Alaric Zarael came sashaying into Captain Isaiah Thierry’s office early in the morning with a sheet of paper in his hands, smiling all over his scarred face. The captain looked up at the sound of the door. When he saw who it was, he stood up and saluted.
“General, sir.”
The two men were opposites in character—Zarael over fifty but young at heart and exuberant as a boy, Thierry twenty years younger but a dour man of few words. They had come, though, over time and through hardship, to respect and trust each other. Thierry was one of Zarael’s few real friends.
Zarael smiled at Thierry’s greeting and waved the formality away with the paper in his hand. “I have the list of candidates for your elite corps.” He sat down across from Thierry, sliding the paper to him. “I’ve been watching all of these young men for at least a year, and I believe they’re all the most likely options to pass the training. Would you like to test them?”
Thierry sat down and picked up the list, scrutinizing it. “What’s the age range?”
“They’re mostly in their twenties, like you asked. A couple are almost thirty, and the youngest is eighteen.”
“Eighteen? I’m sorry, but if he’s that new—”
Zarael shook his head. “He’s one of the child soldiers my predecessor recruited during the war. He has experience, believe me.”
“I thought they all left or were killed—”
“Not him.”
“Alright, I’ll see for myself.”
“There is one thing I’d like you to consider when you test them. That child soldier, I’ve had my eye on him for a long time. He’s not as physically capable as the other candidates, but he makes up for it with sheer willpower…”
Thierry frowned. “I can’t take someone who isn’t up to the physical standards of the elite—”
“Let me explain.” The general steepled his fingers, a habit of his. “This soldier, he may lag behind the others in training. But I need you to consider that he has only one leg. Based on that, I’d say he performs better than all the other candidates.”
Thierry was silent for a while, his scowl deepening.
“Alright,” he said finally. “I’ll consider that. But I don’t like it. If he fails, he fails, and I drop him from the corps. An enemy won’t go easy on him because he’s crippled.”
The general bowed his head. “I understand. And I trust your judgement, Thierry. Thank you.”
“Of course, sir.”
“When will you begin their training?”
“In a week or two. I’d like to observe them during the normal drills for a while first. Especially this crippled boy. He must have something to him, if he’s in the army at all.”
Zarael smiled. “Believe me, you won’t be disappointed in any of the young men. They’re our very best, every one of them.”
He rose. “I’ll be going now. Take care of yourself. I’ll see you on the training field tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you, Thierry.”
“Of course.”
Zarael left the office and shut the door behind him. He headed down the hall, whistling. He was eager to see what Thierry thought of his choices.
Honestly, he’d been on the edge about recommending that boy, Tariq. But he was sure the kid could handle it. The other soldiers called him the one-legged wonder mockingly, but there was a grain of truth to it. The way he applied himself to his training, you’d hardly guess he was lame at all.
He smiled to himself, hoping Thierry would be impressed. He’d thought his list of candidates particularly good.
~
In the next few days, the soldiers noticed an unfamiliar man watching them as they trained and sweated in the Indian summer sun. He was slighter than the general, his uniform pristine, his lean, dark face sour and weatherbeaten, hardly any grey in his black hair and short beard. They didn’t pay him much mind, but the whispers went back and forth as the men sparred. Captain Isaiah Thierry, head of the Elite Stealth and Intelligence Corps, was not often seen in public.
He never spoke during the training sessions, only watched them through half-hooded eyes, eyes that lingered especially on a slim, blonde boy with a slight limp.
On the second day, the general joined him.
“I see two legs,” Thierry observed drily.
The general explained, and Thierry nodded, impressed in spite of himself.
The third day, after the soldiers had left the training field for a break and the mess hall, Thierry walked slowly to the general’s office, head down, thinking hard. When he got there, he sat down, smiling thinly at Zarael’s greeting, and said, “I’ll take them all for testing next week.”
~
Phineas spent the few days after his conversation with Cass shut in his room, packing (he said). He refused to come downstairs even to eat meals with his father, as he was accustomed to. He didn’t want to see the inevitable happen. On the first day, his father tried to get him out of his room, but he eventually left him alone.
~
Lord Clade sipped at his glass of wine, reading through letters. Hektor, perched on the end of his desk, helped by sorting them into piles of important, less important, and very important. The prime minister daily reviewed the activities of all the king’s other ministers. His young aide often helped him. The two were great friends.
“This one’s from the military department,” Hektor said, handing him one with a plain envelope and unassuming seal. The military didn’t have any funds to waste on fripperies.
“Oh!” Clade took it. “I’m always interested in what my friend Zarael is up to.”
Hektor smiled and went back to his sorting. He was well aware of his lord’s icy relationship with the king’s general and minister of war. Clade slit the envelope open with a smooth motion of his letter knife and pulled out the document with a rustle. He scanned it.
“Well, well! This certainly is interesting.”
Hektor took the liberty of leaning over to see what was so interesting. Amiable, Clade smiled at him. “Have some wine, lad?”
“Just half a glass, thank you, my lord.”
Clade poured it and took a drink from his own glass. “Do you remember Captain Isaiah Thierry?”
Hektor frowned. “Was he the man who formed ESAIC—the intelligence corps—during the war with Wuhan?”
“Yes. The corps disbanded after the war ended almost three years ago. But he’s reforming it now. Zarael just sent in a notice that he chose sixty young men from the army to test for entrance into the special training.” He swirled the wine around in his glass, smiling. “This certainly is interesting.”
“My lord?”
“It seems Zarael took this initiative on his own. His Majesty Cillian is too concerned with maintaining peace here to be paying any attention to what’s going on outside of Norgath. But Zarael would. I bet—” he waggled a finger in emphasis— “I bet he’s got one on eye on what Ladera’s up to. He doesn’t have a reason, or Cillian’s sanction, to send any force to our border, but if he has the Intelligence Corps…”
Hektor nodded. Clade kept him well up to date on current events. He understood why a man like General Zarael might be worried about the movements of Ladera, a small country too far away to be of much outward concern. Zarael thought very strategically and very far ahead, and he would of course have noticed that after invading Lyrria, which had virtually no military, Ladera had moved on to invade Ferran, a nation already torn by civil war. A nation that happened to be right on Norgath’s southern border. Not an immediate issue, but a potential one, and worth investigating.
Clade had folded his hands and tapped his fingers against his upper lip, frowning hard. Hektor sipped his wine, watching him.
“I’ll have to tread carefully,” Clade muttered. He looked up at Hektor from under his eyebrows. “Monitor the training of those new ESAIC recruits. And Captain Thierry. And come to think of it, watch Zarael, if you can. I know he’s very active, but anything you notice would be helpful. I hope that’s not too much?”
“I’ll do my best, sir.” Hektor said. He drained the last of his wine, hopped off the desk, and bowed out of the office.
He poked his head back in a moment later. “My lord, would you like this to take precedence over the investigation of that young soldier?”
Clade hadn’t thought of that. He considered.
“Can you do both?”
“I can, but I’ll have to prioritize one.”
“Prioritize the soldier’s investigation, then.” That was a more personal issue.
“Yes, my lord.”
The door shut. Clade sat back and finished his wine. He was so lucky to have someone like Hektor.
~
Cass paced up and down the anteroom to his father’s audience chamber. From inside came the murmur of conversation—no words discernable, of course. Outside the closed door, people waited their turn to speak to the king: members of the court, messengers from the Western Lordships, governors of border towns carrying their reports, citizens with complaints or pleas. Some would be waiting all day, so the anteroom was comfortable, airy, and well-furnished, with plenty of seats, and windows opened to keep the room cool and the air circulating. Servants periodically brought in water and served food to those who hadn’t thought to bring their own. It wasn’t a lavish room—the Avelon kings had never loved frippery—but ancient mosaics lined the walls near the ceiling, illustrating the legendary adventures of old Norrish heroes.
Cass had been waiting almost all morning to speak to his own father. If it were something less important, he would have just gone to him in his study in the evening or caught him between meetings. But this—he was about to accuse the prime minister of treason. This demanded the formality of an audience. The wait was excruciating, but he was determined to see it through, now that he’d finally worked himself up to it.
He’d spent the morning either pacing or slumped in an empty chair, easily the tensest of the people waiting. He’d brought a book but couldn’t focus on it. They were beginning to cast him odd looks. He wondered if he smelled. He’d been sure to wash the night before—
Everyone else seemed so relaxed. He didn’t understand. Most read or chatted—some were even napping. A few stared absently out the window. Someone remarked on the weather. It was still hot out, and clear, but the kind of clear that predicted a storm soon. The heat wouldn’t be around for much longer, they said. It was already September, and once summer left, the warmth would be gone until nearly May.
He was pretty sure his turn was coming soon. He plopped himself down in a chair again and tried to sit still.
The door opened, and he sat up straight as an attendant came out. The man came to him and bowed.
“Your Highness. The king will see you now.”
Cass entered the room, trembling, passing the man coming out with a satisfied expression on his face—evidently pleased with the outcome of his audience.
His father sat on his throne at the end of the room, dressed simply but kingly, as usual, bearing with grace the heavy crown on his erect head. Cass came forward cautiously and dropped to one knee before him, his own head lowered.
King Cillian looked surprised. “Cassander? What’s the matter? How long have you been waiting?”
“Only a few hours.” Cass found himself suddenly shy, though usually he was fully comfortable around his father. He wasn’t used to addressing him in such a formal setting.
“You didn’t need to request an audience—”
“I know.” Blushing, the prince fumbled for words. “I—it was important…I just felt like I needed to see you more formally…I don’t know.”
“Well. You’re here now. Have a seat, won’t you?”
The king got up from the throne, leaving his crown on the seat, and took a lower chair beside his younger son. “Is this about those funds I asked you to track?”
“Yes.” Cass swallowed, rubbing his sweaty hands together. “And…it’s more complicated than we thought…especially for me…”
The king frowned. “What is it?”
“It’s…your prime minister. Lord Clade. He’s been embezzling the tax and trade funds,” Cass blurted. “He’s been stealing little enough from every shipment so that you won’t notice. I found documents detailing it all.”
Cass explained everything he’d discovered, words pouring out of his mouth until nothing more came and he sat silent and miserable.
“I see you’re uneasy.” The king tried to hide his shock at the news. He had to put his son’s need before his own anger. “Phineas Clade is your best friend.”
“Yes. And I don’t want this to ruin him. We’re about to go to university together, you know. You’ll have to arrest Lord Clade…could you please keep Phin out of it? I really don’t want him to be hurt by this.”
Cillian leaned over and hugged his son tightly. “Brave of you to tell me. I’ll investigate Clade. And I promise not to make any moves at least until Phineas has left with you. Would it be easier if you and he weren’t home?”
“Yes, it would.” Cass breathed a sigh of relief. He was lucky to have such an understanding father, he thought. “Thank you,” he said.
“Thank you, Cassander. I am deeply indebted to you for this.” Cillian rose and returned to his throne, placing his crown back on his head.
Cass bowed, still trembling, and left as the attendant admitted the next petitioner.
Poor Phineas. I’m so sorry, Phin…
~
Five days went by. The king did not make a move, as he had promised. Cass prepared to leave for university. He sent a few messages to Phineas but received no answer. Though he was worried, he left his friend alone and didn’t press the issue. He probably needed some time to himself after their difficult conversation.
So happy that you named a character Hektor! Anyways… back to my Iliad (hektors the only one keeping me sane)
Again, I love all the world-building! It is interesting that the more exuberant officer implicitly has fewer friends than the dour one, and thought-provoking. And why does he swagger and act proud in front of a subordinate? Lots of layers to think about here.