demeaning task given to him by the pikemen and dean of squires. But it wasn’t in his nature. He was a noble, of the highest born descended from kings, and every attempt at humility came out misinterpreted as contemptuous sarcasm.
No matter how hard he tried, he failed to fit in, especially among the other squires. His worst mistake was when he mistook the cordiality of some to be actual friendship. He opened up prematurely, entertaining them with stories of his past and speaking candidly about his feelings about the court. His fatal mistake came by admitting a fondness for Molly, daughter of the Duke of Enat.
Word soon left the pikeman circle and hopped over to that of the knights and their squires. Armed with this knowledge, this power over the disgraced nobleman, the other highborn relentlessly teased him. They even went as far as to leave a note promising a rendezvous with Molly, only to be led to a straw scarecrow stuffed into a woman’s dress, wantonly waiting in a closet for her pikeman’s squire. As soon as he had opened the door, a group of hecklers laughed from across the hall, pointing and jeering as if his embarrassment had been their best entertainment in years.
To make matters worse, Molly herself had been there, covering her mouth and mocking his horrified reaction. Radviken wanted so badly to take them all on, to at least clock one across the ear, but resisted. To do so would have earned time behind bars for striking a better.
A better. Radviken had no betters.
The highborn girls acted even worse than the boys. When they found out from Molly he blushed so easily, they teased and flirted, trapping and intentionally humiliating the young man the moment they tired of him. They each found the handsome young squire a new game with whom to anger their fathers, who in turn ensured he would never squire for a knight of any status. Thus Radviken had hit rock bottom, and no mere lesson in humility could change his status.
His outlook changed on the day Prince Rashmere knocked upon his door.
He had just settled down after a long day of turning poles and sharpening pikes when a shy rap perked his ears. It was so soft he almost hadn’t heard it. He groaned loudly as he stood, rising from the only chair in the room.
No one had knocked on his door in three months except for the dean, and this wasn’t him. When that man visited, his fist had a way of reaching through the wood and hitting your chest.
The soft knock came again and Rad eyed the door with doubt, debating whether anyone would be there at all. Finally, he gave the handle a tug and stared face to face with the last person he had ever expected to find.
“Prince Rashmere!” He was genuinely shocked to see the prince. Rashmere had never tried to see him since his ousting, and to do so now meant the king’s son reeked of desperation. “To what do I owe this honor, your highness? Do you have pikes to sharpen or stalls to muck?”
“What an odd question. I’m not a pikeman.” The prince pushed past Radviken despite he wasn’t invited in.
The squire waved his hand around the one room hovel, gesturing welcome as the prince sat down in his only chair. Radviken closed the door and leaned against it with crossed arms. This had better be worth my time, he thought.
The prince reached into a fancy satchel and drew out a leather-bound book. “I’ve been doing quite a bit of thinking since your parents died and think I know how the Shadow rift occurred in daylight. I also know for certain you hadn’t lied about the incident.”
“Well that’s comforting. What’s your father’s take on it all?”
“He hasn’t heard my hypothesis yet, and I want to test it before sharing the results with him. Unlike me, my father demands clear evidence over theories. He calls them conjecture and doesn’t understand that science requires testing.”
“So you think you can get me elevated from being a squire?”
Rashmere looked up from his book, confused and mouthing Rad’s last question as if asking it from himself. “No, Father won’t go for that, but I can get you moved from pikes if that will help.”
Rad narrowed his eyes, trying not to show too much excitement. “Moved where, exactly?”
“I want to make you my squire.”
“But you never train on weapons, nor do you enter contests or plan on ever going to war. What could I possibly gain from being your squire?”
The prince smiled. “You will help me investigate the Shadow rifts and get a chance to prove who actually killed your family. I’m seeking a way to seal off the other realms and keep out both fae and Shadow.”
“Thanks, but I know what actually killed my family. How does helping you help me?”
“Father may eventually decide you’re worthy of knighthood after all.”
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Radviken frowned. “Just like that? After ignoring me for three months, you barge into my little prison cell and offer a chance to be your squire?”
Rashmere looked around and scrunched his nose. “It doesn’t look that bad. It’s certainly no prison cell.”
“You try living in it! After all the luxuries you and I grew up with, to be tossed here is as bad as prison! I would have rather been exiled.”
“At least here you’ve had a chance to move up,” the prince offered.
“Here is where everyone knows I’m disgraced! The children of the nobles I should be feasting and fighting alongside mock me, plan my further degradation by inventing games that humiliate and demean me as a person. No, Prince Rashmere, I don’t have any chance here at all!”
“I’m sorry,” the prince replied sincerely. “I didn’t know it was that bad for you. I always assumed you would work your way back up, and so did my father. He never meant to condemn you to a life of torment, only to grow you up a bit. Like I told you before, he only ever wanted you to show humility.”
“Well, either way, I can’t be your squire. The other nobles despise me and their sons and daughters revile my very existence. I’m their toy for kicking, the object of scathing mockery. If I were to be constantly among them they would set plans in motion to get me cast from their midst.”
“I won’t allow it, I…” Rashmere paused. The young man was actually speechless. Were they so out of touch sitting in their high castle that he and his father really didn’t know how badly Radviken was treated? He cleared his throat and changed the subject, opening the book. “Tell me again about Cat Síth. You specifically knew his name, and that’s why I believed you. Say it again. Say the name he gave you.”
“Morkur. He said he was called Síth Morkur.”
“Strange, but that would imply there are more than one of these Síths. Is there a race of them perhaps? I know there is only one Puca ever mentioned in the legends, a shapeshifter who hides among men and fouls our best laid plans with chaos. But the texts rarely discuss the Síth. But I found one that does, and it gave the same name as you did. Síth Morkur.”
“Can I see that?” Radviken asked, drawn to an illustration. Without waiting for a response he reached down and turned the book to better see, staring down into the eyes of the creature who tried to claim his mother. It was neither cat nor man yet seemingly both at the same time. It could walk as easily on four legs as it could two. Those eyes, of a ravenous beast which devours souls, stared back at the squire. Freely given tastes sweeter, it had said.
“That’s him.” Radviken whispered.
Rashmere nodded. “Síth Morkur is the Lord of Beasts in the fae realm. All that dies there belongs to him, but he can also devour human souls if they’re offered up to him.”
“He prefers them offered willingly. He said so.”
“Quite disturbing…” The prince lost himself in the pages, flipping and searching for another passage. “Here it is! He will give a boon whenever a living being offers to kill another, since he can’t take life himself.”
“A boon?”
“A favor. But you must be careful what you ask for because he is tricky and very sly.”
Radviken briefly considered the many possibilities of such a boon. A man without morals could offer any soul he chose and regain status or rise even higher than before. “I’m sorry,” he said, “why bring this all to me? And why does the Síth even matter?”
Rashmere looked up from the pages as if he’d suddenly forgotten he wasn’t alone. “Because the Shadow attacks are becoming more frequent, and I am searching for a way to end them. I think this Morkur will know how. Even you said he drove the hellhounds away with only his voice.”
“But why me? Why not just go alone?”
“Because I sincerely think my father wronged you, and I believe you deserve a chance to earn back your status. As my squire, you could help me seal away our realm from all the others.”
“But why me?”
Rashmere showed no expression when he replied. “I don’t trust the other nobles not to try and offer my soul to the Síth.”
“What makes you think I won’t try?”
“Because I’m offering something you and I both need.”
“What’s that?” Radviken demanded.
“Friendship.”
“Friendship?” the squire laughed.
“Yes. I’ve never truly had friends, and I despise these other nobles as much as you. I think we’re kindred, you and I, and that together we can do great things. My father won’t rule Enatherr forever, and I need someone I can trust to be my confidant and protector. I want that person to be you, Radviken. Please be my squire and help me close the realms. Then, after I am king, I will elevate you as Lord of Norgaard.”
Radviken’s knees nearly buckled to hear such a promise. He suddenly felt guilty—dirty and wrong for having hated this prince. He was odd, scholarly instead of athletic, but had a good heart. Even after three months had passed he wanted to right his father’s wrongs and backed his words with sincere promise.
“Okay,” the squire agreed. “I will serve you. What is it we’re looking for. What boon will we ask of Síth Morkur?”
Prince Rashmere smiled, giddy and full of excitement. He opened the ancient book to a place marked by a red silk ribbon. It marked an intricate drawing of a crystalline bush covered in translucent foliage and colorful gems.
“What is that?”
“The Bláth de Saol. The source of the magic to the fae. From what I’ve been able to learn, it was gifted to the Daemon by the Tuatha de Danann. They could no longer work their magic in the same way they had for generations, and this restored their power.”
Radviken counted the gems. There were eight total. “How does it work?”
“I don’t know, but this is what the Great War was fought over. What do you know of King Octavian?”
“I know that when the fae stole a relic from our realm, he joined forces with the Luchorpán to get it back. Their King Calug betrayed him, took the relic for himself, forcing Octavian to retreat after crushing losses. The war was a military disaster and one of the first lessons taught to future knights.”
Rashmere placed a finger on the image. “This is the counterpart to our relic, the one Calug stole and hid in his mountains. If we can steal this one from the fae, we can close off the Shadow rifts forever.”
Radviken gazed through the wall to the snowcapped mountains far off to the north, those overlooking his home of Norgaard. The prince was right, it would be easier to take this relic and seal off the realm rather than risking war with the Luchorpán.
“And gaining control of this one might aid us in eventually reclaiming our own?” the squire asked.
The prince never lost his grin. “Exactly. All we need to do is find a portal to Fainnotherr and demand a round trip from Síth Morkur.”
“But who will you sacrifice?” Radviken asked quietly, suddenly suspicious of this new friend and his secret motives for befriending a squire. “Certainly not me. I’d kill you dead on the spot for trying anything of the sort!”
Rashmere stared down at the image of the gems, his smile gone. Radviken thought he recognized sadness and anger in the young man’s face, the excitement of sharing knowledge now gone. “No,” he said. “It won’t be you.”
“Then who?” the squire demanded.
“Your father is not the only nobleman who has ever beat his own wife and son,” is all the prince had to say.
Radviken, suddenly less alone than before, understood. “I’ll serve you,” he vowed, “and help you anyway I can.”