“If that is what you want,” she agreed.
The prince frowned. He hadn’t been aware he had a choice in the matter. “If that’s what I want? I thought I had to complete my training?”
“No,” his mother said, shaking her head. “You don’t have to do anything, Relam.” She turned away slowly, and sat down in the chair closest to the fire, shivering slightly. “You are free, son, to choose your own path.”
Relam shifted from foot to foot awkwardly, watching his mother gaze at the coals in the fireplace. Finally he retreated into his room, closing the door behind him. He stood there for a moment, one hand still on the latch, and thought about what his mother had said.
You are free to choose your own path.
The prince shrugged and sat down at his desk, pulling out his dragon carving and holding it up to the light filtering through the windows. The hind legs were finished now, muscular and slightly bent, ending in dangerous clawed feet. He tested the wooden claws with the ball of his thumb, felt the points prick his skin ever so slightly. It had taken a good deal of careful work to accomplish that, but what to do next?
Eventually, Relam decided to continue working on the shape of the magnificent beast, extracting its back and underbelly from the block of wood. This task proved simple enough, so simple in fact that he finished with time to spare before dinner. Not wanting to waste a moment, Relam immediately began on the right foreleg, gouging with the knife where the limb met the dragon’s thick body. As he did, the knife slipped and struck his left hand, running all the way down his thumb.
For a moment, Relam just stared at the wound. Then, the pain hit him and blood began welling from the gash. Gritting his teeth, Relam set the carving down and snatched up a towel, wrapping his injured hand in it. The towel quickly turned red-brown around the injury.
Swearing under his breath, Relam hurried to the washroom, taking great care not to drip blood all over the floor as he did. Quickly, he rinsed out the gash and applied pressure, staunching the flow of blood. The wound stung and burned where it contacted the towel, and Relam grimaced in pain. While he waited for the bleeding to slow, he dug in a lower cabinet for bandages. After several minutes of awkward, one-handed rummaging, he came up with a length of clean cloth that would serve well enough.
Relam tossed the towel aside and quickly wrapped the bandage around his thumb, winding it around and around until the injury was effectively cocooned. The pain was beginning to fade to a dull throb now, and only the first two layers soaked through with blood as Relam wound the bandage.
The prince tied off the cloth with the aid of his teeth and surveyed his handiwork. His thumb was completely encased in white linen, wrapped over and over all the way down to where it joined his hand, tied off with a small but sturdy knot. He flexed the fingers of his left hand experimentally, frowning as he realized how restricted his movements would be until the injury healed.
“No more carving for a while,” he muttered ruefully.
As Relam was cleaning up the debris from his frantic rush to the washroom, he heard a knock at the door. The prince whirled around.
“Who is it?”
“Aven.”
“Come in.”
Aven entered smartly and shut the door behind him. His eyes widened when he saw Relam’s bandaged hand. “What happened?”
“Cut myself,” the young prince replied gruffly. “Nothing to worry about. I got it cleaned up and bandaged pretty quickly. I’m just cleaning up everything else now.”
“Oh. Isn’t that my job?” Aven asked.
Relam shrugged. “You’re welcome to help if you wish, but I made the mess. Makes sense that I should be the one to clean it up, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” Aven agreed. “But, I’m still your servant, so I’ll help.” He knelt beside the cabinet in the washroom, which Relam had emptied of its contents in his search for bandages. “How were the trials?” he asked, suddenly remembering.
Relam shrugged. “I passed.” Frankly, the trials were already a distant memory, almost a nonevent compared with the immediacy of his injured hand. Except for the fact that Garenes had attacked him. Relam remembered that detail of the trials extremely well. Over and over he replayed that scene in his head, trying to pass it off as an accident.
And failing each time.
“That’s it?” Aven asked, clearly disappointed with Relam’s brief reply.
“Pretty much,” Relam grunted. “We’re not really supposed to talk about what happens during the trials. That way word doesn’t reach the next round of cadets.”
“Makes sense, I suppose,” Aven agreed as he stacked towels and containers in the cabinet. “Were the trials hard? Did anyone fail?”
That was a question with a lot of sharp edges. “They were challenging,” Relam finally said. “One cadet failed the trials and was sent home.”
“Really?” Aven turned around, eyes wide. “Who?”
“I won’t say,” Relam replied immediately. “Though I daresay the whole city will know eventually.”
“Hmm. I can’t remember ever hearing about anyone failing the trials before,” Aven mused as he finished repacking the cabinet. “It’s rare, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Relam agreed. “Master Agath does an excellent job training his students, so it’s a surprise when one of them doesn’t pass the trials.”
“But you passed, and that’s what matters,” Aven said smugly. “I knew you would!”
“Thanks,” Relam said, mopping up the last droplets of blood that had splattered on his desk. A thought struck him and he looked at Aven quizzically. “Hang on. You’re dressed differently than normal. And is that a dagger on your belt?”
Aven tried to puff out his scrawny chest and failed miserably, but he
