~Crow
I jumped from my bed a moment before the dagger slid down into my pillow, ripping it in half and allowing its contents to explode across my bed and onto the floor. Before I was fully awake my reflexes concentrated on the threat, fingers curling around a knife out of one of the many hidden areas within the room. I suspected it came from a hidden panel along the bedhead as I had slipped from the covers. However, my eyes were still closed, so I hadn’t paid attention.
“Who disturbs me?” I grumbled, forcing my eyes open to stare down my opponent. My body clock estimated it was just before dawn, the sun yet to grace us with his presence. The young man laughed a chuckle that had a musical hitch within, as though his vocal cords had ingested a harp for the hell of it.
‘How is the young prince this morning?’ I asked smugly and crossed my arms, watching him glare at the mention of the word “young.” In my experience those who demand to grow up hate to be reminded of their young age. These same people are the ones who later wear clothes for younger men in their fifties, but who am I to judge? If Prince Padriac had a say, he would have skipped the part of life where manhood and childhood collide. But then, I would say that for most. Padriac was stubborn, determined and intelligent. He had the features of someone painters enjoyed surrounding with angels, a beauty bar created long ago for those with the golden hair of kings. Good thing the boy was a prince. He was sixteen, with the same traits of any sixteen year old – demanding and curious. As a boy he had often climbed the castle walls to see where the water in his bath had come from. I had been charged with “subtle protection” of the princeling. Therefore, I soon became one of the few who he felt he could truly talk to.
And attempt to stab with a dagger apparently.
“I personally prefer a maids wakeup call.” I grinned, walking across from the boy to grab a shirt hanging on a chair.
“By “maids” you refer to Curvy Lucy I bet.’ He laughed, moving to sit cross-legged on my bed. “She is quite fond of you amongst the nobles.”
“She and I share a connection as old as time.”
“You’re getting old it’s true,” he replied smugly, “you’ve built up some interesting credentials with the ladies. Perhaps settling down…” he trailed off at my disgusted expression, bending down and gripping my boots to toss in my direction.
“You act as though I am eighty! Thirty is a respectable age, especially when you look twenty five.’ I grinned.”
“I hope your looks will morph into the reflection of your black heart. You’ll be an old man with a witch’s nose and a hag’s double chin wobbling beneath a drooling, gaping mouth.”
“One should not describe their grandmother with such disdain.”
He tossed his dagger into the air, catching the hilt and threw it at my head with the precision of endless practise. I swiftly moved an inch to the right, feeling the momentum of the blade rush past me. It was a master’s throw; any lessor man would have blood trickling down his face from an impaled eyeball.
“My, we are bloodthirsty today.”
He stalked over to yank the dagger out of the wall, energy coiling beneath his shirt to spring free up his arm.
“Best out of three?” He asked as he turned around, a deadly smile playing along his lips. I laughed; my little wall climber was growing up into a king with a deadly sense of humour. I was fond of the boy I realised. I wanted the kingdom to survive the deadly tango of politics to see the ruling regime of my mighty princeling Padriac. With the last thought held steady in my mind, I buckled my shoes and stepped out of my room, trusting the Prince would follow.
“How’s your father today?” I asked, nodding to any who passed by.
“He’s… fidgety. The whole dock matter has him making lists.”
“Again?!”
“You know my father, he likes to plan for every outcome.”
“He is a great king.”
“If you’re going to admire anyone it would be my father.” Padriac replied rather wistfully, expertly twisting and turning down the corridors to the main hall beside me. I watched the way the servants chatted like mice along the borders of the path, nobles stiffly bowing as they shuffled past us. Padriac thrived on the silent respect thrown his way. A smile here, a quiet chuckle there as he flew through the thick fog of adoration based on his station in life. I wondered if it bothered him, knowing that all these people thought to know him, only to see the pleasant mask he wore. He was at the age when kings sent their heirs to countless elite balls, mixing with the known world’s gentry to find a match worthy of them.
While Padriac was charming, he was also a secret introvert who disliked large crowds. If being a prince didn’t work out, I would be sure to point him in the direction of the theatre.
We padded past the guards either side of the large hall, walking along the richly embroidered rug that stretched from the huge oak double doors, to the throne carved with the royal crest of a stag against a blue background, delicate foliage carved across the top. Tapestries displaying the monarch’s history decked out the stone walls, from the moment the King’s ancestor bloodily removed the head of her final rival in the clan wars – to the birth of Padriac. The feats and stories within the great work I only partly believed, but it was a masterpiece sustained through the fingers of countless masters. It snaked along and up the walls, a woven scroll for any to see when they entered Tale Hall. Columns with golden flower decoration rose along the edges of the hall, creating smaller walkways along the large elegant windows with rich curtains tied back with strings decorated with small golden bells. Light filtered in from golden chandelier and natural light alike, the smell of jasmine perfume dancing on the air. If one looked up, they would meet the portrait of Queen Chiara, painted in her famous blood red gown. The high waisted evening dress was said to be soaked in the scarlet blood of her enemies, painted to drape down and flick at the columns connected to the marble floor.
“May I approach My King?” I asked, gracefully bowing low. Padriac beside me showed his respect, bowing his head to acknowledge his father.
“Ah William, yes of course – up early again? Why do you always insist greeting right by the door? It irks me for reasons I do not comprehend.”
I smirked at the floor before rising, striding closer to the King. If he knew I bowed there for a look at the Ladies in Waiting “Secret door” that was often ajar, he would probably hang me. It held endless dresses for the endless reasons Ladies always seemed to need to change their endless layers of silk and satins. It was perhaps, one of the most boyish and juvenile parts of my existence, but I could live with it.
It was empty, much to my disappointment. The whole hall seemed to be empty aside from a trusted scribe and the invisible servants – more than half I knew the names of.
I stood before the King, his beard neatly trimmed in an attempt to dissuade the salt and pepper craze running through his generation. He was tall; broad shouldered with kind eyes the colour of a cloudy sky. He had smile lines running along his mouth, though worry lines were threatening to overlap them. He was a quiet man, a strong man. He held an air of importance and authority, a steadfast and fair law that he ruled with.
“Do you have any thoughts on the matter at hand? Should I send compensation to Aseaviel?”
“Magic.” The prince muttered, “always brings complications.”
“Send for one of our two ambassadors back, he should be able to shed some light on it.” I replied confidently. “Have a follower placed on the foolish seaman.” I felt my body respond to my black humour willingly, “he can expect an interview soon.”
The king nodded along to my words, running a finger across his chin thoughtfully. He moved slightly in an attempt to hide the wad of parchment scrunched just under his thigh.
“Donkey Piss!” I snapped, “Stop with your listing! You have employed scribes for the very task.”
“I like to be prepared.” He replied indignity, “I-”
“Aseaviel’s King seems too eager for there to be a war.” Padriac interrupted, “perhaps Father, we should employ troops a little closer to the coast that looks out towards Aseaviel.”
“I agree son. A wise thought.”
“We need more information on this country.” I said, chewing on a thumbnail. “Is there a visiting foreigner in the city?”
“You can hardly call a reward. ‘Has anyone seen an Aseavielian wandering about? Please inform the closest barracks’.” Padriac scoffed.
I smiled, a hunter’s gleam in my eye, “who said anything about giving rewards?” 722Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5s7OZXOSPN
