“Kurkan?” Relam interrupted. “The same Kurkan who stopped the vertaga at Ganned’s Gorge?”
“Yes,” his father confirmed, nodding. “He was named a national hero after the war. Unfortunately, he’s gone a little . . . strange. He lost his brother in the early stages of the war and he hasn’t been able to handle his grief since then. I made him an instructor at the academy to give him purpose again, but I had to move him eventually because he just didn’t fit there. He’s at the West Bank now, one of the two fortresses that guards the perimeter of the Renlor Basin.”
“Kurkan is a drunk,” Clemon sniffed. “Nothing more. He probably saw some deer one night walking out of a tavern and thought it was a vertaga. In all likelihood there is a very frightened buck out there somewhere-”
“There are no taverns at the West Bank, and deer would be rare in the area, not many trees,” the king pointed out.
“Whatever,” Clemon grunted. “The point is, this is a waste of time.”
“What’s a waste of time?” Relam asked, feeling he was missing an important piece of information.
“Sending me to investigate the West Bank and see if the rumors have any truth to them!” Clemon said indignantly.
“Is that what all of the shouting was about?” Relam asked, looking from one to the other.
“Yes,” his father and the chatelain chorused.
Relam rolled his eyes.
“Marc,” the king said, “You are already going to Ardia to oversee a minor trade dispute. The West Bank is not much further and I think we should at least look into this.”
“Especially if these raids are a prelude to war, like they were last time,” Relam added.
“Send someone else,” Clemon spat. “I won’t go, do you hear me?” His voice was positively shaking with anger and frustration.
Anger, Relam wondered, or fear?
“You’re afraid,” he observed, looking at Clemon.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re scared of going to the West Bank,” Relam said with growing conviction. “This isn’t a matter of not wanting to and wasting time, it’s a matter of facing your fear.”
“Marc, if there really is nothing there then there is nothing to be afraid of,” the king pointed out. “All you have to do is ride down there and check. You can take an escort if you like, say a dozen men or so. But I need you to do this. I trust your ability to handle delicate situations more than anyone else.”
Clemon nodded slowly, realizing that he had been outmaneuvered. “All right,” he said finally. “If this is what you want, your majesty, then I will go. It’s just that I’ve become so accustomed to peace. Trade has finally been increasing after all of the disasters last year and there haven’t been any major disputes to adjudicate and the Assembly is behaving-”
“I still can’t believe that,” Relam’s father said, rolling his eyes. “They’re up to something, I’m sure of it.”
“Perhaps,” Clemon agreed.
“I’ve grown fond of peace too,” the king said gently. “But if war is coming, we must know. Now, I won’t start mustering the armies or briefing generals. Not yet. I think this is just as likely to be a hoax or a minor occurrence as you do, Marc. But we need to check it out anyway.”
“As you wish, your majesty,” Clemon said, bowing deeply. “If you will excuse me, I have some packing to do. I’m going on a very long journey.”
“Be careful,” Relam called.
“Yes,” his father agreed. “Don’t leave me alone with the job of running the kingdom. I’d never get all of the paperwork right on my own.”
Clemon smirked at that and withdrew, leaving Relam and his father alone. The prince turned to the king and raised an eyebrow. “Vertaga?” he asked skeptically.
His father shrugged uncertainly. “You can read the report for yourself if you want,” he said, gesturing to the low table by the fireplace. “Lord Kurkan details three separate attacks in the south, all in the last few weeks. The first was a raid on a trade caravan headed for Ishkabur, somewhere in the Fells. The lord of Ishkabur contacted us, but since it occurred in the Fells, which is dangerous country at best, we didn’t pay it much heed.”
“What if the reports turn out to be true?” Relam asked worriedly.
“We’ll see,” his father replied dismissively. “We have a lot of other things to worry about right now. There’s the winter solstice celebration in a couple months, and not long after that you will be old enough to be confirmed as crown prince. And you’ll still be training with Oreius five days a week.”
“Training does keep me fairly busy,” Relam agreed ruefully.
“It should. I remember when I trained under a master,” his father said, thinking back. “Those were some of the most grueling years of my life.”
“Thing is, I feel like I’m handling it all right,” Relam said, rolling his shoulders. “I’m making progress every day, and nothing that Oreius asks me to do seems impossible. And everything has a clear purpose and a significant benefit. I’ve already moved way beyond the students in Master D’Arnlo’s class at the Citadel.”
“How much of that is Oreius and how much is you?” the king asked, smiling. “Even with Tar you were always ahead of the game, son.”
“True,” Relam agreed, brushing the praise aside. “But I think Oreius is a significant part of my success as well. He’s a great teacher.”
“Some say the finest,” his father agreed wryly. “He is a bit eccentric though. My father made him a national hero and he practically ran away afterwards. Nobody saw or heard from him again for months.”
“Seems to be a common trend with our national heroes,” Relam observed.
“Well, D’Arnlo is handling things a little better than Oreius or Kurkan. He was named a hero
