Zachariah Lancer stewed in the antechamber outside his father’s study. It was nine thirty, and he'd been summoned it seemed half an hour ago, perhaps more. It was difficult to discern the passage of time in the cold, spartan room. A couple of chairs sat against one wall as if shoved there and forgotten. The chamber was meticulously dusted and kept clean, but in some ineffable way it had always felt abandoned and haunted to Zachariah.
Haylon Lancer’s study was a medium sized room, perhaps twenty feet square, with a bookcase on one wall filled with all manner of leather bound tomes, a oak wood desk at which he wrote, and three chairs, one with a cushion on it for himself, one across from him on the other side of his desk for a visitor, and one against the other wall, occupied nearly always by Codwin, The Duke’s altogether invaluable chief secretary, who was almost always nearby him.
Haylon Lancer, Steward of the Kingdom, Duke of the Thronelands, and Baron of Harth, was not a young man. He had turned sixty-five on the first of March earlier in the year. He was sore all the time, his mind was not as quick as it once was, though still quicker than most of the fools he dealt with, and his bones ached when he awoke three to five times in the middle of the night to empty his bladder.
Still, he was more than sharp enough to know that the crown’s enemies would move if he showed weakness. And there was one very good way to project strength while striking fear. Duke Haylon took up a small bell from his desk, ringing it once. Between one blink and the next Sir Morgan Blackthorn was sitting in the chair opposite the Duke, toying intently with some fidget or other. One of those interlocking ring puzzles.
“How do you do that?” The Duke asked, momentarily distracted.
Morgan's gaze flicked up, then back down to the puzzle. “You've never asked. You must really be getting sentimental in your old age.”
“And you haven't changed a bit.” Haylon responded.
Sir Morgan took a moment to think. “I'm thirsty. You?”
“A cool drink would do me well on these hot summer days.”
Morgan hopped up smoothly from his chair and went over to a side table where glasses and a decanter were set out on a silver tray. Morgan poured two glasses of dark red Cavellon wine, brought one to the Duke, and took one for himself. He sat again, taking an occasional sip from his glass. They sat in silence together for a few minutes, enjoying one another’s company, before Morgan spoke.
“I learnt it from a traveling monk, a member of an order called the Sons of the Orchid. The man was from Lash Kai. He had a slow, steady way of speaking, like nothing much could bother him. He taught me how to move quickly and silently, in between the moments. He said some people called it magic, but that it's simply skill refined many times over many years. It took me years after his initial teaching to get it, you know. To move in between the moments.”
Haylon blinked, and suddenly Morgan was out of his chair, glass in hand, back facing the Duke, throwing a knife into the air and catching it deftly, over and over again.
“The King is busy forcing the Eastmen to fight the Outlanders, as much as I have counseled His Majesty against such a war.” The Duke said. “Nonetheless, the eastmen are engaged in a tiresome offensive that will keep their axes away from our backs. The men of the far south are exhausted by raids from the Free Isles and Avaraki scouting ships, Trellmann schemes against Duke Gallant in the Westreach, and the Myriad is as ever a den of cutthroats and vipers. Our subjects are all busy fighting one another and that means their blades are not pointed our way. Everything is going more or less to plan. We have achieved stability through weakness.”
In a blink, Morgan was back in his chair, swilling his wine, knife and puzzle nowhere to be seen. “Sounds great. So who do I need to kill to help this glorious kingdom live another day?”
Haylon sighed, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward for a moment before settling back into his usual frown. “If you were anyone else, Morgan, I'd have your guts strewn across the five Duchies for how you behave.” He pulled a piece of paper from among the several neatly ordered piles of documents in front of him, and slid it over to Morgan, who snatched it up with one hand while still sipping wine with the other. “That should contain all of the information you require. If you do this, it will ensure our subjects to the south are distracted for quite some time.”
“You want me to unleash legions of slavering barbarians on a bunch of hapless Myrians?
“Attacks by the war bands have fallen sharply in the past two years. Lord Abaddon grows complacent from his seat at the Alcazar. Let his people feel fear again, as they did not so long ago. Though the central Myriad is awash in its typical infighting, House Abaddon has grown much too effective for my tastes. The loss of his best captain will not cause the Breach to fall, but it will ensure that Lord Abaddon doesn’t make any unfortunate decisions in the near future.”
“You never used to explain yourself to me so thoroughly. You’re certain you’re not sick?” Morgan looked up from studying the paper, a drop of concern entering the ocean of easy going contentment and zest for life that made itself known in his every action.
Haylon looked at his hands. So many lines. “I’m just old. I feel older than I should. And no, I’m not being poisoned.” He raised a forbearing hand as Morgan began to rise. “This isn’t like that incident ten years ago. I’m just… tired. The spark gutters in me.” He took another drink of wine. “I miss being on campaign with you, Morgan. I miss--” He shook himself out of his reverie, his melancholy and introspection ending in a heartbeat, replaced by an expression of intense observation of everything around him, total confidence overriding everything else. He rose from his chair.
“The King’s illness worsens by the day. None of the palace healers have been able to cure him. I shall marshal one tenth of my forces and march them to the capital. In two months’ time, six at the most, the King shall be dead, and Prince Damien will be crowned King. I have much work to do ensuring that no fuss is made, especially not by that brute down at the Garrison. I expect you to make all haste to the Capital once your current mission is completed.”
Morgan sighed exasperatedly. “You’re no fun. But, yes, you’ll see me there, ready to put a blade in Corland’s thick neck.”
It was just past ten o’clock (the time having been tolled out by the bell tower not long ago), and Zachariah had passed the time at first wondering what he had done wrong, and then later by imagining what punishment his father had in store for his least favorite son. Zachariah had been a disappointment for as long as he could recall, shunning the arts of war in favor of books of history and philosophy. He was no great warrior, like his father, or his elder brother, and for that he was considered a disgrace. Still, his father had come all this way, and wished to speak with him first thing. Perhaps he was to be given some kind of redemption, though he’d committed no crime? His thoughts whirled as the minutes passed.
Finally, Codwin opened the door to his father’s study and ushered him in. Zachariah walked to the waiting chair and sat down, nodding respectfully to his father, who had just finished sealing and stamping a letter that he handed off to Codwin, who exited the room, closing the door behind himself. Haylon clasped his hands together, leaned forward, and stared into Zachariah’s eyes, unblinking. Zachariah felt goosebumps arise on his skin as his flight response began to kick in, as it did every time his father studied him so intently, as if trying to pick out what was broken about his cowardly, overstudious second born son.
After a minute or so of Haylon staring into his son’s soul, he leaned back again and said: “You’ve been disinherited, and are to depart for the Dreadhold. By royal decree, you’ve been stripped of your surname, your inheritance rights as my son, and all responsibilities and privileges you have attained by right of birth.”
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Zachariah opened his mouth, closed it, and tried to understand what was happening. “B-but I’m your son. Your blood. I was born a Lancer.” Was all he managed to say. He could feel the heavy cold pressure in his throat, and tears began to well up in his eyes.
Haylon pulled a letter from atop a great pile and read it aloud. “‘By decree of Ruiden Talos, First of His Name, Glorious Sovereign of All the Realms of Men, the Highest Justice, the Overlord of the Fourfold Reaches, etc., in this, the thirtieth year of my reign, I strip Zachariah of House Lancer of family name, and all titles, rights, responsibilities, powers, and privileges he has gained by right of birth, upon this, the first day of August.’ It’s there plain as day. You are no longer my son” Haylon’s lip curled. “You may not remain within my castle, eating my food, sullying the family name with your foolish pursuits any longer then you already have. You will be escorted to the gates of the castle directly after this meeting concludes. You will be given a horse and supplies to last you the months it will take you to reach your new home. Though you’ll have to ride swiftly to make it within that time. Grent, Atton, see my son out of the castle.”
“No, wait, I—” Two tall, burly guards in plate armor, wearing the typical gauntlets, helms, etc. of a guard anywhere in the kingdom, and with House Lancer’s sigil of the Lance and Castle inscribed on the front of their breastplates and with longswords sheathed at their sides, moved into the chamber. Each of them grasped Zachariah by the arm and lifted him bodily out of his chair, which was knocked to the ground. Zachariah kicked and tried to pull his arms free, but only succeeded in bruising himself and getting a swift kick in the leg by a steel-toed boot. He slumped, and the last he would ever see of his father for quite some time was the slim, almost invisible smile that alighted on Haylon’s face as he saw the fight go out of his disinherited son.
Zachariah was dragged away, and a servant stepped into the room to stand the fallen chair upright, dust it off with a brush, and take Haylon’s empty glass from the desk. He locked eyes with the servant, a girl, perhaps eighteen, with red hair, pale green eyes, and freckles on her face. He looked into her eyes, and nodded to himself. Varehans had chosen well. This one was loyal, and diligent. “When you’re done with getting the glass to the downstairs for cleaning, tell the Armourer to send a sword out to Zachariah. Not a good one, but not a very poor one either. He deserves that, if nothing more.”
The servant nodded hurriedly, evidently new, and nervous being instructed directly by the Duke himself. “Yes, milord.” She said, and departed.
It is worth noting that while Haylon was correct in discerning that the servant girl was loyal and diligent, he had not stopped to probe her mind for who or what she was loyal to. He was, after all, above spending more than a moment studying such an unimportant mind. Or so he thought.
Grent and Atton were lowborn, as one could tell by their lack of title and surname. They were brothers, and looked the part, with the same square face, broad shoulders, towering stature, and small squinted eyes shared between them. It was as if the gods had made one of them and had no creative effort left to expend on the other, so a copy had been made. Neither of them were bright men, though they were not paid to do much complex thinking, instead spending the vast majority of their time standing outside a room within which someone important stood, sat, ate, slept, or pissed. Occasionally, they would get to indulge in their shared favorite pastime: beating the snot out of some assassin, rascal, servant, or other person who had fallen into the Duke’s disfavor and/or threatened his life. They were disappointed to hear when Talon, Captain of the Guard of Castle Garth and their direct superior, told them in very clear terms multiple times that Zachariah was not to be harmed.
Still, getting to drag the Duke’s son through the halls as the servants scattered before them and averted their eyes was the most fun they’d had in ages. The aristocratic young man’s fine clothes were stained with tears, and just a little blood (a smack across the mouth to shut up his gibbering and sobbing didn’t count as hurting him, did it?), and the young man had mostly subsided into staring blankly into the distance. They eventually reached the great double doors that served as the entrance to Castle Harth, flung them open, and hurled Zachariah several feet onto the dirt. Grent, the elder of the two brothers, then stalked over to their charge and ripped his fine blue cloak off of him, and his vest too, leaving just a white tunic overshirt, linen pants, and handcrafted cowhide shoes. Both of them went back into the castle, the doors slamming shut behind them, cackling over their newfound treasures.
Zachariah laid there in the dirt for an indeterminate length of time, unmoving, blood dripping down from his lip, down his shin, and on to his tunic. He stared at the ground, overcome with despair and the deepest sense of alienation he had ever felt. He was nothing, son of no-one, destined for a grim and austere life in the Dreadhold as a cleaning servant, or perhaps as fodder against the blight beasts that crawled out of the Dreadwater every so often.
As he lay there in the dirt, the sun slowly climbing higher in the sky, he stirred at the approach of a maiden, evidently one of the house servants, who had at her side a sheathed blade. She was making her way, hesitating every so often, towards him. He rose from the ground and brushed himself off, thinking that at least he could have some measure of dignity before this girl cut off his head.
The serving girl slung the sword sheath’s strap over her shoulder, and glared at him. “Alright, lordling, you’re my ticket out of this sorry place.”
Zachariah drew the sword from its sheath. It was weighted perfectly, and its edge gleamed in the late morning sunlight. It had a breathtakingly beautiful sapphire studded in the hilt, and the blade was inscribed with flowing runes, in mimicry of the style of enchanted starsteel blades. “This is glorious.” He gasped, taken aback by his father’s generosity. His eyes flicked to the girl. “He intended this for me?” He noticed that she had not taken her eyes off the blade, gazing at it hungrily.
Then, she said: “Yes. The finest blade in the weapons room.”
“Armory?”
“Yeah, that. So it’s yours now.” She stared at it, not letting go of the sheath.
Zachariah took a good look at the girl for a moment, trying to reckon with yet another mad development. He caught her eye, and then he saw it.
“You’ll be executed for theft, you know.” He said distantly, still grappling with the morning’s events, that only seemed to become more strange and terrible as the minutes wore on.
She gritted her teeth. “How'd you know I stole it?” She asked, seeming to only now be realizing the enormity of what she’d done.
Zachariah shook his head. “My father would never send me with the finest sword in the castle armory. This is Fidelity, made to be the shadow of my father's personal blade, Loyalty, for this is made of earthly metal and Loyalty is made from thunderbolt steel, and had many mighty enchantments laid into it during its forging, whereas this is bereft of spellcraft. You don’t understand how my father thinks. He’ll hunt you down and skin you himself for taking this. The stories they tell in the kitchens are all true, you know. Except for the one where he killed an ogre. The King performed that particular feat.”
“Alright, then. I already planned to go with you. You’re going far away, to the other end of the Kingdom, right? No-one will find either of us there.”
He shook his head again, more insistently. “My father knows I’m headed to the Dreadhold. He’d track you. He’d track both of us. You don’t know how persistent he can be.” He sheathed the fine blade, unslung it, and handed it back to her. “Take the blade back to the armory and tell Geordie of the Forge to give you one of his newer blades of the quality my father requested. If you act quickly, it might be enough to cover up what you’ve done and let you continue your life in some semblance of peace.”
“I don’t want a life serving your father, you fool.” She snapped. “I’ve seen what he’s willing to do to his own blood, and I want no part in it. I’ve been building up the courage to leave for a while now, but now I can make good on that ambition. I'm going with you, and I'm taking this sword with me.” She said, her words like steel. “You will take me with you.”
He sighed, sheathed the blade, and she quickly donned the sheathe. “Fine.” He said, resigned. “You can come with me. Gather your things and meet me at the stables at the chiming of the eleventh hour. And call me lord, not fool, or I’ll-” He floundered, remembering that he had just been disinherited.
She spat on the ground. “You'll do nothing. You're down in the dirt with me now, fancy lad.” She took off at a steady jog towards the castle.
Zachariah went around the castle, plodding along at a steady pace. Though his spirits were still abysmal, he felt amazed that a servant girl had committed treason and theft with such ease. He realized that he was still thinking of her as belonging to a separate social class, and stopped in place. It struck him: he was now a commoner, albeit one who had been the beneficiary of an aristocrat’s education and lifestyle for the first twenty years of his life. It filled him with a kind of mixture of joy and terror that felt, perhaps, like freedom. He wondered if he would learn to hate it.