ZEPHYR RAVENSWOOD

“Enough!” Zephyr had seen enough. What was this? Some sort of movie about how far the boy’s test of will went? He had been battered endlessly and he still wanted to fight? Was he expecting them to just keep watching this savagery? “Call the tourney to a close, I have my Kingsknight,” Zephyr echoed, waving it done from where he stood at the edge of the terrace in his crown and leather and chequered gold surcoat. There was enough blood trickling already, if it went on any longer this boy might end up dead, he would not have that.

Ser Maurin took off his helm with deft quickness and fell to one knee, his sword placed flat and gentle over it as his green eyes went to a shut. Zephyr turned to him. “Ser Maurin of House Lockeheart,” Zephyr began, as he had been taught by Flynn on the night of the yester, “I have seen you take up both a lance and a sword, and I have seen you take victor in fighting with both. On this day I acknowledge your skill and deem you worthy enough to stand beside me as my knight.” The words felt heavy on Zephyr’s lips. He could not believe he was making a nephew of Ophelia, the queen that took his claim of the throne to be some sort of thievery, his knight. He could not believe he was putting danger so close to himself, he could not. What if it was all a ploy to end his life? What if this man had been sent by her and Damon to be planted by his side so he could strike him dead when the time was ripe? What if that was what it was?

You are the king, you can do whatever, choose whoever, and judge whoever… you are the king… He heard the voice come to him again, angry but sullen as it always was, as clear as a whisper in his ear, filling him with thoughts, filling him with ideas, but… judge? He could not judge as he wished, he could not judge anyone without proof of the sins they have been said to commit. His father would never applaud him for that. The man did not raise him in such a way, and he could not trample all over the man’s spirit in such manner. No, he could not.

Then what could he do? In truth, the knight’s skill was no profound jape, and Dante had told him not to try anything stupid. And even if he wanted to try such, take no heed of Dante’s words and do his mind instead, listening to the voice in his head, the one who made it to the clincher with this Ser Maurin had been beaten to a pulp. Was that who he would have by his side then? “Do you take honour in that?” He asked the knight.

“Yes, Sire,” the knight’s voice was soft but no doubt loud, it was so that even if he whispered, everyone might still catch a hear of what he said. “To stand beside you and serve you is no doubt a great honour, one anyone would love to have. I take pride that you have given me such an honour.”

Zephyr was not excited like the way he had been during his first council meeting when the Kingsknight of a thing had been mentioned. If he had known that it was Damon’s cousin that would end up becoming one of his Kingsknight at this tourney, he might have never had that excitement at all. Even though he had promised himself that he was done with being weary, he could not fault himself for having doubts about this man. He had to be cautious around this one. “Be in attendance tonight at the feast, there you shall swear your fealty to me in the eyes of all the ladies and lords of the court that will be present.”

“Aye, Sire,” Ser Maurin echoed.

“Stand,” Zephyr said, then turned to the other, the one well beaten as though he was a heated metal hammered never-endingly to bring about reshape after being brought forth from the heat of the forge. He was reshaped now, well beyond doubt. His eyes swollen and bruised purple, his lips and forehead cut, and a gash about his arms. Zephyr had pity for this one and he began to wonder why he had fought so much. Was it for the money? Judging from his armour and tunic, he was no doubt a peasant, so even as a forerunner he would have had enough coins to take home, or was there something else? “What is your name?” Zephyr asked the boy. He was on his knees, his dark-blonde hair dirtied by blood and sand, and his face nothing to talk about, unless it was of the crestfallen look he had about it. There was nothing to be done for this one, Zephyr thought, he was weak and he had lost.

The boy coughed up a few spits of blood, proving Zephyr right. “Harry, Your Grace,” his voice was cracked and smeared morosely, “Harry Boltmore.”

A loud gasp echoed from the gallery, and the murmurs that had been there for a while intensified beyond doubt. Zephyr was left confused. Was there something about this boy? He wondered, and he was doubtless curious. How could he find out what it was without it being queer? If it was something the crowd knew, then no doubt this body’s real soul knew as well. How could he find that out now?

“What’s wrong, Mother?” He heard Thaddeus say, “Why is everyone murmuring.” This was one of the few times he wanted to pick up that stubborn little boy to the sky and kiss him on his forehead. Such a sweet brother. He owed him a favour now. “Is there something wrong with the boy?”

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Thalia answered, quelling the curiosity of two even though she might have thought her answer was for only one, “His father’s now a ruined lord, Thaddeus. He was once the lord of Oldtown, then he stooped so low to becoming a poacher, and your father stripped him of all his titles and lands in return for his crime.”

“A thief?” Thaddeus deduced from all his mother had said, “What did he steal?”

“Not a thief,” Thalia shook her head, “a poacher. He was caught hunting in the Kingswood, killing your father’s games, the king’s games.”

“Wasn’t father a bit too harsh? He took away all his lands just because he was hunting?”

Thalia shook her head a second time. “Your father liked it not either, but he was king, if he had not punished the lord as it was deemed fit, then his judgments would have been trampled upon by lords and peasants alike for all the time he had lived. It was not his choice as a man, it was his choice as the king.”

Zephyr sighed deeply. He too was king, and the weight was heavy for he, someone that had not been nurtured as one. Might it have been easier to come to decisions if he had grown up as a prince trained to be a king? Would it? “Harry Boltmore,” he boomed from the terrace, shutting the whispers of the throng and their loud fidgetings, “you have fought valiantly, both with a lance and with a sword,” the boy was gaping at him with swollen eyes and mouth mildly open, he felt sorry, “but you have unfortunately fallen short in skill to Ser Maurin.” He gestured at the knight of Lockeheart. “That does not mean you are without victory though. For your valiant and hard fought battles I shall see you share my meat and wine at the feast tonight, and as the forerunner you shall not leave this city without a pocket full of coins.” He nodded with a smile hoping the boy would be satisfied at that, but as he was about to wave the dismissal of all, he found out the boy was not pleased.

“No!” Harry Boltmore screamed from below, taking Zephyr’s smile away and replacing it with a look of query.

“What do you mean “No”?” Zephyr asked.

Harry swallowed a lump, one which no doubt would be filled with the taste of the metal of blood. “Forgive me, but I do not care for meat and wine, Your Grace. I will not lie that I do not care for the coins as well, but I’d sooner stand by your side than take that. What I’ve wanted, what I’ve always wanted is to wield my sword and fight for you, that is all I’ve ever dreamt of.” Zephyr could hear the pain in the boy’s voice, but the crowd did not. They were not pleased with the words that came out of his mouth and they no doubt let their feelings shown.

Boos came, and then the berates. “Take what His Grace offers you, you thief!” One shouted. “A poacher’s son does not get to choose what he wants!” Another voiced, and then more and more followed. “He’s a stupid one a’right! A thief’s son and a damn well greedy one!” They kept coming, until Zephyr could not take the savage loudness any longer the same way he had not been able to stand watching the beating this boy, Harry, had suffered during the fight. This throng was beating him as well, not just physically. He knew how that felt.

“Anyone who speaks further, their tongue I shall have,” Zephyr echoed to the throng filling the crescent gallery, and they all fell into a gaping silence of surprise. No one spoke any further, and that was good. He turned back to the boy. “And how do you hope to wield your sword for me? You have lost.”

“I… I do not know, Your Grace.” The boy’s face was plain, safe for the bruises, it was as though he cared little for the insults that had been echoed at him and just had his mind focused on one thing and one thing alone. To stand by Zephyr’s side. To be his sword. To be his knight.

“If you do not know then why bother me?” Zephyr told Harry sharply.

The boy’s eyes widened at Zephyr’s words as much as a purpled one could go, and a few seconds after, he fell into a grovel, his forehead turned downwards to the sand, resting just atop the back of his palms. “I know I am not good enough to be your knight now, but I’ll never be good if I return the way I am. If Your Grace allows, take me into one of the lower ranking guards, I believe I am good enough for that, or… or as a steward, I too believe I have the skills for that, I do not care which, I just wish to be where I shall be able to hone my skills so that one day I’ll be worthy enough to serve by your side. It is a request stupid in all thoughts, but it is the only I know to ask.”

Zephyr exhaled, and the thought of a job graced his head as soon as he did, one different from the two the boy had listed, one better, and one that would bring this boy, a person he had a feeling he could trust, closer to him. “Then,” he smiled, “I shall better take you as my squire.” The crowd gasped, but they still dared not speak, the word to remove the tongue of any who spoke still lingered. He found Harry’s face quivering at him, it was as though the boy wanted to cry but didn’t know how to. “Not good enough for you?” Zephyr joked.

“It is, Your Grace! It is.” The boy fell his head back to the ground. “Thank you for the honour, Your Grace. Thank you!” His voice was louder than ever.

“The meat and wine you shall still have after all.” Zephyr waved the tourney to a close and turned away from the terrace to find Audrey gawking at him with a light smile that she had kept for his eyes and his alone.

“The sword,” his mother reminded him as Thaddeus jumped down from his seat.

“At the feast, Mother,” Zephyr told her. “At the feast.”