8. Haldric

eight

Haldric

Haldric dodged to the left, parrying the sword thrust with practiced ease. He tried to slip past his opponent's guard, but his steps were too slow on the loosely packed dirt. By the time he'd brought his own sword down in a sweeping blow, his opponent had already danced backward out of reach.

"Almost, Your Highness," Marshal Fendrel said with a small smile. "Your form is much improved. Now, we just need to work on your speed."

Haldric answered the head of the royal guard with a grin of his own. Readjusting his grip on his sword, he fell back into a resting stance. "If you'd just allow me to use a little magic…"

Fendrel snorted and prowled forward across the training yard, his sword up and at the ready. "If you can't beat a man nearly twice your age without runeflame as a crutch, then you're not worthy of carrying on your father's name."

The words conjured a familiar swell of self-doubt even as Haldric strove to keep his calm. He'd trained under Fendrel enough by now to recognize the man's favored tricks.

Sure enough, the marshal moved quick as a viper, hoping to take advantage of Haldric's distraction.

Haldric was ready for him. Steel clanged against steel, their metal blades flashing in the early morning light as they danced around each other in a flurry of strikes and parries.

A single well-timed spell could've ended the duel in a heartbeat, but Haldric knew Fendrel was right: relying too heavily on magic risked it becoming a crutch.

Besides, Fendrel had his own soulflame to draw upon. Though he'd been born with his magic rather than unlocking it the way the fabled warriors trained at the Akkadia once had, it nevertheless made him a formidable fighter, capable of inhuman speed and strength.

There'd be time enough for Haldric to practice enchanting his blade and incorporating battle spells into his fighting style once he'd properly mastered the basics. Better to save his runeflame for his next lesson with Dexil.

Thinking of the Grand Magus reminded Haldric of that impertinent boy from yesterday. Haldric had tried to remain cordial and ignore the boy's utter lack of decorum, only to have his head bitten off over it.

By the Goddess, the way that boy had behaved, you'd think he was the next coming of King Lyzar himself! Unlike the man who'd once united the city-states scattered across the plains into the kingdom of Ilthabard, however, the only thing that boy would be accomplishing was a quick boot out of the palace.

His pale gray eyes were rather striking, though…

Parrying another of Fendrel's blows a touch too hard, Haldric tightened his jaw. Striking or not, the boy could turn that judgmental gaze of his upon someone else. No doubt Dexil had promptly sent him on his way. The thought brought Haldric some small measure of satisfaction.

Unfortunately, that proved his undoing. He was so focused on the insolent boy that he didn't notice the groove in the dirt.

His foot caught, forcing him into a stumble. Instead of a clean parry on Fendrel's next strike, Haldric's sword scraped off its edge. He tried to recover and twist his blade around, but it was too late. Fendrel swerved his sword past Haldric's clumsy strike and delivered a nasty blow to Haldric's gut.

Though his armor blunted the sword's dulled edge, the force of the blow still sent him sprawling to the dirt. He spat out a wad of blood from a small cut on his lip as he accepted the older man's offered hand and let him haul him to his feet.

"Nice strike."

Fendrel shook his head, not looking the least amused. "You were distracted, Your Highness. Had I been an enemy on the battlefield, that mistake might have been fatal."

"Then it's a good thing we're not on the battlefield," Haldric replied with a strained grin even as guilt curdled his stomach.

He couldn't afford any mistakes or distractions—not when he was already so far behind in his training. If he wanted the dukes and duchesses that ruled Ilthabard's other provinces to respect his rule, he had to be stronger, smarter, cleverer. Otherwise, they would eat him alive.

Though the marshal was too polite to say so himself, Haldric read the same warnings on Fendrel's stern face. All he said, however, was, "Again, Your Highness?"

Forcing any thoughts of that boy and his hostile gray gaze from his mind, Haldric wiped the sweat from his brow and nodded.

The rest of the morning passed in sweat and dirt and battle. Haldric missed lunch, and though his stomach rumbled after his exertions, he knew it would have to wait. There was no time to waste.

Grabbing a quick bath in his quarters, he swapped his practice armor for his favorite leather tunic, a gift from his aunt for his last birthday. Then, he hurried to meet his first tutor. While he spent most mornings training with Marshal Fendrel, his afternoons were filled with lesson after lesson. Geography, history, politics, diplomacy—the list went on and on.

All skills vital for an effective ruler to possess…and all things he'd neglected while growing up. Instead of taking his battle training or political lessons seriously, he'd snuck away every chance he could to read heroic tales in his room or watch the Grand Magus brew a new batch of potions. He'd preferred to leave such boring things as dates and names and family lineages to Melisie—a decision he sorely regretted now.

As always, remembering his elder sister sent a wave of sorrow numbing him. It had been two years since bandits killed her while she was visiting the important trade province of Zaros, but the pain of her loss remained fresh and raw. They'd been inseparable as kids, and though they'd grown apart as they got older and her duties left less time for him, she'd been one of the few people Haldric trusted.

Melisie would have made a great ruler—as great as Father had been in his prime. So much better than I will ever be…

Moroseness hung over him like a heavy shroud by the time he returned to his quarters that evening to freshen up for dinner with his father. Knowing what he was about to walk into did little to improve his mood.

Though he'd never have admitted it out loud, he'd come to dread these weekly meals even more than his lessons on politics. To see the man he'd once idolized wasting away, a husk of his former self, was almost more than he could bear.

And as if that wasn't bad enough, the more his father's health declined, the more time the king spent looking toward Haldric's future and the future of the kingdom. King Roland knew as well as Haldric did how inadequate he was for the job, how unprepared he still was to assume his sister's lost mantle even after two years of remedial education to make up for his skipped lessons.

But they both also knew that such was Haldric's burden to bear. The Goddess willed as she wished, and if this was the path she'd set before him, then so be it. He'd discarded the childish dreams he'd once had of attending the Arcanum and focused instead on becoming the best heir he could be. Whatever it took, he refused to let his father and the people of Ilthabard down.

Nodding to the royal guards standing watch outside his father's door, Haldric entered the chamber, calling out a greeting. "Good evening, Father. Sorry I'm late. I was…"

The words died on his lips as he took in the room's other occupants. He wasn't surprised to see Grand Magus Dexil there, dressed in his usual elaborate finery. These days, the alchemist spent more evenings than not attending to the king's deteriorating condition with his array of magical remedies.

No, it was the other figure who gripped Haldric's attention, their familiar gray eyes widening in apparent shock.

"Greetings, Your Highness," Dexil said with a slight incline of his head. "Apologies for our late presence here—we're almost done."

"Haldric!" his father called from his bed. The silken sheets rustled as he shifted to sit up with a groan. "It's good to see you, Son."

"Y-you, too, Father," Haldric said. His confused glaze flicked back to the boy inexplicably here with Dexil.

Dexil caught the look and smacked his forehead. "Forgive me my rudeness, Your Highness. This is Benjin. I believe you met briefly the other day. He is my new apprentice."

"Your…apprentice…" Haldric spoke slowly, feeling like he'd missed some crucial piece of a puzzle. Instead of banishing the impertinent boy, Dexil had chosen to hire him?

"Indeed, Your Highness." Either oblivious of Haldric's discomfort or choosing to ignore it, Dexil flashed a broad grin. "It turns out that Benjin here is quite the gifted mage. With a little training, I believe he'll prove a most distinguished asset for Ilthabard."

Somehow, Haldric found that difficult to believe. No matter how much runeflame this Benjin had, he and distinguished didn't belong in the same sentence. Not if his behavior at their last meeting was anything to go by.

"You're the prince!" Benjin blurted, still staring at Haldric. His gray eyes widened another fraction as if he hadn't meant to speak, and he clamped his hands over his mouth.

Exhausted from his long day and the memory of his previous run-in with Benjin still fresh in his mind, Haldric felt his patience fray. "Indeed. Was it the honorifics that gave it away or my presence here in the royal bed chambers?" He feigned deep contemplation, tapping a finger against his chin. "Hmm, or perhaps it was the king calling me son?"

Benjin flushed a deep crimson while his eyes narrowed. "Sorry if I've given offense, Your Highness . Your behavior when we first met just didn't seem particularly princely, that's all."

The jab hurt more than it was likely meant to with how perfectly it echoed Haldric's own internal doubts. "Perhaps you lack the proper conception of what a prince should act like. After all, it's clear that your education in court etiquette is rather lacking."

Triumph gripped Haldric at Benjin's furious scowl. It morphed to shame, however, when his father's rumbling voice filled the chamber.

"Come now, Haldric, there's no need to be rude. I'm certain Dexil knew what he was doing when he selected his new apprentice. Give the boy a chance to settle in. It must be difficult to adjust to life in the palace. Isn't that right, Benjin?"

Fixing Haldric with a final brief glare, Benjin faced the king's bed and bowed. "Yes, Your Majesty. It's, um, quite the adjustment. Forgive me if I've given any offense."

Haldric bit his tongue while his father smiled at the insufferable brat. "None taken, lad. Now then, why don't you and your master finish your work so that my son and I can eat before I grow too weary."

Haldric crossed his arms and tried not to scowl as he watched Benjin assist the Grand Magus. He knew he should probably apologize for his behavior, but Benjin's taunts had burrowed under his skin.

Besides, it was obvious the boy didn't have the slightest idea what he was doing. Dexil had to constantly stop his ministrations to explain each minute aspect of the potion he was administrating well enough for Benjin to replicate the simple process. Haldric had to resist the urge to step in and do it himself. It would've taken a quarter of the time.

Eventually, Benjin bumbled his way through. Channeling a final burst of runeflame into the prepared liquid, Dexil gave it a quick stir before proffering it to the king. From past experience, Haldric knew it contained an enchanted elixir to ease the king's pain and help him sleep. That was about the best anyone seemed able to offer his father these days.

Which is why it's so important I excel at my studies.

Straightening his back and keeping his shoulders rigid, Haldric adopted the mask of cool indifference he'd been practicing—the face of a stalwart ruler. Still, he couldn't help his soft wince at his father's hacking cough when he downed the potion.

With a bow to Haldric, Dexil swept out of the chamber, an amused twinkle in his violet eyes. Benjin followed after, much more subdued. Haldric could feel the boy's gaze on him once more but refused to give him the satisfaction of looking. Let Benjin realize how inconsequential his jabs were.

With Dexil and Benjin departed, King Roland called for his servants to bring in dinner. Haldric assumed his usual place by his father's bedside, thanking the servant who set a platter of bread and hearty meat stew before him. Stews and soups had become his father's favored meals—easier on his digestion.

"So, how are your studies going?" the king asked, slurping up a spoonful of soup. Haldric pretended not to notice the bits of it that dribbled onto the front of his pajamas. "Fendrel tells me you're a natural at the blade."

Though part of Haldric basked at the praise, a deeper part of him knew he didn't deserve it. "The marshal honors me, but I fear he exaggerates my potential."

"Nonsense!" The king crunched into a hearty bite of bread. "Fighting runs in your veins, Haldric, even if you never wanted to accept it."

Haldric chose not to reply, sipping a spoonful of his stew.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, Haldric lost in his own thoughts. He startled, banishing a vision of judging gray eyes, when the king abruptly spoke.

"The Provincial Council meets in a few weeks."

Haldric's gut churned. Every year, the governors of Ilthabard's six provinces gathered at the palace to negotiate treaties, discuss trade policies, and engage in political maneuvering. His sister's death had still been fresh enough last year, his own role as heir so new, that Haldric had been excused from participating. This year would be different.

"I look forward to attending at your side."

The king took another bite of bread dripping with stew. "Not just at my side—in my stead."

Shock gripped him. This was the first his father had mentioned such a thing. "What? I'm sorry, Father, but I don't think I'm ready for that."

His father snorted humorlessly. "You most certainly aren't. Other than your aunt, the governors are a nest of vipers. No doubt they'll attempt to take advantage of your inexperience for their own personal gain."

"Then why send me to them? Surely, Grand Magus Dexil could assume some of the responsibilities this year on your behalf. Or Aunt Janelle."

The king's rumbling sigh rustled his blankets. "Both of them will be there to advise you, as will I. But it must be you that takes the lead."

"But—"

"It's the only way you'll learn." The king's impatient tone urged Haldric to silence. He sagged back in bed as if the words had taken a lot out of him. Haldric started to rise to check on him, but his father waved him away. "By the Goddess, I'm fine. Or at least, as fine as I can be."

"Sorry." Haldric bowed his head. "I didn't mean to upset you."

The king issued another heavy sigh. "I understand your reluctance, Haldric, but I won't be here forever. We must do all we can to secure your position before I die and the other governors descend like carrion birds tearing into a carcass."

Grimacing at the macabre image, Haldric shoved aside his half-eaten stew. "Ilthabard has survived for a thousand years and will stand for hundreds more."

"I hope so." His father chewed thoughtfully, his gaze growing distant. "Yet, our kingdom is not as strong as it once was. The Akkadia has been gone for centuries, along with the soulflame warriors that once graced our ranks, and the governors seize ever more power for themselves while chafing at centralized rule. It's only a matter of time before the Nalaxians to our west renew their conquests. In our current state, we would make a tempting target."

King Roland's grizzled face grew more stern, his emerald gaze intense as it fixed on Haldric. "While I've done all I can during my reign to keep the peace and hold this crumbling kingdom together, it's clear now that more is required…which is why I've arranged for you to marry a princess from Khordan."

Haldric jerked in surprise. Had he not already set aside his platter, he would've spilled stew all over his lap. "Marry? A princess?"

His father nodded, remaining calm in the face of Haldric's dismay. "I know it's not ideal—"

"That's an understatement," Haldric scoffed. "Would you really sell your only son to the highest bidder?"

The king's expression tightened, his eyes flashing. "Watch your tone, Haldric. I may be an ailing old man, but I am still your father and your king. The Khordanite Empire has ever been our staunchest ally. With the Nalaxians nipping at our heels, strengthening our eastern alliance is the surest way to guarantee our survival. It will solidify your power against the other governors who'd seek to take advantage of you while ensuring Khordan's continued aid and protection."

"But wouldn't we just be trading one overlord for another?"

His father briefly closed his eyes, his face suddenly exhausted. Haldric had never seen his father look older than he did at that moment. "I'm sure many of the other governors would say so. But better the overly righteous paladins of Khordan than the brutal Nalaxian necromancers."

Haldric's chest squeezed. As if he didn't have enough to deal with. As if he hadn't already sacrificed everything for the sake of his position. Now, he was expected to give up his heart as well?

As if sensing the train of Haldric's thoughts, his father's stern visage softened. "I know this isn't how you expected your life to go, Son. Believe me, I wish I didn't have to place you in such a difficult position. But such is the burden of rule. To lead requires making tough choices and sacrifices. You will come to understand that more once you're older."

Haldric wanted to protest that he understood now , but he held his tongue, allowing his father's words to wash over him.

"At least agree to go and meet the girl," King Roland continued. "If not for love, then perhaps you can still reach a suitable accord. Please, Haldric. All I want before I die is to be certain of your future."

He reached out a trembling hand, and Haldric took it, swallowing down the lump in his throat. The skin was clammy to the touch, almost icy. His father's grip felt far too weak, barely reminiscent of the great warrior who'd once commanded the battlefield from horseback, sword held aloft.

"I promise."

The king relaxed back into his bed. His hand grew limp in Haldric's as his eyes half-closed. "Your sister…would be so proud…" he murmured, barely audible.

Something constricted in Haldric's chest. He briefly tightened his grip on his father's hand, willing him to say more. But all that came out was a loud snore. Such was the way with Dexil's nightly elixirs, the sleepiness often overtaking his father out of nowhere.

Letting King Roland's hand fall gently to the blankets, Haldric rose and strode from the chamber, leaving his snoring father behind. He nodded stiffly at the servants and chirurgeons as he passed. Seized by a sudden, desperate urge to escape, he hurried down the hall toward his own quarters.

To his father, all this planning and preparing might be about securing Haldric's future. Yet, if this was truly about seizing control, then why did Haldric feel more lost than ever?