It had been a week since his father’s death, and Aeolwyn’s outburst in the crypt. Alfyn was still angry about that. How dare his brother talk to him that way. He was the king! The boy was lucky he was a member of the royal family, or Alfyn would have already taken his head.

  The worst part about Aeolwyn’s whole tirade was that he was right. Alfyn should have known what to do during his father’s ceremony. No one had told him that he was supposed to pay for their father’s journey into the afterlife. Aeolwyn had embarrassed him by being the one to pay.

  Lord Smyton had told him that Archstar Boress was meant to give him the Dragonshield and Spear, but Alfyn had disagreed. He deliberately walked into the funeral with them to remind all the nobles and Aeolwyn that he was already king, and his rule was a mandate straight from the heavens and was not dependent on some transfer of power by the archstar.

  “Your Grace, please stand still,” Turcott, his steward said.

  Tonight was the King’s Ball, and his steward was helping him get dressed. He had chosen to wear as extravagant an outfit as he could think of. The ensemble included an extensively embroidered black coat worn over a purple silk tunic. His black trousers were equally embroidered with dragons, fish, and bears. Over this, he had been fitted with a massive gold codpiece. Turcott insisted that it was all the fashion in Fortru and would soon catch on here. And who better to introduce the fashion than the new king?

  Over the ensemble he was wearing a silk cloak fringed with fur. The cloak was purple and had been embroidered to resemble the scales of a dragon. He also wore extravagant rings on each finger and several gold necklaces.

  On his head, he wore a felt cap that was shaped to look like the massive head of a dragon. Instead of a regular brim, the hat had been encircled with a bejeweled gold circlet, to remind everyone that he was king.

  He had moved from his old two-room apartment into the king’s royal bedrooms. They were much larger and much grander. He had a private garderobe, a parlor that led to a separate bedchamber, and the dressing room, where Turcott was now dressing him.

  The door opened and Lord Smyton walked in. He closed the door and bowed formally, waiting for an invitation to approach. He had toyed with the idea of replacing the Lord Chamberlain, but none in the palace knew its operations as well as Smyton did, and the man had no qualms about enforcing any of Alfyn’s more questionable orders, so he was kept on.

  “What is it, Smyton?” Alfyn asked.

  “Your Grace, you’ve received a pigeon, but I can’t make heads or tails of the message.”

  That was interesting. Not that Smyton was reading messages meant for him; that was expected in his role. It was interesting that it appeared to be a coded message. That meant it was probably from one of his spies. Perhaps they had found Ulfnar?

  “Who’s it from?” he asked. Not that he expected it to have been signed. His personal spies never signed their missives in case they fell into the wrong hands. If someone knew who had written the message, they might know who it was for. Then they might puzzle out the contents, or even write their own message in its place.

  Alfyn had left Lord-General Harmin in the post of Royal Inquisitor, at least for the time being. He had proven invaluable to his father, despite not wanting to keep the role. But Alfyn didn’t entirely trust the lord-general, so felt the need to verify any information that was brought to him.

  “It is not signed, Your Grace.”

  As expected. Then it was definitely from one of his spies. He’d had his own network of spies for years. He’d started it when he was a young teenager, mostly because he was bored and wanted to know what was going on outside of the city. Over time, it had grown into an invaluable source of information across the entire continent of Laryndor.

  “What does the message say?”

  Smyton unrolled the small piece of parchment. “It is a single sentence. It reads: The dragon has returned to the cave.”

  Alfyn threw back his head and laughed. That was the best news he’d heard in an exceedingly long time. The message wasn’t from a spy, but from Commodore Tyrec. It meant that he had successfully captured Fort Camulan, and it was now firmly under his control.

  “What does it mean, Your Grace?”

  “It is good news, Lord Smyton. Very good news.”

  Aeolwyn had embarrassed him during their father’s funeral, and now it was time for some payback. He just questioned whether or not to tell him now, or let him find out on his own?

  ***

  The ballroom was just as big and opulent as Aeolwyn remembered. Not that he’d been to many balls. He had been too little to do more than just show up, have a dance with his mother or sister, and then go to bed.

  The room was essentially just one big rectangle. The wall in the back, near the dais where the king would make his entrance was elaborately carved with depictions of flowers, animals, and knights.

  The rest of the walls were painted plaster with massive tapestries depicting courtly life, battles, mythical beasts, and the gods. Higher up was a balcony where musicians were playing soft songs. Later on, when the dancing started, they would begin to play livelier tunes.

  The room itself left a large section in the middle, in front of the dais where the dancing would be performed. Surrounding this were tall tables filled with food and drink, so the partygoers could gorge themselves to as much excess as they cared to.

  The one thing missing from the ballroom were chairs. Except for two chairs on the dais, they were entirely absent from the rest of the room. The point of a ball was to dance, drink, and mingle, so chairs were deemed unnecessary. Most would wear extravagant and elaborate costumes that wouldn’t allow them to sit anyway.

  Aeolwyn chose to wear his military dress uniform. It was black and gold, with the dragon covering the fish and bear sigil. Brakus had made sure to pack one with his private sigil of the silhouetted dragon head, but he thought that was inappropriate for this event.

  His doublet had a double row of buttons, and a plain gold sash crossing from his right shoulder to the sword on his left. On the left shoulder was a golden braid, signifying his rank as general. His trousers, as black as his doublet, had a gold stripe running down the side of each leg that disappeared into his tall boots.

  He had escorted his mother, and Reiva, who was masquerading as her lady-in-waiting. Like him, his mother wore black—the color of mourning. Unlike most of the guests in the ballroom, she had chosen to wear a simple, modest dress. It was unembroidered and buttoned all the way up to her neck. She wore a small black hat with a veil that covered her face.

  Reiva was breathtaking. She had wanted to forgo the extravagant dress and return to her simple tunic and trousers, but his mother insisted. It was appropriate for those in the royal family to wear black as a sign of mourning, but the rest of the group was under no such restrictions and were as extravagant and colorful as they could be.

  For Reiva, her mother had chosen a bright blue dress with wide skirts. The bodice tightly hugged her figure and pushed her breasts up as high as they could go. In between them, the bodice plunged deeply, almost to her bellybutton. A long golden necklace with a ruby pendant hung in her cleavage, drawing the eye. Aeolwyn had gaped when he saw her. He tried not to stare and failed. Reiva had to smack him in the head a few times to remind him where her eyes were.

  She’d had to modify the tight sleeves so that they would be able to accommodate her daggers. His mother had protested, but Reiva would only go if she could bring them. She had complained enough about her skirt’s lack of mobility, so his mother begrudgingly accepted the compromise. Reiva had insisted on wearing the same leather gloves she always wore. His mother offered her a pair of white silk gloves, but she refused.

  Come to think of it, Aeolwyn didn’t think he’d ever seen her without those gloves on.

  Across the room, he spied Egne, who raised a glass in salute. Aeolwyn returned the gesture with his own glass. His friend was speaking with his father, Kaorc, and Lord Asconce. Aeolwyn reminded himself that he needed to speak to Rurik’s father at some point during the evening.

  “My condolences, Your Grace.” A woman dressed in a multicolored dress curtseyed before his mother. She’d had thousands of iridescent peacock feathers sewn all around her skirts, so it was impossible to see the original fabric.

  “Thank you, Lady Feltin,” his mother replied. “But It’s just Lady Sherisse now.”

  Lady Feltin was an elderly noble whose husband was killed of the pox many years ago. She had maintained his lands and household and had even increased the wealth of his holdings. Her son was now the baron, but everyone knew Lady Felton still ran their household.

  “Is this Prince Aeolwyn?” Lady Felton said, turning to him. She curtseyed again. “Condolences, Your Highness.”

  He nodded. “Thank you, Lady Felton,” he said.

  “My, but you have grown strong and handsome!” She turned back to his mother. “Perhaps we could discuss a match between our houses. He is too strong a man to leave unmarried.”

  Aeolwyn didn’t have to look at Reiva to know she was shooting fireballs from her eyes at Lady Felton. He wasn’t sure why, though. He was a prince. Even if he was last in line to the throne, all the nobles would want their shot at him.

  And even if he and Reiva had almost kissed, he could never marry her. As prince, he would be required to marry someone who would bring a political gain to the family, either through wealth or power. It was impossible to marry a commoner like Reiva, no matter how beautiful she was.

  “Perhaps,” his mother said. “Though that would be up to the king.”

  “Of course,” Lady Felton said before turning to Reiva. “And who are you dear?”

  Aeolwyn wasn’t sure if he was going to have to get between Reiva and Lady Felton. He was afraid that his liegewoman might reach out and strangle the poor dowager countess. That would be sure to cause a scene.

  “May I present my lady-in-waiting, the Lady Reiva,” his mother said.

  Reiva made a slight curtesy towards Lady Felton. She did it as gracefully as any noble could, despite being a commoner. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. Her grace as an assassin was evident. A simple curtsey would be quite easy for her.

  “Your coloring is just beautiful, dear. Are you of the Spires?”

  “In fact—” Aeolwyn started before Reiva cut him off.

  “No, my lady. I am from Gavinholm Isle,” she said. She gave Aeolwyn a stare that told him in no uncertain terms was he to reveal anything of what the soothsayer Xabat had said.

  “Indeed? Are you acquainted with the Magicians of the Isle? My late husband studied with them for a time.”

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Who were the Magicians of the Isle? Aeolwyn had never heard of them before. Maybe he could ask Egne. If there was a group of mages on Gavinholm Isle, he thought that was something he needed to know. What if the King of Fennland decided to deploy them in battle against him?

  “How interesting,” Reiva answered. “I studied there as well. They took me in after my father died.”

  Did she actually study under them, or was that a lie just to make her more interesting to Lady Felton? It could be either, since Aeolwyn knew for a fact that Reiva was not from Gavinholm Isle. She was lucky that lady Felton didn’t have the same ear for accents that he did.

  “What did you study?” Lady Felton asked.

  “Assassination.”

  Lady Felton laughed as though Reiva had just made a great joke. Reiva laughed along with her. She hadn’t. Aeolwyn knew how good of an assassin she was, though why mages would be teaching it, he didn’t know.

  “If you’ll excuse us, Lady Felton,” his mother said.

  Lady Felton nodded and walked away, looking for someone else to bother. They hadn’t taken two steps before another woman approached them with her daughter. They both curtseyed deeply. The younger of the two kept looking at him and smiling.

  “Our condolences, Lady Sherisse, Prince Aeolwyn,” the older woman said. She wasn’t as old as Lady Felton. She was maybe near his mother’s age and was dressed like a bear. Her dress was made of fluffy bear skin, and she wore a hat made from the head of a bear cub. Her daughter was dressed like a fish.

  “Countess Braxus, it is good to see you,” his mother said.

  “The king was a great man, and we miss him dearly,” the countess said. He’d learned her name when he studied with Sir Jom, but this was the first time he’d met her in person. Her husband was a knight and had lost his shield arm in a joust when Aeolwyn was 12. It had been a very gruesome sight—the shield stuck through his opponent’s lance with the arm still attached. At least the mages had been able to save his life.

  The countess turned to Aeolwyn, “May I introduce my daughter, lady Tyrina.”

  The daughter blushed and held out her hand. Reiva jumped when she heard the girl’s name. He wasn’t sure why. The girl couldn’t be a threat to her. She couldn’t be any older than 13. What could a girl that young do to her?

  Aeolwyn took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady,” he said.

  She blushed even harder and giggled. “The pleasure is mine, my prince,” she said.

  Just as he released her hand, another two women approached.

  “Condolences, Your Grace,” they said in nearly unison.

  “Lady Stelton, Lady Croble, thank you,” his mother said. How did she remember all their names? He’d met Lady Croble many years ago after the death of her husband. She had looked much younger then. She was barely dressed. Her dress, though it reached the floor, was slit all the way to her waist. It might as well have been a flap. She wore no camisole underneath her short bodice that started just above her bellybutton and stopped just halfway up her breasts. One wrong move, and both of them would burst out.

  “Would you care to dance, Prince Aeolwyn?” Lady Croble asked, holding out her hand.

  Would this never stop? Even though asking for a dance was polite, and didn’t necessarily have any ulterior motives, this was different. The way Lady Croble was dressed belied her innocent question. She was hunting for a husband, and didn’t care that Aeolwyn was half her age.

  “I, uhhh,” Aeolwyn stammered, trying to keep his eyes off her ample bosom.

  “There’s my boy!” a loud voice shouted out. Anxiety flooded through him, and Aeolwyn snapped to attention even before he knew what he was doing. He would recognize that booming voice anywhere. It was Sir Jom!

  His barrel-chested former mentor had aged since they parted. The streaks of grey in his temples had turned the tides on the rest of his hair and won the battle. His hair was all white, to match the long beard erupting from his face, which had been clean-shaven before.

  He was dressed in a simple deerskin shirt and trousers that exposed his enormous arms. Aeolwyn hoped that it was enough to distract Lady Croble, whose gaped as soon as she saw the massive man.

  Before Aeolwyn could do anything, Sir Jom grabbed him to a bear hug and held him tight. He had spent every day with this man for nearly 7 years and he had never hugged him before. Aeolwyn was suddenly glad. He already couldn’t breathe. If he’d gotten this type of hug when Sir Jom was at his strongest and he was a boy, the grizzled old knight would have squeezed him to death.

  “It’s good to see you, son,” Sir Jom said.

  “And you, old friend.”

  The familiar way his mentor spoke to him shocked the assembled women, Reiva included, who’d nearly pulled the daggers from her arms when Jom grabbed him. It was only because of the quick tap of his mother on Reiva’s shoulder that there wasn’t a fight.

  “Look at what you’ve accomplished! A general already?” Sir Jom was grinning from ear to ear. The cracks in his face that had been small crevasses the last time they were together were now deep valleys.

  “I had an excellent mentor, sir,” Aeolwyn said.

  “Don’t sir me, boy. You’re a prince and a general. I’m just a retired knight.”

  “Retired? Please reconsider! If you need a change of scenery, there will always be a place for you at Fort Camulan! In fact, I insist!”

  Aeolwyn would love to have Sir Jom at the fort. He would quickly become his top advisor. His experience and expertise would be invaluable, never mind his training. If he put him in charge of training the soldiers, they would be an unstoppable fighting force.

  “Thank you for the offer, my prince, but I must decline. My place is here, with the king.”

  “I understand,” Aeolwyn said sadly. “But if you should ever change your mind, Fort Camulan will be open to you.”

  “Not if you’re lord-general by th—”

  The doors at the far end of the ballroom burst open and Lord Smyton ran in. It was so sudden that everyone immediately stopped their conversations and stared at the intruder. Following behind him was an assembly of trumpeters. They marched out, dressed in their velvet doublets.

  Putting their trumpets to their lips, they blasted out a fanfare that nearly deafened everyone in the room. Most of the women put their hands to their ears, and some of the men did, too, Aeolwyn included. It was one thing for them to play their fanfare outside, or in the throne room, but here it was earsplitting.

  Lord Smyton waited a few moments once they finished for everyone’s ears to recover, then he banged his staff twice on the ground and shouted, “The king!”

  The musicians up in the balcony began playing an inspiring melody as his brother came out, and he looked absolutely ridiculous. And that was saying something, since the whole ballroom was filled with people who had dressed outlandishly.

  Aeolwyn snorted before he could stop himself. The first thing he noticed was the gigantic gold codpiece. It was made to look like it was holding back a massive member that the king didn’t have. On his other head, he wore a gold circlet with a dragon head erupting out of it, which would have been impressive if it weren’t for the codpiece taking attention away from it.

  The rest of his outfit was standard fare, a fur-lined cloak made to look like dragon scales, a heavily embroidered black doublet that was unbuttoned to the bottom of his ribcage. Finishing off the ensemble was a heavily embroidered pair of trousers that covered a pair of simple black boots.

  Despite the outlandish costume, no one laughed. Perhaps they were too scared to. Instead, they cheered and applauded, even his mother. Aeolwyn did nothing of the sort. He just stood still, watching his brother, chuckling.

  Again, his sister Davinya came out with him. She was dressed entirely in white. A white gown, white shoes, a tiny white hat with a veil, and a white cloak. She even painted her face to match the shade of white of her dress. It was a truly bold choice for the king’s ball, considering the rest of the royal family was, appropriately, wearing black.

  When his brother reached the dais he stood for a moment, smiling broadly, taking all the adulation in. He waved his hand, egging the group to cheer louder, before finally waving them to silence.

  “I wish my father could see this,” he started. “He would be so glad to see how loved he was. He was only devoted to your welfare, and I can see that had a profound impact on you. I want you to all rest assured that as king, I will continue to look out for your welfare above my own.”

  Cheers erupted at that comment, but Aeolwyn doubted his sincerity. He was going to look out for his own welfare first, and then the welfare of his friends. The welfare of the nobles was a distant third. The welfare of the commoners was even more distant still—if it was even on his list.

  “Tonight, we are here to celebrate my father,” Alfyn continued. “So, I will be brief. On behalf of my family, I want you all to know how grateful we are for your love and support in this most challenging time for our kingdom. I will do my utmost to earn that love and respect. I look forward to seeing you all at my upcoming coronation and receiving your oaths of fealty.”

  Aeolwyn needed to make sure that he was long gone by the time Alfyn’s coronation occurred. Part of the ceremony was for the royal family and the rest of the nobility swear an oath of fealty to him, something Aeolwyn could not abide.

  “Now please, enjoy yourselves!” Alfyn held up a glass. “To the late King Llarwyn!”

  Everyone held up their glasses and cheered.

  “Well, that was uninspiring,” Reiva said softly in his ear. He agreed. As king, Alfyn was supposed to make great and inspiring speeches. Aeolwyn didn’t feel inspired. He just felt irritated.

  The musicians started up again and began playing a dance. After seeing his brother arrive, he didn’t feel much like dancing. All he wanted to do was leave. He wanted to take Reiva and his mother, get on his horse, and ride all the way back to Fort Camulan, where he didn’t have to play pretend anymore. Where he could just be a simple general.

  “Now, my prince,” Lady Croble started. “About that dance?”

  “I really must decline, Lady Croble,” he said. “I am a terrible dancer.”

  His mother kicked him in the back of the leg hard enough to nearly make him jump. She shoved him forward towards Lady Croble and nearly bowled the woman over. Laryn knew what kind of scene that would have created. He could just picture her falling backwards, him on top of her, face in between her massive breasts after they had burst out of that bodice.

  While that might have been a pleasant fantasy if the recipient were another person, when it was Lady Croble, it was just disgusting.

  “He is only being modest,” his mother said. “He would love to dance with you.”

  It was too late to refuse, so he was forced to take her hand and escort her to the dance floor. The dance the musicians were playing was a type of dance known as a trigue. It was a lively number with a lot of hopping. Lady Croble loved every instant of it, not bothering to guard her bodice every time a jump threatened to expose her jiggling breasts.

  At every turn, she grabbed his rear, and every time they were close, her lips chased his. He dodged her mouth while she cackled gleefully. He was thankful when the dance was over, and he could walk her back to his mother.

  “You’re right, Lady Sherisse. Your son is a wonderful dancer,” Croble said breathlessly.

  As soon as he’d let go of her hand, Lady Stelton demanded her turn, so off he went back to the dance floor. It was another trigue. He was extraordinarily thankful that Lady Stelton wasn’t as handsy as Lady Croble was. Perhaps it was because the watchful eye of her husband was nearby.

  When that dance ended, Countess Braxus insisted that he took his turn with Lady Tyrina. Unfortunately, that was when the musicians switched over from the livelier tigue dances to the slower adate. He had no choice but to hold her close and try not to step on her feet.

  “Who is the dark woman?” she asked.

  “That’s Lady Reiva,” he answered. “She’s my mother’s lady-in-waiting.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I’ve never seen anyone like her before.”

  “Her kind isn’t common here, but she is a wonderful woman.”

  “Do you love her?” Tyrina asked mournfully. “I saw you looking at her.”

  That was an interesting question. He had never been in love, so he didn’t know what it felt like. She was beautiful, he appreciated her, and was glad to have her around. But he didn’t get the tingles, butterflies, and light-headedness all the poets described.

  “No,” he said. Even if he were, would he tell this young girl? It would be all over Teorton by nightfall if he did, and it would cause quite a stir. Not because of her coloring, but because she was a commoner. Nobility and royalty did not have romantic relationships with commoners. They might have a tumble with them as his brother Ulfnar had certainly done. But they could never marry.

  After the adate was over, Aeolwyn had to dance with his mother. Then Lady Feltin. Then Countess Braxus. Then ten more women whose names he couldn’t remember. The only one he didn’t get to dance with was Reiva. He asked her, but she declined, explaining that she didn’t know any of these dances and would only make a fool of herself.

  Halfway through a dance with a woman he thought was named Lady Delfina, Alfyn interrupted. The king gracefully handed Delfina off to Wolfryn and pulled Aeolwyn aside, leading him to a dark and quiet corner of the ballroom.

  “You look ridiculous,” Aeolwyn said. “In a room full of outlandishly dressed people, you managed to still embarrass yourself.”

  “Harsh words, brother,” Alfyn said, as he clenched his fists. Was his brother going to strike him? Aeolwyn didn’t think so. He was bigger and stronger than the king. Starting a fistfight would go poorly for Alfyn.

  “I just wanted to say that I forgive you your inappropriate words in the crypt, and I look forward to seeing you at the coronation and taking your oath of fealty.”

  Aeolwyn laughed. “I bet you would.”

  His brother’s brow furrowed as he took a step back as though he were too close to see Aeolwyn’s face and needed some space to study his expression.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “I mean I’m not staying for your coronation.” He said.

  “Oh, but I must insist, brother. This isn’t a request, nor an invitation.”

  Aeolwyn bent over and leaned in so that his face was directly in front of Alfyn’s. The king tried to back away a little, but he wouldn’t let him. He just kept moving forward until their faces were only inches apart.

  “Make me.”

  “What?”

  “Make me,” Aeolwyn repeated. “I have an army camped a mile away from here. If you try to force me to do anything, they’ll take exception to that. I don’t think you want a siege on your hands.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” Alfyn said.

  Aeolwyn shrugged. “What’s the use in having an army if you’re not willing to use it? I’ve told you before that I don’t want your crown, and I’ve already outstayed my welcome here. I wouldn’t want you to have to go back to the Star Children and beg them for more time.”

  Alfyn’s eyes darkened with anger. His face had turned beet red, and he continued to make fists with his hands. “You have my leave to go, brother. But mark my words. You’ll wish you stayed. Once you’re outside those gates, you won’t be welcome back.”

  “That’s fine with me,” he said. He turned and stormed away from his brother.

  What had he meant ‘you’ll wish you stayed?’ Why?

  It was impossible for Aeolwyn to wish he stayed; he hated it here. Everyone was always primed up and you never knew if someone was speaking earnestly or if they were just trying to get something from you. He much preferred the honest simplicity of a soldier.

  When he returned to the ball, he had no stomach for dancing any longer. He grabbed Reiva and his mother, and dragged them from the ballroom, his brother’s words still haunting him.