He became Wyl’s companion, military teacher, academic tutor, and close friend. As much as the boy adored his father, the General spent most of his year in the capital, and it was Gueryn who filled the gap of Fergys Thirsk’s absence. It was of little wonder then that student and mentor had become so close.
“Don’t watch me like that. Gueryn. I can almost smell your anxiety.”
“How are you feeling about this?” the soldier asked, ignoring the boy’s rebuke.
Wyl turned in his saddle to look at his friend, regarding the handsome former captain. A flush of color to his pale, freckled face betrayed his next words. “I’m feeling fine.”
“Be honest with me of all people. Wyl.”
The lad looked away and they continued their steady progress toward the famed city of Pearlis. Gueryn waited, knowing his patience would win out. It had been just days since Wyl’s father had died. The wound was still raw and seeping. Wyl could hide nothing from him.
“I wish I didn’t have to go.” Wyl finally said, and the soldier felt the tension in his body release somewhat. They could talk about it now and he could do what he could to make Wyl feel easier about his arrival in the strange, sprawling, often overwhelming capital. “But I know this was my father’s dying wish.” Wyl added, trying to cover his sigh.
“The King promised he would bring you to Pearlis. And he had good reason to do so. Magnus accepts that you are not ready for the role in anything but title yet but Pearlis is the only place you can learn your job and make an impression on the men you will one day command.” Gueryn’s tone was gentle, but the words implacable. Wyl grimaced. “You can’t stamp your mark from sleepy Argorn,” Gueryn added, wishing they could have had a few months—weeks even—just to get the boy used to the idea of having no parents.
Gueryn thought of the mother. Fragile and pretty, she had loved Fergys Thirsk and his gruff ways with a ferocity that belied her sweet, gentle nature. She had succumbed, seven years previous and after a determined fight, to the virulent coughing disease that had swept through Morgravia’s south. If she had not been weakened from Ylena’s long and painful birth she might have pulled through. The disease killed many in the household, mercifully sparing the children.
Although he rarely showed it outwardly, Wyl seemed to miss her in his own reserved way. For all his rough-and-tumble boyishness, Gueryn thought, Wyl obviously adored women. The ladies of the household loved him back, spoiling him with their affections but often whispering pitying words about his looks.
There was no escaping the fact that Wyl Thirsk was not a handsome boy. The crown of thick orange hair did nothing to help an otherwise plain, square face, and those who remembered the boy’s grandfather said that Wyl resembled the old man in uncanny fashion—his ugliness was almost as legendary as his soldiering ability. The red-headed Fergys Thirsk had been no oil painting either, which is why he had lived with constant surprise that his beautiful wife had chosen to marry him. Many would understand if the betrothal had been arranged but Helyna of Ramon had loved him well and had brooked no argument to her being joined to this high-ranking, plainspoken, even plainer-looking man who walked side by side with a King.
Vicious whispers at the court, of course, accused her of choosing Thirsk for his connections but she had relentlessly proved that the colorful court of Morgravia held little interest for her. Helyna Thirsk had had no desire for political intrigues or social climbing. Her only vanity had been her love of fine clothes, which Fergys had lavished on his young wife, claiming he had nothing else to spend his money on.
Wyl interrupted his thoughts. “Gueryn, what do we know about this Celimus?” He had been waiting for just this question. “I don’t know him at all but he’s a year or two older than you.
and from what I hear he is fairly impressed with being the heir.” he answered tactfully.
“I see,” Wyl replied. “What else do you
hear
of him? Tell me honestly.” Gueryn nodded. Wyl should not be thrown into this arena without knowing as much as he could. “The King. I gather, continues to hope Celimus might be molded into the stuff Morgravia can be proud of.
although I would add that Magnus has not been an exceptional father. There is little affection between them.”
“Why?”
“I can tell you only what your father has shared. King Magnus married Princess Adana. It was an arranged marriage. According to Fergys. they disliked each other within days of the ceremony and it never got any easier between them. I saw her on two occasions and it is no exaggeration that Adana was a woman whose looks could take any man’s breath away. But she was cold. Your father said she was not just unhappy but angry at the choice of husband and despairing of the land she had come to. She had never wanted to come to Morgravia. believing it to be filled with peasants.” The boy’s eyes widened. “She said that?”
“And plenty more apparently.”
“Where was she from?”
“Parrgamyn—I hope you can dredge up its location from all those geography lessons?” Wyl made a face at Gueryn’s disapproving tutorly tone. He knew exactly where Parrgamyn was situated, to the far northwest of Morgravia. in balmy waters about two hundred nautical miles west of the famed Isle of Cipres. “Exotic then?”
“Very. Hence Celimus’s dark looks.”
“So she would have been of Zerque faith?” he wondered aloud, and Gueryn nodded. “Go on.” Wyl encouraged, glad to be thinking about something other than the pain of his father’s death.
Gueryn sighed. “A long tale really, but essentially she hated the King, blamed her father for his avarice in marrying her off to what she considered an old man. and poisoned the young Celimus’s mind against his father.”
“She died quite young, though, didn’t she?”
The soldier nodded. “Yes. but it was the how that caused the ultimate rift between father and son. Your father was with the King when the hunting accident happened and could attest to the randomness of the event. Adana lost her life with an arrow through her throat.”
“The King’s?” Wyl asked, shifting in his saddle. “My father never said anything about this to me.”
“The arrow was fletched in the King’s very own colors. There was no doubt whose quiver it had come from.”
“How could it have happened?”
Gueryn shrugged. “Who knows? Fergys said the Queen was out riding where she should not have been and Magnus shot badly. Others whispered, of course, that his aim was perfect, as always.” He arched a single eyebrow. It spoke plenty.
“So Celimus has never forgiven his father?”
“You could say. Celimus worshiped Adana as much as his father despised her. But in losing his mother very early there’s something you and Celimus have in common and this might be helpful to you,” he offered. “The lad. I’m told, is already highly accomplished in the arts of soldiering too. He has no equal in the fighting ring amongst his peers. Sword or fists, on horseback or foot, he is genuinely talented.”
“Better than me?”
Gueryn grinned. “We’ll see. I know of no one of your tender years who is as skilled in combat—excluding myself at your age, of course.” He won a smile from the boy at this. “But, Wyl, a word of caution. It would not do to whip the backside of the young Prince. You may find it politic to play second fiddle to a king-in-waiting.”
Wyl’s gaze rested firmly on Gueryn. “I understand.”
“Good. Your sensibility in this will protect you.”
“Do I need protection?” Wyl asked, surprised.
Gueryn wished he could take back the warning. It was ill-timed but he was always honest with his charge. “I don’t know yet. You are being brought to Pearlis to learn your craft and follow in your father’s proud footsteps. You must consider the city your home now. You understand this? Argorn must rest in your mind as a country property you may return to from time to time. Home is Stoneheart now.” He watched the sorrow as those last words took a firm hold on the boy. It was said now. Had to be aired, best out in the open and accepted. “The other reason the King is keen to have you in the capital is, I suspect, because he is concerned at his son’s wayward manner.”
“Oh?”
“Celimus needs someone to temper his ways. The King has been told you possess a similar countenance to your father and I gather this pleases him greatly. He has hopes that you and his son will become as close friends as he and Fergys were.” Gueryn waited for Wyl to comment but the boy said nothing.
“Anyway, friendship can never be forced, so let’s just keep an open mind and see how it all pans out. I shall be with you the whole time.”
Wyl bit his lip and nodded. “Let’s not tarry then. Gueryn.” The soldier nodded in return and dug his heels into the side of his horse as the boy kicked into a gallop.
Wyl remembered that ride into Pearlis as if it were yesterday. It had been three moons now since his father’s death and. although he was now used to the routine of the palace and his role. Wyl hated his new life. If not for his overwhelming sense of duty he would have run away.
He scowled as an exasperated Gueryn struck him a blow on his wrist. “You’re not concentrating. Wyl.
On the battlefield that slip could have cost you a hand.” The soldier deliberately struck again but this time Wyl countered just as ferociously, his wooden sword making a loud clacking sound as he pressed back against his opponent.
“Better!” Gueryn called, relieved. “Again!”
From out of the corner of his eye. Wyl could see that Prince Celimus had sidled up to a few of the flatterers he usually surrounded himself with. Wyl doubled his efforts and Gueryn was prudent enough to not criticize further.
About time
, the soldier thought as he increased his speed, stepping up the session to a combat level rather than just a drill. He was pleased to see the boy relax slightly—a good sign that he was no longer concerned with who was watching but folly attendant on defending himself. Gueryn then upped the skills still further, delivering a frighteningly fast series of slashes and thrusts that would have challenged a battle-hardened soldier, let alone a fourteen-year-old boy. Those around them in the practice courtyard had fallen silent and various trainers and other lads wandered over to watch what was clearly a fight to the “death.”
Wyl. sweating lightly now in the chill morning, stepped back, feinted, moved to his left, parried, and then dodged back to his original position, feinting once again before he saw the gap and struck hard and fast.
He crouched nimbly to avoid the low. normally “fatal” slash he had already anticipated from his wily opponent and then struck upward with force, two-handed. Suddenly Gueryn was on his back panting and Wyl’s piece of timber was at his throat.
There was murder in the boy’s eyes and if they had been on the field. Gueryn believed he would be drawing his last breath. Gueryn also knew Wyl had genuinely bested him. despite his smaller stature and strength, with a blaze of raw anger. He realized he would have to counsel him on this and explain that Wyl needed to fight clear-headed. Fighting decisions were always based on training and intuition rather than just pure emotion. That approach only worked once; Gueryn knew that when wave after wave of soldiers were bearing down, it was the cool, emotionless approach that won the day.
He stared back at Wyl, forcing him to give way. Onlookers were clapping and whistling their appreciation of the demonstration. Wyl regained his composure and pulled Gueryn to his feet. He glanced toward the smirking Prince, anticipating some snide comment to humiliate him in front of his peers.
The Prince was predictable in this. “Can you do that with a real sword. Wyl?” Celimus inquired innocently.
It was Gueryn, smacking the dust from his clothes, who replied. “Well, I wouldn’t want to take him on with a blade,” he said, hoping to deflect attention. He laughed and clapped Wyl on the back.
“No? But I shall,” Celimus interjected, his smile broad and anything but genuine. The Prince’s voice was sly now. “What do you say, Wyl?”
Gueryn held his breath. This was the most direct provocation that Wyl had encountered from the Prince, who had spent much of the time since their arrival simply baiting the youngster.
Wyl regarded the heir to the throne coolly. Gueryn’s hand was on his shoulder, squeezing hard. They did not permit the lads to drill against each other with anything but wooden or blunted swords and this rule was especially rigid where Celimus was concerned.
Wyl looked away, hating to back down from that clear, defiant gaze. “I’m not allowed to fight you, your highness.”
“Oh, that’s right,” the Prince said, as though suddenly reminded of the palace rules. “You’d better remember it too,
General
.” Celimus laced the final word with as much sarcasm as he could.
Wyl had never felt such a well of hate rise within himself Until recently he had lived life with carefree joy, had hardly known dislike for anyone. He had been surrounded by people who loved him. Now his every waking moment seemed filled with torment. Celimus baited him at every opportunity and if he was not using his cruel mouth against Wyl, then he was laying traps for him with a few of his henchmen. A day hardly passed in which the Prince did not succeed in bringing gloom to settle on Wyl’s shoulders. If there were not dead rats in his bed, then there were cockroaches in his drinking water, or mud in his boots. His food was tampered with and his training clothes hidden. Childish and pointless it all was and yet it wore Wyl down, nibbling at his resolve to follow in his father’s footsteps.
“Wyl Thirsk?”
A page had arrived.
“Over here.” Gueryn replied, nodding toward his despondent charge and grateful for the interruption.
The messenger addressed Wyl. “You’re wanted in the King’s chambers. General.” he said politely.
“Immediately, sir.”
Wyl looked up at the still-grinning Prince and bowed. “With your permission, your highness, I’ll take my leave,” he said, carefully observing the correct protocol.
Celimus nodded, his silky lashes blinking once over olive eyes that missed nothing. Everything about Celimus was beautiful. Even at fifteen, when most of the boys were still struggling to fit into their awkward bodies, his looked as though it was sculpted from pure, smooth marble. Muscled and polished, there was not a blemish on it.