Sword of Destiny

Of course, he couldn’t just walk into the library any more. Oh no. He was a criminal now. And of course, Bulge wasn’t there to grant access. Instead, he had to sneak in. He was getting quite good at it.

His unsolicited access to the building was through a window that seemed to remain permanently unlocked about the upper gallery. It was still early morning, and he clawed his way closer to the top of the exterior wall even despite his sweaty hands. He looked back down at the street below with a trembling lip. It was filling up nicely, the day’s tradesmen emerging for business. More eyes to spy his approach.

“Curse the Father and that damned baker.”

He shook the concern away and focused instead on the challenge of the climb. A slap of wind unsettled him and his moist palm threatened to give, but his fingernails dug in, just a little bit, and he had the time to lock out his knees and secure himself. He adjusted his hands, reached up, and hauled himself closer to the summit. And then he was on the roof and he sighed almightily.

He looked at the shadow of a moon drifting into obscurity in the west. “Thank you, Father. You know, I didn’t mean what I said just now.”

Of course, he wouldn’t have had to curse the god if he hadn’t been so rudely interrupted by the baker and his Wings. Bastards. It would probably be sensible to lay low a few days, and where better to lay low than the library? No-one would think to look there. The place really had served him well.

He eased the creaking window open, its filthy glazing barely reflecting the bright daylight. The silence in the building always offered danger with the noise of any movement, but he had to take the chance. And besides, once inside he could conceal himself from anyone. Bulge had taught him all of the places. But on entry, it was evident that he would not need to hide his presence. He hauled his meagre sack of possessions through the window and they clattered on the other side, the noise echoing through the box of a building. The library should be open by now, but such was the lack of demand, the new chief-librarian often neglected to air the doors at all. It was such a shame that this sacred place had been forgotten by the people of the city. The Kingdom of Delfinia truly was rotting.

He pulled the window shut, and the inflamed cry of the baker drifted in. That man truly did hold a grudge, and he chuckled. Then he popped the final morsel of the stolen bread into his smiling mouth, appreciating its flavour all the more. It was very good bread, he had to give the bastard that, and with that thought the morning’s exertions caught up with him and he had a sudden urge to lie down. Where best to take a rest? Ah yes. He looked up at the Royal Gallery. If anywhere housed comfy surroundings, then...

He licked his lips at the prospect of cushioning. After all, he was nearly a king here. But unfortunately, the climb to that place was a bit of a challenge, especially with aching limbs. Did he really want to put himself through more punishment? Well, yes. They really were comfortable loungers.

He clawed his way across the far wall of the library, gripping barely proud bricks with fingertips that were now terribly sore. Halfway across the void, he almost succumbed to the tiredness, but his feet were secure and the comfy lounger called, saving him the ignominy of falling to his death in his sanctuary. He placed one hand on the rail of the gallery and exhaled. Ha! King after all.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Shit!” If he hadn’t been holding the rail, he would now be dead. In fact, he wasn’t entirely sure that wasn’t still the case. A hand extended towards him, and he took it. Once safely in the gallery, part of him wished he had fallen. This did not bode well.

The young man was pristine; utterly pristine. He wore simple black trousers, pressed to a dangerous edge, and a shirt of such whiteness that it was actually painful to look upon. It had certainly been a long time since he’d seen anything that clean, and his grubby shirt seemed grey in comparison. The young man’s hair was glossy and well ordered, his face trimmed deadly tight, and he had deep eyes which betrayed confidence. A lot of confidence. And it was unexpected confidence too. The man was young, so where did such confidence come from?

But in this man, a man he recognised, it was not out place. This man was born into confidence. He looked down at the belt and there it was. The sabre that he’d helped his father make hung at the prince’s waist. It was an effort to look away from the thing.

“I said, what are you doing?”

He remembered himself and dropped to a knee. “Apologies, your Majesty.” Urgency rose, and with it came that consuming and possessive anger. He dearly hoped he would not need it.

“Oh get up. And I’m not ‘your Majesty’. I am the heir. Not the King.”

Could he get up? Could he stand gaze to gaze with the future head of his nation? He was Kantal, and he’d always battled the odds. The deeper shades of his character unwound further, and the emotions translated into a confidence of his own, which was useful. He extended himself, standing almost toe to toe with the heir, smiled back, and nodded.

And his bedraggled image reflected in the man’s pristine teeth. Damn it, but he was a state.

“So?” The prince tapped a foot, and then reinforced the question for what was probably the final time. “What are you doing here?”

What better way to shock than with the truth? “I hear that my king has an excellent collection on military mechanics and weaponry. I have come to indulge.”

And perhaps have a nap? No. That was too much truth.

Those deep eyes had firmed in the two years since they’d last met. The expression of the young man was hard, and daunting, but he was not cowed by the prince. He had grown too. He was rougher certainly, but he had his own particular brand of defiance.

The prince tipped his head. “What makes you think that you have a right of access to these archives?”

“The library, and all its contents, is for the people.” They were Bulge’s words that he’d always kept close. “And besides, what possible harm is there in perusing these volumes when no other bugger is looking at them?” He regretted the use of the word almost instantly, but he only gulped. He would not apologise if he could help it.

“This bugger minds.” The prince put a hand on the hilt of the magnificent weapon, and this action diluted his resolve ever so slightly. But he stood firm. There was a stand-off, of sorts, and he straightened his back. Would the prince really stand for this?

Then that stony royal face melted into something else. The hardness had all been for show. The prince laughed.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. There’s nothing but dull statistics in these tomes, anyway. This is no way to win a fight. This is.” The prince tapped the pommel of his precious sabre.

He gazed longingly at the thing that he’d helped make. “I beg to differ, your…”

“Highness. It is highness.”

“Yes of course, your highness. But as I was saying, the maths behind the mayhem is of utmost importance.”

The prince turned and strutted into the room. “Nonsense. It is an easy equation. If I have a thousand fine men with fine weapons, and you have a thousand modest men with modest weapons, then I am victorious. The equation is therefore simple: take more men with finer weapons. Victory is assured.”

Did he really just say that? The ignorance was exquisite. He should probably stay quiet, but something urged him on.

“And from where will all these fine men come?”

The prince swept about the room, and he followed the exhibition. There truly were some treasures here, and a comfy looking lounger in the corner. His tiredness heaved at that.

“Well, I shall train and arm them of course.”

“And do you think your opponent sits idly by while you train your army?”

The royal face turned stony once more. He hadn’t meant to belittle the man; he just wanted to show off what he’d learned in these ‘dusty old tomes’.

The prince glared. “The borders will be defended by the lesser forces.”

“And if these inferior forces are pounced upon by the enemy, will they not be defeated by your very logic?”

“They will be in defensible positions.” It didn’t appear that the prince was used to being challenged, especially by vagabonds. The glare was sharpening.

“And when you assault with your finery, is there not a chance that your enemy digs themselves into defence? Are you still assured of victory?”

“Well yes, I must admit that this does―”

“And even in open combat, what about the lay of the land? And the most unforgiving of all masters: Father Fortune himself. What if the Father is against you? And while these fine men are about their business, what happens to the heartland? And even despite all of this, even if you have all in hand, what if—”

“Yes, please, stop.” He had been raising his voice, almost to the point of anger, and that was definitely going too far. It would not be sensible to shout at one’s future king. He hung his head.

“Sorry, your highness.”

“No, not at all. How is it that one so bedraggled comes to have such an intimate understanding of military mechanics?”

He shook his head. “I don’t, your highness. That’s why I’m here.” Well, that and swordsmithery. He found himself looking at the weapon once more.

“Then you should stay. And you should teach me.” The prince smiled.

A door slapped shut below, but when he looked over the banister, the main entrance remained closed. The prince bridged the confusion.

“Though perhaps some other time. My father is here, and he is rather less tolerant than I am.”

Shit! The King. Here. What was going to happen? The prince stepped forward, arm outstretched, the other hand still on the sword. He was going to be grabbed! He was going to be handed over to the Wings. No! He wouldn’t succumb. He slapped the prince’s hand away, anger spitting into life. He wouldn’t succumb…

And then he paused. It was mighty bold to strike one’s future king. Bold or stupid.

The prince looked affronted, and he mouthed an apology. He hadn’t meant to do that. He edged to the banister, but his breathing slowed. He stared levelly at the prince and went no further. He wasn’t sure of the basis for his actions, but he stood nonetheless. The heir furrowed his brow, and then he smiled. It was a broad and friendly smile.

“I only wanted to show you this.”

With the pull of a lever, a trapdoor sprung and a ladder ran smoothly to the library floor. Oh blessed relief! He didn’t know whether he could struggle across that precarious wall once more. His limbs had suffered enough already.

He started down the steps and only his head was still above the floor of the gallery. The noise of the King’s feet was close, but nonetheless he paused. There were clear voices, so he didn’t have much time.

“Sorry, highness. I meant no offence just then.” It was not in his nature to apologise, but on this occasion...

“No need. Go. Flee.”

He took the first step down to safety and looked up at the prince one last time. Most likely, this was the last time they would meet.

The prince smiled again. “Oh, and Kantal. I will see you at the Fields tomorrow at midday.”

That he was not expecting.