A king's firstborn is his glory. The second, security. Third is abundance, but the fourth—ah, the fourth is a shadow. Now come to the fifth—fifth born sons are a menace. Nothing divides well five ways in a kingdom of middling size and wealth. Five good marriages together is a statistical anomaly. Five sons bodes ill for any kingdom. And the Kingdom of the Chalbeams had six!

* * *

Sixth born Prince Felderon of the Chalbeams strode into Viscount Heron’s parlor, lifting his chin and throwing his shoulders back in his borrowed velveteen coat. He was reeling after that last hand of poker, and needed a drink. Nevermind the loss. As for the coat, the blue velveteen fabric suited him better than pale faced Medrik. A quick glance in gilt-framed mirror hanging over the sideboard confirmed this, and he flushed with the memory of Divana's most recent compliment.

You are the most handsome of all your brothers. Pity you’re so destitute. And seventh sons, at least, get prophesies to comfort them. But what do sixth sons get?

No matter. Divana was an only daughter of Viscount Heron and had all the money she would ever need coming to her. What she lacked, he could supply. Their union was all but inevitable. His love letters were winning her over.

He chuckled. All those brutal hours listening to that old goat of a royal minstrel, droning on and on about ladies' fair hair and white bosoms might come to something after all.

Divina cast him a coy smile when he caught her eye. But he grimaced when he noticed her company. What is Phellick doing here? His father had sent Phellick to study abroad in Caputan, well outside the Three Kingdoms.

Felderon’s third brother Phellick’s presence was not a welcome development. And he’d dragged along a full throng of his idiot friends, as well as a couple of ladies Felderon didn't recognize.

Something was obviously funny; they were laughing so hard—laughing and...reading? Was Divina reading this pack of jackals a letter? Was it—his throat tightened—his letter?

“Two lips like tulips! I'll be damned, that Felderon has flare!” Phellick chuckled, holding his stomach.

Divina flushed cherry red, cleared her throat and stood up from the settee. "Hello Prince Felderon." She curtsied and almost twisted her ankle, but caught herself.

The group fell silent, but only for a moment. Phellick licked his lips, his blue eyes twinkling. “Let's have another letter! How many did you write her Feldy? The first three have been such good sport. I'll be crushed if there are no more!”

Felderon's face burned, and his throat closed. His gaze locked on Divina, who stared down at the letter in her small white hands. “Don't look so stricken, Felderon. It was only a little bit of fun.”

* * *

A little bit of fun? Prince Felderon's stormed out of the salon, his throat frozen and his guts in knots.

Outside of Vicount Heron’s villa, rain fell down in sheets, but Felderon added his own turbulence to the storm, diving into the downpour and striding out toward the stables.

Ignoring the stable boy who called after him, crying—Stop, sir! he sank his left boot into something fresh and cursed, dragging the boot and smearing manure across the packed earth.

Finally, he found Serge, who stamped the earth, restless in his stall. Here, Felderon paused. The stallion’s ears laid down and his muscles tensed. Damned if this horse isn’t mine! One look and he knows all!

“Stop! Mister Mendrake says he’ll be right back to take him!” The stable boy yelled from behind.

No horse. No coat.

He thrust his foot in the stirrup and swung astride the beast. “Tell Mendrake he missed his window!” Felderon kicked with his heals and cracked his whip. What kind of an idiot failed to take their winnings the instant they came into hand!

Rain pelted his hat and coat, and Serge reared up, whinnied in protest in the weather. But the horse knew the road and at last, lengthened his neck as Felderon urged him out into the weather.

Hoofbeats thundered over the cobbles, rainwater soaked the prince up to his thighs as he tore over the vacant roads.

Serge’s sides heaved, eyes wild with exertion, but Felderon drove him to the brink of exhaustion and the break of dawn to a ramshackle tavern on the border of his own country.

He would lose Serge a second time if he didn’t stable him, and that marked a line Felderon couldn’t cross, even in his rage.

* * *

Inns had a certain doubtful character on the mountain borders between Renada and the Chalbeam countryside, conveniently equipped with signs scribed in either country’s dialect. Whichever side of the border the inn keeper claimed for his establishment depended upon who was asking, and why.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

The Ragged Rover was a tumble-down shanty with two slant windows and a low-beamed ceiling strung wth thyme and garlic. It boasted a few flee-bitten ticks over the kitchen for travelers. The inn keep was a raw-boned youth with a fat lip and no questions for Felderon, except the perfunctory, “What can I git you?”

“A stable for my horse, and a bed on fresh straw if you have it.”

“Nothing’s fresh above tree line, man, but you’re welcome to what we’ve got.”

Felderon set a coin on the bar.

At his elbow, a bone-thin, garlic-breathing woman surveyed him. “If ever a man needed a ladle of grog, I’d say you did now.”

Felderon stared at the bar. “I don’t want a sedative.”

“Meant nothing by it,” the woman said. “No harm in a little fix-me-up for the road. All of us here is weary travelers.”

“I don’t want a fix-me-up.”

The woman grunted, then turned her attentions in the opposite side of the bar.

A sand-bearded frontiersman pushed a drink of pale ale toward the brooding prince. “Vengeance, then?”

Felderon snorted. “Vengeance is too good for them.”

The man started. “What's your remedy then?”

Felderon shook his head, wondering aloud, “Something…pure.”

The man grunted. “You’re young to speak of purity.”

Felderon stretched his back. “I’m young enough to be a fool, and old enough to know it.”

“Ah. Then you’ll be wanting to speak to the Sage of the Sun.”

Felderon laughed. “Indeed I would! If I could find the old cypher. I would spend a pocketful to speak to him!”

“Won’t take money to see the Sage,” the man said. “Effort, but no money. He meditates in yonder summit of the Illusion Range. Go there if ye seek wisdom.”

Felderon turned his full gaze on the man. “Have you ever been?”

“Nay. Guess I like my foolishness. But I’ve heard of a man who came and went. Solitary soul with birds on his shoulders. Speaks to none but children.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Nah. Keeps to himself. And no one around here bothers him.”

The prince’s mouth gave an involuntary quirk. 'No one bothers him' he says?

* * *

The succeeding seven days passed in a blur of remote villages and and mountain forests, until at last, Serge could carry Prince Felderon no farther. The remaining stretch of journey loomed high up above—a climb up the sheer face of a granite wall, stretching one hundred meters high—a death climb for any but the most determined, any but the most desperate.

Felderon satisfied both criteria.

And when, at last, his arms lifted his torso, lungs heaving and every muscle trembling, up over the top of the wall, he groaned, and with one last grunt, hauled his upper body up onto level ground. Resting on his back, he spoke to Heaven, if not to the very Sage of the Sun, whom he'd spent his last strength seeking.

"Why is it the wise ones of the world always insist on backbreaking heights for their meditations?" The prince threw his hands up and let them drop, exhausted, to either side of his body.

The answer came, unhurried from the lips of the sage, and possible magician, meditating on the bare ground nearby. "It isn't about the height, so much as the climb."

The prince groaned with the tension in his back and shoulders. "I don't understand you."

"Are you," the sage said, "familiar with the legend of Master Chuang from the East?"

"Eh? You mean the philosopher, who, when invited to serve the emperor, asked the messenger to confirm the rumor of the emperor's famous tortoise shell wrapped in silk at court?"

"Exactly. Do you know the philosopher's answer?"

"If I recall," Felderon said, "Chuang claimed he would rather be a turtle in the mud, than a hollow shell in the emperor's court."

"Very good."

Felderon grunted. ”So you sit up here on the far edge of the world because serving my father at Court would reduce you to a shell of your humanity?"

"No."

“No? What’s your point then?” Felderon asked, rolling his eyes to the heavens.

"I was testing your classical education."

"You're a cypher."

"The King has six sons," the sage said. "Is that right?"

"Yes."

"And you are the final?"

"How did you guess? We're more or less copies of each other."

"Princes at the end of the birth order often find themselves in need of advice."

"I'm not familiar with the habits of other kings' sons."

"I am. And that alone supplies ample motive for keeping myself scarce."

"Are you mad?" Felderon gestured with both hands. "All just to dodge the quest of sixth born prince?"

"I said that would supply ample motive, but again, that is not my motive."

"What is your reason?"

"I loathe war."

“You mean to say your close proximity to Court would land us in jeopardy of war?” Astonishing.

"I am saying, that the quests of sixth born princes crush kingdoms."

Felderon flinched. "I don't believe you."

The sage shrugged, mute.

"It seems you are less a sage than your reputation reports. I do not seek patricide, nor even fratricide!"

"That may be. But your quest is one of vengeance, and its tendency is to downfall."

"I have said my quarrel is not with my father, nor his heir! Nor even his spare! It is my third brother who I loathe. He must be upturned--though I would have killed him by now if I had meant him dead."

"Ah, yes. Had you murdered him, I would not have been so easily found."

"There was nothing easy about my journey, old man."

"Vengeance is not a worthy quest."

"You do not know the provocation."

"Nor need I."

Felderon rose up from the ground, his face burned and his broad shoulders shook. "I have not slept in six nights! I have scaled the sheer face of the canyon wall! You shall know it or I die at your feet!"

The sage released a sigh. "I suppose we cannot have that, can we?"

Felderon clenched his fists. "For a visionary, old man, your mockery comes late! The entire country is far ahead of you. Do you think death holds any horror for me now?"

The sage opened just one of his erstwhile closed eyes. "Give pause, young prince. You are unprepared for death."

"I'm unprepared for life! Raised a prince, yet I'll have no fortune! No practical skills or knowledge! The instant I find a young heiress who seems willing to have me, I find I am made a public fool by her and my own kin!"

"Indeed, the competition for a good situation is stiff. You've so many brothers," the sage said.

"She read them my letters--words meant for her alone! Things I dared not speak aloud!"

"There were letters? I hope you did not commit the sin of poetry!"

The Prince groaned and hid his face in his palms. "Iambic pentameter!"

"Oh dear."

"I cannot show my face anywhere in the civilized world."

"I see."

"But do you? Their mockery has crossed every border! I shall die a fool!"

"Respectfully, dear prince. That is up to you."

"I had hope, old man, that it might be up to you. I have no antidote to my misery, unless it be death."

The sage frowned. "I have something, but the remedy is clumsy--a last resort at best."

Prince Felderon's eyes lit. "I'll hear what it is!"