Chapter 1

   

Gueryn looked to his left at the solemn profile of the lad who rode quietly next to him and felt another pang of concern for Wyl Thirst Morgravia’s new General of the Legion. His father’s death was as untimely as it was unexpected. Why had they all believed Fergys Thirsk would die of old age? His son was too young to take such a title and responsibility onto his shoulders. And yet he must; custom demanded it. Gueryn thanked the stars for giving the King wisdom enough to appoint a temporary commander until Wyl was of an age where men would respect him. The name of Thirsk carried much weight but no soldier would follow a near-fourteen-year-old into battle.

Hopefully, there would be no war for many years now. According to the news filtering back from the capital. Morgravia had inflicted a terrible price on Briavel’s young men this time. No. Gueryn decided, there would be no fighting for a while…long enough for Wyl to turn into the fine young man he promised to be.

Gueryn regarded the boy, with his distinctive flame-colored hair and squat frame. He so badly needed his father’s guidance, the older man thought regretfully.

Wyl had taken the news of his father’s death stoically in front of the household, making Gueryn proud of the boy as he watched him comfort his younger sister. But later, behind closed doors, he had held the trembling shoulders of the lad and offered what comfort he could. The youngster had worshiped his father, and who could blame him—most of Morgravia’s men had as well. It was especially sad that the boy had lost his father having not seen him in so many moons.

Ylena, at nine, was still young enough to be distracted by her loving nursemaid as well as her dolls and the new kitten Gueryn had had the foresight to grab at the local market as soon as he was delivered the news. Wyl would not be so easily diverted and Gueryn could already sense the numbing grief hardening within the boy. Wyl was a serious, complex child, and this would push him further into himself. Gueryn wondered whether being forced to the capital was such a good idea right now.

The Thirsk home in Argorn had been a happy one despite the head of the household having been absent so often. Gueryn had agreed several years back to take on what seemed the ridiculously light task of watching over the raising of the young Thirsk. But he had known from the steely gaze of the old warrior that this was a role the General considered precious and he would entrust this job only to his accomplished captain, whose mind was as sharp as the blade he wielded with such skill. Gueryn understood and with a quiet regret at leaving his beloved Legion, he had moved to live among the rolling hills of Argorn. among the lush southern counties of Morgravia.

He became Wyl’s companion, military teacher, academic tutor, and close friend. As much as the boy adored his father, the General spent most of his year in the capital, and it was Gueryn who filled the gap of Fergys Thirsk’s absence. It was of little wonder then that student and mentor had become so close.

“Don’t watch me like that. Gueryn. I can almost smell your anxiety.”

“How are you feeling about this?” the soldier asked, ignoring the boy’s rebuke.

Wyl turned in his saddle to look at his friend, regarding the handsome former captain. A flush of color to his pale, freckled face betrayed his next words. “I’m feeling fine.”

“Be honest with me of all people. Wyl.”

The lad looked away and they continued their steady progress toward the famed city of Pearlis. Gueryn waited, knowing his patience would win out. It had been just days since Wyl’s father had died. The wound was still raw and seeping. Wyl could hide nothing from him.

“I wish I didn’t have to go.” Wyl finally said, and the soldier felt the tension in his body release somewhat. They could talk about it now and he could do what he could to make Wyl feel easier about his arrival in the strange, sprawling, often overwhelming capital. “But I know this was my father’s dying wish.” Wyl added, trying to cover his sigh.

“The King promised he would bring you to Pearlis. And he had good reason to do so. Magnus accepts that you are not ready for the role in anything but title yet but Pearlis is the only place you can learn your job and make an impression on the men you will one day command.” Gueryn’s tone was gentle, but the words implacable. Wyl grimaced. “You can’t stamp your mark from sleepy Argorn,” Gueryn added, wishing they could have had a few months—weeks even—just to get the boy used to the idea of having no parents.

Gueryn thought of the mother. Fragile and pretty, she had loved Fergys Thirsk and his gruff ways with a ferocity that belied her sweet, gentle nature. She had succumbed, seven years previous and after a determined fight, to the virulent coughing disease that had swept through Morgravia’s south. If she had not been weakened from Ylena’s long and painful birth she might have pulled through. The disease killed many in the household, mercifully sparing the children.

Although he rarely showed it outwardly, Wyl seemed to miss her in his own reserved way. For all his rough-and-tumble boyishness, Gueryn thought, Wyl obviously adored women. The ladies of the household loved him back, spoiling him with their affections but often whispering pitying words about his looks.

There was no escaping the fact that Wyl Thirsk was not a handsome boy. The crown of thick orange hair did nothing to help an otherwise plain, square face, and those who remembered the boy’s grandfather said that Wyl resembled the old man in uncanny fashion—his ugliness was almost as legendary as his soldiering ability. The red-headed Fergys Thirsk had been no oil painting either, which is why he had lived with constant surprise that his beautiful wife had chosen to marry him. Many would understand if the betrothal had been arranged but Helyna of Ramon had loved him well and had brooked no argument to her being joined to this high-ranking, plainspoken, even plainer-looking man who walked side by side with a King.

Vicious whispers at the court, of course, accused her of choosing Thirsk for his connections but she had relentlessly proved that the colorful court of Morgravia held little interest for her. Helyna Thirsk had had no desire for political intrigues or social climbing. Her only vanity had been her love of fine clothes, which Fergys had lavished on his young wife, claiming he had nothing else to spend his money on.

Wyl interrupted his thoughts. “Gueryn, what do we know about this Celimus?”

He had been waiting for just this question. “I don’t know him at all but he’s a year or two older than you. and from what I hear he is fairly impressed with being the heir.” he answered tactfully.

“I see,” Wyl replied. “What else do you hear of him? Tell me honestly.”

Gueryn nodded. Wyl should not be thrown into this arena without knowing as much as he could. “The King. I gather, continues to hope Celimus might be molded into the stuff Morgravia can be proud of. although I would add that Magnus has not been an exceptional father. There is little affection between them.”

“Why?”

“I can tell you only what your father has shared. King Magnus married Princess Adana. It was an arranged marriage. According to Fergys. they disliked each other within days of the ceremony and it never got any easier between them. I saw her on two occasions and it is no exaggeration that Adana was a woman whose looks could take any man’s breath away. But she was cold. Your father said she was not just unhappy but angry at the choice of husband and despairing of the land she had come to. She had never wanted to come to Morgravia. believing it to be filled with peasants.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “She said that?”

“And plenty more apparently.”

“Where was she from?”

“Parrgamyn—I hope you can dredge up its location from all those geography lessons?”

Wyl made a face at Gueryn’s disapproving tutorly tone. He knew exactly where Parrgamyn was situated, to the far northwest of Morgravia. in balmy waters about two hundred nautical miles west of the famed Isle of Cipres. “Exotic then?”

“Very. Hence Celimus’s dark looks.”

“So she would have been of Zerque faith?” he wondered aloud, and Gueryn nodded. “Go on.” Wyl encouraged, glad to be thinking about something other than the pain of his father’s death.

Gueryn sighed. “A long tale really, but essentially she hated the King, blamed her father for his avarice in marrying her off to what she considered an old man. and poisoned the young Celimus’s mind against his father.”

“She died quite young, though, didn’t she?”

The soldier nodded. “Yes. but it was the how that caused the ultimate rift between father and son. Your father was with the King when the hunting accident happened and could attest to the randomness of the event. Adana lost her life with an arrow through her throat.”

“The King’s?” Wyl asked, shifting in his saddle. “My father never said anything about this to me.”

“The arrow was fletched in the King’s very own colors. There was no doubt whose quiver it had come from.”

“How could it have happened?”

Gueryn shrugged. “Who knows? Fergys said the Queen was out riding where she should not have been and Magnus shot badly. Others whispered, of course, that his aim was perfect, as always.” He arched a single eyebrow. It spoke plenty.

“So Celimus has never forgiven his father?”

“You could say. Celimus worshiped Adana as much as his father despised her. But in losing his mother very early there’s something you and Celimus have in common and this might be helpful to you,” he offered. “The lad. I’m told, is already highly accomplished in the arts of soldiering too. He has no equal in the fighting ring amongst his peers. Sword or fists, on horseback or foot, he is genuinely talented.”

“Better than me?”

Gueryn grinned. “We’ll see. I know of no one of your tender years who is as skilled in combat—excluding myself at your age, of course.” He won a smile from the boy at this. “But, Wyl, a word of caution. It would not do to whip the backside of the young Prince. You may find it politic to play second fiddle to a king-in-waiting.”

Wyl’s gaze rested firmly on Gueryn. “I understand.”

“Good. Your sensibility in this will protect you.”

“Do I need protection?” Wyl asked, surprised.

Gueryn wished he could take back the warning. It was ill-timed but he was always honest with his charge. “I don’t know yet. You are being brought to Pearlis to learn your craft and follow in your father’s proud footsteps. You must consider the city your home now. You understand this? Argorn must rest in your mind as a country property you may return to from time to time. Home is Stoneheart now.” He watched the sorrow as those last words took a firm hold on the boy. It was said now. Had to be aired, best out in the open and accepted. “The other reason the King is keen to have you in the capital is, I suspect, because he is concerned at his son’s wayward manner.”

“Oh?”

“Celimus needs someone to temper his ways. The King has been told you possess a similar countenance to your father and I gather this pleases him greatly. He has hopes that you and his son will become as close friends as he and Fergys were.” Gueryn waited for Wyl to comment but the boy said nothing. “Anyway, friendship can never be forced, so let’s just keep an open mind and see how it all pans out. I shall be with you the whole time.”

Wyl bit his lip and nodded. “Let’s not tarry then. Gueryn.”

The soldier nodded in return and dug his heels into the side of his horse as the boy kicked into a gallop.

Wyl remembered that ride into Pearlis as if it were yesterday. It had been three moons now since his father’s death and. although he was now used to the routine of the palace and his role. Wyl hated his new life. If not for his overwhelming sense of duty he would have run away.

He scowled as an exasperated Gueryn struck him a blow on his wrist. “You’re not concentrating. Wyl. On the battlefield that slip could have cost you a hand.”

The soldier deliberately struck again but this time Wyl countered just as ferociously, his wooden sword making a loud clacking sound as he pressed back against his opponent.

“Better!” Gueryn called, relieved. “Again!”

From out of the corner of his eye. Wyl could see that Prince Celimus had sidled up to a few of the flatterers he usually surrounded himself with. Wyl doubled his efforts and Gueryn was prudent enough to not criticize further.

About time, the soldier thought as he increased his speed, stepping up the session to a combat level rather than just a drill. He was pleased to see the boy relax slightly—a good sign that he was no longer concerned with who was watching but folly attendant on defending himself. Gueryn then upped the skills still further, delivering a frighteningly fast series of slashes and thrusts that would have challenged a battle-hardened soldier, let alone a fourteen-year-old boy. Those around them in the practice courtyard had fallen silent and various trainers and other lads wandered over to watch what was clearly a fight to the “death.”

Wyl. sweating lightly now in the chill morning, stepped back, feinted, moved to his left, parried, and then dodged back to his original position, feinting once again before he saw the gap and struck hard and fast. He crouched nimbly to avoid the low. normally “fatal” slash he had already anticipated from his wily opponent and then struck upward with force, two-handed. Suddenly Gueryn was on his back panting and Wyl’s piece of timber was at his throat.

There was murder in the boy’s eyes and if they had been on the field. Gueryn believed he would be drawing his last breath. Gueryn also knew Wyl had genuinely bested him. despite his smaller stature and strength, with a blaze of raw anger. He realized he would have to counsel him on this and explain that Wyl needed to fight clear-headed. Fighting decisions were always based on training and intuition rather than just pure emotion. That approach only worked once; Gueryn knew that when wave after wave of soldiers were bearing down, it was the cool, emotionless approach that won the day.

He stared back at Wyl, forcing him to give way. Onlookers were clapping and whistling their appreciation of the demonstration. Wyl regained his composure and pulled Gueryn to his feet. He glanced toward the smirking Prince, anticipating some snide comment to humiliate him in front of his peers.

The Prince was predictable in this. “Can you do that with a real sword. Wyl?” Celimus inquired innocently.

It was Gueryn, smacking the dust from his clothes, who replied. “Well, I wouldn’t want to take him on with a blade,” he said, hoping to deflect attention. He laughed and clapped Wyl on the back.

“No? But I shall,” Celimus interjected, his smile broad and anything but genuine. The Prince’s voice was sly now. “What do you say, Wyl?”

Gueryn held his breath. This was the most direct provocation that Wyl had encountered from the Prince, who had spent much of the time since their arrival simply baiting the youngster.

Wyl regarded the heir to the throne coolly. Gueryn’s hand was on his shoulder, squeezing hard. They did not permit the lads to drill against each other with anything but wooden or blunted swords and this rule was especially rigid where Celimus was concerned.

Wyl looked away, hating to back down from that clear, defiant gaze. “I’m not allowed to fight you, your highness.”

“Oh, that’s right,” the Prince said, as though suddenly reminded of the palace rules. “You’d better remember it too, General.” Celimus laced the final word with as much sarcasm as he could.

Wyl had never felt such a well of hate rise within himself Until recently he had lived life with carefree joy, had hardly known dislike for anyone. He had been surrounded by people who loved him. Now his every waking moment seemed filled with torment. Celimus baited him at every opportunity and if he was not using his cruel mouth against Wyl, then he was laying traps for him with a few of his henchmen. A day hardly passed in which the Prince did not succeed in bringing gloom to settle on Wyl’s shoulders. If there were not dead rats in his bed, then there were cockroaches in his drinking water, or mud in his boots. His food was tampered with and his training clothes hidden. Childish and pointless it all was and yet it wore Wyl down, nibbling at his resolve to follow in his father’s footsteps.

“Wyl Thirsk?”

A page had arrived.

“Over here.” Gueryn replied, nodding toward his despondent charge and grateful for the interruption.

The messenger addressed Wyl. “You’re wanted in the King’s chambers. General.” he said politely. “Immediately, sir.”

Wyl looked up at the still-grinning Prince and bowed. “With your permission, your highness, I’ll take my leave,” he said, carefully observing the correct protocol.

Celimus nodded, his silky lashes blinking once over olive eyes that missed nothing. Everything about Celimus was beautiful. Even at fifteen, when most of the boys were still struggling to fit into their awkward bodies, his looked as though it was sculpted from pure, smooth marble. Muscled and polished, there was not a blemish on it.

In looks, Celimus represented to Wyl everything he personally was not and that realization was painful for a boy born to lead men. Celimus was tall with wide, square shoulders. His hands were large but deft and he carried himself with grace; even his swordplay was elegant and highly skilled. His features were independently arresting but together they formed a face that was destined to turn heads. Manhood was still to settle on him but, looking at the youth, it was obvious an especially striking man was in the making. His voice had already deepened to a timber Wyl could only dream about, while Wyl’s own still squeaked and cracked in places—usually at inopportune moments.

He’s perfect, Wyl thought glumly to himself, cursing his own shorter stature, red hair, and no doubt blushing face of pale, freckled skin filled with unremarkable features. He tried to mask his despair as the Prince nudged his friends and excused himself, still smirking. The men standing nearby gave polite bows, but exchanged looks of distaste. Celimus may have been a glorious-looking individual whom the young women of the court were already swooning over but he was unpopular among the larger palace community. In this he was his mother all over again. While the King was revered, the heir had no loyalties he might count on from any but the sycophants who hung around him.

“May Shar help us all when that one takes the throne.” someone said, and many gave wary nods of agreement.

Wyl strode away, a sense of foreboding now mingling with his hate: King Magnus had summoned him, no doubt to ask questions about his loyalty. It was hardly news that he and Celimus did not get along.

“Come on. Wyl. make haste.” Gueryn urged.

They did so. following the page as he weaved a practiced route through the halls of the palace, taking shortcuts via various walled courtyards and sunlit atriums. On the way they stole a chance to wash their faces and rinse their hands in a bucket of water raised from a convenient well while the page hopped from foot to foot in urgent need to deliver his “goods” to the King’s secretary.

Wyl had not realized how beautiful the palace of Stoneheart was. Up until now it had been to him an impregnable fortress with solid, gray walls, dusty yards, stables, and a mess hall that was always noisy. A place where dogs, horses, soldiers, and servants scurried about in a small world of their own within the castle walls. This more serene aspect of Stoneheart was as unexpected as it was attractive. He felt like an intruder on a new world.

The dark stone looked suddenly handsome in the many light-filled, elegant spaces especially created within the internal structure of the castle. Wyl began to appreciate that the castle was also a palace in its own right, possessing a distinctive style of which simplicity was the key. Walls were not busily cluttered; instead, one eye-catching tapestry might be the only decoration in a vast chamber. Furniture was practical, always simple, favoring the heavier, dark Lomash wood so abundant in Morgravia. Adana had had no influence here. Wyl mused; there was no hint anywhere that a Queen of such exotic heritage had lived any of her short life in this place. He wondered if Celimus’s more extravagant taste would leave its garish mark on Stoneheart when he took the throne.

Hurrying through the corridors and up stairs, trying to keep up with the page, Wyl caught glimpses of carvings of the great beasts. It was believed that every Morgravian was chosen from birth by one of the beasts, and the choice became known when a person made their first pilgrimage to the cathedral at Pearlis. There, the magical creatures were gloriously presented, each holding up one of the pillars of the great nave. Whenever Wyl visited the cathedral, he looked for the famed winged lion—his creature. Now. in the palace, he spotted the taloned bear, the magnificent eagle, the serpent cunningly twisting out of the stone, and the beautiful jeweled peacock. Finally, as they drew nearer to the King’s chambers, he saw the mighty warrior dragon, talisman to all the monarchs of Morgravia. Wyl looked at it in wonderment, then thought of his father’s creature, the phoenix. There was a symmetry there which pleased him: both Magnus and Fergys were creatures of fire; no wonder they had loved each other so loyally.

“Wait here please,” the page said finally, at the top of a second flight of stairs.

“Where are we?” Gueryn wondered aloud.

“Outside the King’s private study, sir. Please be seated.” The boy gestured toward an open corridor with a stone bench fashioned out of the walls on both sides. The area was flooded with sunlight and by the soft, unmistakable fragrance of winterblossom. It was seductive. They strolled over to the balcony and stared into a small but exquisite orchard. Its beauty and perfume kept them silent in their own thoughts.

Soon enough an older man arrived quietly behind them. “It’s difficult to drag oneself away, isn’t it?” the man said, his voice low and friendly. Gueryn assumed he must be the King’s secretary. When they turned, he added. “You must be Wyl Thirsk.”

Wyl nodded.

“We all loved and greatly respected your fine father, son. He is deeply missed in our community.”

“Thank you. sir.” Wyl stammered, unsure of what else to say, wishing people would allow him to heal that wound and not keep reminding him months after the hated event. This man meant no harm, though. It was their first meeting and only right that he would make mention of his prestigious lineage.

The soldier beside him cleared his throat. “Er. I am his guardian—”

“Ah. yes, Gueryn le Gant, isn’t it?” the man said. His manner was brisk yet kind. “Welcome to you both. Can I offer you something cool to drink? I gather we interrupted your training.” The smile was genial.

“Thank you. we’ll be fine.” Gueryn answered politely.

“I am the King’s secretary. Orto.” their host said. “The King has requested a private discussion with the young man so I will ask you to remain here. Gueryn. Please sit. we shall call Wyl soon.” He smiled again and departed.

Within a few minutes Orto returned. “Wyl, come with me now. You may leave your weapon and belt out here with Gueryn.”

Wyl did as he was asked and. with a glance over his shoulder towards his friend, followed the servant.

Massive oaken doors, carved with Morgravia’s crest, were opened before them. Wyl looked up at the keystone of the archway they passed through: carved into it was another fire-breathing warrior dragon, signaling that he was entering the private domain of a King…his King. The large chamber he entered had windows running the length of it and a stone fireplace at either end, again featuring the royal talisman.

Wyl had lost his bearings in the journey through the palace; he wondered what those windows looked out onto. But the sound of voices called him back from his distraction and he heard the scratching of a pen on parchment.

“Last one. I hope?” a gruff voice said.

“It is, sire,” another man’s voice answered, and then the owner of that voice shuffled past them carrying rolls of documents.

“Ah, Orto, you have the boy? Bring him in, bring him in.”

Wyl emerged fully into the study and came face to face with the man he had met only briefly once, the man his father had died protecting. Magnus had headed north to Felrawthy almost immediately after Wyl’s arrival and this was their first occasion to meet again. He noticed that the King was tall but stooped and he appeared much older, even since their first, very hurried, talk. Magnus, he noticed now. looked very little like Celimus. although the strapping physique was there. A gentle push from Orto, on his way out of the room, reminded Wyl that he was in the presence of his sovereign. He bowed low.

“You look like your father, boy.”

It had been meant as a compliment but Wyl’s plain looks made him feel that almost any reference to them was a barb.

“He always told me I look more like my grandfather, sire.” he replied politely.

Magnus grinned then. “That’s probably true. son. But you remind me of how he was when we were both mere scamps together in this same castle.”

Wyl could tell the King meant it sincerely. He knew how fond the friends had been of each other and imagined that Magnus losing Fergys Thirsk would be like him losing Gueryn. More than just painful.

“I miss him. sire,” he admitted.

The King gazed down at him with soft eyes. “Me too, Wyl. So keenly that I still find myself talking to him now and then.”

Wyl regarded the King and saw no guile. He appeared nothing like his son in temperament either, thought Wyl.

“So. Wyl,” the King said, sitting down and gesturing for Wyl to be seated too. “Tell me, how are we treating you in Pearlis? I imagine you must regret not being in that glorious world of Argorn. I know your father constantly did.”

“Yes, sire, but…I am settling in.”

Magnus scrutinized the lad before him, sensing he was cautious like his father—and probably just as unforgiving if he was wronged, judging by that proud jut of his chin.

“I have seen your sister about the place. What a sunny, pretty young thing she is. I trust she is happy?”

Wyl shrugged gently. “I think Ylena would be happy anywhere, your majesty, providing she has her dolls and fine dresses.” He smiled. “Thank you for all that you’ve given her, sire. She is pretty, that’s true. She’s the lucky one in looks—she took after my mother.”

He was startled by the King’s sudden laugh. “Don’t put yourself down, Wyl.”

“No, sire. I’ll leave that to others.”

“Ah.”

Orto reentered the King’s study and brought with him a small tray with two cups of blood-red wine.

“Don’t tell old Gueryn, eh? He’ll think I’m corrupting you.” The King winked.

Wyl could not help but like the man who sat before him. He wanted to be wary of him. He was the father of Celimus, after all, but still it was hard not to enjoy his company.

“Now here’s to you, young Wyl,” the King said, lifting his glass.

“And to your continuing good health, sire.” The underlying message was not lost on Masnus.

“Has it been hard settling in?”

“Oh, the usual stuff, sire.”

Wyl felt Magnus fix him with his direct gaze. “Tell me about Celimus,” the King said.

“What can I tell you, your majesty, that you don’t already know?”

The King paused and Wyl thought it was a telling hesitation. “Tell me any good points you’ve noticed about him.”

Now Wyl felt really cornered. “I don’t understand.”

“Oh, I think you do,” Magnus said gently. “I grasp more than people credit me with, Wyl. Celimus has many imperfections. On the outside, however, he is a truly remarkable individual. I freely admit, without any shame, that I think he will turn into one of the finest-looking men Morgravia has ever bred. Shar rest his mother’s soul.” This last he added perfunctorily. “I don’t know whether it’s because he lost his mother early, or because he has no siblings…or simply because I am a woeful father. Whatever the reasons. Celimus is not so remarkable on the inside. In fact I know him to have a darkness within that troubles me.”

Wyl nodded, fearful of what to say to a King making such a frank admission about his own son.

Magnus held him with a light blue gaze. “I’ve heard the two of you are enemies. Is this true?”

Wyl felt tongue-tied. He had no desire to lie to Magnus who was being so candid with him and he tried to be diplomatic in his response.

“That’s a strong word. sire. I am Morgravian. I am prepared to die for my Kingdom and for its ruler. I am no enemy to the King.” he assured, horrified to think Magnus might think otherwise.

Instead Magnus grinned. “So like your father. But perhaps you are prepared to die for this King. son. How about King Celimus?”

Wyl understood. “You obviously wish me to do something for you. sire.”

The King sighed. “Yes. Wyl. I do. And it’s not going to be easy. I trusted your father all of my life, and I trust his son now. Moments before your father died we joined our bleeding palms to make an oath. Your father’s deathbed wish was that I bring you back to Pearlis and make a General of you. You are a Thirsk and it is your birthright to head the Legion. But part of our oath was that we make our two sons blood brothers.”

A blood oath? Wyl felt the slow crawl of a chill through him as Magnus continued.

“I gave my word to your father—my closest friend, my blood brother—that his son would become my son.” He paused again. Wyl said nothing, his silent thoughts racing ahead to guess what the King might ask of him. “Do I have your loyalty, my boy?”

Startled, Wyl quickly moved to kneel before the King. He placed his hand on his heart. “Yes. sire. You will never have to question it.”

The King nodded. “Good. I am elevating you to your father’s revered title of King’s Champion. It comes into effect today but I do not grant this position lightly. You despise my son.” He held up his hand to hush Wyl’s ready objection. “I know this—and he has given you little reason to think highly of him in any way. so I do not hold this against you. However, from now on you will protect the heir of Morgravia with your life, as your father protected me with his.

“As of this moment you will shadow the Prince in all that he does. I don’t doubt for a second that any of his activities are distasteful, as I know my son has a penchant for cruel habits. Together we will try to change this. Make a friend of him. Wyl. Influence him. Everything that made your father the fine man he was is embodied in his only son—I know this to be true. Your reputation precedes you. boy. You have the qualities that make a special man, a leader of men. and I want you to do everything you can to imbue Celimus with those qualities.”

Wyl tried to object.

Magnus interrupted him. “No buts, Wyl. This is my command. You are already General to the Legion and Champion to the King, and one day you will be called to act for Celimus—at his command. In the intervening years, you will befriend the Prince and somehow, child. I pray your humility, your sense of right and wrong, your courage, and your leadership will rub off and help him as he matures. I know I ask a lot of you, Wyl, but this is your duty now—your duty to me.”

The King’s eyes blazed as he reached forward and grabbed Wyl’s wrist. “Swear it to me, Wyl. Make this pact with your sovereign.”

Wyl felt his world suddenly spin as he put his other hand over his heart and gave the solemn oath to be “blood” to Celimus.

Magnus suddenly dropped Wyl’s wrist and reached for his dagger. Wyl saw the blade glint as Magnus drew the sharp edge across his own palm; bright blood sprang instantly to the surface. Without hesitation, Wyl offered his own hand and the King repeated the process. The knife bit cruelly and swiftly through his young hand until it too yielded up its precious liquid. Wyl did not wince at the pain, but he suspected the King had deliberately cut deep enough to leave a scar—one that would always remind him of this oath.

“You will protect the life of the heir to Morgravia with yours, preferring to die by his hand than save your own life.”

They clasped fists, blood to blood.

“I pledge it,” Wyl affirmed.

“You and he are to be as one body, one life.”

Wyl swallowed silently. “As though my blood runs in his veins. I swear it, sire.”