Author's Note: This story--which will probably end up novella-length--concerns the rise of two of history's most famous warriors during the Helghast Wars--King Ulnar of Sommerlund and the Baron of Toran, who would become Sun Eagle, the first Kai. I can't promise how steadily I'll be writing, but regular feedback will encourage me to write faster. So please review.
Rain fell upon the sleepy city of Toran in hissing sheets.
Mist rose damply from the cobblestones of the city, which by midday were too slick and wet for even the most insistent of merchants. Yet the good folk of Toran hitched up the hoods of sodden cloaks about their faces, their breath making little aggravated puffs in the chill of the early spring air. They stood three deep along the muddy gutters, held back by the occasional wet soldier, while muddy rivulets trickled down into eyes, off the tips of noses, and drizzled onto stout half-boots.
The King was coming to Toran, and few wanted to miss it. The only people indoors on this miserable day were the very oldest and youngest of Toran.
Under the gauzy arch of a hastily erected canopy, Cetter squirmed. A nine-year-old has only the vaguest understanding of kings and duty, but a much sharper one of wet and cold. After ten minutes, the canopy was hopelessly sodden, and now served only to sag heavily above them, releasing an erratic spatter of drips when the wind twisted the cloth too quickly.
Cetter blinked the water out of his eyes. As hard as he tried to stand straight and rigid, eyes focused ahead, he found himself brooding over when the next drop would splash cold and heartless against the nape of his neck. It was sheer torture, enough to make the unpleasantness of a scratchy new tunic and enforced stillness pale in comparison. He bit his lip to stop a yelp when it happened again, but his mother's hands still pinched hard into his shoulder, as though she could sense the fidgets just under the surface.
To distract himself, the boy tried looking around. For the first few minutes of rain, his father had remained astride his great warhorse, gazing out over the sea of cloaked men and women below. When the drizzle became buckets, Baron Ander had dismounted. With a quiet word to the elderly chancellor next to him, he had seen to the raising of awnings all along the street so that most were out of the rain, if not the chill. The crowd had amused itself for a time with ragged cheers for the popular baron, who took such care with the common folk. To set a prudent example, he too had remained under the shelter, but the baron held himself as though not only still mounted, but as though he was about to lead a charge into battle.
His father's dark, deep-set eyes swept over Cetter. Though they barely paused, the boy consciously squared his shoulders and strained to add another two inches of height through posture alone. A smile flickered briefly across the thin lips, but the baron had already moved on. He—like everyone—strained to see as far down the road as he could, before the street snaked into a winding curve, even though he knew that the trumpets and the thunder of hooves would announce the king's arrival long before they could see anything.
Baroness Rutha stood behind Cetter still, hands on his shoulders, and the faint, flowery scent of her perfume overpowered the dullness of the rain for a moment. Rutha's other arm steadied the slim form of his older sister. There had been some discussion—loud discussion—about both Nelia's presence and her attire. Every other acolyte of the Brotherhood stood in silent, white-robed lines behind their Guildmaster many yards away. But Nelia was not only an acolyte but a lady, and their father had decreed that the latter would take precedence over the former today. The slender, blond girl, radiantly gowned in green, kept her head down, her eyes far away. Beside her was Davin, their older brother, his lean face focused on the road.
Cetter had just turned his attention to the servants around them when the trumpets sounded.
As soon as the brassy blare faded, the captain of the baron's guard drew a mighty breath and boomed, "Hail to King Coran of Sommerlund, Lord of the Sommlending, Servant of the Gods, and Commander of the Forces of the Sun!" The last of the king's titles were lost in the roar of the crowd as necks craned towards the bend in the road.
The armored man on the white charger cut a fine figure even in the rain. His ceremonial plate was inlaid in gold, as was the helmet. The visor was open, and Cetter, straining, caught a glimpse of a dark-bearded face. The king rode flanked by guardsmen on all sides—Royal Guardsmen in their fine purple surcoats and shining full mail. It was all very exciting, and Cetter fidgeted again.
Mother's fingers dug, claw-like, into his shoulder. "Stay still," she hissed.
Father strode forward bareheaded into the rain, heedless of the mud he had to slosh through. The king, despite the heavy weight of his armor, dismounted as lithe as a boy. Baron Ander's bow was formal, deeper than Cetter had ever seen his father do it. But then the king caught him in a rough embrace, as the cheers became deafening.
Behind the king's enthusiastic charger lumbered a massive carriage, all gleaming wet hardwood and gold inlay, led by a team of white horses. Already, a motley mix of Royal Guardsmen and Cetter's family's own servants rushed to erect an awning between the palace steps and the wheels. The king could get as wet as he liked—the Queen and the royal children were another matter.
"Look, Cetter." Nelia caught his arm where it had escaped their mother's grip. The girl pointed. "There, look! There's Queen Imale." The girl's breath caught as the tall, raven-haired woman stepped delicately from the carriage. "Isn't she radiant?" Though she might be a magician in training, Cetter's sister was also only fourteen, and the beauty and majesty of the moment could tug at wizardly heartstrings as firmly as anyone else's. "And there's Princess Arianna, and little prince Ulnar. Beside him, the tall man with the short white beard—that's Earl Gareth, the King's magician." The hawk-faced old man, his silver-and-blue robes appearing dry and clean, surveyed the crowd with a piercing gaze. When it passed over the clustered noble children, Nelia dropped her gaze to the ground again with a little gasp. Free of both commentary and tight restraint, Cetter wriggled with the impulse to sprint into the rain.
"Come now, children." Rutha watched the exchange of bows with a narrow little smile, and her grip tightened on her younger son's shoulder again. "It's time to go inside and make our introductions."
They would not stand in the rain while interminable introductions, pleasantries, and careful delineations of rank took place in front of the common folk. Instead, Baron Ander led his king into the shadowy warmth of the palace, where guardsmen followed to give them a discreet distance.
Cetter looked up at the high-beamed ceiling far overhead. He loved the Great Hall of Toran. At night the room filled with laughter and revelry when the court gathered for supper, and during the day the mood was reverent and solemn. Baron Ander held court here from the heavy gilded chair at the opposite end of the room. But the hall today was most of all warm and dry, and the plush Cloeasian carpet was a relief under sore, wet feet. Mother didn't even cluck at the puddles the royal retinue dragged in with them.
Queen and Baroness were introduced first, to each other and respective husbands. They were startlingly alike side-by-side, two tall, dark-haired women in flowing, brightly colored silk. Cetter was too far away to hear the words of introduction, and didn't much care to. His attention was now on the boy standing—well, fidgeting—at the king's side.
Prince Ulnar—for he had to be—was a boy Cetter's own age, a solemn-faced youth with brown hair in a brocaded green velvet tunic. He met Cetter's eyes and executed a short bow, graceful with long practice. Cetter bowed in return. The boy met his eyes and grinned, and something in that open expression kindled a grin of his own. The two youths shared an irrepressible expression of kinship in the solemn hall, a look that promised hours of games.
"—my sons, sire," his father's deep voice was saying. "Davin, my heir, and Cetter, my youngest."
Hearing his name, Cetter bounded to his father's side. He resisted the impulse to shake himself like a puppy to rid himself of the rain bogging down his clothing and slicking his hair. Davin was already bowing, murmuring smooth pleasantries. Davin could be trusted to comport himself with dignity—or so Cetter had heard many times from his tutors.
The king had removed his helmet upon entering the safety of the indoors. Sommlending warriors always traveled under arms, even within a friendly city. The terrible War of Desecration and the many skirmishes and raids since had impressed upon the Sommlending the need for constant vigilance. For the same reasons, the Great Hall was no place of luxury and decadence. The palace—and the entire city—had been designed in the interests of defense. Both had thick walls, heavy gates, and narrow, high slit-windows when there were any windows at all. The halls of the palace, like the city streets, were filled with hidden alcoves and rooms in which soldiers stood vigilant guard, and turned and twisted like mad into blind passes and sharp corners. Only once had a Darklord army taken the entire city. If it happened again, even the chambermaids knew how to use the hallways and alcoves to their advantage. Even the children—Cetter had spent long hours at play lobbing imaginary arrows at Giaks from around sharp stone-walled corners, slipping into shadowy alcoves to plot ambushes in hushed voices with servant children.
But today the most interesting thing about the palace was the king in it. Coran was a broad, muscular man, his thick dark hair now shot through with silver. He was not so much bearded as unshaven, his whiskers rough and scraggly rather than matching Baron Ander's neat chin-beard. But the whiskers could not disguise the strong chin, the firm, smiling lips, nor the active, bright blue eyes. In wetly gleaming mail, the jeweled sword of the Sommlending kings glinting over his shoulder, he was a heroic figure, especially to a nine-year-old boy who had slain many an imaginary Giak in his name. Cetter was charmed before the king even opened his mouth, but the rush of adrenaline in his ears made it hard for him to follow the adult chatter. Mother would be furious if Cetter ignored a question from the king. He blinked water from his eyes and tried to focus.
"—taken the oath?" Coran was asking. The king's voice was higher than one would expect for so large a man, Cetter thought, a tenor instead of a baritone. But he was radiant and powerful and wonderful, and Cetter was prepared to ignore minor flaws.
"Almost two years ago, sire," he piped before his father could answer. "I'll renew it this week with my father and brother in the Great Hall. I'm nine now, and I can start my weapons training after that. And then, a year after that, I'll be a page, and a squire when I'm fourteen."
"Enough, now," Ander murmured, touching the child's wet, dark blond hair fondly.
The king grinned. "A fine boy—two fine boys—" he corrected with a smile for Davin. The lean youth bowed again in acknowledgment. Davin was a slight, shy boy, more interested in his books than his weapons training. But he, like all Sommlending boys—and more than a few girls—had taken the oath of Fehmarn, and would serve in the king's army against the Darklords. There were no other options. Cetter was too young to know the snickers of other boys, the poorly hidden disappointment of a father, the taste of blood and ringing ears from a weapon master's poorly parried blows, but even he understood that Davin was not a good squire. "You, boy, would do well to befriend my young Ulnar, who has many of the same interests."
Cetter knew enough to hold himself rigid while the king and Baron Ander introduced their respective kinfolk. Queen Imale was a regal woman whose imperious gaze swept over the family without much pause, but when Cetter bowed to her the queen's answering smile was warm. Arianna was a girl so young as to be beneath Cetter's notice if she weren't a princess—five at the most. She curtsied to him with a little giggle and ignored him after that.
Nelia's introduction warranted a low bow from the king and a compliment that turned her red to her hair. At fourteen, the girl still had a child's ungainliness, but every time she returned home, Cetter saw emerging more of the beautiful woman she would become. But the times when he bothered to think about his solemn older sister were rare indeed, and now he shuffled. He had taken his place standing beside the mix of royal and baronial children while the adults continued with drawn-out courtesies. Nelia hovered awkwardly between the adults and the children, obviously unsure where she even wanted to stand, but Ulnar, Cetter, and Ariana were now firmly out of the adults' interest.
Ulnar stood with Ariana's hand solemnly in his. Cetter almost didn't hear him when the other boy spoke in a low undertone. "Have you a sword?"
"What?" he asked, then added a belated, "your Highness."
"A sword? Have you a real sword?"
"Oh." Cetter nudged a flagstone with his toe, feeling small and foolish beside the prince, even though he knew he was almost a year older. "I don't. I'll have one next spring, though, after I start my weapons training. I start after I take the oath this spring."
Ulnar's young face registered a grudging respect. "I won't start for another year yet. But I have a sword—a real one—with silver in the hilt and a topaz set in the pommel, for when I do start."
Cetter couldn't repress a surge of envy. Even after his weapons training started formally, he wouldn't have a sword until his teachers had grudgingly judged him capable. Until then, he'd carry a long knife, or a spear in the unlikely event that he'd fight to defend the city—just like a peasant foot soldier. Davin hadn't gotten a sword until he was made squire. Until then, boys trained with first wooden and then blunted metal weapons. "Did you bring it?" he asked.
The prince's face fell. "No," he whispered back. "Father says I'm not to carry it until I know what to do with it."
"I have a wooden sword," Cetter confided, suddenly wanting very much for this boy to like him. "I have a sand table with lead soldiers and four real books of my own that I don't have to share with the library." The royal family would only be here for a week or so, but he had few children of rank to play with. His father had told him firmly two years ago—after Cetter had taken the oath that marked him old enough to defend his country—that he should not play with servant's children. Toran supported minor nobility, but those families spent most of their time on their agrarian manors supervising planting and harvest, so their children were not often at court.
Ulnar, though younger, was taller than Cetter. He had a fine, aristocratic face and lively blue eyes, not to mention a real sword back in Holmgard. In short, Cetter decided, he was an ideal companion.
Ulnar considered, lips pursed. "Those are child's toys," he said with disappointment. "What else do you do?"
"Sometimes I go hunting with Father," Cetter retorted, stung. "I've my own pony and two fine knives. And—" he said with a sudden burst of inspiration, "—I know all sorts of secret passages and turns in the palace."
The other boy cocked his head. "Truly?"
It was, if not an outright lie, at least a bald exaggeration. The passages of the palace were delightfully winding and branched, but all the passages were well-lit and well-traveled. But Cetter nodded. "They're all there to fool the Giaks and Darklords. They came in once, you know. They ran around in circles inside the palace, but the Baron and his family and servants hid in the passages to ambush the Giaks and drove them out."
"Show me," the boy said imperiously, his eyes lighting.