Chapter 2
Inside, Relam sighed heavily and looked around the small room. It was sparsely furnished, because Relam had refused to let the royal decorators clutter the space with all manner of furniture. A large, comfortable bed stood against the same wall as the door, a few feet to Relam’s right. To Relam’s immediate left stood a chest of drawers. Across from the door was a trio of tall, thin windows. Between two of them stood Relam’s desk, and to the left of the leftmost window stood his weapon’s rack. He walked quickly to this now and hung up his sword belt and practice gear, wrinkling his nose at the smell clinging to the leather. He would have to air that tomorrow, if the palace’s small army of servants didn’t beat him to it.
He snorted derisively. Anyone else would love to be in his position, being waited on constantly, having every minor thing looked after. But to Relam, the servants were a little overzealous, taking on even the simplest of tasks, even though Relam had no problem taking care of them himself. At times, the palace staff seemed to be constantly underfoot, getting in the way or meddling with his life and every detail related to it. This was one of the reasons Relam had taken to locking all of the doors in the royal apartments. That way, the servants had to request access and could be sent away if Relam wanted to handle things himself. He wondered briefly what Sebast would think of such behavior, then pushed the thought aside. He had only a few minutes until dinner, and no time to waste dwelling on his rivalry with the Garenes lordling.
When he emerged from his room fifteen minutes later, hair still damp from his bath, his parents were waiting in the sitting room. Relam’s father looked at him curiously.
“Where’d you get the bruise, son?”
Relam winced, touching the spot gingerly. “Fell,” he said, glancing at his mother. She was still bundled up close to the fireplace, though some of her color seemed to have returned.
“Must have been a hell of a fall,” the king muttered. “No other bruises or contusions?”
“No.”
“Remarkable.”
Relam said nothing, deciding that silence was the best option. He and his father stared at each other for several seconds, then the king nodded sharply.
“We’ll speak more on this later. For now, dinner. In light of your impending graduation from basic training, I had the kitchens prepare something special.”
Relam straightened when he heard this. Being waited on by the best chefs in the kingdom was one perk of royalty that he did enjoy. “Really? What did you request?”
“You’ll see,” his father replied, smiling and extending a hand to the queen, drawing her to her feet. Relam’s mother smiled and her old, vibrant self shone through her radiant expression. But only for a moment, the way the sun appears briefly on cloudy days before being hidden again.
Relam’s parents led the way to the small dining room, which stood opposite the door to the rest of the palace in a large alcove-like area. It was nearly perfectly circular, with the end that adjoined the sitting room sheared off. The entrance was a wide, shallow arch with no doors or curtains to separate the two spaces.
Relam sat at his place on the left side of the round table, to his father’s right. On the king’s left side and opposite Relam sat the queen. Relam’s father sat facing back towards the sitting room.
The royal family had scarcely settled themselves before a white clad servant wearing a spotless apron entered through a narrow door in the wall between Relam and his father. “Your majesties,” he said, bowing deeply. “As always, it is an honor to serve.” As he spoke, he set three plates of summer salad and a loaf of fresh, crusty bread in front of them. “If there is anything at all that you need, I would be most happy to fetch it.”
Relam grinned at the server, only a few years older than himself. He knew the man well, and had for a long time. “Thanks, Griff,” he said.
“My pleasure,” Griff said smoothly, bowing again. The king and queen ignored Griff as he retreated through the doorway to check on the next course.
“You should not be so friendly with the staff,” King Orram remarked, tearing a slice of bread in half and frowning at it.
“Why not? They’re people after all and Griff has served us admirably for a long time.”
“But you will be a king, Relam. People like Griffin are born to serve and that is all they will ever do. They will not become great lords or soldiers or generals.”
“So they are not worth our time?” Relam asked, a hard edge to his voice. “We should ignore them, treat them like scum?”
“Well . . . not exactly,” the king said, backtracking, trying to find his footing again. “It’s just that it doesn’t do to get too friendly with them. You are of higher birth and have a greater responsibility and greater status. If the future king is seen to be spending more time with his servants than other future lords would that not suggest he is ill-suited to manage the nobility?”
“Or would it imply the nobility is ill-suited to be nobility?” Relam asked darkly, thinking of the Garenes house.
His father ignored this and pressed doggedly on. “If you are seen with people of lesser status it lowers your status and power in the eyes of others.”
“Why should it?” Relam demanded. “I will rule the whole kingdom one day, and all of the people in it. All of the people, not just the nobility.”
“That may be, but-”
The king broke off
