“Hmm. Well, what did you wish to discuss about him?” the king asked.
“Aven has always had a dream of becoming a warrior,” Relam explained. “There are two problems, though. First, he is slightly built-”
“And warriors tend to have a bit of size.”
“Exactly. The other problem is he’s very poor and can’t afford training, even though he works for us and his parents work elsewhere in the city. They can barely feed themselves most weeks.”
“Ah.” Relam’s father was frowning deeply now, swirling the last of the water in his cup. “Are you asking for charity for the boy, Relam?”
“No,” Relam said as firmly as he could. “But I did have an idea that might help the situation.”
The king was silent. Then, finally, he spoke. “Explain,” he said slowly, drawing out each syllable.
“Well, I thought that maybe Aven could begin training as an archer for the city guard and earn some extra money that way,” Relam said eagerly. “I don’t need him around all day after all, so he has the time to train, and even a slightly built warrior can manage a bow. By the time he is old enough to officially join the guard he will be a more than capable archer, and his other qualities indicate he could become a good leader.”
“The idea has merit,” the king allowed. “Why do you bring this to me?”
“Well, I thought that if I was going to recommend him to the guard, I should clear it with you,” Relam explained. “After all, it is a rather unique situation.”
“Yes, yes it is.” Orram fell silent, thinking. “It is a good thing that you wish to do, Relam. But it is also dangerous. Handing out favors like this can lead to unfortunate consequences.”
“If you’re worried about Aven-”
“I am not worried about Aven. I am worried about others who may wish for the same special treatment,” the king growled, waving a hand irritably. “It is the monarch’s quandary: how to be generous yet fair.”
“We can’t promote everyone to the guard,” Relam pointed out.
“Exactly my point,” his father agreed. “We can’t help everyone.”
“But shouldn’t we still do what good we can?” Relam asked, sensing that he might be losing ground. “Who’s to say this won’t start a trend among the nobility of helping those less fortunate?” Even as the words left his mouth, they sounded ludicrous. Relam tried to picture Garenes granting a servant a favor, raising them up. His imagination fell miserably short of that image.
As though confirming Relam’s thoughts, his father laughed out loud.
“Not your best argument, Relam. I don’t see such an idea taking hold any time soon.”
“So you won’t let me help Aven?”
Relam tried to keep the accusing note out of his voice, but his father heard it anyways. “Don’t make this about me,” he snarled. “I am bound by my position. I cannot grant favors on a whim or everyone will line up outside the palace for a handout.”
Relam sighed and looked down, frowning.
“But,” his father continued. “I could, very quietly of course, send a message to a trusted officer in the guard with the instructions for this arrangement. Of course, Aven would have to keep quiet about this and not lead people to think we had been involved in any way shape or form.”
“Thank you,” Relam said simply. “This will change Aven’s life, father. And the life of his parents. You’re giving good people a chance to do great things.”
“So I am told,” Orram agreed. “Now, enough talk. Let’s have that last quick bout, shall we?”
As it turned out, the last bout was in no way quick.
It started as the others had, a slow circling of opponents, sizing each other up, seeking an opening, a telltale twitch or flexing of muscles preparatory to an attack. When at last Relam charged his father, practice sword swinging high overhead, the fight began in earnest.
The king countered Relam’s advance with a two-handed horizontal sweep of his practice sword. Relam ducked and slid under the wooden blade, nearly ending the bout by getting under his father’s guard. But his quick slash was parried awkwardly and the fight continued. Relam rolled to his feet, behind his father, and went on the offensive again.
The young prince preferred attacking to defending, but it was just as difficult. On defense, he was constantly looking for the next strike, the next threat. Then, he had a split second to react correctly and either block the threat or avoid it in some other manner. When he was attacking, though, Relam’s ingenuity was constantly pushed to the limits as he strove for more creative attacks and searched for new ways to exploit tiny weaknesses in his opponent’s defense.
Relam’s father, for his part, seemed perfectly happy to play defense for the moment, blocking Relam’s best attacks with ease and giving ground slowly. The young prince followed him all around the courtyard, the sound of their wooden weapons clashing ringing in the otherwise silent space.
They fought in this manner for some time, until Relam’s arms grew leaden and his muscles complained with each jarring impact of sword on sword. He noticed his father had begun deflecting blows rather than blocking them, reducing the shock somewhat. But still both fighters were panting from exertion, sweat pouring from their limbs and down their sides.
Finally, Relam thrust forward, only to have his attack deflected almost contemptuously by his father. The prince stumbled forward, off balance, and his father grabbed him by the collar to steady him.
“Victory!” the king gasped, breathing heavily. “And none too soon either.”
Relam nodded agreement, sagging against his father’s support gratefully. “Good . . . fight,” he managed to croak. He tried to stand upright, but overbalanced and fell to the ground, winded
