either. There can be no contention over the succession. If we were to equivocate, then we open the door for further exception. It matters not who wears the Crown, other than that he be the legal heir of the Blood. That is the rule. It matters not his merit or standing, his physical condition or his personality. There can be no other claim to the Crown other than that laid down by Askhos, for it means that there is no ambition from others to claim it for themselves. It matters not what you think, for the Crown will accept no other than the rightful heir.'
'What do you mean?' asked Aalun. 'The Crown is a symbol, it does not have a say in this.'
Lutaar hesitated, again glancing toward Udaan.
'It is more than a symbol, it is the embodiment of Askhos. It carries his wisdom and his strength. What does the Book tell us? 'He who wears it will be without weakness.' Trust in the Blood, trust in the Crown. For two hundred years we have prevailed over our foes, and that will not change when your brother becomes king.'
'I understand,' said Aalun, though his eyes confessed a different opinion. The prince stood, kissed his father's hand and turned away. He gestured for Ullsaard to follow.
'By your leave, Majesty,' said the general. Lutaar smiled and nodded.
'Spend some time with your family,' said the king. 'Whether it be to Mekha or the Greenwater, I will not send you on your way too soon.'
'Thank you. You are considerate as well as wise; a true inheritor of Askhos' legacy.'
The king smiled, eyes alive with humour.
'I am.'
V
The inner gardens were dark, lit only by the scattered light from courtyard windows. Erlaan stared at the distorted shadows through the thick glass, trying to see past his reflection, his eyes constantly returning to his slender face and light brown eyes. Weak eyes, he thought, with neither the depth of his grandfather's not the brightness of his father's. Average eyes providing a window onto an average intellect and character.
He turned away, sickened at himself. His father needed him to be strong now, stronger than before. But how could he be, when everything he had drawn strength from was now so weak?
He paced back and forth across the carpet of the apartment's main chamber, alongside the low table crammed with stuffed birds, roasted swine cuts and bowls of nuts; to the fireplace, empty for the summer, and back to the tapestry hanging by the door. He stopped to look at it again; Askhos in all his fiery glory, purging the hills of the Demeetris. Even in blue and white and black thread, the First King's eyes held more life than Erlaan's.
He turned about and ambled towards the fireplace again, eyes fixed to the watch-candle burning on the shelf above. It seemed to shrink so slowly; surely more time had passed since the gong had signalled the Watch of Howling.
He started as the main doors thudded open. Suddenly selfconscious, Erlaan threw himself down onto a couch, and affected an interest in the hidden view beyond the window.
Four burly servants entered; Enairians by their wide build and thick beards. Between them they carried a bier of polished wood, Erlaan's father lying on the thick mattress amongst redand-gold pillows. It was the first Erlaan had seen of him since arriving in Askh and his heart fell at the sight. Forgetting any pretence of decorum, he hurried across the room as his father was set down beside the table.
Kalmud's eyes were closed and there was a thick sweat upon his face. Dried blood crusted his nostrils and the corners of his lips. His thick hair was unkempt, plastered over his scalp. His chin was thick with bristles, some dark, others grey. The servants lifted him from the bier and carried him to a couch, where they lay the prince carefully, leaning him against its curved back. Two maids entered as the porters left, carrying dishes and wet sponges. Erlaan was fixed on his father's face as the two elderly women dabbed at his skin, washing away the sweat.
'Fetch someone to shave him and clean his hair,' the prince snarled. 'It's a disgrace that you allow him to look like this.'
One of the maids bowed and left. Erlaan sat on the floor beside his father and gently laid a hand on the sheet wrapping his body.
'Give that to me,' Erlaan said, taking the cloth from the remaining maid. 'You'll wake him up with your heavy pawing.'
The maid placed the bowl next to Erlaan and pattered out of the room on bare feet, casting a glance over her shoulder before she was out of the door.
'Is there anything else, Prince?'
Erlaan ignored her and placed the back of his hand on his father's brow. The skin was flushed, hot to the touch. Erlaan wrung out the sweaty cloth onto the floor and dipped it into the water bowl. He carefully laid it on above his father's eyes.
There was tightness in his chest as memories came back to him; of sitting watching the maids do the same for his mothers and brother when the flux had swept the palaces ten years ago. None of them had survived; his cousin and aunts also had been taken. Though Uncle Aalun had married again, Erlaan's father had refused to take a new wife and had instead thrown himself into his command of the legions. The thought that Kalmud might die was too much for Erlaan to contemplate. His father was so strong, it was impossible that anything could end him; not the flux, and certainly not this foreign disease.
Kalmud's eyelids opened hesitantly, Erlaan's heart fluttering with them.
'My son…' Kalmud smiled and tried to lift a hand, but struggled to pull it from the confines of the binding sheet. Erlaan put an arm beneath his father's back and lifted him up, loosening his coverings. Supported by his son, Kalmud ruffled Erlaan's hair slowly. 'You look well.'
'Have no concern for me,' replied Erlaan, fist clenched unseen behind his father as he fought to control his emotions. 'Save your strength for your recovery.'
'I see Ullsaard brought you back. Is he treating you well? Is he teaching you how to be a leader?'
'He has been dutiful in his attention, though he does not spare me the more odious chores of his officers.'
'Good, I would not have you learn only the privileges of command.'
'I wish that you could teach me yourself.'
'Family complicates things.' Kalmud motioned for Erlaan to allow him to lie back. He wheezed as he settled. 'Just ask your uncle what it was like to serve with Nemtun.'
'But you are not him, and would be a far better teacher.'
There was a delicate cough from the doorway. A short man with olive skin stood there holding a small towel and barber's tools.
'What do you want? Wait outside! Can't you see we're busy?' Erlaan turned back to his father, not sparing the servant a second glance. 'Sorry about the disturbance. Do you need some rest?'
Kalmud shook his head slightly and swallowed hard.
'Why does he have no water?' bellowed Erlaan. 'Would you have an ill man suffer from thirst?'
The maid who had left scurried in with jug and cup, spilling water onto the carpet in her haste. She dithered, caught between pouring the water and cleaning up the spillage.
'Just give me that,' snapped Erlaan, snatching the ewer from her. She held the cup out in a trembling hand as Erlaan poured. He set the jug on the table behind him and took the brimming cup from the maid, dismissing her with a glare. Erlaan lifted his father's head to allow him to drink, as much water dribbling down his chin as passed his cracked lips. Erlaan dabbed away the excess with the edge of the sheet and put the cup aside.
'You'll make a fine soldier,' his father said as he settled back against the couch.
Erlaan sighed and his father looked at him sharply, his eyes regaining some of their former life for a moment.
'You think otherwise?' said Kalmud.
'The killing… I have little stomach for it. Ullsaard and Cosuas, they take it all in their stride. But when I saw all of those bodies being carried back to the camp, it choked me.'
Kalmud nodded and weakly stroked at Erlaan's arm.
'I'm not a coward, you understand?' Erlaan continued. 'I'd happily match a foe with spear or sword, in battle or on the bloodfield.'
'Of course you would,' said Kalmud. 'You're of the Blood; there is no fear in you.'
