Some of them told of fantastic beasts. Namely, dragons. Relam had spent hours looking at the hand drawn pictures in some of the oldest books, marveling at the flashing scales, the burning red-orange flame and the muscular, reptilian bodies of the beasts. Some of the tales about dragons were heroic, speaking of daring rescues and breathtaking aerial combats. Others portrayed them as evil creatures that stole men’s treasures and ate their flocks and burned their homes. Relam was not sure which he believed, but he hoped dragons were of the heroic variety rather than the evil sort. For he had always wanted a dragon, though there were none to be found anymore. So, Relam had started the carving, a tiny replica of something he would never, ever possess.
The tail was mostly finished, a thin protrusion lined with overlapping triangular spines, heavy and dangerous in a real dragon, almost fragile in the carving.
Relam took up the small knife and went to work, shaving miniscule bits of wood from the block. Bit by bit, the final portions of the tail were extracted from the wood, as though he were dragging the beast out of a cave. Next came the hindquarters and part of the dragon’s back legs. Relam frowned at the little model, wondering if he should try to add a pattern of scales on the beast’s hide. The creature looked strange indeed with only the natural wood grain.
A perfunctory knock came at the door, then the sound of someone testing the latch. Relam quickly sheathed the small carving knife and stowed both it and the dragon in the locked compartment. Then, after sweeping the wood shavings into the waste bin and shaking it so that they slid under the other rubbish, he rose and went to the door.
He unlocked the door and swung it wide, stepping to one side. His father marched right in, not waiting for permission. Kings rarely needed permission to go somewhere, Relam reflected ruefully.
“Recovered from training yet?” the king asked briskly, sitting in Relam’s recently vacated desk chair.
The prince closed the door and sank onto the edge of the bed, looking at his father warily. “I feel fine. No different than I do normally after a hard day.”
“Hrmph,” the king grunted. Then, he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I’m no fool, son. Those marks didn’t come from a practice bout.”
“Where did they come from then?”
“Maybe a fight?” the king suggested idly. “Maybe a little battle beyond the borders of training?”
“Interesting theory,” Relam said, shifting uncomfortably.
“It’s more than a theory,” the king growled. “So, who did it?”
“Did what?”
Relam’s father sighed irritably. “Relam, I know you like to handle things yourself, but if someone attacks the line of kings then something needs to be done.”
“Sebast Garenes,” Relam spat finally.
The king blinked. He clearly had not expected this answer. “As in young Garenes? The heir to his father’s title of Great Lord?”
“The same.”
“All right.” The king rose, frowning. “I see. You don’t want me involved so you gave me a name you knew I would not believe, nor follow up on. You can trust me you know.”
“And you can trust me!” Relam blurted. “Why do you assume that I lied to you? Sebast was the one that attacked me! Ask any of the other trainees under Tar Agath.” Knowing as the words left his mouth, that the other lordlings would certainly take Sebast’s side. Except maybe Cevet.
“Well, you are all still young,” the king remarked, almost to himself. “Minor scuffles and arguments are to be expected . . . yes, nothing to make any fuss about.”
Relam blinked in surprise, stunned by the sudden reversal of opinions. Plainly, his father wanted nothing to do with conflict among the nobility. Nor would he instigate. Which, Relam reflected, was what he had wanted all along.
“I should get some rest,” he said finally. “Maybe that will help me heal quicker.”
“Anything planned for tomorrow?” his father asked.
“No training,” Relam replied shrugging. “At least, not with Master Agath. I might get some work in on my own.”
“I envy you your freedom,” the king muttered.
“Working alone isn’t nearly as productive as sparring,” Relam said eagerly. “I’d learn more from you in an hour than a full day on my own going through drills.”
“Not tomorrow,” the king said. “I have those trade talks, remember?”
“The next day then?”
His father hesitated. Then nodded decisively. “Yes, the next day. Assuming that delegation actually gets here tomorrow, of course. I’ll need some time to work off frustration from those meetings.” He shot a sly look at Relam, looking in that moment young and reckless again. “You had better be ready. Otherwise there will be some very short bouts.”
Relam grinned in reply. “Oh, I’ll be ready,” he promised. “I can’t wait to see just how well Master Agath trained me.”
Chapter 3
When Relam woke the next morning, his shoulders and back were stiff and sore, and the flesh around his eye felt uncomfortably tight and delicate. He winced and rolled over, looking towards the tall windows across the room. The drapes were still drawn, but thin lines of gray, pre-dawn light were seeping around the edges nonetheless.
The prince groaned and got out of bed, stretching and rolling his shoulders. Maybe he would take the day off, rest up for his practice with his father tomorrow. Almost instantly, Relam discarded the idea. He needed to practice, and he needed his skills to be in perfect form. Resigning himself to another brutal day, he stumbled into the washroom, peering at his reflection in a small mirror. His face had darkened to a dull purple where he had been
