“They are even prettier than horses,” the monk remarked, glancing back repeatedly over his shoulder as the girl fell behind them.
Hadrian laughed. “Yes, they are, but I wouldn’t tell them that.”
Ahead a hill rose and on top of it, stood a castle. The structure was nothing like Essendon Castle; it looked more like a fortress than a house of nobility.
“That’s Drondil Fields,” Alric told them. The prince had barely said anything since his ordeal the night before. He did not complain about the long ride or the cold night air. Instead, he rode in silence with his eyes fixed on the path that lay ahead. As they came into view of the castle, he began speaking with a tone of pride and warmth in his voice. “It’s the oldest and strongest fortress in Melengar. They built it with thick walls of granite shaped like a five-pointed star making it impossible to find a blind wall to scale.
“It was once the home of Brodic Essendon, who in the turmoil of the civil wars following the fall of the Empire, subdued these lands to become warlord. His son, Tolin the Great, finished the work his father started. He defeated the forces of Lothomad the Bald and proclaimed himself the first king of Melengar. That was the last battle of a long war, which carved the kingdom out of the political chaos of the post-imperial era.
“They fought the battle just down there, in those fields to the left of the hill. They belonged to a farmer named Drondil and afterwards this whole area became known as Drondil Fields, or so the story goes.
“This was also the site where Tolin, his clansmen, and his warlords drew up the Drondil Charter, which divided Melengar into seven provinces. He rewarded his faithful warlords with the titles of counts and gave each of them a parcel of land. Once he was officially crowned king, Tolin felt it wasn’t proper to live in such a gloomy fortress. He built Essendon Castle in Medford and, before moving there, Tolin entrusted Galilin, the largest and richest of the provinces, to his most loyal general Seadric Pickilerinon. Seadric’s son assumed control of the province a short time later, after his father died of a terrible fever. He was the one who shortened his name to Pickering.
“The Essendons and Pickerings have always been close. We often spend Wintertide and Summersrule here with them. There is no direct blood relation, but it is as if we are kin. I grew up with Count Pickering’s sons and they are like my brothers. Of course, the other nobles aren’t happy about that, particularly those who actually are blood-relatives. Nothing has ever come of their jealousies, though since no one would dare challenge a Pickering. They have a legendary family tradition with swords.”
“We are well acquainted with that little bit of trivia,” Hadrian muttered, but it did not stop the prince from continuing.
“Rumor has it that Seadric learned the ancient art of Tek’chin from the last living member of the Knights of the Order of the Fauld, the post-imperial brotherhood who tried to preserve at least part of the ancient skills of the legendary Teshlor Knights. The Teshlor, the greatest warriors ever to have lived, once guarded the Emperor himself. Like everything, they were lost with the Empire. What Seadric learned from the Order of the Fauld was just a tiny bit of the Teshlor skill, just one discipline, but that knowledge was faithfully passed from father to son for generations, and the secret give the Pickerings an uncanny advantage in combat.
“This hill never used to look like it does now,” Alric explained, gesturing to the trees growing on the slope all the way up to the walls. “It used to be cut clear to afford no cover to would-be attackers. The Pickerings planted this orchard only a couple of generations ago. Same with those rosebushes and rhododendrons. Drondil Fields hasn’t seen warfare in five hundred years. I suppose the counts didn’t see the harm in some fruit, shade, and flowers. The great fortress of Seadric Pickilerinon,” Alric sighed, “now little more than a country estate.”
“Here now, hold on there!” an overweight gate warden ordered as they approached the castle. He was holding a pastry in one hand and a pint of milk in the other. His weapon lay at his side. “Where do you think you’re all going, riding up here as if this were your fall retreat?”
Alric pulled back his hood, and the warden dropped both his pastry and milk. “I…I’m sorry, Your Highness,” he stumbled, snapping to attention. “I had no idea you were coming today. No one said anything to me.” He wiped his hands and brushed the crumbs from his uniform. “Is the rest of the royal family coming as well?” Alric ignored him, continuing through the gate and across the plank bridge into the castle. The others followed him without a word as the astonished warden stared after them.
Like the outside of the castle, the interior courtyard did little to remind one of a fortress. The courtyard was an attractive garden of neatly trimmed bushes and the occasional small, carefully pruned tree. Colorful banners of greens and gold hung to either side of the keep’s portico, rippling in the morning breeze. The grass looked carefully tended, although it was mostly yellow now with winter dormancy. Carts and wagons, most filled with empty bushel baskets possibly used to harvest the fruit, lay beneath a green awning. A couple of apples still lay in the bottom of one of them. A stable of horses stood near a barn where cows called for their morning milking. A shaggy black-and-white dog gnawed a bone at the base of the fieldstone well, and a family of white ducks followed each other in a perfect line as they wandered freely, quacking merrily as they went. Castle workers scurried about their morning chores, fetching water, splitting wood, tending animals, and quite often nearly stepping on the wandering ducks.
Near a blacksmith shed, where a beefy man hammered a glowing rail of metal, two young men sparred with swords in the open yard. Each of them wore helms and carried small heater shields. A third sat with his back to the keep steps. He was using a slate and a bit of chalk to score the fighters’ match. “Shield higher, Fanen!” the taller figure shouted.
“What about my legs?”
“I won’t be going after your legs. I don’t want to lower my sword and give you the advantage, but you need to keep the shield high to deflect a down stroke. That’s where you’re vulnerable. If I hit you hard enough and you aren’t ready, I can drive you to your knees. Then what good will your legs be?”
“I’d listen to him, Fanen,” Alric yelled toward the boy. “Mauvin’s an ass, but he knows his parries.”
“Alric!” The taller boy threw off his helm and ran to embrace the prince as he dismounted. At the sound of Alric’s name, several of the servants in the courtyard looked up in surprise.
Mauvin was close to Alric in age but was taller and a good deal broader in the shoulders. He sported a head of wild dark hair and a set of dazzling white teeth, which shone as he grinned at his friend.
“What are you doing here, and by Mar, what are you dressed up as? You look frightful. Did you ride all night? And your face—did you fall?”
“I have some bad news. I need to speak to your father immediately.”
“I’m not sure he’s awake yet, and he is awfully cranky if you wake him early.”
“This can’t wait.”
Mauvin stared at the prince and his grin faded. “This is no casual visit then?”
“No, I only wish it was.”
Mauvin turned toward his youngest brother and said, “Denek, go wake Father.”
The boy with the slate shook his head. “I’m not going to be the one.”
Mauvin started toward his brother. “Do it now!” he shouted, scaring the young boy into running for the keep.
“What is it? What’s happened?” Fanen asked, dropping his own helm and shield on the grass and walking over to embrace Alric as well.
“Has any word reached you from Medford in the last several days?”