Chapter III - Far Off Love

The Legend of Leanna Page: Vol. I

You’re reading The Legend of Leanna Page, the page-turning mythopoetic queer literary fantasy. *Click here for the Table of Contents and start of Volume I*

Previously: Guiomar of Pavoline threatened the alliance of the two kingdoms and the true hand which murdered the royalty of Masor was revealed, but only the servants, star-crossed lovers Esta and Byrdon, know who it is (or are willing to believe it, at least). Will the truth be revealed? Will the peace be maintained? Will the lovers see each other again? Read on!

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Guiomar sat in his chambers one morning a fortnight following the disastrous dinner, leaning on his desk, remembering his bruised cheek, and nursing his bruised pride. He had spoken barely a word to the king throughout the weeks since then. What right had his father to threaten him as he had? The throne of Pavoline was Guiomar’s birthright, and he should rule as he saw fit. Despite his silent anguish, the prince thought better than to attempt further confrontation, as he knew well there would be no reasoning with the king. Though genial to all others of the human race, King Petrenair made no secret of his disappointment to Guiomar. He coated his mortification in a dream of improvement, saying always he looked forward to the day his son – the hopeful, future iteration – would lift the kingdom of Pavoline from his old, fatigued shoulders. The prince looked forward to this day as well; however, it could never be with the son his father preferred. The king expected him to assume the qualities of his late Queen Helena, but instead found a darker soul, more attuned to militancy than music, and destitute of all gentler inclinations. Guiomar recognized this in himself and saw strength. Once he became King, no more would Pavoline fall prey to treachery, for he would distribute no trust that could be betrayed. 

His blood curdled with remembrance of the Masorians, each one surely ruled by the same greed and cruelty that took his mother. His only regret in his method of revenge was that he would garner none of the credit due to him from the feat, for he knew to acquire it presently would lose him his heirship. When his father was no more, and after altering the opinions of the Pavol lords and ladies, he would shout his victory over the royal Masorians from the tops of the Infinite Trees. He thought with fondness on the time his reign could begin. He would purify Pavoline of all its Masorian ties; better yet, superstition be damned, he would conquer the surrounding Woods, keeping all of Masor trapped within itself, bound to obey his law. What could stop him now? 

He turned his gaze toward the nearby corner of his room, and took in the sight of the wrapped artifact he kept there, maintained from his secret excursion to the Woods. For the first time since his return, he stood up to it, taking it in his hands and placing it upon his desk. Untying the twine and unfolding the wrappings, he revealed the method of his crime: the fairy bolt-spear. Its wooden shaft measured nearly as long as Guiomar’s wingspan, and the mysterious swirling grain of the wood from an Infinite Tree naturally decorated the smoothly sanded length. The head of the weapon appeared solid blue, like a sharpened precious stone, and yet too seemed constructed from nothing but light and energy itself. It shimmered with power and small sparks of lightning flickered around it with anticipation. Could he unleash its powers again to cause his coronation to fall closer at hand? He jumped at the sound of a servant’s footsteps passing in the corridor beside his chambers and, turning away from the object of his musings, leaned against the open casement, suffering the wind to clear his mind.  

*****

Byrdon likewise leaned out a casement of the Pavoline castle, but from the chamber of King Petrenair as he listened to another of his sovereign’s jeremiads on his son’s transgression. If he had made any attempt at attentiveness, the servant may have found opportune moments to reveal the true depths to which the prince had sunk; however, his mind was entirely occupied with fantasies and curiosities surrounding his new lover somewhere across the River, lost to the vastness of the Sky. He yearned for even a whisper of her in the wind but knew the only course which would result in his contentment would be a journey to Masor where he might set his eyes on her once again. He remembered his promise to look after Guiomar but, in the end, what could a lowly servant of the king do to prevent the evil doings of the prince? He thought not of deserting his post indefinitely, only the double fortnight it would take to again hold the hand of she whom he most desired and to say a proper farewell, one untainted by the grave issues of state which circumstanced their first meeting. Settled, he stood taller and spun towards the king, determined to request a month’s leave. 

“Didst thou hear me, Byrdon?” The king asked. 

The love-sick servant stared blankly, having heard not one word. “Forgive me, your majesty, my thoughts were... entertaining other notions.” 

“Other notions? What of thy notions could be of more importance than what we discuss?” 

Byrdon’s bravery nearly retreated, but his determination held strong. “I do not claim a grander importance to the kingdom, but I beg your pardon to admit these notions hold a vast importance to myself.” 

Petrenair softened. “What dost thou speak of?” 

“I wish to travel to the Masor citadel,” the servant admitted.  

“Dost thou have family there?” The king would have been surprised to hear so but could suppose no other cause for the long journey. 

“Not as of yet.” Byrdon looked to the floor, and Petrenair laughed with his growing understanding. 

“The serving girl who attended Isolda; this is thy reason to travel?” His smile tore at Byrdon’s pride. 

“I beg you not to laugh, your highness,” he said, and the good king fell somber. 

“Thy feelings are true then?” 

The servant looked in his king’s eyes to report, “They are truer than I’ve known them to be for anything.” 

“Anything?” 

“Your highness...” 

“Thy feelings to Pavoline, Byrdon. Are they truer than those?” 

Byrdon thought of the truth, then he thought of Esta and what she would have him say. “I have served you long and well. Must I answer such a thing, my king?” 

Petrenair considered it, then moved on. “If I granted this leave, how long would be thy stay?” 

“Only a day in the citadel. Even considering travel, I would be gone but a single moon.” 

Nodding, the king asked, “And how could I be assured of thy return?” 

“I am a servant of Pavoline, my king, in title and heart. I will return.” Byrdon was sincere; still, the king could hardly believe a meeting with love wouldn’t alter his sentiments.  

“A dutiful response,” King Petrenair said. “It is true. Thou hast not only served Pavoline, but served its king for many a year, and served him well. This service has been so satisfactory that it has granted thee access to hours of my mind. I have spoken to thee of my fears, of my hopes, and of my plans in case hopes go awry. I would like to grant thee a wish, Byrdon, and if it were any other I would, but I cannot have a trusted servant of mine roaming the citadel of Masor.” 

“Please, your highness, I would never betray you, I swear it,” the lover begged. 

Petrenair smiled. “What thou art devoted to today can mean nothing tomorrow when put against the callings of love. My answer remains, and there shall be no changing it. I am sorry.” 

Byrdon stood tall against the sinking of his heart and nodded his acceptance of the king’s decision.  

“Good man.” Petrenair sighed away the tension and shifted to earlier thoughts. “Now, I am taking thee out of my service.” 

“But your highness—!” 

“This has naught to do with thee and Masor. This is what I told thee a moment ago when thou wert not listening.” 

“Oh.”  

Petrenair smirked at the servant’s embarrassment. “Can I now count on thine attention?” 

Byrdon nodded. “Of course, sire.” 

“Gramercy. I have decided to place thee in the service of my son.” 

“Prince Guiomar?” 

“My only,” said the king. “His hatred of the Masorians has gone farther than I dreamed, and I fear nothing from his father will yet change his mind. Of course, in addition, he now refuses to speak with me. Still, I have seen his mother in him. He has her eyes, he must have her goodness somewhere deep down, I know it.” Petrenair smiled at Byrdon. “And thou shalt be the one to bring it out.” The confidence in the king’s grin made Byrdon tremble. 

“A daunting task,” he replied, and the king’s smile fell away in an instant. 

“I may speak of him that way; thou cannot.” Petrenair glared at him with an intensity that assured Byrdon the king would hear nothing of his son’s crimes. 

“My apologies, sire. I intend no insult; still, if you have been incapable of changing him, then how do you intend me to succeed?” 

The king shrugged. “Thou art a young man. A good man, with no history the prince can exploit. I know my son well enough to be sure he shall never trust thee, but neither will he deign to despise thee. Offer friendship. Offer advisement. Tell him of thy dalliance at love with a Masorian! Perhaps he shall open his mind. If thou dost succeed, perhaps, under his rule, thou shalt win a higher station and a better king. It must be attempted.” 

Images of the night the Masorians visited filled Byrdon’s mind. If the fairy had spoken true, then the prince was beyond hope. 

“May I be permitted to speak freely, my king?” 

With a slight chuckle, Petrenair asked, “Hadst thou been restraining until now?” 

Byrdon did not share in the mirth and the king offered assent for him to speak his mind.  

“What if you are too late, and the prince is too far gone? I fear for myself in his service, your highness.” 

“His politics are crude, but I do not see how that would cause danger to befall thee. In truth, if war did come, thou wouldst be most protected in the service of a king.” 

Byrdon hesitated to speak in full but hesitated more to hold back entirely.  

“I do not fear from others, your majesty, I fear from him. I fear what he may ask of me.” 

The king looked sternly at Byrdon.  

“Wherefore?” 

“Your majesty…” 

Petrenair stepped toward the servant. “I said to speak freely and yet thou dost not. What is it?” 

Byrdon held his breath. “I swear I did not think of it myself, your highness, but you would never believe me if I told you the source.” 

“The source of what?”  

“Think on it, sire. The day the Masorians were killed, where was Prince Guiomar?” 

“The Forest of Beasts, where he always does his hunting.” 

“Can you truly be certain he was not much further south?” 

There was silence.  

“Where didst thou hear this?” There was fury behind the king’s calm.  

“I told you, your highness, you would not believe.” 

“That Masorian girl? Is this her lie?” 

“No, your highness!” 

“Then where!”  

“The parapet!” the servant spouted. “When you dined with Masor, a warrior of the Fairy Queen came to us on the parapet. He told how it happened.” 

Petrenair’s fury settled back beneath the surface of his countenance. 

“Now I know thou dost lie,” the king said. “No fairy would dare to enter my kingdom, just as no Pavol would dare enter theirs. I’ve made certain of that. Most especially in my own son.” 

Byrdon fell to his knees. “I do not lie, your majesty, I swear it. I did say you would not believe.”  

“Good. Thou shouldst well know thy king is discerning enough to know when he is told a lie.” 

Byrdon shook his head but could find no words.  

“What am I to do with thee? Thou hast served so well until this moment; but Byrdon, this! Hast thou spread this through my kingdom?” 

“I have spoken of it to no one but your grace.” 

“Good.” 

“But, your majesty, if it is true, if he killed them—!” 

“My son is not a murderer!” The king strode close and spoke down upon the cowering servant. “I raised a better man than that. If ever thou darest to tell my people otherwise, I could name thee traitor.” 

Byrdon controlled his pride. “Forgive me, your highness, perhaps I am but a mistaken, gullible, man. Still, I swear by the River and Sky—” 

“Don’t,” commanded the king. 

“My apologies. On my life then, on my freedom; I swear I mean no harm to Pavoline.” 

“Then speak no shame upon it.” 

“You will never hear of it again.” 

“Thou shalt not think of it again.” 

Byrdon nodded, and the king sighed, pulling the servant to his feet.  

“For thy own sake, Byrdon, I shall choose to believe that Masorian girl played some trick upon thee and these wild accusations shall fade into the distance as doth she. Serve my son well, and we may forget this incident has passed.” 

The servant could not speak for his racing breath. 

“Thou art spared. What troubles thee now?” 

“I may be a gullible coward and a fool, your majesty, and yet I find I might prefer to live my life in a cell than spend a day serving your son.” 

All gentleness fell from the king’s expression.  

He spoke. “Then thou shalt be bound by decree to spend each day serving him until thy very last.” 

Byrdon watched in terror as the king strode to his writing desk and penned a billet spelling out the servant’s sentence.  

He held the note out to Byrdon but held on when the servant went to take it. 

“If I hear thee, or any other Pavol, speaking of the same thou hast spoke of hither, the sentence that befalls thee shall be far less merciful.” The king waited until Byrdon indicated his understanding, then let go and sent him out to report to Guiomar. 

Byrdon walked through the palace corridors in a daze. Was the king right? Could he have acted such a fool? Surely the prince would never have entered the Infinite Wood to begin with; a man could spend a month wandering just the Forest of Beasts alone. Furthermore, a royal of Pavoline had not entered fairy territory since the first Lord Ranzentine discovered the creatures somewhere past the end of the River. Even Guiomar would not break that ancient truce. But that fairy, that damned fairy. Stoman had looked so sincere, so frightened. Perhaps he had indeed been the true murderer. 

All these thoughts bombarded Byrdon’s mind as he turned to face the doors at the end of the hall, opening them into Guiomar's chambers, and standing suddenly face to face with the prince who, resting at the window, had spun round with a look of scorn. 

“Have the servants forgotten how to knock?” 

Byrdon’s gaze fell to the desk on which he saw the spear whose head of a deep blue hue contained sparks of white light swimming beneath its surface. The image of the fairy weapon seared into his imagination and tore away all doubts of the prince’s guilt, replacing them with utter terror. 

*****

In the courts of Masor, Esta stood at attention for Isolda who, incessantly frustrated, sat rifling through papers at the table in the great hall. The tax collector had completed his quarter-annual duties a day late, and now the farmers of Wesfair and the fishers of Northlake, who were to distribute their goods amongst the cities and to the castle, in itself a week-long project, had yet to be paid and thus had yet to begin, and in order to put this quarter’s revenues to proper use, the paperwork required the royal seal which resided on the hand of the king. Isolda had requested Madrick’s presence early that morning, but he had yet to make an appearance. 

“Esta, do go fetch that blasted king of ours,” Isolda sighed. The maid, cringing softly at the disparagement of the crown, left the great hall in search of him. She exited by the small door behind the throne, and, in the same moment, the grand entryway which Isolda faced was unclosed, and a guard stepped inside. 

“Your majesty,” he said, bowing. “Lagif Greenwood of Ritahest has come to call.” 

Isolda, puzzled, glanced sideways across the room to where stood an elaborate floor-length mirror whose glass and carved wood stood silent with muted colors. She returned her glance to the guard.  

“He hath traveled to the castle?” she clarified, and the guard nodded. “Goodness. See him in.” 

He congeed and stepped out, returning a moment later with the Lagif of Ritahest trailing behind. Isolda stood to greet him, offering her hand as he knelt at her feet. 

“Vice-Crown,” he said, placing a respectful kiss upon her fingers. “It is an honor to have your hand in mine.” 

“Likewise, my lagif. I cannot recall the last time you came within our walls.” 

He stood and retreated a step, standing tall as he might with his arms behind him. The princess had never before realized the lagif was shorter than she. 

“Forgive me, if my presence is an intrusion, your highness,” he said, and Isolda attempted to conjure a more genial air.  

“Nonsense,” she replied. “I only wonder at your cause for the journey. We do possess more efficient methods of communication.” 

“Indeed; however, while I naturally wished to offer my most sincere condolences on our recent tragedy, it is also, primarily, those very communication methods I have come to discuss with you.” Lagif Greenwood made every attempt to maintain his gaze toward the vice-crown, but he could not resist a short glance to the mirror beside them. No matter how often he utilized his own version of the same, the mystical properties of the glass never failed to frighten him.  

Isolda did not follow his glance, for she knew too well on what item it fell.  

“It is the mirrors that concern you?” she asked.  

“Yes, your highness, and most importantly whether we are to continue their use,” he said.  

“Whyever would we not?” 

“Your majesty…” he started. “Their source.” 

The princess spoke coldly. “Do you fear the fairies, Greenwood?”  

The lagif’s pride made him retreat from his true answer. “I bring this query to your highness not on my lone behalf. It is I, with Lagif Bathleret of Kiefston, Lagif Rosin of Agoshany, Lagif Morische of Charit, and Lagif Diris of Fairiton—” 

“So it is all the First Lagifs, I understand.” 

“We only fear it would be an insult to your house, indeed to all the kingdom, if we were to make use of something gifted us by the fairies after what they have done.” 

“Your concern is kindly taken, my lagif,” said Isolda. “I assume then this is the last of many a discussion on the matter?” 

“The First Lagifs have discussed and debated and at length decided it was not our decision to make. I have been sent to receive the crown’s opinion on the matter.” At a slanted look from the princess, he added, “Or the vice-crown, as the case may be.” 

“I see. And how were these lengthy discussions, nay debates, conducted?” 

Lagif Greenwood’s chest inflated with pride. “I took it upon myself to mediate between us.” 

Isolda rose a brow. “So it was your messengers who ran between the cities carrying every lagif’s little notes?” 

“Oh, no your highness,” he said, sinking, “Not as such.” 

“You used the mirrors, then?” 

“Your majesty, as no verdict had yet been reached, and the issue required such back and forth—” 

“You used the mirrors because they are a faster, more comprehensive method of communication which leave no trace of their use while enforcing a level of honesty in identity and circumstance that cannot be achieved through wax seal and handwriting alone. They are an invaluable tool of our governance.” 

“Of course, your highness. Still, I fear to utilize them would admit, on our part, some weakness unable to be overcome except through the aid of an enemy.” 

Isolda sighed and made her way to stand before the mirror. The lagif thought to follow but failed to execute the steps.  

“It was a different time when these were gifted us,” the princess said, remembering her history books. “The Truce of the Two Kingdoms had not yet been struck, and the fairies were on their knees begging Oxbien not to invade the Wood. The Ranzentines never dared, but we have always been mightier than they. The fairies were honoring the Sky when they did goodness to Masor, placing the only six of these magnificent pieces in our kingdom; for, at the time, they would not dare battle with the Sky’s chosen people, and yet we agreed to let them keep their Wood regardless. It wasn’t until many a year after that that they turned sour, betraying the Sky and pointing their spears at any Masorians who entered the Forest. These mirrors are a gift from the Sky, not the fairies who betray It now. Furthermore, they are the heartbeat of our governance, and we will not be frightened out of their use.” 

Lagif Greenwood at length found his steps and stood in front of the mirror with Isolda, realizing the vice-crown must be correct. He turned to face her.  

“Forgive me my doubts, your highness. They will not be spoken of again.” 

“Wonderful. Now go, use our gifts, and ensure the other First Lagifs we shall all council soon.” The princess returned to her seat at the paper-strewn table as Greenwood bowed and headed toward the door. He stopped and looked to her. 

“Will the king be attending council?” he asked. 

After a moment’s stare, she responded, “I wouldn’t count on it,” and the lagif bowed again before exiting the hall.  

Isolda turned to her work. With a huff, she sat exasperated in her chair, remembering her inability to continue her tasks alone.   

Esta arrived at King Madrick’s apartment shortly after exiting the hall and lightly knocked, opening the door when he bid her enter. She found him, as with so many others that day, gazing pensively out the window.  

“My liege, the vice-crown requests your presence in the great hall.”  

He did not respond for a moment. Finally, Esta, who had taken notice of the flask in his right hand, looked up from it quickly as he began to speak.  

“Are they happy?” the king inquired. 

“Pardon, your majesty?” Esta replied. 

He gestured out the window. “The people, down there, milling about in the city. Are they happy?” 

The maid smiled. “Being often one of them, your highness, I have on good authority that some are, and some are not.” 

“Of which are thee?” he asked, turning to the maid.  

“I am content,” she replied. 

“Ah, but I asked if thou art happy. It is easier to be content than to be happy.” 

“I’m afraid you’ve chosen an inopportune moment to ask, my liege.” 

“Thou art unhappy, then.” 

Esta hesitated to respond, remembering the hurry of the princess, but she could not resist the sincerity of the king. “I long for something I cannot have,” she admitted. 

Immediately the king’s spirits brightened as he responded, “Tell me what it is; I shall acquire it for thee!” 

Esta chuckled. “‘Tis not that simple, your highness.” 

“Am I not King?” 

“You are, your highness, and thus could perhaps provide your royal seal in the great hall?” She tried. 

“No, I wish to speak more with thee.”  

Esta sighed and, taking notice, the king rejoined, “Is it not of my sovereign duties to respond to the needs of my people?” 

“Indeed, my liege; however, to my understanding, it is also of your duties to sign paperwork.” 

“Dear maid, I pray, indulge thy king. For what dost thou long?” 

Looking down at her hands, Esta whispered. “‘Tis a man, my liege.” 

King Madrick excitedly motioned Esta to the window, exclaiming, “Come hither, do tell, which be he?” and Esta laughed. 

“You will not find him out your window, my liege. I am afraid he is not of Masor.” The king turned back to Esta, interest piqued, and implored her to go on. She obliged. “In fact, he serves King Petrenair in Pavoline.” 

“I see. Well, it is fortunate Pavoline and Masor are friends. Perhaps our castles could visit one another more often, for thy sake.” 

Esta smiled sadly. “I don’t think Isolda would have it.” 

“Perhaps not. But thou couldst relocate to Pavoline, if that was thy wish.” 

“I couldn’t, my liege.” 

“Wherefore? Thou art bound to service here by no law, and I could provide thee with every helpful supply for the journey.” 

Esta examined the king, whose kindness she was discovering anew, and decided for certain, “I am bound to service here by duty.” 

“Thy duty would overcome thy love?” 

“Wouldn’t yours?” 

He turned from her gaze. “My duty has been ‘delegated elsewhere’. I am bound to naught but my flask.” 

With true surprise, Esta asked, “Do you feel no honor for your kingdom?” 

Madrick took in his kingdom, living below his window, and, with a sincerity Esta had not before seen in his eyes, he responded, “I feel immense honor for my kingdom. It seems it is my kingdom which feels no honor towards me. Although,—” he looked at his flask “—it is not as though I have given them much to respect.” 

Esta knew not what to say, so stood in silence. At length, the king removed the royal seal from his finger and held it out to her.  

“Here, take the seal to Isolda, she may keep it. It will save both of us much time,” but Esta stood still. 

“Might I speak plainly, your highness?” With his permission, she continued. “I believe there is great goodness in you, King Madrick. You hide behind your drink, but you are capable of much more. I hold our vice-crown in great regard, but I can only imagine the love your people would bestow upon a king of the nature buried within you. Your sister holds your power, but you are Crown, and you need not let her forget it. I think it best the seal remain with you, so that one day you may fulfill the breadth of duties it bestows upon you, my king.” 

“I know not how to be king.” 

“No one is king unaided.” 

“I never wanted to be the crown.” 

“For that reason alone, you could be the best crown Masor has yet to know.” 

For a moment, both king and maid stood silent, each further deciphering the mind of the other through their eyes. At length, the king spoke softly. 

“What is thy name, maid?” 

“I am Esta, my liege.” 

In a sudden change of demeanor, King Madrick took a breath and said, “Come, Esta, thou hast been very patient. Let us go to Isolda.” 

Smiling, Esta nodded. “Thank you, your highness.” 

Returning to sincerity, he responded, “Thank you,” and after a moment, the two walked together out of his chamber and towards the great hall. 

*****

Byrdon remained frozen in fear at the sight of Prince Guiomar with the fairy weapon. He thought to run to the king but knew Guiomar could tell any false tale as to how he acquired the weapon and it would be believed over the ramblings of a poor servant. Guiomar saw him recognize the object but made no effort to conceal it within its wrappings. He beckoned the servant to draw near and smirked as his poor trembling legs obliged against their strongest wishes.  

“What brings thee hither?” The prince inquired. 

Unable to speak for the anxious ramblings of his thoughts, Byrdon silently handed the prince the billet from the king. Having read it, the prince laughed. 

“A dishonest young man, ‘Byrdon’, doomed to serve me for all his life.” He smiled. “Dear Father does know how to give a gift.” 

Byrdon hardly heard the prince speak as he was unable to lift his gaze or his thoughts from the weapon on the desk. At a sudden, thinking of his final hope, he found his voice and looked to the prince. 

“Your highness, before beginning my service with you, the king promised me a month’s leave to visit the citadel of Masor. I beg you will honor it.” 

Guiomar scoffed, “No he didn’t,” and all hope floated from Byrdon’s heart. “Still I thank thee for that demonstration of how thou speakest untruths. Tell me, what was the content of the dishonesty that won thy place here in my service?” 

Byrdon’s gaze fell again to the bolt-spear. “It was what I understand now to be a baseless allegation against your highness.” 

Guiomar watched intently the anxiety growing in the servant at the presence of the spear. He knew the full content of the allegation, and the true beliefs of the servant on the matter. 

“Who else is aware of these allegations?” 

“No one, my liege. It is only myself.” He looked directly at the prince in a moment of bravery to say, “and the fairy who told it to me.” 

Guiomar nodded. “To make accusations of royalty on the basis of baseless rumors must have taken courage.” 

Byrdon dropped his gaze. “Do believe, your highness, how I would now that the momentary courage had never come upon me.” 

“Yes,” Guiomar said. “For thou must now fully comprehend that any allegation made from one of thy status, unless backed by insurmountable evidence, which even then may hardly be enough to usurp the word of one such as myself, would be, by nature, baseless.” 

“Yes, my liege.” 

“And if thou wert to ever repeat – or, goodness forbid, invent – any such baseless allegations again, why, the punishment could be...” 

“Treason, your highness. I could be executed for treason.” 

Prince Guiomar smiled. “In that case, perhaps I could use a man of your nature. I believe the two of us are going to get along handsomely.” 

The servant shivered as he watched the prince wrap the bolt-spear in its cloth, tenderly tie the twine, and lean it, unassumingly, against the corner wall. 

“Will there be anything now, your highness?” 

Guiomar paced out from behind his desk for a moment's thought before deciding, “I’ll have a bath, with a fruit platter and glass of wine placed beside. I’ve never had a dedicated servant before – in truth, I never wanted one – but I think this calls for celebration.” The prince put a hand on Byrdon’s shoulder and walked him to the door.  

“Of course, my liege.” He tried to bow but the prince’s firm hand kept him still.  

“Byrdon, I consider myself a rather talented hunter. Do not force me to go in search of thee.” 

The servant nodded and allowed himself to be pushed from the chamber. Standing a moment in the hall, Byrdon willed his fears and despair to restrain their effect until he could pretend he felt nothing. When he found himself capable of movement, he marched on to obey the prince’s commands. 

Chapter IV - The Cave of Dreams