The king’s drawing room was untouched since the last time the dead king had been in it. It wasn’t his father’s room anymore. It was his. A fine layer of dust lay on all the artifacts that his father had carefully placed on display. Alfyn picked up the golden arrowhead that his grandfather had ripped from the neck of the Elvish Daal so many generations ago. The last time he had looked at it was when the king was trying to teach him a lesson on how to deal with other people laying claim to the throne.

  Thus far, no one had. Wolfryn was too loyal, and Ulfnar was, as far as he knew, still locked in the tower in Tambryne’s great bog. That was a great victory. Ulfnar was far too clever for his own good, and he would never have supported Alfyn when he needed it the most. Ulfnar was far too kind.

  Davinya was another unknown. She didn’t particularly care for him, but she would come around eventually. He would make sure of it. Of all his siblings, she was the only one he wanted to keep around. The rest were…disposable.

  His only real concern among his family members was Aeolwyn, the Boy General. He hated that he’d had to confirm his brother’s appointment to the General of Fort Camulan. But he’d become immensely popular among his men there. If he hadn’t, there was liable to be a revolt, and unrest among the military in a fort so far away was a distraction he didn’t need. He had too many plans going on at home.

  It turned out well though. In the last 3 years, Aeolwyn seemed more interested in making improvements to the fort than scheming for the throne. It was only a matter of time, though, and Alfyn had to be ready for it.

  That was why he’d brought Commodore Tyrec to the drawing room. He had just entered and was kneeling quietly before his new king. His head was bowed, and his hand rested on his side, where his empty scabbard lay. Alfyn trusted Tyrec, but not enough to allow the sailor to be armed in his presence.

  “Rise, commodore,” Alfyn said.

  “My sincerest condolences, your majesty.” Tyrec slowly stood and shifted uncomfortably between his two feet. His left hand kept going to his empty scabbard. He didn’t like being unarmed.

  “A terrible blow,” Alfyn said, “but not an unexpected one. Your kind words comfort me, as does the knowledge that my dear father is finally out of pain.”

  “Indeed, Your Highn—,” Tyrec paused, before smiling. “It’s Your Grace now, isn’t it?”

  Alfyn burned inwardly. He was to be addressed as Your Grace the moment his father passed away, and the commodore knew it. This little slight was just a bit of gamesmanship to see how the new king would react. Alfyn wasn’t going to take the bait. He needed Tyrec.

  “Yes, commodore,” he said. “But I understand that there’s going to be a bit of an adjustment during the time of mourning. I will forgive the slight.”

  He gestured to a chair. “Please, sit,” he said before sitting in the large chair that used to be his father’s. No one had been allowed to sit in it—it was the surrogate throne.

  “I understand you have formulated a plan to deal with my brother,” Alfyn said.

  “Indeed, I have, Your Grace. Prince Alfyn has been busy building strong walls in Fort Camulan. A frontal assault would be costly in both lives and reputation. A king attacking his own fort? That’s unheard of.”

  “Agreed,” Alfyn agreed. There was no way he was going to send an army after his brother. That was too blatant and would cause nothing but unrest among the nobility. There was no way they would accept Alfyn as king if he did such a thing.

  “But,” Tyrec continued, “It is likely that Aeolwyn will bring a show of force to your father’s funeral. While he’s gone, it will be an easy matter to…reoccupy the fort.”

  “Yes,” Alfyn agreed, smiling. “I could keep him out of the fort while chastising it for leaving it undefended.”

  “They would be an army without a home,” Tyrec said. “It wouldn’t be long before the desertions began.”

  This was why he trusted Tyrec. He was intelligent and crafty. Aeolwyn was also, but his brother was still inexperienced, and his actions were easy to predict. Alfyn would see just how loyal Aeolwyn’s men truly were.

  “What do you need from me, commodore?”

  “Enough men to hold the fort, Your Grace.”

  That wouldn’t be too difficult. Lord-General Harmin was sure to have some men to spare, though he couldn’t be told exactly what Alfyn needed them for. The lord-general was still very fond of Aeolwyn, though loyal to the king. Alfyn would have to make sure it stayed that way.

  “Aeolwyn is certain to lock the fort up tight. What is your plan to get in?”

  Something about Tyrec’s Smile put Alfyn on edge. He wondered how much he could trust this man. Though if he needed men to hold the fort, then Alfyn would make sure those soldiers would be unconditionally loyal to him.

  “I have someone who knows the fort inside and out, Your Grace.”

  “Who?” The men at the fort were well known to be fanatically loyal to his brother after he saved them from certain defeat at Lannic Outpost. Alfyn had, thus far, been unable to penetrate that loyalty.

  Tyrec’s smile deepened, but he shook his head. “Best if you don’t know, Your Grace. Sending men to support me is risky enough.”

  He wondered if he should re-engage his contact among the Fenns? Now that he was king, probably not. They were useful when he was trying to use them to get rid of Aeolwyn, but now that Alfyn was king and his brother was a general, he was uncomfortable at the idea of their enemy occupying a fort on Camulan soil.

  No, he wouldn’t do that. He could, however, have some uniforms made and allow Aeolwyn to think that it was the Fenns who had taken over his precious fort. That might enrage his brother enough to attack, and if the fort was as strong as everyone claimed it was, his brother’s army would be smashed against its walls.

  “You shall have all that you need, Commodore Tyrec.”

  Yes, this was a good plan. And Aeolwyn would never see it coming.

  ***

  Three men stood before Longinus; the three he thought would be best suited for dealing with Lady Larella’s problem. The first was Fraius, his former chief assassin. The man had gotten too obsessed with killing Prince Aeolwyn and it had cost him dearly. Aeolwyn had nearly killed him. He was lucky to survive only missing an arm. The prosthetic arm was a poor substitute, but it would suffice. Magically enchanted, he could move it as though it were his own, just not as quickly as Fraius may have liked.

  At least that was what he let others believe. Truthfully, Aeolwyn had killed him, but thanks to a certain type of magic that Longinus possessed, he was able to bring Fraius back from passing to the great beyond. More out of necessity than anything. Fraius was too valuable to let die. It was too bad he couldn’t regrow his limb.

  The next was Child Albus, one of Fraius’ men who had infiltrated the group of soldiers that General Alaric had taken back to Fort Camulan when Prince Aeolwyn had been exiled. He was loyal and had been assigned the duty of being Child Fraius’ handler. Fraius was something less than what he had been. More a violent dog on a chain now than a careful, scheming assassin. That disappointed Longinus. He had hoped that the assassin would have kept more of what he had been before the resurrection.

  The third man wasn’t his at all. It was Dillon, the one-eyed man who belonged to Lady Larella. He had stayed in the Fortress of Heaven as Longinus’ ‘guest’ after the battle that killed Fraius. He had been inducted into their order and was coming along nicely—not that he was allowed to acknowledge that fact. Longinus needed a loyal man within Larella’s group and had chosen Dillon. He had taken the name Child Daillus, but Longinus insisted that he continue to go by his old name. It would be too suspicious among those he knew if he suddenly demanded to go by a different name.

  “You will have to be descreet,” Longinus said to the assembled men. “So for Laryn’s sake, keep your hoods up.”

  Dillon was known to the Tambrynese, but he had to go. Lady Larella insisted that he act as a guide, which Longinus saw the sense in. Fraius needed to be kept hidden for other reasons. His skin had taken on an inhuman pallor that the farmers and peasants would notice. At least he didn’t smell like death.

  Albus was the safe one. None among the Tambrynese would note his presence. Longinus had put him in charge of the mission. Dillon bristled at not being the one in command, but he would come around. Despite being the one who knew every last bush in Tambryne, he was the lowest ranking member of the order.

  “We shall, Your Radiance,” Dillon said. Albus just nodded. Fraius said nothing. He just stood there, sullenly glaring at Longinus. He was upset that he wasn’t being sent after Aeolwyn. Despite all the retraining the assassin had gone through, they had not been able to completely remove his desire to kill the prince. Longinus wasn’t worried though. He would still follow orders.

  “Excellent. You are dismissed.”

  The men shuffled out as Longinus wondered if he should send additional groups. He needed men to infiltrate Archduke Rovaielle’s court. Not to help him stay in power, but to clear the way for something else:

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  For Longinus to seize power. He already had pieces in play in other courts, Camulan had been easy. With all the unrest with the nobility and royalty he’d sown, it had been easy to send a few trusted children into the palace. Even now, one was preparing to take her place as a senior advisor.

  ***

  Aeolwyn’s mother was settling in at the fort, and that made him glad. He made sure to eat with her every night and sit with her every morning. She was not the same woman he’d left in Teorton. She was sullen and sad. A shell of what she’d used to be. He hoped he could bring the strong, tough woman he’d grown up with back.

  He was at his desk looking over the duty rosters when Brakus barged in—his usual method of getting Aeolwyn’s attention. Most days it was fine with him. If his door was open, Brakus didn’t need to knock. But if the door was closed, that meant Aeolwyn was busy.

  “General, there is an urgent matter in the mess hall.”

  Aeolwyn sighed. It was probably another fight. Those tended to break out from time to time. When soldiers got bored, they got drunk, and when they got drunk, they would fight. It happened to every army across Laryndor, and Fort Camulan was no exception. Aeolwyn tolerated it as a necessary release valve.

  “Have the men break up the fight and give them extra duty,” he said without looking up.

  “Sir, it’s not a fight. They need you in person.”

  “What is it?” Aeolwyn didn’t want to be distracted right now. He had a lot of work to do, and he intended to get it done. It kept his mind from the things his mother had said. Alfyn was poisoning his father? He didn’t want to believe it.

  “Just come, general,” Brakus said.

  Aeolwyn sighed. He supposed this was as much of a distraction as the paperwork he was looking over. He put the papers in his drawer and locked it. He made a habit of keeping all his paperwork secure. He always suspected spies were about, and he didn’t want to be as careless as the captain of the outpost they infiltrated.

  He followed Brakus out and into the yard. It was strangely quiet. A few of the servants, squires, and pages were milling about, attending their normal duties, but none of the soldiers were there working their forms. Not today.

  Did that mean they were all in the mess hall? He groaned internally. Had Knight-Count Wollams finally staged a coup and was planning to arrest or replace him? He wasn’t sure what he would do if that were the case. His men were loyal to him and would be ready to fight, but Aeolwyn couldn’t bear to have Camulani soldiers fighting Camulani knights.

  Count Wollams was the commander of the group of knights his brother had sent as reinforcements along with his confirmation as general. Alfyn had sent about a dozen knights, who all came with their own pages and squires. There were at least twice as many men supporting the knights than the knights themselves. He hadn’t decided if that was a worthwhile trade just yet.

  Brakus led him across the yard and stopped in front of the doors to the mess. Aeolwyn took a few quiet breaths and fought down the nerves that were forming in the pit of his stomach. If there was going to be a coup, he would have to step down. He would rather have that happen then see his soldiers kill their brothers-in-arms.

  Brakus opened the door and pulled Aeolwyn in alongside him. The room was filled to bursting. The entire compliment of soldiers was here, along with all the knights. They packed themselves in so tight that they were shoulder to shoulder with barely room to stand. They had left an aisle in the middle that led to the dais where the commanding officer of the fort’s table was.

  Seated at the table were all his friends, Reiva, Egne, and Galafar. His mother stood between them with a big smile on her face. He hadn’t seen her smile since her arrival.

  What was going on?

  “Happy birthday, general!” They all shouted in near unison before erupting into cheers, hoots, and hollers. Was it Jonus 17th already?

  He looked at Brakus in shock. He hadn’t celebrated a birthday since before he’d been exiled to Fort Camulan. He’d always been too busy to even think about the day. In truth, he’d nearly forgotten about it until this moment.

  “You wouldn’t think we’d forget about your 17th birthday, did you?” Brakus asked. “Everyone needs to mark the day they come of age. Even a general!”

  How had they known the day? He had always been sensitive about his age, so he hadn’t told anyone when his birthday was. It wasn’t that he was really trying to keep it a secret. He just thought it would be better if the men didn’t know.

  His mother stepped down from the dais and through the aisle to stand before him. She took both his hands and squeezed them before leaning in to kiss him on the cheek.

  “Happy birthday, son,” she said softly. More cheers erupted as his mother led him to the table at the top of the dais. The soldiers along the aisle clapped him on the back as he passed them. Some reached out, grabbed him, and kissed him on both cheeks.

  “Bring the wine!” Brakus shouted when Aeolwyn reached the table. Count Wollams and two of his knights came out with the biggest jug of wine he’d ever seen. It was tradition for someone just coming of age to have to drink gallons and gallons of wine. It was considered good luck if they could finish a jug without vomiting.

  Galafar and Egne grabbed Aeolwyn and held him tight while Brakus pulled his head back. The knights gleefully climbed atop the table and began pouring the wine down his throat. He made sure to hold his breath.

  He couldn’t keep up with the volume of wine coming out of the jug. Most of it ended up overflowing out of his mouth and running down his uniform, before splashing onto the wood plans and disappearing.

  When the jug was empty, Aeolwyn was wearing more wine than he had drank. The soldiers handed him the bottle and he threw it down hard onto the floor. The room erupted in cheers. Aeolwyn smiled. Even though he only swallowed about 10 percent of the wine, he had conquered the jug, as it was called.

  Count Wollams clapped him on the back so hard he stumbled forward. Or maybe it was from the wine. He wasn’t sure, exactly.

  “Happy birthday, highness!” He shouted. More cheers.

  “Bring out the music!” Wollams shouted.

  Two knights and two of his soldiers pulled out instruments. One had a large drum, two pulled out stringed instruments known as vollums, and one had a flute. They all made their way to the front of the dais and got their instruments ready.

  Then, the doors to the mess hall burst open. A man in his father’s livery led a procession of monks of the Temple of Laryn into the already crowded room. The monks were chanting a mournful dirge while the leader of the procession rang a large bell he was carrying.

  “The king is dead!” he shouted in a loud, hoarse voice. “Long live the king!”

  A collective gasp erupted from the room.

  Did he say the king is dead? He knew that King Llarwyn was on his deathbed, but the knowledge of that was one thing. To have a messenger come and announce it was an entirely different matter.

  His mother let out a mournful cry and collapsed to the floor. Reiva was beside her, doing her best to comfort the queen. Two other attendants that Aeolwyn had hired from Foregate were also beside her, trying to lift her out of the large puddle of wine that was still draining.

  “What did you say?” Aeolwyn shouted. “What did you say about my father!?”

  The man rang the bell again like Aeolwyn hadn’t said a word. “The king is dead! Long live the king!” He continued his way into the room. The monks followed, singing their mournful dirge.

  His mother’s wails rang through his ears and sent a blade to pierce his heart. He didn’t want to believe the news, but he knew he could not. His father was dead. One of the men broke from the procession and approached the dais.

  “Prince Aeolwyn?” the messenger said, standing before him. Aeolwyn didn’t know what to say. He felt like he was in shock. Was his father truly dead? Or was this some kind of trick his brother was playing on him?

  “This is Prince-General Aeolwyn, yes,” Wollams said behind him.

  The messenger held out his hand. In it was a rolled-up message bearing the seal of the King of Camulan. “His Grace, King Llarwyn of house Camul, Defender of the Coast, Lord of the Claws, Conqueror of the Vanquished, Master of the Great Bog, King of Camulan has passed from this world, Laryn bless his soul,” the messenger said sadly. “You are hereby ordered to return to Teorton to attend the funeral and the coronation of his son, King Alfyn.”

  Aeolwyn felt faint. He stumbled and fell to his knees. He tried to be strong; his men didn’t deserve to see their leader like this. They looked to Aeolwyn for their strength, and suddenly, he had none.

  His father was dead.

  The tears erupted in his eyes and became a river, racing down his face. He fell to his hands as he scratched at the floor, trying to grab the tears back. He couldn’t. He tried to stand, but his legs had no strength in them at all. He suddenly let out a grief-stricken cry.

  His mother was beside him, her wine-covered clothes embracing him. He put his own arms around her, both for his strength, and hers. Together they both wailed as they mourned the death of the king. The most important man in both their lives was gone.

  Then came Reiva, embracing him from the other side. She bore no tears, only concern. She held both tight, offering them her strength in this time of loss. She put her head against his, rocking him and his mother slowly.

  Then, he heard the bells. Not the bell the messenger was carrying, but the large bells they used for alarms. Not ringing an alarm this time. It was ringing in honor of the late king of Camulan. Bells from all over the city had begun to ring, their sound a mournful accompaniment to Aeolwyn’s wails.

  Then Egne appeared, covering Aeolwyn and his mother with a cloak as a light rain began outside. “Long live the king, my prince,” he whispered. Then he turned, and stood vigil with him, beside his other friend, Shield Brother Galafar.

  The rain began to pour harder as he and his mother sobbed; and as the sun went down, his men lit candles. None made a move to leave the mess hall. They kept vigil with their general throughout the night. When Aeolwyn and his mother could not cry anymore, they just sat together, Reiva, Galafar and Egne beside them.

  And around the group, his soldiers assembled and began to sing. Instead of the mournful dirge of the Monks of Laryn, they sang the lamentations of the soldier. The collections of songs all soldiers learned to honor their fallen brethren.

  A warmth began burning inside Aeolwyn’s empty heart. A warmth only a man surrounded by those who loved him, there for support in his time of greatest need. It was then, truly then, that he knew what it was like to be welcomed into the brotherhood of soldiers.

  ***

  In the morning, after they had cleaned themselves up as best they could, Aeolwyn gave the order to prepare the men to travel to Teorton for the king’s funeral. He knew it was risky to return, now that his brother was king, so he would have to bring most of his army with him. That was the only way he could ensure his own safety.

  “You can’t go!” Reiva said. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “He has to,” his mother said. “And so do I.”

  “I’m a prince, and the king is dead. It’s my duty to see him off to Laryn’s Glory.”

  They were right, of course. This was a perfect time for his brother to try to kill him again. His army would only protect him so far. They wouldn’t be allowed into the city, and Aeolwyn wouldn’t take them that far. That would put all the nobility on edge. They would think Aeolwyn had come for the throne.

  You could be king. A voice creeped up from the back of his mind. He shoved it down.

  He didn’t want it. He didn’t want to rule. He just wanted to ensure his own safety. He would camp the army outside the city just as a reminder to his brother that he could challenge Alfyn’s claim to the throne if he wanted to.

  “We’re bringing an army,” he said. “Not all of it, of course—some will have to stay behind to ensure the fort is protected, but enough trustworthy men that Alfyn will think twice about harming me or my mother.”

  “You can’t bring an army into the palace,” Egne said.

  “No,” Aeolwyn agreed. “That’s why you three are coming with. Galafar, it’s only right that the Shielder’s have representation at the funeral.”

  “Shield-Lord Barin will be there.”

  “And so will you. Egne, you’re nobility. Your attendance is just as expected as mine.” He turned to his dark-skinned bodyguard. “Reiva, you’ll have to stay out of sight. My brother is sure to recognize you and may try on your life as well if he knows you’re there.”

  “I’d like to see him try,” she said dryly. “And I’m not leaving you alone there. I can pose as Queen Sherisse’s lady-in-waiting.”

  “Exactly so,” his mother said.

  Aeolwyn was lucky to have friends such as these. None of the boys he’d known before his exile had been like this. They’d only been sycophants whose parents were trying to curry favor with the king.

  Not these people. They were his true friends, and they’d proved it last night.