15

A Royal Education

Most adolescents despise school. This is a known fact of the world. Even Prince Arval himself found himself bored beyond belief during his younger years at school. No one likes being forced to attend lectures about things which they do not care for. You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t get them to drink; unless it’s wine, in his adoptive mother’s case.

Recently, he had made quite a discovery. Maybe it was because they were at the wrong schools. Maybe they were the wrong status of family. Maybe it was both.

Because now he was having the time of his life. Granther was something else from the dull, middle-class hovel where he spent his formative years. He noticed it even while listlessly staring from the carriage window at the vibrant rolling hills and luscious, dense woodland while his steward rolled off the itinerary to his unlistening self.

It wasn’t as royal a welcome as he would have liked. He didn’t get the audacious brass band playing something to signal his welcome, there were no rose petals thrown at his feet, nor was there a crowd to greet with rapturous applause.

He did get a welcome from the headmaster and the minister of education, who grovelled to the point that if they did any more, he would have had to pry their lips from his feet.

Currently, he’s running quite a distance ahead of the group, making their usual laps of the college grounds.

He wasn’t sure why the rest were having such a hard time; he was barely breaking a sweat.

He crossed the hedge gardens and passed the clock-tower, sauntering up to the back gate and effortlessly vaulting it, following the dirt path into the surrounding countryside.

He could still hear the distant cry of General-Major Whitlocke still yelling at the stragglers to hurry.

Poor General-Major. Once the head of the armies of the kingdom, now relegated to a military mentor. If he shouted at the prince like he shouted at everyone else, he would see to the old commander becoming something much lower.

Probably not. That would be far too much effort.

The country path circled back round, passing the golden hills of eldenflowers and babbling brooks deep into the forest, and ended back inside the college grounds.

He finished first, naturally, shortly followed by the grey, hulking form of Lord Bhramsta charging behind.

He took a towel and let it rest round his neck.

‘You’re faster than you look’, Prince Arval said to the promising knight captain in training.

‘It’s my sworn duty to keep up with you.’ The sweat still beading from his forehead betrayed the attempt to appear unwearied. ‘It would take far more than this to break the sacred duty of a Dawnshield Knight.’

‘We’ll see,’ Arval added playfully, throwing his towel onto the horn sticking out of the knight’s face. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t follow me around so much.’

‘That I cannot do, your grace. The Dawnshield Knights have a sacred oath to protect the king and all his kingdom.’

‘But do you have to do it all the time?’

‘… Yes.’

He didn’t well understand this “oath” business. Why do something so confining and absolute when you could just as easily not?

Anyway, there’s not much left after such a run than to take a good, long bath.

He let the ex-Major-General deal with the rest of the students.

Such a luxurious open space. Marble walls, warm steam, a great open bath bigger than most pools.

And it was all for him. At least right now, anyway. Everyone was allowed to use it, but Prince Arval got it all to himself when requested.

He laid the towel by the edge of the enormous bath and gently lowered himself in, letting the warm water relax his muscles and soothe him to his core.

All schools should be like this.

He did miss the dizzying heights of Orrick architecture, built thousands of years ago by arcane architects, but the moments like this helped him forget.

Others would be waiting for the bathhouses’ use. Should he hurry?

Nah, fuck it. Let them wait.

He is king, unofficially so anyway. They can afford to wait. They must.

A few moments later, he became bored and left.

He emerged from the steamy room later on, much to the mild annoyance of some students he didn’t register.

What was next?

‘Come on!’ he screamed, slashing the blunt rapier at the prince.

Was it a good idea to be sparring right after a bath? Normally, yes, but the prince wasn’t breaking a sweat. This was hardly even a sparring match; more of an embarrassment.

There were thrusts and slashes with as much force as one could muster, yet the prince effortlessly deflected them all.

‘You have to try a little harder than that.’

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‘Grrrr!’ The young lord grunted with effort. It wasn’t right. He once was the strongest. The fastest. The best. He practiced every day.

This “prince” never practiced. Not fully, anyway. He always half-arsed the training sessions and still came out on top.

He went in with a feign and attacked his exposed side. It didn’t matter. An idle swipe of his blade and the lord went tumbling back.

Another win for the prince. How many now? He lost count three wins ago.

‘Why?’ The young lord yelled from his prone position.

The prince couldn’t offer much of a response other than a smug shrug.

In frustration, Lord Derian hit the ground with the hilt of his blade. The next in the line of a proud warrior house of leopards, at the mercy of this sudden prince seemingly plucked from the air itself.

It just wasn’t fair. He left, trying to keep hold of what little of his pride was left.

‘I don’t know why he keeps challenging me. It always ends the same.’ Even Bhramsta fell quick to his blade, but Derian always seemed to take it personally.

‘It would appear the damage extends far beyond his mere bruises!’ The stranger stepped forth, a regal-looking stag with a great set of decorated antlers upon his head. ‘He should expect more against the most illustrious Prince Arval! A pleasure to make your acquaintance.’

He couldn’t quite place where, but there was something incredibly familiar about him. Like he should know who this person is but couldn’t quite figure it out. Before he had the chance to figure it out, he answered for him.

‘My name is Davik. First of the League.’

Of course, that’s where he heard of him. The enigmatic Lord of the League. Young for such a position, much to the chagrin of his fellow lords. And previous ones.

What in the world was he doing here?

‘I know what you’re thinking. What use does a lord have for his old alma mater when there are far more important issues transpiring? Meeting the future king is always an important issue.’ He held the prince’s hand in his own. He gave quite the impression.

Only now did he regard the strange form of a hooded figure standing close to the First Lord.

‘And who is your companion here?’ The prince asked.

‘And this is the Second of the League, my loyal companion and trusted advisor, Lady Xypher.’ The person in question, donned in heavy robes and a mirrored mask, gave a short, curt bow. ‘Watch this. Xypher, what is the chance of Lord Derian besting Prince Arval in a hypothetical next round?’

She paused a moment, like she was calculating the answer. ‘Four point three percent,’ emerged from somewhere behind the mask.

‘And tell me what is the difference in their power?’

‘Clarify.’

‘Pertinent to the next match.’

‘Prince Arval. Base statistics: strength, eight out of ten; finesse, five out of ten; skill, six out of ten. Current weapon skill: standard sword, thirty-five out of one hundred.

‘Lord Derian. Base statistics: strength, four out of ten; finesse, five out of ten; skill, seven out of ten. Current weapon skill: standard sword, forty-five out of one hundred.’

‘It appears what you lack in skill, you more than make up for in raw strength and speed.’

‘She has an interesting ability, but if you doubt my skill, then we should have a match.’ Prince Arval flicked his hair back from over his eye. ‘It’ll take more than statistics to figure me out.’

‘Very possible. Come. We should walk and talk.’ Together, they left the duelling hall and walked the halls of Granther. It didn’t look like a college, far too well maintained of a place full of students. It looked more like a manor that was just five times bigger than a regular one.

The mysterious Lady Xypher hung behind like an ominous shadow. Tall, dark, and silent.

‘I assume your studies must be going well,’ Lord Davik said, walking straight-backed and proper, as any lord should, with hands clasped behind his back, as though he was holding his sleeves shut, possibly in an attempt to prevent anything falling out of them.

He didn’t really get the sense that he was a “trickster lord,” not that he knew what such a sense was like. He’d probably know, if it appeared.

‘Naturally. I don’t even have to attend most of my classes.’

‘“Most?” So there are some you attend?’

‘Any involving sword play.’

‘And no one questions you on this, I take it?’

‘Of course not. I’m King after all.’

‘Not officially.’

‘Well, not yet, but once I’m of age.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘“Perhaps?” It is undeniable. My lineage is without doubt.’ They continued along the halls, eventually making their way out into the gardens. They walked past the sculpted hedges, the pillars wreathed in climbing vines, and past the gentle flowing rock pools.

Lord Davik wasn’t much taller than Prince Arval, but his antlers more than made up for that. He wondered how Lord Davik handled walking under low doorways.

‘Oh yes. Nothing would remove you from the throne. Other than bloody revolution, of course.’

‘... Yes, well, how often does that happen?’

‘Not often. The last time, I recall, was far south in the Reiner province. They say the king was pulled from his throne and disemboweled in the streets.’

‘When did that happen?’

‘A very long time ago.’

‘Oh good.’

‘About fifty years by my estimation.’

‘That’s… That’s really not that long ago.’

‘It’s all relative.’

That put Prince Arval into a silent period of introspection. The last thing he wanted was to be disemboweled in the street. He was sure that was true of most people, but he felt he wanted that much less. Before he could complete his thought, Lord Davik began speaking again.

‘I’m sure you’ll do a fine job. You certainly are the King’s son, in many ways.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I’m sure you’re aware of your predecessor’s “hands-off” attitude to governance. He may have been a king, but it’s in name only.’

‘And you think I’d be similar?’

‘It’s always possible. It would certainly be easier for the Chancellors.’

‘How would a lazy king help the Chancellors?’

‘He wouldn’t interfere with governance.’

‘Do you think I would?’

‘Me? Certainly not. Your council? Who knows?’

‘I’m not lazy.’

‘I’m sure they’ll see in the Ivory Fields exercise in the coming weeks.’ He didn’t like the idea of spending a few days in a grubby field leading troops in a training exercise. Maybe it would be worth it, if not out of pure spite.

‘I wasn’t even planning on attending that. Maybe I’ll reconsider.’

‘If you don’t want them to see you as a “do-nothing” king, you’ll have to prove it. Power and the will to it is all there is in this world. You either eat or you’re eaten.’

The conversation took a darker turn than the Prince had expected, so he decided to take the discussion on a little detour. ‘I hear there are the Grand Preliminaries coming to Giltani next year. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have planned on attending, but the duels here have left me wanting somewhat.’

‘A chance to show your talent to the world would never go amiss. The people will certainly adore it, and I’m sure you’ll win with blood like yours.’

‘And I look forward to a match with you, Lord Davik.’

‘I must warn you, I’m no fighter. I’d rather have a friendly duel where no one is watching.’

Their conversation continued until they found themselves at the entrance hall, where a carriage awaited both the lords of the League.

‘I have quite missed Granther; especially the more social aspects. I’m sure you’ll be attending some fine “social gatherings” yourself, in due time,’ he said in a way that only technically meant a social gathering; as in, there is a gathering of people and they’re social. The rest can be left up to the imagination.

‘I did once. Don’t really want to again. They told me that they got hold of a barrel of “the good stuff,” but it turns out good stuff is mostly beetroot and flour. Some students kicked up quite the fuss over it.’