As he wandered through the halls toward the servants’ wing, where Samuel had his office, he felt thoroughly disgusted with himself. The Sixthday game had been a debacle. As he had brooded over it all day, lying on his pallet, he realized he had looked like a fool.
Over the years, being the youngest son of the Prince of Krondor had forced Nicholas into many situations where he would rather have held back; there was no escaping public scrutiny when protocol dictated one be upon the balcony at a festival, or in attendance at court. But in most areas, Nicholas preferred to let others, like Harry, take the lead. In football, Nicholas had developed a justified reputation as a wicked defender, able to steal a ball and pass it off before the other side knew what had happened, but when it came to scoring, he always let others take the glory. Two days before had been the first time he had ever propelled himself to the fore, demanded the ball at every opportunity, and attempted to dominate by force of will alone. And every step of the way Marcus had shadowed him.
There had been scant satisfaction in realizing that he had been as effective at blocking Marcus’s efforts as Marcus had been at blocking his; the game had been more or less a stalemate, save for the injury done his foot, which finally allowed Marcus to score.
As he gingerly moved down a flight of stairs, Nicholas was more sensitive to his birth defect than usual. Like most of those born with such a deformity, he had adapted to it and compensated for it without much thought. Being Arutha’s son had saved him from much of the childhood taunting children of lower rank would have had to endure, but he had still experienced some of it, as well as more than his share of stares and whispers. But today was the first day he felt as if his foot was a true handicap. Had it not been for that, he was certain, he would have bested Marcus. He swore softly, being angry with everyone, himself most of all.
He reached Samuel’s office door and said, ‘Housecarl?’
Samuel motioned him to enter. Nicholas had been in the office only a half hour earlier and had been told there were no unusual duties. The Housecarl looked around as if seeking inspiration, then said, ‘I have nothing that needs doing, Squire. Why don’t you return to your room and rest that injured foot?’
Nicholas nodded and departed, not feeling very much like lying abed another day. He returned to his room and threw himself onto his straw mattress. Having slept most of the previous day, he felt little like resting, and the straw itched. Besides, he was hungry.
After a few minutes he heaved himself off his pallet and headed for the kitchen. By the time he reached it, the smell of food in the hallway had his mouth watering. Magya was busy supervising the kitchen staff, walking behind the cooks like a general overseeing her troops. She smiled at Nicholas and waved him over.
‘Are you feeling better today, Squire?’ asked the old woman. Tending toward the plump, she nevertheless moved about the kitchen quickly and efficiently, despite her age and weight.
‘Yes, but not quite fit for duty, according to the Duke.’
She chuckled. ‘But fit enough to be hungry?’
He smiled back. ‘Something like that.’
Patting his shoulder, she said, ‘I think we have something we can spare before the Duke and Duchess break fast.’
She pointed to a tray, which Nicholas picked up. She spooned out a thick porridge that was bubbling in a pot, sprinkled some cinnamon on it, put a large dollop of honey in the middle, and poured milk over it all. She placed the bowl on the tray, cut a slab of hot bread and a thick slice of ham, and motioned for Nicholas to carry it over to a small table in the corner.
Megar entered with two kitchen boys following behind, each carrying a basket of eggs. He waved the boys about their tasks and came over to sit at the table with his wife and Nicholas, who had taken to the old master cook, a large man with an open smile and kind manner, the first time they had met. ‘Morning, Squire,’ said Megar, a friendly smile on his open, lined face.
Nicholas said, ‘Have you seen Ghuda and Nakor? I’ve not caught a glimpse of either since the game.’
Megar and Magya exchanged glances. ‘Who?’ asked Megar.
Nicholas described them. ‘Those two,’ said Magya. ‘I’ve seen the short fellow talking to Anthony a few times in the last week. The big soldier went out with a patrol, for the fun of it, he said. Left yesterday morning.’
Nicholas sighed. They weren’t real friends, but he knew them better than anyone in the castle save Harry. While the cook and his wife were nice enough, he didn’t know them well and knew that they were only sparing a few moments out of courtesy, and that as soon as he was finished eating, they’d be about preparing the rest of the day’s meals.
As Nicholas ate, they talked. They inquired how he was adjusting to life in Crydee, and then about this trip. At mention of Pug, they both smiled wistful, half-sad, half-pleased smiles. ‘He was like our son,’ said Megar. ‘He was our fosterling, you know, so many years ago.’
Nicholas shook his head to show he hadn’t known, and Megar started telling him a little of Pug, and of Megar and Magya’s own son, Tomas, who had been Pug’s closest friend. As the story of their lives unfolded – a mixture of reminiscence and spirited argument about who remembered what correctly – a picture formed in Nicholas’s imagination.
He had heard tales of the Riftwar from Amos, and once in a while his father could be persuaded to reveal something of his own part in it, but Megar and Magya’s simple retelling was by far the most compelling he had heard. The manner in which they related everything that occurred in their own references, how many buckets of water the kitchen staff carried to the walls, how many extra rations needed to be cooked, how they made do without this or that, when meals were cold because the cooking staff was tending the wounded – all wove a far more vivid picture in Nicholas’s mind than even Amos’s most colorful boasting.
Nicholas asked one or two questions, and suddenly a picture of Pug as a boy emerged. Nicholas smiled as Megar explained at great length how difficult it was for him as a child, being the smallest boy for his age in the keep, and how Tomas had become protective. By the time the stories were finished, Nicholas had eaten all that had been put before him. Magya’s eyes were shining as she explained how Tomas had looked on the day he had become a man, at the Choosing – that ancient rite where all the boys are given over to the masters who would train them.
There was something familiar about the name Tomas, but Nicholas couldn’t quite make it fit. He said, ‘Where is your son now?’
Instantly he regretted asking, as a look of sorrow passed over both their faces. He thought the young man must have died in the war.
But to his surprise, Megar said, ‘He lives with the elves.’
Suddenly Nicholas made the connection. ‘Your son is the Elf Queen’s consort!’
Magya nodded. With resignation she said, ‘We don’t see him much. We’ve had one visit since the child was born, and we get a message from time to time.’
‘Child?’
Our grandson,’ answered Megar. ‘Calis.’
Magya brightened. ‘He’s a good boy. He visits once or twice a year. He’s more like his father than those elves he lives with,’ she said with conviction. ‘I often wish he’d come to live here at Crydee.’
The conversation died, and Nicholas excused himself and left through the door to the courtyard. He recollected what his uncle Laurie had told him about the last days of the Riftwar and what bits Amos had told him. Tomas wasn’t human. At least, that was the impression Nicholas had been left with; he was something else, related to the elves, but different. Nicholas thought that if he had human parents, especially ones as warm and open as Megar and Magya, he must have been much like the other keep children. What could have changed him? wondered Nicholas.
Nicholas wandered over to the Princess’s Garden, faintly hoping to find Abigail and Margaret there. Given the hour, they were probably in the hall, dining with Duke Martin, but Nicholas hoped anyway.
Instead of the young girls, Nicholas was astonished to find Nakor and Anthony, lying flat on their stomachs, staring at something under a stone bench.
‘There, you see?’ said Nakor.
‘That one?’ asked Anthony.
‘Yes.’
They dusted themselves off as they rose. Nakor said, ‘You must be sure it is the one with those tiny flecks of orange. If they are red, it is deadly. If it is any other color, it is useless.’
Anthony took notice of Nicholas and bowed slightly. ‘Highness.’
Nicholas sat upon the bench they had just been peering under, taking the weight off his foot. ‘Squire,’ he corrected.
Nakor grinned his lopsided grin. ‘For the present, Squire, but Prince always. Anthony knows this.’
Nicholas ignored the observation. ‘What were you two doing?’
Anthony seemed embarrassed. ‘Well, there’s a small mushroom-like growth that you can find in dark, damp places –’
‘Under the bench,’ injected Nakor.
‘– and Nakor was showing me how to identify it correctly.’
‘For magic potions?’ asked Nicholas.
‘As a drug,’ snapped Nakor. ‘To induce sleep – if prepared correctly. Very handy when you have to cut an arrow out of a soldier, or remove a bad tooth.’
Nicholas indulged himself. ‘I thought all you magicians have to do is wave your hand and put someone in a trance.’
Anthony shrugged, as if to say that he wasn’t much of a magician, but Nakor said, ‘See, that’s what comes of letting children grow up uneducated.’ He opened his bag and took out an orange. ‘Want one?’ he asked.
Nicholas nodded and Nakor tossed the fruit to him. He gave another to Anthony. Then he handed the bag to Nicholas. ‘Look inside.’
