After a brief wash, Relam pulled on clean clothes and belted on his weapons. First stop would be the kitchens, he decided. Then to the small, private training ground reserved for the royal family and their guests. He knew he might have more success training under Tar Agath’s expert eye, but Relam also knew it would be better not to present his beaten visage to the public. And there was no chance that Sebast would be in the palace courtyard.
His mind made up, Relam slipped out of his bedroom and padded across the main room of the royal suite, carrying his boots in his right hand. The hard soles often cracked against the stone and wood floors of the palace, and such sounds would certainly wake his parents.
Outside the royal suite, Relam stopped and pulled his boots on, kneeling beside the guards that flanked the door. “Another quiet night?” he asked casually, glancing up at them.
“Of course, your highness,” the guard on the left replied. “Nothing to report.”
“Good,” Relam muttered. “No messages for me?”
“None. Do you have any to leave with us?”
Relam thought for a moment. “If you see Aven, send him to the palace training ground. He’s still got my practice gear and if I’m to do any sparring I’d like to have it.”
“We’ll pass that on,” the guard promised. “Best of luck with the trials, your highness.”
“Thanks,” Relam replied swiftly, standing and flashing a grin. “Care to share any pointers?”
“Tar is tricky,” the other guard, who had remained silent to this point, replied immediately. “He will do what you least expect. So, be prepared for everything.”
Relam nodded. “Good to know. See you later.”
“Good day, your highness.”
Relam moved quickly through the palace, following the twisting corridors with no problem whatsoever. He knew every inch of the building, from the servants’ corridors and staircases to the massive banquet halls used for special occasions. He knew where concealed doors stood behind tapestries, leading to shortcuts and secret passages in the event that the royal family or their guards needed to move unseen. All of this knowledge Relam used to avoid running into people he would rather not see. Nobles, namely, but others as well.
When he reached the royal kitchens ten minutes later, Relam’s stomach began rumbling with anticipation. Delicious smells were wafting through the corridor, even though the day was still young and there were but a few figures in cook’s whites moving about.
Relam shoved through the large double doors and stepped immediately to one side to avoid an assistant wheeling a cart laden with breakfast pastries. The girl squeaked in surprise as she swerved to avoid Relam. “Apologies, your highness!” she said breathlessly, reaching out to steady a mound of precariously perched cinnamon buns. “I didn’t see you come in!”
“No worries,” Relam replied. “Those rolls aren’t spoken for, are they?”
“Oh, no, your highness,” she replied. “Here, let me-”
“I can manage,” Relam interjected, picking up a napkin and grabbing one of the buns. “No trouble at all, really. Thank you.”
“Oh! You’re welcome,” the girl replied shakily, starting away with her cart again. Relam frowned as he watched the girl move away. Why did all the servants have to be so nervous and formal around him? He wasn’t going to hurt them!
Relam moved further into the kitchens, his cinnamon bun still clutched in the napkin, though it seemed less of a treat now that his mind was troubled. He found some sliced ham and added this to his breakfast, then moved to the very back of the kitchens, where a wide window looked out over a courtyard blooming with all manner of flowers. Beyond, across the flourishing stems and the paved paths of the garden, was the river, wending its way slowly past the palace. Relam took a bite of the cinnamon bun and savored it, chewing thoughtfully.
“Anything I can get you, your highness?”
Relam turned and saw another figure in cook’s whites, standing behind him uncertainly. “No, I’m fine thank you,” he replied politely.
The woman smiled in reply and curtsied slightly. “Just let me know if there is something,” she said, scooping up a heavy tray of fresh loaves. She glanced at the cooling racks, which were well above the height she could reach, and hesitated. Relam saw the problem and set his breakfast on the window ledge.
“Here, let me.” Before the cook could protest, he had relieved her of the tray and slotted it into place. It was hardly any load for his arms, strengthened by years of training.
“Any more?” he asked, looking back.
“No, no, your highness, don’t trouble yourself,” the cook said sharply. “I can make do admirably.”
“I don’t mind helping-”
“And I appreciate that but, well, you’re . . . you’re . . .”
“I’m what?”
“A prince?”
“So? I can lift trays as well as any.”
“But it’s not proper!”
Relam frowned. “It’s not? Lending a helping hand is always proper in my opinion.”
“But why should someone like you help someone like me?” the cook demanded.
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“You are a rare individual,” the cook observed gratefully. “Looking out for us. Griff passed your thanks on last night, you know. It does us good to hear our work is appreciated, your highness.”
“Of course it’s appreciated!” Relam replied, now a little confused.
“Yes, we know that now. It’s a strange feeling for us, your highness. I know others working at estates and such that . . . well.” She bit her lip and shook her head.
“I understand,” Relam said gently. “Here is different though. We appreciate what you do. All of you. Let the others know that, please.”
“Of course, your highness.”
Relam smiled and looked past the cook to where three more trays rested on a low shelf. “Now, do those need to be racked as well?”
Twenty minutes later, having finished his breakfast
