The prince retreated to the sitting room, shutting the door to his father’s room quietly. He checked his parent’s room for his mother, but the door was locked and no one answered his quiet rap on the portal. Relam looked around the sitting room with a sigh. There was no one else there, no guards, no servants. Just Relam and the furniture and an empty fireplace staring back at him. He moved quickly to his own room, shutting and locking the door behind him. This done, he sank into the chair at his desk, thinking over the day’s events. The assassins had been nearly useless, but his father was conscious. The king was still weak though, and Relam’s mother was ailing as well. That left just Relam fit and active. Oh, and the palace guard commander had been murdered on the streets.
“Another good man caught up in the games of the master of the assassins,” Relam muttered, rubbing at his eyes wearily. Would the madness never cease? Would the rest of his life be lived in a series of attacks and uncertain lulls, until whoever paid off the assassins managed to succeed?
Or until he slipped up, revealing his identity or leaving a witness who could?
Relam went to open his desk drawer, to lose himself in his work on the dragon carving. But the bandage on his left hand caught the corner of the desk and snagged for a moment, reminding him of his injury. The prince removed the bandage carefully, examining the wound. There was a scab over the place where the knife had bit into his thumb, but the surrounding flesh was still tender. Grimacing, Relam rubbed in some more healing salve and rewrapped the wound with a disconsolate sigh.
He had not sat there long before a knock came at the door. Relam stood slowly and pressed his eye to the spyhole, wondering who his visitor might be. He had hoped that it would be his mother, or maybe the healer with good news. Or maybe even Narin, with an update on Bannen’s murder.
But it was none of them waiting on the other side of the door. It was just Aven, looking small and grim and remarkably vulnerable for one caught up in the chaos surrounding the royal family.
Relam opened the door without his customary vigor, standing aside so Aven could come in. “Thanks,” the boy muttered as he entered. He sat in Relam’s recently vacated desk chair, while Relam himself sat on the edge of the bed.
They sat in silence for several long moments before Relam spoke. “I’m sorry to get you mixed up in this.”
Aven grinned wryly. “Sorry? You can’t buy this kind of excitement.”
“Or this kind of danger,” Relam pointed out.
The boy bit the inside of his cheek, the grin vanishing into a stony expression.
“This is what happens when I try to do a little good,” Relam continued ruefully. “I help you into the city guard to help you achieve your dreams. Then before you know it I’m dragging you along to interrogate assassins.”
“You weren’t dragging me, I wanted to go,” Aven replied.
“But you shouldn’t have,” Relam said, cutting him off. “You’ve heard Bannen is dead?”
“The guard commander?”
“The same.”
Aven flinched and looked away. “I hadn’t heard,” he said finally.
“Narin and I are certain that he was killed by the same man behind the assassins,” Relam continued doggedly. “Do you understand why I am sorry now? Everyone associated with this mess is in mortal danger. And I brought you into it, without a thought for the consequences.”
“Maybe,” Aven conceded. “I’m not here to talk about who’s in danger and how much though.”
“Right,” Relam said, remembering. “You had questions for me from when we were at the Citadel.”
“Yeah,” Aven said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You said that D’Arnlo is a supremacist? What does that mean?”
Relam took a deep breath, organizing his thoughts. “Before the Sthan Kingdom ruled the entire world there were many kingdoms. The last was the Orell in the south, but there were others. In the heights, on the plains, the swamplands, a few isolated city states along the northern mountains. Anyway, there was a series of wars and annexations and when all was said and done the Sthan Kingdom came out on top. Because of that, some native Sthans, those that can trace their lineage back to the original smaller kingdom, believe they should be given preferential treatment because they are better than the descendants of other kingdoms.”
“That’s . . . strange,” Aven said after a moment. “So D’Arnlo wants to rule the world?”
“Not quite,” Relam said, shaking his head. “The supremacists want the original Sthans to be acknowledged as a superior race, the true masters of the world. All other races would be inferior servant races.”
“And, naturally, most of the world objects to that,” Aven observed, smiling slightly.
“Yes,” Relam agreed. “But that doesn’t stop people like D’Arnlo from dreaming of master races and hordes of slaves and servants to do his bidding.”
Aven nodded, filing the information away. “You said you don’t like him. Any reason other than the fact that he’s a supremacist?”
“He’s a typical noble,” Relam growled. “Stuck up, full of himself. He is one of the foremost warriors in the kingdom though, and perhaps one of the best sword masters.”
“How many are there?” Aven asked suddenly.
“How many . . . what?” Relam said, cocking his head at the boy quizzically.
“Sword masters,” he elaborated.
“Oh. Few enough, though the title is unofficial. Tar Agath is one, of course, but he only works with younger students, cadets, mainly. D’Arnlo, obviously. There’s a couple of others here in Etares and more in Ardia, at the academy. Maybe one in Mizzran.”
“Any
