[Watchers of the Shadow] Prologue

King Zerain Malzareth, the fifth king of Shaerone, studied the dagger almost disinterestedly, his hard, lined face unreadable. The palm length blade was coated with dried, dark blood that crusted the plain linen that wrapped the hilt. But even so, he knew that the edge would be as sharp as the day it had been forged. A thick, gnarled finger traced the engraved “S” in the cold steel above the guard. Only one forgery would mark their creations so. He placed the dagger back down in front of him on the polished mahogany table, and he leaned forward, dark obsidian eyes fixed on the man kneeling on the crimson and gold embroidered rug on the dark stone floors of his study.  “What,” he said coldly. “is the meaning of this, Delos?”

Despite his bristly beard and tall, heavy build, Delos was only past his twenty-fifth name day, yet he held himself with a confidence that few would have been able to manage under the king’s hard gaze. He wore a mantle of dark sable fur over a silk, black tunic embroidered with fine silver thread. Heavy rings inset with colorful gems adorned several of his fingers, and a golden band around his temples with a dark amethyst that that hung between thick, low brows. Thick, dark black hair ended in curls at his strong jaw, set firmly and tilted high and proudly as he looked up at his king with dark, defiant eyes. “It was but only a small matter,” he said dismissively, his smooth voice with only the thinnest veneer of respect. “The peasants—”

“—Would not have a dagger made in the Saephes forge.” Zerain cut him off impatiently, eyes narrowing dangerously. “This was brought to me by the Belaran delegation. What was this doing in the ruins of a Belaran village?”

Delos paused, his eyes sliding briefly to the man who stood unmoving at the side of the study. The short man with balding snowy hair, and blue and purple piercings clipped on a large ear that signifying his rank as a marquis, seemed to take a sudden interest in the embroidered wide sleeve of his lush, blue robes as if he were not aware of his gaze. But a smile that seemed to quirk at the man’s lips. Delos’ lips thin into a tight, angry line as his gaze returned back to the king. “There were thieves who raided my castle armory this past winter. They are the bandits who ravaged the villages north.”

“You still dare lie to me?” Zerain smiled mirthlessly. “Thieves? Stealing a dagger of all things while leaving the granaries untouched?” He barked a hard laugh. “If the thieves really were so stupid, they would not have been able to make it through the Gorge of Souls and all the way up north. Do not take me for a fool!” He slammed his hand down hard on the table, and the dagger jumped on the surface with a metallic clatter. “What do you think you’re doing? The Belaran ambassador is now demanding for us to show proof of our commitment to the treaty. Look at what your foolish actions have gotten me!”

“The thieves were mountain bandits, experienced in moving through the forest. As for why they did not touch the food, perhaps they had already stolen from some other hapless victim beforehand.” He shrugged. “If Your Majesty wishes, I can send a party to capture them and bring back their heads.”

“Enough of your blather! Even if you are my son, I will not stand to hear your foolish lies any longer!” Zerain cut him off harshly. Bandits? Hah! Even if he is to lie, at the least he could choose a better excuse. “The country has been struck with a food shortage for the past year. If the bandits were to rob anything, they would have taken the food, first.” He gave the prince a withering glare that had made many a nobleman cringe in fear, but Delos remained unfazed. Forcing down his anger, Zerain took a deep breath before continuing in a low growl. “You are to stay here in Nessa. I’ve already sent a messenger to Arvan and your brother Belas to take your place there. You are to come with me to the treaty meeting with Belara next month and provide a proper apology. Goddess only knows whether that’ll be enough.”

The prince’s expression darkened. “Father! Was it not you who had told me that ours is the Conqueror’s blood, the blood of warlords and kings? Yet now why do you grovel to the Belarans? We can show them that we are the true—”

“I will hear no more of this.” Zerain’s patience was already worn thin. “We cannot afford war, not now. Are you blind to the famine we’re facing? Are you blind to how much Belara is growing in strength? Trade with Azarel is wavering because of that cursed sickness, and Belara is the country most of our trade is with. If the treaty that has stood for ten years is broken now, not only will the trade disappear, but the harvest will inevitably suffer even more. If we go to war, we will be the one who will be put down!” At the end, he was bellowing impatiently.

Perhaps it was true that he had once been known as the conqueror king, significantly expanding Shaerone’s territory before the treaty had been established twenty years ago, but he knew how to act according to the circumstances. As much as he would hate to admit it, he knew that tides were far from favorable for their country, and they desperately needed the peace treaty now, more than ever. Yet Delos was blind to all this, blinded by his hatred and his greed.

            Delos opened his mouth, but Zerain raised a hand to forestall him. “No more, Delos,” he growled. “You are dismissed. You are not to take a step beyond the city walls. Oathbreaker take you, I will send orders to all the soldiers if that’s what it takes to make you stay in Nessa.”

            The prince’s face was already as dark as brewing storm clouds, but he stood up and gave a sketch of a bow. “As Your Majesty wishes,” he said through a snarl of a smile. Then, without turning back he swept out of the room, slamming the door shut so hard that the paintings hung on the stone walls jumped from the force.

            Zerain glared at the closed door as if his gaze alone could burn through the heavy worked bronze and gold and teach his foolish son a lesson in humility. But, alas, it was too much to hope for. Slowly, he sat back down on his high backed chair, rubbing the soreness from his neck. He was getting old, too old, but he could not afford to step down and give his throne to Delos just yet. He was too young, too headstrong, and too blind. He sighed. “Graedig, have someone keep a watch on my foolish son and make sure he doesn’t do anything reckless.”

            “As Your Majesty wishes,” Marquis Graedig Blisareth stepped forward from the side, sweeping a low bow. “May I ask if I may have one of my birds intercept His Highness’ messages?”

            “That would be for the best,” Zerain agreed. He would bet almost anything that there would be a runner sent to Delos’ loyal lackeys back in Arvan as soon as his foolish son could find a servant to carry the message.  Despite all of his attempts to explain, he could not seem to be able to get Delos to understand the necessity of peace, and his second eldest, Belas, was not much better, though at the very least he did not actively oppose him the way Delos did. As for his youngest…Zerain couldn’t avoid glowering. Avaris was the opposite of his brothers, with none of the spirit Delos and Belas had in excess. Although already sixteen, he was sickly and weak, barely able to hold a sword to defend himself and more likely to be found with books or in the gardens than not. Even his sister, Seraphel, was better than he in courage and strength. If it weren’t for that oath, I would have disowned him long ago.

            Pushing his weakling son out of his mind, he returned his attention to the matter at hand. “Graedig, tell me your views on the treaty,” Zerain commanded. “Do you believe that the Belarans will accept an apology?” The marquis was his spymaster and advisor, and he knew the Belarans more clearly than anyone else. If there was anytime he needed the man’s advice, it was now.

            “Your Majesty,” Graedig said respectfully. “His Highness Delos and his…followers…have destroyed several Belarans villages over the summer. They certainly have had enough reason to declare war, but they have not. I believe they still wish to keep the peace, though they want justice, as well as strong enough proof of our commitment to peace. I do not believe an apology and taking away His Highness’ control over Arvan will be enough.”

Zerain could feel his temples throbbing. Normally he would have long since ordered the perpetrator executed for his foolishness, but when he had discovered that it was Delos….Of course he could not execute Delos, even for peace. After all, he was his son, his eldest and heir, no matter how reckless he may be. He fell silent for a moment, lost in thought.  “Who is the highest ranking officer in Delos’ command?”

Graedig did not even blink before he replied without hesitation. “The son of Lord Vales, Ralin of Heraled, Your Majesty.”

“Lord Vales?” Zerain frowned. The name was only vaguely familiar. Likely only a minor noble. “Is Ralin his eldest?”

“No, he is his second eldest son,” he paused. “Could it be Your Majesty means to…?”

“Tell the Belarans that this Ralin had led the attacks on his own accord, in Delos’ name. Keep him in the dungeon. We will take him with us to the treaty meeting and execute him there.” Zerain decided simply. “Let his death serve as a lesson to Delos to keep his foolishness at bay in the future.”

“As Your Majesty wishes,” the marquis said smoothly. Not to be fazed, was Graedig. The man had seen and done much worse, in his name; torture, blackmail, and deception were his specialties, and Zerain thought that he would not even blink if he were to be told to massacre women and children for no reason except that it had been an order. A ruthless, rabid dog. Useful, but if he ever decides to turn on his owner…

Zerain turned away, dark gaze examining the faded portraits that hung on the walls of his study, the ancient visages of the kings before him. He frowned in thought. “As for the symbol of peace…The Belaran prince, Elias, is king Ameryn’s only child, and he already has a fiancée. Marrying Seraphel to him is not an option.” At this point, they truly needed a strong enough proof of their commitment to the treatment, and apart from marrying their bloodlines together what else what have a strong enough effect?

“There is still His Highness Avaris,” Graedig reminded quietly.

Zerain’s gaze sprung back to the other man, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. But as usual, his spymaster was all respect and deference, his thoughts unreadable. “What do you have in mind?”

“Your Majesty, may I ask if you know of the Belaran Academy?” Graedig smiled.

“You speak of the Academy that trains warriors in the ancient Belaran way, to become ‘Defenders of the Oath’?” Zerain arched a brow in question. The Academy was renowned for its unusual training, accepting squires and young knights alike of a wide age range. The only requirement was that they pass an entry test, yet no one knew of its contents. Many skilled knights with different personalities and backgrounds had been rejected entry, and, most baffling of all, none remembered the contents of the test when asked. There were only very few students of the Academy, but every one who survived the training to become a Defender became one of the best warriors to be found. He frowned. “What does the Academy have to do with the keeping the treaty?”

Graedig explained. “The Academy is an ancient Belaran tradition held close to their hearts, Your Majesty. A Defender is sworn to protect Belara and is seen as higher in honor than even noble-born knights. If His Highness Avaris is sent to the Academy…”

“I see,” Zerain frowned, thick eyebrows pulling low in thought. Sending one of their own to the Academy would be like giving one of his own to become part of their blood. Still, he shook his head. “But Avaris is too weak. Belas is slightly too old, but perhaps…”

“Your Majesty, I believe sending His Highness Belas would not be suitable,” the marquis said carefully. “His Highness Belas is a skilled warrior, but he shares the same views as His Highness Delos. If he is sent to Belara, I’m afraid that there may be more trouble.”

Zerain glowered. He knew that Graedig was right. Belas may not be as open as Delos was, yet he was definitely supportive of his brother’s actions. If he were sent to Belara, likely his attitude would stir up even more animosity. However, Avaris was sickly and weak; whether he could even survive the trip north was a point of concern, not to mention passing a test that even skilled knights had failed, or undergoing the harsh training that the Academy was known for. Gnarled, calloused fingers drummed on the varnished mahogany of his desk while he thought. After a long moment, he finally called, “Gaedrig.”

            “Your Majesty?”

            “Begin the preparations,” Zerain said with a smile. Even if he should die in training, the move by itself should be enough to appease the Belaran’s anger. “Avaris will leave for the Academy on the morrow.”