As soon as he found out that Lord Tieran had absconded with the empress, his father had flown into a wild rage, smashing furniture and kicking the servants. Then after he’d calmed down, he had sent out dispatch riders across the empire to report that Prince Michael’s remains had been discovered by his rescue party in the Aelvinnwode. What his knights, who had been on that rescue party along with Derwyn, thought of this was anybody’s guess. Needless to say, they had never seen any remains, because the entire thing had been a fabrication, but they knew better than to contradict their lord. Derwyn’s father had not seen fit to mention Aedan Dosiere in his dispatches, as he had not considered him important, which was fortunate for him, as it would have made later permutations of the story somewhat awkward.
After he made his formal alliance with Gorvanak, the goblin prince of Thurazor, his father changed the story once more. It would hardly do to vow vengeance on Prince Michael’s murderers and then enter an alliance with them, so the goblins of Thurazor could not bear the blame. It was bandits who had killed the prince, renegade brigands from the Five Peaks region, as had been revealed by certain evidence the goblins had turned over to Lord Arwyn. Precisely what the nature of this “evidence” was had never been made clear. But that was not the final version of the story, either.
When Aedan and Michael had appeared back in Anuire, that had to be accounted for somehow, so Michael was accused of being an imposter, a look-alike or some boy whose appearance had been changed by elven magic so that he would resemble the prince. Since Aedan had never been mentioned in the original dispatch, that made the next variation easier. Aedan Dosiere, whose duty it had been to protect Prince Michael, was branded a coward who had fled his liege lord’s side when the bandits had attacked, and to safeguard his own claim to power and the reputation of his son, Lord Tieran had cooked up the outrageous tale that the two boys had been rescued by the elves. The boy who called himself Prince Michael was a damnable imposter, a pretender, a tool to enable Lord Tieran to justify his claim to power. And then, of course, after Lord Tieran died, the story needed to be modified once more, and the final version had it that this “Michael the Pretender” had merely assumed Lord Tieran’s place, following his plans, with “hidden interests” behind him to support his claim to the Iron Throne. Exactly who or what these “hidden interests” were was never specified, but it was broadly hinted that the elves, those old enemies of humankind, were the ones behind it all.
Derwyn never thought people would believe any of these stories, but many did. Repeat something often enough and loud enough, and people eventually came to accept it. Or at least some people. And now it appeared as if his father had managed to convince himself, as well.
“With my own eyes, I saw the poor boy’s broken body …” was usually more or less how the refrain went whenever Arwyn told the story, with subtle variations, depending on his audience. And now he apparently believed it, too. Derwyn had no idea what to make of that, but he knew better than to contradict him.
He had been there. He knew that no bodies had ever been found, neither Michael’s nor Aedan’s nor anybody else’s. They had simply ridden out across the fields, headed down several forest trails without even going in very far, and then returned. It had all amounted to nothing more than exercising the horses. But none of the men who had gone out on that so-called “rescue party” ever talked about it, not even among themselves, so far as Derwyn knew. The archduke was the man who buttered their bread, and they all knew it.
Derwyn didn’t like it. Not one bit. His father had always seen to it that he was trained properly and hard so that he could take his place one day and, to that end, as Derwyn got older, he eventually became his father’s second-in-command. He had led troops in the field against Michael, the rightful emperor, his childhood friend. He had seen him several times, once fairly close, and had recognized both him and Aedan. Once, in one of the many battles over the years that had failed to resolve anything, they had almost crossed swords. The two armies had clashed, and it became a huge melee, dust raised like a cloud by churning hooves and feet, and it had been one of those occasions when suddenly, for a moment, one found himself in a small island of calm in the midst of a pitched battle. And there was Michael, mounted on his war-horse.
Derwyn had recognized the imperial symbol of Roele on his shield and tabard, as Michael had recognized the eagle of Boeruine on his. Derwyn had lifted his visor and Michael had done the same. For a moment, they had simply looked at one another, and then the tide of battle forced them apart. But in that one moment, Derwyn had seen the prince, the boy he had remembered. He had grown older, and his hair was longer, and a dark beard was starting to come in, but he had recognized his childhood friend. If he had ever harbored doubts about his true identity—and he had not—they would have been dispelled right there and then. It was Michael. No question about it. And the expression on his face had been one of sadness … and disappointment.
Derwyn felt torn. He was his father’s son, and even if he had not loved his father, which he did, despite his harshness, he would have owed him a son’s obedience. And the Duchy of Boeruine was his birthright. He had to fight to protect it. But to protect it from the rightful emperor, by whose ancestors’ grace they had the holding? That was treason. Yet he was caught in a situation not of his own choosing, in circumstances he could not control. Be loyal to his father, and he would be a traitor to the emperor. Or else loyal to the emperor and a traitor to his father. Damned for a dishonored traitor either way.
Derwyn was tired of the civil war, though no one save the common people called it that. Michael called it a rebellion, which Derwyn supposed it was, in fact. His father called Michael a usurper and a pretender and called it a struggle against tyranny and referred to the forces under his command as “freedom fighters.” He would never admit to the truth, that in his bid for power, he had underestimated Tieran. Though they had never spoken about it directly, Derwyn realized … now … what his father had intended.
Back when it all started, eight years ago at Summer Court, he had not really understood any of it. But now that he was older, looking back, he recalled how solicitous his father had been toward the empress, how he had tried to ingratiate himself to her, to charm her, taking every opportunity to do her some little service and express his sympathy for all she had been going through. He recalled being puzzled by his father’s manner toward the empress. He had not acted that way with anyone else, not even Derwyn’s departed mother. Back then, Derwyn had assumed his father was merely being a gracious host and doing his duty to the empress. Still, there had always been a tension in the manner of the empress when his father was around. Now, of course, Derwyn knew why.
His father had been trying to court her. Derwyn supposed he might have been able to excuse it if it had been love, but he knew his father did not love the empress, no more than he had loved his mother when she was still alive. Arwyn of Boeruine did not love women. He possessed them. What his father loved was power … and the fighting. That was where they differed. Arwyn of Boeruine loved war. His son was sick to death of it.
How things had changed since he and Michael were both children, Derwyn thought. He was only a few years older, but eight years of ceaseless campaigning had made a lot of difference. He had grown up hard and fast. He imagined Michael had, as well. That expression on his face when they had met on the field of battle that time had spoken volumes. They were no longer children who dressed up in toy suits of armor and played at war with wooden swords, thinking it was grand and glorious. They had learned the truth, that war was terrible and sickening and ate away at a man’s soul. So why, then, did his father love it so? What made him different? Derwyn couldn’t understand it.