To his surprise, when he awoke the next morning, he found he had received a summons to visit the king. Dressing quickly, his weariness vanished as his mind raced. He thought he knew why his father had summoned him. It seemed the plans Cael had alluded to the other morning were now coming to pass.

Horst met him at the door, and together they were led in silence through the palace by two King’s Guards. At the king’s chambers, Horst waited quietly in a sitting area, while one of the guards led Rhoden to an adjacent room where the king was waiting. The doors closed behind Rhoden and he took a deep breath, trying to calm his thundering heart.

The subject of the Chronicles—which he was certain this discussion would be about—now brought him anxiety, but it was nothing compared to what he felt when he faced his father.

King Garazor stood before a window, which looked out over the expansive gardens behind the palace. His presence filled the small room, calming, regal. Though shorter even than Cael, he was like the mountains that surrounded Aleria: firm, solid, unyielding. His brown hair and beard, streaked with silver, shone in the light.

When he heard the doors close, he turned, his robes rustling.

“Rhoden,” he said, his voice a quiet rumble. “Thank you for coming.”

Rhoden gave a stiff bow, but did not come closer. Through the years, the king had come to resemble the mountains in another way, in his mind. Cold, distant, unassailable. Something that should be admired and respected from a distance, but never traversed, never truly trusted. This was the man, after all, who had banished Rhoden to Tellegar, who rarely spoke with, let alone looked at him. He had no idea what to expect.

“Have you eaten?” the king asked. He gestured to a platter of scones, which sat on a table nearby. “I had Lem send these specially.”

Though the palace cook’s scones were his favorite, Rhoden shook his head. “Thank you, but I am not hungry.”

“I see.”

Garazor turned back to the window. There was a long moment of pregnant silence. Rhoden kept his eyes fixed on his father, wary, uncertain.

“It truly is amazing,” Garazor muttered. “The changing of the seasons. The world stays trapped beneath a blanket of ice for months and yet, every year, we can see this.” He waved a hand at the window. “What was once considered dead is brought back to life. And soon, it will die again. A cycle of life and death. A cycle of change.”

Rhoden’s brow wrinkled. His father wanted to talk to him…about the seasons?

Garazor turned to Rhoden. He clasped his hands in front of him, and his head was bowed, almost as though he were unsure.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I lose my tongue whenever I speak with you. Somehow, I can never find the right words.”

He raised his head, and his light blue eyes pierced Rhoden’s heart.

“I heard what occurred with Lord Hestran and the Ennist priests. I am sorry it happened. You should not have been put in such an embarrassing situation. Know that I have spoken at length with them, and that Hestran is receiving the proper consequences for his treatment of you.”

Rhoden was stunned. Was that…an apology?

Garazor continued, “I also want you to know that the Thalist priests, with King Sebastt’s support, have requested your exclusion from the wedding. They are quite adamant that you do not attend.”

Rhoden’s shock gave way to a flush of hot anger. “So,” he said, fighting to keep his voice calm, “I am to be banished from that as well? Shall I escort myself back to Tellegar, where I can be forgotten for another year?”

His words seemed to wound his father. Garazor’s face fell, and his shoulders slumped. Rhoden felt a moment of savage pleasure, then, strangely, it sank into shame. Every moment of every day, certainly any time Rhoden had seen him, his father was the very example of what a king should be: strong, resolute, confident. To see him so altered was unnerving. It was as though the rough exterior of his father had been lifted away, and Rhoden was not sure whether he liked what he was finding beneath.

“We talk so rarely, I never know,” Garazor muttered. “I never ask what you think of me. Another failing of mine, I know that. But…you truly believe I would be so heartless? To exclude you from Cael’s marriage?”

He turned away, his face drawn into deep lines. He looked suddenly decades older and frailer. “Your opinion of me is less than I thought.”

Rhoden paused, shame and confusion battling within him.

“I can attend?” he asked. “But…what about the priests and their demand?”

“Damn the Thalists,” Garazor half-growled. “You’ll attend your brother’s marriage, even if I have to re-write the treaty. Despite our agreements, the Mesians will not dictate how my kingdom is to be run. Nor how I should treat my own sons.”

Rhoden felt his mouth move, but could make no sound. He had rarely, if ever, heard his father refer to him as his son. Garazor had always been so distant and cool towards him. What had caused this change?

He looked, bewildered, at the king. “Are you feeling all right?” he asked. “Shall I call a physician?”

Garazor gave a bark-like laugh. “Why? Because I’m trying to establish a relationship with a son I hardly know? Because I’m trying to grow again after a long winter? Because I’m trying to change?”

Rhoden had no words to respond. He merely stood before the doors and stared at his father.

Garazor began to pace, the edges of his robe whispering across the wooden floor. “The behavior of Lord Hestran and the Thalist priests has made something clear to me,” he said. “It confirms a fear that I have long held. That the people of this world—Aleria, Mesia, my own lords, the priests of God—do not see you for who you are. And I am the cause.

“I’ve failed you, my son,” he said. He stopped pacing and looked piercingly at Rhoden once more. “I should not have sent you to Tellegar. It has only isolated you beyond what I ever intended.” He straightened his shoulders, his expression apprehensive. “If you are willing, I want to…start over. If such a thing is possible.”

Rhoden’s mind tumbled with questions. The foremost burned within him: if you did not intend to isolate me, Father, then why send me away at all? Why was I banished?

Aloud, he said, “What would that entail?”

“Change,” said his father. “I would…well, I would know you better, Rhoden. I’ve kept myself distant because I thought it would make the separation easier on you. But I see now that perhaps I was wrong. I know I cannot atone for lost time, but for the time that is left to us, I would that this gulf between us is mended.”

Rhoden offered no response, and Garazor shuffled his feet.

“I also want our people—the Council, especially—to understand who you are, to leave them with no question in their minds that you are a royal prince of the house Toradian. They need to learn that you are not, and never were, what they fear you to be.”

Garazor ran a hand over his face. “Though that, too, is my fault,” he whispered, almost too quiet to hear.

“What do you mean?” Rhoden asked.

His father looked at him, and Rhoden saw a pain there he did not expect. It seemed to reach into the king’s very soul, where it hid, burrowing just below the surface.

Garazor sighed. “I suppose change cannot come without trust,” he mused quietly. “I’m unsure whether I have the right words, but… You used to ask me what I knew about your childhood. About the circumstances that brought about your…transformation. I told you that I knew nothing. It was a lie.”

Rhoden felt a shock so powerful he went numb with it. He had always guessed, always thought that perhaps his father had known more about his childhood than he was telling him. But to hear confirmation of his theory, after so much time, was jarring.

“What happened?” Rhoden asked through unfeeling lips.

Garazor turned back to the window, looking out over the palace gardens. His gaze was distant, as though he were staring into the past.

“I…made a deal,” he said, his voice low and husky. “Nearly two decades ago. Someone very powerful was able to…help me. I did not know what he wanted in exchange until…” He turned to Rhoden, his eyes shining. “I—I am sorry, Rhoden,” he said, wringing his hands. “The memories are too painful. I thought I could, but… I’m not prepared to…to talk about them yet.”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Rhoden took a step forward. He felt anger grow, hot as coals, within him. “All these years,” he growled. “All these years, you knew the truth. And you kept it from me. You banished me. Like a leper to be thrown aside and cast away.”

“It was for your own protection.”

Rhoden let out a mirthless laugh. “Really? For my protection? Are you certain it wasn’t for others?”

“Please,” said Garazor, his expression pained. “Please, Rhoden. I don’t wish to argue with you. You’ve no idea how much I deserve your anger and disdain, and more besides. You have every reason to hate me, and you would be justified in it. The things I’ve done…I wish I never had…” He trailed off, then straightened himself. “There’s so much I want to tell you…and I will. My mind has been busy of late with the wedding and the treaty. There is still much to be done in the course of the next days. They will be some of the most important in our history and must be handled with delicacy. Nothing can go wrong.”

He looked Rhoden squarely in the face, and once again appeared regal and confident. “As soon as those days are over, I will tell you everything you want to know. There will be no more secrets. I swear it.”

Rhoden hesitated, feeling his anger drain slowly away. He nodded curtly.

“That will not give us much time,” he said. “Horst and I leave for Tellegar only two days after the wedding.”

“Ah,” said Garazor. “Yes, that was the other matter I wished to discuss with you.” He twisted a ring on his finger. “If the attitude of my subjects towards you is to change, there needs to be something to motivate that change. You will come of age in two months’ time. I believe we are long overdue for a kind of…official recognition. A ceremony, to announce, once and for all, that you are a royal prince, and my son. I thought that your name-day would be the perfect occasion.”

Rhoden scrutinized his father, and realized to his surprise the sincerity there. It seemed Garazor truly believed a resolution could be made between them. And, despite the years of confusion and pain and anger he felt toward his father, Rhoden found himself wanting it, too.

Inexplicably, he wanted to please him, this man who had rejected him for so long. It hardly made sense, but he felt the truth resonate deep within him. His father was offering him what he had always wanted: acceptance. And his heart yearned desperately for it.

“We would have to arrange travel with the scholars,” said Rhoden, after a moment. Then, as the platter of scones now looked appetizing, he walked forward and took one. “They use the carriages more often than you would think. But perhaps it could work.”

“What if I were to ask you to leave Tellegar?” Garazor said abruptly. “To end your exile and live here in the palace, permanently?”

Rhoden nearly dropped the scone. An invisible knife twisted into his chest. “Leave the college?”

“I can see now that sending you to Tellegar was a mistake. It has only increased the mystery around you, and made the tales grow wild in people’s mind. To change how they think about you, they must come to know you. And they cannot do that if you are sequestered hundreds of miles away.”

Rhoden stared at his father. He was so different, so altered from how he had always been. If the king was right, and the lords’ treatment towards Rhoden had caused this change of heart, then he found himself ever so slightly grateful for the embarrassment of the other day.

But…to leave the college? The cobbled walls and dusty shelves of the buildings had been his home for nearly fifteen years. It felt more homely and comfortable than the royal palace had ever been. The scholars there had become his family. He loved their quiet, age-cracked voices, their eyes dark from years studying manuscripts by candlelight. He loved the halls and the gardens, the orchard and the hills. Could he leave that behind?

“I—I am not sure,” Rhoden stuttered. “I can’t leave my studies…”

“I would not ask you to,” said Garazor. “Anything you require, you would have, my son. We could send for books from Tellegar, even commission an addition to our library. For the privilege of keeping you here, I would move the very mountains.”

Rhoden blinked. “You…know what it is I’m studying, don’t you?” he asked hesitantly. “I thought you would…disapprove of the subject.”

Garazor threw back his head and let out a booming laugh. For a moment, he looked exactly like Cael.

“Disapprove?” he said, still smiling. “I think I held a secret hope that you would be drawn to the Shadows. It was only natural, given your situation. No, Rhoden. I will not stop you. In fact, I’m working with the priests and Lord Hestran, to get you access to those books you so wanted. The Chronicles, wasn’t it?”

“But—” Rhoden’s mind swirled. “Aren’t the priests quite adamant about keeping them away from me?”

“They are,” Garazor admitted. “And they deserve to be given orders, for once, rather than issuing them. Some of the laws they have placed around old information is extremely outdated. I’m trying to make them see this.”

Rhoden realized he had crumbled the scone in his hand. He brushed the pieces off, thinking hard.

“They told me I would be expelled from the church if I read them,” he said. “That is the traditional punishment.”

“They can certainly try,” Garazor said, smiling grimly. “But you are a royal prince, my son. They will not be given that power, unless I or the Council grant it to them.”

Rhoden ducked his head, nodding. Finally, he said, “This…is a very generous offer, Father.” He savored the word on his tongue. Father. When was the last time he had spoken the word aloud? He cleared his throat. “I’ll need some time to consider it. You’ve given me much to think about.”

“Of course,” said Garazor. “Take whatever time you need. I plan to speak with the Council this evening regarding the treaty and other matters. If you have your decision by then, I would like to announce it. I think it would be best to tell them before the wedding.”

Rhoden nodded.

After a slight hesitation, Garazor reached out and grasped Rhoden’s shoulder. Rhoden met his father’s eyes and, for the first time in a long time, felt no malice.

“I know what I’m asking of you will require a great deal of sacrifice,” Garazor said softly. “That is, I’m afraid, the nature of being a leader, and being royal. People will look to you, for good and for ill. When you are in the light, you must set the example for those who still walk in the shadows. That is why they need us.”

Rhoden was silent for a moment. “What if I can’t…live up to that? What if the people don’t change their minds about me?”

“You cannot control that, my son. Only how you act.”

Rhoden nodded again, then pulled away. Garazor’s hand dropped to his side. Rhoden felt a sudden urge to leave, to get away.

“I’ll…let you know what I decide,” he said, and fled the room.

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Less than an hour later, Horst paced the floor in Rhoden’s chambers, his face a grumbling storm cloud. He had listened to Rhoden’s account of his conversation with the king, offering no comment. Slowly, his face had become darker and darker, and still he did not speak. When he was done, Rhoden sat, perched on the armrest of a chair, and watched his uncle with impatient anticipation.

“Well?” he asked, unable to hold back his eagerness. “What do you think? Shall I accept?”

Horst blew out his cheeks, his beard billowing.

“What do I think?” he growled. “I think that your father has finally lost his mind.”

Rhoden frowned.

“He understands the risks,” Horst muttered. “Why he would forget them now, I do not know.” He looked at Rhoden, his eyes sparks of quiet fire. “You must refuse the offer, Nephew.”

“Why?” Rhoden stood from the chair, irritation coursing through him. “Uncle, for the first time in my life, my father is offering to accept me. He wants me to live here, to start over. This…” He stopped, swallowing a lump that had risen in his throat. “This is what I’ve always wanted.”

“To stay at the palace would be too great a risk,” said Horst, shaking his head. “Once this mess is over, we are returning to Tellegar. There’s no discussion.” He turned away, as though the conversation was finished.

Outrage burst through Rhoden like a lightning strike. With two long strides, he blocked Horst’s way to the door. He glared up at Rhoden, who glared back.

“Let me pass,” Horst growled.

“No. If you’re going to deny me this chance to make a better life for myself, I will have an answer, Uncle. Why must I refuse the offer?”

“There are things you don’t understand. It is too dangerous for you.”

“Why?”

Horst’s beard bristled. “It’s not for me to say,” he muttered. “But, believe me, Rhoden. You are not safe here.”

“I see no threat,” said Rhoden, sweeping his eyes around the room. “What are you talking about? Does the Council of Lords wish me harm? Or, perhaps, the Ennist priests?”

Horst remained silent, glaring at the floor. Rhoden’s anger flared.

“Do you truly expect me to spend my entire life hidden away from the world in a backwater town? To live completely in the shadows, away from everyone and everything?”

“It’s for your protection,” Horst growled.

“That’s what my father said,” Rhoden said, frowning. “Why is it for my protection? Is it truly because I am in danger? Or is it because you fear I could bring danger to others?”

Horst pushed past him. At the door, he stopped and turned back. “I can see that no matter what I say, you will not believe me. Do what you wish, Nephew. The consequences be upon your own head.”

“Somehow, Uncle, I don’t think they will.”

Horst gave a curt nod, then left, slamming the door behind him.

Rhoden stood motionless in the middle of the room for a while and listened as Horst’s footsteps died away down the hallway. He realized, with a twinging pain in his stomach, that this was the first time they had ever truly argued.

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The Council of Lords met late that evening. As they all gathered around the table, which was crammed full of lords, priests, and visiting Mesians, King Garazor announced, to the amazement of all, that Prince Rhoden would be receiving official recognition in two months’ time, at his coming of age, and that he would be staying permanently in the palace. Cael thumped Rhoden on the back, a smile so wide on his face it could have lit the night. Mira and her father smiled and clapped approvingly, as did many of the lords and priests around the table. Even King Sebastt, a corpulent, round-faced, white-haired man, rose to shake Rhoden’s hand.

It came as no real surprise that Lord Hestran and a handful of his supporters remained silent and unsmiling at one end of the table. Rhoden ignored them. He looked for a face he hoped to see, but could not see his uncle in the crowd anywhere.

After discussing the details of the treaty, and solidifying a few pieces of information regarding the wedding, the council was dismissed. While Cael threw an arm around his shoulder and walked out with him, Rhoden kept his eyes roving for Horst’s familiar, grumpy face. He thought he caught a glimpse of brown hair and beard, but when he looked again, they had gone.