AYRION WAS HALFWAY back to the palace, passing under an arched trellis of hanging wisteria with its purple spray floating around him in the
breeze like a fine mist, when a member of his guard rounded the corner and approached.
“Sir, the High King requests your presence in his study.” The young ranker saluted with his right fist crossing his chest. Ayrion returned the gesture before dismissing him.
He was a little curious as to the summoning. Knowing the king, he probably wished to congratulate Ayrion on his performance and, in a roundabout way, check to make sure he was unharmed. Ever since the king had taken Ayrion in as a boy and given him a position in the palace, he had kept a close eye on him. The king’s attention had in no small part helped make up for the loss of his own family.
Ayrion walked across the courtyard and through the statue-lined pavilion toward the main floor of the foyer. If Aramoor was considered the jewel of the empire, then the royal palace was its splendor. Its towers and halls,
courtyards and gardens sat protected, an island on the edge of a cliff, overlooking the Bay of Torrin. It could be seen for miles in any direction. The capital city lay spread in a semi-circular pattern out from the palace, like a bride’s train spreading outward behind her.
The sound of Ayrion’s boots echoed off the checkered marble of the atrium as he headed in the direction of one of the grand staircases on the far side. The stairs split as they wound their way up to the second, third, and fourth floors. He followed the inlaid railing to the top and made his way down a labyrinth of warmly lit hallways and corridors, each as lavishly decorated as the next. The king’s study was located on the northwest side of the palace.
Ayrion stepped out of the final stairwell and rounded the corner. He could see the prince waiting in the corridor ahead, a large goblet resting in one hand. He looked to be well on his way to full intoxication. Ayrion hated
dealing him when he was like this. Dakaran had always resented his father’s affection for Ayrion. The older they had gotten, the further that wedge of jealousy had been driven.
“Well, if it isn’t the great Ayrion,” Dakaran said, his words already beginning to slur. “The king’s Guardian Protector. I see you managed to outshine your opponents once again.” He raised his glass in salute. His
unsteady hand dumped some of its contents onto the lush gold and crimson carpet.
“I did what was asked of me, nothing more.”
“Yes, the pride of Elondria. The Dark Warrior. The man who can’t be beaten. Tell me, how does it feel to be my father’s champion? His favorite little lap dog.” Dakaran snickered. “Does he pet you on the head when
you’re good?”
“You’re drunk, Dakaran.” “So glad you noticed.”
“I’m not talking to you when you’re like this.” Ayrion moved to walk around him but Dakaran cut him off, pressing Ayrion up against the wall. His breath was as strong as a vintner’s.
“What makes you so special, huh? Even as children you always got away with everything. The perfect little boy.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Our adventures. You remember our little adventures, don’t you?” Dakaran patted Ayrion on his cheek with his free hand. “Sneaking outside the palace walls with Kira and Reevie and Po, you remember. Except . . .” Dakaran glanced down the hall as if he were about to divulge some great political intrigue. “Whenever we were found out, you were conveniently never around.” He smiled and took another sip of his wine.
“Dakaran, we were kids, and the only reason I was rarely caught was because I was never foolish enough to brag about it. Now if you don’t . . . mind.” Ayrion tried pushing Dakaran to the side.
“Oh, I mind, I do. You know, you might have everyone else around here fooled, but not me.” He sloshed some more of his drink, this time catching part of it in the laced tie around his waist. “Not me. And I’ll tell you something else, I’m going to let that little lady friend of yours . . . What’s her name? Amarysia? I’m going to let her know all about our little Ayrion.” Dakaran patted Ayrion’s shoulder. He wiped a few leftover flakes of sand from his black leather coat. “You better be careful,” he said as he leaned in
to whisper in Ayrion’s ear. “Someone might just come along and steal her away.”
Ayrion clenched his fists and bit his tongue to keep from lashing out at the open threat. The prince took a step back and made a swooping bow, gesturing for Ayrion to be on his way. Ayrion didn’t hesitate. He wondered how long Dakaran had been holding that in, obviously a while. If it hadn’t been for the wine, he’d probably still be carrying it.
Ayrion stopped in front of the ornate, golden oak doors leading into the king’s study. On either side stood a member of the High Guard, trimmed in black and silver livery. Each had a shortsword strapped to his waist and one to his back. A halberd rested comfortably in the hand furthest from the entrance, allowing for free access to the doors’ handles. As much as Ayrion had complained about the archaic ritual of holding those large obtrusive weapons, the High King was a stickler for tradition.
The two guards saluted. Ayrion waited as one of the soldiers stepped forward and opened the door to announce him. “Master Ayrion to see you as requested, Your Majesty.” From the other side of the door, Ayrion could just make out the sound of hushed voices. “Good, send him in.”
The guard took a step back to let Ayrion pass, but before Ayrion made it halfway through the door, Dakaran shoved his way by and sauntered over to where a small group had assembled in front of the fire. Taking the empty seat in the middle, he promptly had one of the servants refill his glass.
The king’s study was a large room with a vaulted ceiling layered in crosshatched beams of rich, mahogany cedar. To his right was a wall of inlaid shelves crafted of the same dark wood, housing an impressive selection of books of all shapes and sizes. There was an enormous hanging on the far wall, depicting a detailed cartography of Aldor along with its five kingdoms, natural landmarks, and an updated collection of outlying cities, towns, and villages. Ayrion had spent many an hour studying and memorizing the illustration.
At the head of the room was an enormous stone hearth, large enough for a grown man to walk around inside. The High King stood beside it, nursing a glass of wine.
Turning his attention back to the front, Ayrion took a few steps into the room then bowed. “You sent for me, Your Majesty?”
“Guardian, please.” Rhydan motioned for him to approach. “I would like to introduce you to our esteemed guests.” All four of the ambassadors
remained seated. The high-back chairs had been positioned in such a way as to best enjoy the heat of the fire.
“It would be my honor, Your Majesty.” Ayrion walked around to the front of the small gathering and bowed, low enough to be considered respectful of their position, but not so much as to be groveling for attention.
The king started from left to right. “We have Ambassador Gyin from Briston, Ambassador Belkor from Cylmar, Ambassador Lanmiere from Sidara, and Ambassador Nierdon from Keldor.” The king motioned in Ayrion’s direction. “Gentlemen, I give you, Ayrion, Guardian Protector to
the king.” Rhydan glanced at Ayrion. “They were most impressed with your display earlier and requested an introduction.”
Ayrion bowed once more. “I thank you. Although, I’m certain these gentlemen have no doubt witnessed more impressive displays of swordsmanship than what I have bestowed.”
Nierdon, with his long face and beady eyes, crossed his right leg while spinning his finger around the stem of his goblet. “Ah, a self-deprecating warrior . . . You’re a dangerous man, sir.”
“Only to those who wish harm to my king.”
“And loyal, I see.” Ambassador Lanmiere ran his fingers through his neatly groomed beard. “It is indeed reassuring to see the king has shown such wisdom in his choice of champion.”
Ayrion nodded in the Sidaran Ambassador’s direction. “I thank you for your kind words.”
The Briston Ambassador, a rotund individual with a flushed face, no doubt due to his unhealthy aptitude for merriment, lowered his goblet. “Wherever did you find him, Your Majesty? Hup,” he half-burped, half- hiccupped. “His eyes are quite . . . unique.”
The king raised his glass. “You are perceptive, Ambassador Gyin. He’s Upakan.”
Belkor, the ambassador from Cylmar, spit his wine. “May the Defiler take all Upaka, mongrels that they are!”
No one moved.
Gyin gulped as he tried swallowing his latest mouthful.
The Cylmaran Ambassador’s brow lowered as he fixed Ayrion with a harsh glare.
Ayrion smiled. It hurt, but he was used to the constant slights to his heritage. He knew his people were quite often despised for their choice of
The life of a mercenary was seldom appreciated, especially by those on the receiving end. Ayrion could only guess that the ambassador, or someone close to him, had experienced such a harsh encounter.
“I’ve always found, Ambassador, that it’s the mongrel that proves to be the most dangerous,” Ayrion said, with a deliberate edge to his tone. “They haven’t been bred into servitude and stupidity like some,” he added, letting the insinuation hang in the air, “which makes them… unpredictable.” He took a deep breath. “Yes, if I were a betting man, I’d choose the mongrel over the pedigree every time.”
“Ha!” The Sidaran Ambassador burst into laughter. “He’s got you there, Belkor.” He raised his glass in a lighthearted salute. “If I were you, I’d think twice before insulting one of the Upaka with nothing but a beaker of fine wine between you.” A few of the others chuckled and nodded in agreement.
A fleeting smile appeared on the king’s face as Rhydan extended his arm. “Well, I believe the necessary introductions have been made. Thank you for joining us, Guardian.”
Ayrion bowed. “Thank you, Your Majesty. With your permission?”
The king nodded, and Ayrion turned, offering a less formal bow to the ambassadors. “Gentlemen.”
As he turned back toward the door, Ayrion couldn’t help but notice the fury on Dakaran’s face. As he retraced his steps, he wondered what sort of maneuvering the king had intended with such an awkward encounter. Keen to distance himself from their political games, he quickened his pace to the door and left the nobles to their fire and drinks.
