“Yes,” his father agreed. “You may not feel ready now, but when you begin your trials you will find that everything you need to succeed you have. Strength, speed, wits, knowledge, skill. You are one of the finest young warriors I have seen, Relam. I do not say that because you are my son, but because I have seen you fight and pitted myself against you. You will do very well tomorrow.”
Relam nodded, though he was not reassured by his father’s little speech. A weight had settled in his stomach, and every time he thought of the trials it seemed to grow a little heavier.
“Enough talk, let’s eat,” the king said when no reply was forthcoming.
Relam mechanically followed his parents to the table and sat. Food was placed in front of him but he scarcely touched it, moving potatoes back and forth, rolling vegetables over and over. His parents tried to engage him in conversation but soon gave up. Relam did not even notice when Griff wished him well the following day, not until the servant accidentally bumped his chair as he moved to clear the prince’s plate.
“Oh! Sorry, Griff, what was that?” Relam asked quickly.
Griff smiled patiently. “I was just saying that we all wish you well on the morrow, your highness.”
“Thank you,” Relam said quickly. “I appreciate that. I apologize for being so distracted.”
“It is understandable, your highness,” Griff replied generously. “We know that you must have a great many things on your mind.”
“Yeah,” Relam murmured, his thoughts already shifting back towards the trials. “A great many things.”
“Why don’t you get some sleep?” his father suggested. “You want to be alert and full of energy.”
Relam nodded automatically, though he wasn’t tired at all after sleeping half the day, and wandered back to his room, shutting and locking the door. He quietly got into bed and lay there in the dark, thoughts whirling about in his head as he tried to guess what feats he would be expected to perform the following day, and how he would accomplish each one.
What if he had to fight multiple opponents? That was something they hadn’t spent much time on, but just the sort of twist Agath could throw at them. Would the cadets be pitted against each other? Or would they be tested in some other way? Would he have to fight Garenes?
Questions like these and a thousand others continuously assaulted Relam’s mind. Hours later, in the darkest hours of the night, Relam still lay awake, unable to find rest due to his overactive brain. Finally, a few hours before dawn, he slipped into unconsciousness.
The morning came entirely too soon. Relam woke to gray dawn light filtering weakly into his room and the sound of someone pounding vigorously on his door.
“Son? Time to get ready,” his father called, voice muffled by the thick door.
Relam rubbed sleep from his eyes and yawned, stretching. “I’m up,” he muttered wearily, squinting around the room. Slowly, he stumbled into the washroom. The day of the trials was here, at long last. Relam splashed water on his face several times, then went through the rest of his morning routine at top speed, trying to ignore the nervousness building within.
After cleaning up, Relam dressed in tunic, pants, and leather jerkin, belting his sword around his waist. The solid weight of it was reassuring, balanced by the dagger hanging from his other hip. Taking a deep breath, Relam opened his door and stepped into the main room.
His mother and father were seated in the dining alcove, both smiling broadly. On the table in front of them was one of the most extravagant breakfasts Relam had ever seen. Sausages, bacon, fruit, flat cakes, rolls, eggs – in short, every breakfast food he had ever seen, plus a few more.
“All for us?” Relam asked, half-joking.
His father laughed as he filled his plate. “If you’re up to it. Might not want to eat too much though, you’ll have to be quick on your feet.”
Relam nodded agreement. “Yes, I will. Any last-minute advice?”
His father shook his head. “No, and I won’t tell you what you’re about to face either. You’ll find out soon enough, son.”
Relam snorted and filled his plate with bacon, eggs and fruit. His appetite turned out to be rather less than it normally was though, and his plate was still mostly full when he pushed back from the table.
“I’m off,” he announced, shifting his sword belt slightly.
His mother stood as well and embraced him gently. “You’ll do fine,” she whispered confidently. Then, she stepped back and looked him over. “Every inch the warrior,” she proclaimed, before sitting once more.
“Good luck, son,” the king added. “May your blade never fail you.”
“Nor you, yours,” Relam replied, finishing the farewell of warriors.
He left his parents sitting there, still smiling confidently at him, and began the long walk to Tar Agath’s training center.
The young prince navigated the palace corridors automatically, turning left at the tapestry of Gareb the First’s exploits, then a right where that hallway dead-ended into another. Through an inconspicuous door that led to the servant’s corridors and then down a narrow flight of stairs, jumping the second to last one, which was unstable and rotting.
At last, Relam entered the main entry hall of the palace. On all sides were wide, graceful staircases winding upwards and massive portals opening into gilded and spacious rooms. His boots rang on the polished stone floors, his reflection rippling and gliding with him as he moved. Then he was outside the palace and descending the worn stone steps, nodding stiffly to the guards that flanked the entrance to the palace. The plaza below was nearly empty, for much of the city had yet to rise and begin the
