Gambit of the Glass Crowns: Vol. I of epic fantasy The Sundered Kingdoms Trilogy (32 page)

The servant girl, Ellen, entered the room, and he secretly ogled her as she stoked the fire. The heat created beads of perspiration on her ample bosom. The only thing that kept him in his seat was the echoing words of his father. He should concentrate on his studies, not dally with the servant girls. But Madoc’s body disagreed. He ran his hand down between his legs to feel the stiffness against his breeches and knew dallying with the servant girls was something he could do quite well, should he be given the chance.

Frustrated, he pried his eyes away from Ellen’s cleavage and looked back toward the ceiling. He wondered how his father fared at the clansmeet. Word had been sent of the successful marriage of Bronwen to the high king, but there had been no news on whether his father was able to persuade Alric to support Annwyd’s expansion westward into the Brynlands and the Hwerydh forest. While he knew the marriage of his sister was most important, the expansion had been his father’s true issue to press upon Alric.

His sister was an ignorant sow. Perhaps if she had been more diligent, she would have had a choice in her future. She had no drive, no ambition. He was glad to be rid of her annoying presence in Annwyd. His tutor told him he should respect her, as she was his elder sister, but she had done nothing to earn his respect. Only through her marriage to the high king did she have any use at all. She would be an easy pawn to control, and through her, Alric would be as well. Should fortune shine, his father would return with good news of Bronwen’s influence over the king regarding the expansion.

Annwyd grew poorer by the day, while the malcontent of its people grew louder. They mined all the land they could, and should they not mine farther west into the Brynlands for export to Ordanis, they would not be able to afford their own wellbeing. Were that to occur, they would have to rely on Cærwyn for support. It would be highly undignified for such a thing to happen. The peoples’ morale would suffer and, in turn, Annwyd as a whole would suffer even greater losses.

He looked around the throne room. Richly dyed Tyrian purple banners hung from the rafters down the length of the room. The color of Annwyd’s banners was a status symbol of royalty, carried to Dweömer from Ordanian tradition. The dye itself fetched twice its weight in gold. It came only from the secretions of sea snails which dwelled in the warm waters off the eastern shores of Ordanis. As such, it had to be imported, adding even more cost to the already decadent commodity. His father insisted upon utilizing the color in any way he could. There was a plant that the Meïnir used for dying dark violet the robes of the High Priestess of Arlais, which his father knew of, but he balked at the idea.

If he had not such hedonistic tastes, they would not have to worry at such length about the economic stability of the kingdom.

“Ah, young master,” Tristram’s voice brought him back from daydreaming, and Madoc sat up and faced him.

“I began to wonder if you had wandered off, old man.” Madoc stood from the throne.

“I was receiving a messenger,” Tristram explained as he approached. “Your father should arrive tomorrow. His ship sets sail from Northfeld’s shores this night.”

“Will you miss being in command of the kingdom?” Madoc smirked.

“Certainly you jest.”

“Of course I jest.” Madoc knew Tristram kept his position in check. The young prince was in command of Annwyd in his father’s absence, not the steward. “Of what matters, other than my father’s arrival, did the messenger deliver?”

Tristram glanced behind him at the guards who stood at either side of the door, and then at Ellen who still tended the hearth. He took another step toward Madoc and leaned forward, putting his hand on the armrest of the throne as he whispered. “It would seem there was an attack on Castle Cærwyn not long before the clansmeet. Many Cærwynian and Gwelian nobles were killed, and several of our own were injured. Word has it that the high king’s nephew, Connor, was injured in the attack as well.”

“Does he yet live?” Madoc was most intrigued.

“He does.”

The prince cocked his head to the side, biting the corner of his mouth.

“He has left Cærwyn, however.”

“Left? For where?”

“Helygen, I surmise. His brother is duke of the province.”

“And what of my father? Was he able to persuade Alric to support the expansion westward?”

“There was no word on the matter.”

“Damn.” Madoc grit his teeth

“Your father will be able to tell you upon his return. Be patient.”

“My patience is a virtue which begins to run thin. The riches beneath the Brynlands and the treasures of Arlais must be ours. I am ready to see war.”

“I have a feeling, young master, you will be granted such a wish.”

“Good. It is time everyone sees we are a force with which to be reckoned. We fall by the wayside and must strive to show the other provinces we are still strong as ever. War would be most fortuitous for Annwyd.”

“The young master would do well to remember that war is not always profitable, even when the current situation foreshadows such an outcome.”

Other than his father, Tristram was the only other in the kingdom Madoc trusted without even the slightest hint of doubt. The old man had been the Steward of Annwyd for three generations, appointed by his grandfather. Incredibly intelligent and wise from his decades of experience, Tristram taught him many things of the inner workings of the political world. He also remained a valuable source of information for the goings-on of the rest of Dweömer.

“Will you visit the chapel today?” Tristram crossed his arms.

Madoc looked up at him and coughed, wiping a bead of spittle from his chin. “Have you lost your senses, old man?”

While his sister devoutly followed the teachings of The Maker, Madoc enjoyed the more logical viewpoint to life Tristram had shown him. He did not care for that fool, Father Andras and disagreed with many of his teachings. Madoc did not know what Tristram believed. Though, from overhearing conversations between him and Grigor Boraste, he sounded as though he worshipped at the altars of the Lord and Lady of war and bloodshed. Blasphemous beliefs in Annwyd, a province founded on strength of The Maker.

“I only thought it polite to ask.” Tristram again glanced worriedly at the others around them.

Madoc favored the older man, unbeknownst to Tristram. Even though Tristram treated him with a stern hand at times, he did whatever he was asked to do. He indulged the boy’s fantasies as well, telling him stories of war campaigns and adventures, which Madoc reveled in. It was also Tristram who convinced Braith that Madoc was old enough to learn about combat, and Madoc would always be thankful to him for such an act.

“Leave us,” Madoc commanded, and both the guards and the servant girl hurried from the room.

“I wondered when you would send them away.”

“There are other things we need to talk about, and I do not need that silly goose girl gossiping about things which are none of her concern.”

“Such as?” Tristram’s expression led Madoc to believe the old man knew the answer before asking.

“I tire of such formalities.” Madoc loosened his collar. “Speak plainly.”

“As you wish, young master.”

“The king is not long for this world. Every noble in the provinces whispers about it beneath their breath. He appeared frail at the clansmeent, when it would have been only right for all his valor to be on display. His marriage to my sister is but a wasted attempt to bring forth an heir of his own blood.”

“Duke Helygen will most likely sit upon the throne before winterfall, it is true,” Tristram agreed. “It is a scenario which could be to our good fortune. He is weak, far weaker than Alric, and quite malleable. Should Duke Helygen lead the House of Gwalchgwyn, your plans for the future of Dweömer may come to fruition far sooner than either of us had assumed.”

For a brief moment, Madoc noticed a glint in Tristram’s eyes as the old man pursed his lips. He could not place it, but the look gave him a knot in his stomach. “What is it?”

“Whatever happened to that fox?”

Madoc felt his breath catch in his throat.

He had gone on a hunt, his first, with his father and several of his father’s advisors. Tristram accompanied them, against the old man’s better judgement. His old bones were not meant for the rough saddle of a horse. As they rode through the western front, the hounds caught the scent of a fox, one of the rare corsacs from the northern steppes. Garments constructed from their fine, thick pelts, the rarest of which were solid cream with auburn hued undercoats, had long been a status symbol.

His father took this as a good omen for his son’s first hunting outing and let the boy take the lead with his gentle guidance. Madoc recalled he was less than enthused at the prospect of killing any creature, but he wanted to impress his father.

Not long after the hounds found the scent, the hunting party came across the corsac. They cowered away from the animal’s corpse, stinking of death and encrusted in dried blood. Braith cursed their luck and was ready to return to the hunt, but Madoc saw something none of the others had seen and scrambled down from his saddle. There, attempting to nurse at the vixen’s already barren teat remained a lone pup, eyes still shut tight, crying for milk.

“Curse our luck,” his father complained, “Best to let the beast die in the cold.”

“It would be kinder to kill it now,” Tristram said, “To spare the thing any suffering.”

“That pup was born of the dead,” said Lord Aled, another hunter in their party. “An ill omen.”

“No!” Madoc cried out as he picked up the pup and cradled it in the warmth of his tabard. “You cannot! I will take him!”

“Lord Aled speaks true, Madoc,” his father said in a commanding voice which Madoc had heard all too often. “A babe born of a dead mother is an evil sign.”

“Best to slay it.” Aled drew his sword.

“No!” Madoc shouted again, turning away so his father could not see the tears well up in his eyes.

Seeing how distraught the young prince was at the thought of killing the pup, Tristram managed to convince his father to allow him to keep it.

He had nursed the pup himself with a cloth soaked in warm milk and held it in the palm of his hand as it suckled. As it grew, the corsac followed closely at his master’s heels wherever he went. He cared for the fox more than anything else, and the pup was dearly devoted to him.

One day, however, when he woke, he found the corsac already cold, curled up in his usual spot at the foot of his bed. Tristram did all he could to comfort him, but there was nothing that could be said to cure his mood.

Madoc cleared his throat. “What made you bring him up?”

Tristram’s eyes drifted up and he smoothed back a loose tendril of his white hair. “Forgive me. I did not mean to upset you.”

He shook his head. “Never mind.”

“I know your patience grows thinner by the day, but things such as these happen quickly. It is like a fine chain. Should even one link suffer too much stress, the entire chain shall shatter.”

“And what help is this brilliant proverb of yours to me?”

“I have been the steward of Annwyd since your grandsire’s time. I have served two kings, and soon a third when you ascend to the throne. My advice to you now is to simply lie in wait and draw no more attention to yourself than you already have. Everything will happen quickly once circumstances are set in motion. Remember that, and take comfort in it.”

“You have never misled me.” Madoc took a deep breath before he turned to the great window of the hall. “I will heed your suggestion and be patient. Take note of my words though, dear Tristram, when my wrath is unleashed upon the pests which plague this world, it shall be all consuming.”