Prince of Sands – Chapter Two
Chapter 2
Six months later…
“What is your report, Captain?”
Marsas tried to swallow down his apprehension. He’d known Queen Elyen for much of his life. More than a decade ago, when Gelik had chosen a much younger Marsas for friend and companion in minor trouble making, the Queen had treated him well. She’d invited him into the world of the royal family as much as any man of low birth could be invited into the company of his betters. That had been long ago and time had not softened the Queen. He’d seen her only on a handful of occasions since, at formal functions for the most part, and she’d been courteous to him, but not friendly. When he was honest with himself, Marsas could admit that he was afraid of this woman. Whatever softness that once let her treat him kindly was long since chiseled away by time and loss. Gray eyes nearly the exact shade of her hair regarded him with cool calculation and Marsas wondered, not for the first time, who really ruled the city.
In her youth, Elyen had been courted by most powerful scions of noble houses before settling on the then Prince Quenlis as her future husband. Rumor held that it was a protracted decision and the High Lord Semer had never forgiven her for the slight. Marsas suspected the Elyen and Quenlis had come to an arrangement that, behind the scenes, the queen would get a strong hand in guiding the city. The King was a man who preferred hunting and military exercises to politics. It would make sense if he chose someone who not only liked, but excelled in such matters as his wife.
“Well, Captain,” said the Queen, losing patience with the silence.
Marsas took a steadying breath. He hated delivering bad news.
“There’s been no change, your majesty.”
The Queen rose from her chair and walked over to a window. She stared out over the city before turning her head slightly, exposing a partial profile.
“Six months since he returned and he’s only set foot in the palace twice. Both times he came only at the end of royal commands. He ignores his duties. Instead of taking up residence in chambers here or at least in one of his own properties, he purchases that tiny hovel. He refuses all royal attendants, employing those foreigners as staff. He could be assassinated at any moment. You’re his friend, Marsas. What is he playing at?”
Marsas said nothing, assuming the question was rhetorical. The Queen turned fully and stared at him in annoyance.
Marsas hesitated for a moment before he rolled the dice. “May I speak freely, your majesty?”
“Yes, yes,” she said, waving a hand.
“I can’t pretend to know his mind, but I don’t believe he’s playing at anything.”
The Queen narrowed her eyes. “Explain.”
“He may believe that he has no duties to the city.”
“He is a prince,” said the Queen.
“He was, your Majesty. He’s also a lawbreaker, condemned by the court to twelve years in the desert. He may believe or choose to believe that his conviction strips him of any obligations.”
“Choose to believe?” Asked the Queen, raising an eyebrow.
“Your majesty, after all those years in the desert, alone, he may believe himself,” Marsas hesitated again.
“Out with it, man.”
“He may think himself unfit. Your majesty, he may be right.”
The Queen’s face betrayed none of her thoughts. She walked back over to her chair and sat. “Even so, he’s still too exposed. Any of the houses might have him killed to strike at us for perceived slights.”
“Your majesty, he survived the desert. Which of the houses would be mad enough to tempt the wrath of such a man?”
“I suspect, good captain, that it is that precise fear which has stayed their hands this long. Yet, memory is short and eventually someone will try. No matter how dangerous my son may or may not be, it only takes one lucky strike, one moment of lapsed attention for someone to end his life. No, I will not trust in unsubstantiated fears to protect him. I certainly won’t trust a small handful of foreigners to protect him. You will protect him.”
Marsas blinked a few times before words finally came to him. “Your majesty, I can’t be his protector.”
“And why not?”
“I’m not a noble. Royal bodyguards must be nobles.”
“Oh, yes, I almost forgot,” she said, holding out a rolled parchment that Marsas took from her hand.
He unrolled it and tried to make the words on the paper make sense. “Your majesty?”
“Marsas, son of Selman, in recognition of your many services to the city, stalwart loyalty to the crown, and defense of the law, we do hereby raise you to the rank of knight with all of its privileges and duties. We hereby also appoint you the royal bodyguard of Prince Gelik.”
The whirl of emotions inside of Marsas left him feeling unbalanced, as if he might topple over at any moment. This is bad, he realized. Beyond bad. The Queen had laid all of the responsibility for keeping Gelik alive on his shoulders.
“Your majesty, I’m,” he started.
She waved off his words. “I’m not a fool, Marsas. I know I’ve saddled you with a title you probably don’t want and a job absolutely no sane person wants. I also don’t expect you to do it alone. Choose ten of your city guard, men and women you trust, and appoint them as your squires.”
“Ten squires?”
“It gives them just enough noble standing to serve as bodyguards.”
“Yes, your majesty,” Marsas mumbled.
“Marsas, keep him alive. I don’t care if you have to slit the throat of a sitting high lord to protect my son. Do it. You’ll never face the tribunal.”
“Yes, your majesty,” Marsas repeated, a little more firmly.
The Queen looked away before she spoke. “I take it he still receives no callers.”
“He declines all invitations and refuses all visitors, save one.”
The Queen glanced at him. “Who?”
“The Lady Margreva.”
“Ah,” she said. “Well, he could hardly turn her away, all things considered. Does she visit often?”
“Only the one time.”
The Queen looked thoughtful. “Pity. She might have brought him back to us, if anyone could. Thank you, Marsas, that will be all. Viker is waiting outside. She’ll show you to your new home.”
“New home, your majesty?”
“You’re a knight now, Sir Marsas,” said the Queen with a slight smile. “It’s not all duty and obligation.”
“Of course, your Majesty,” said Marsas, bowing and backing out of the room.
A no-nonsense woman in black pants and a gray vest embroidered with the Queen’s crest waited in the hall. She studied him with bright blue eyes. Black hair hung around her oval face in a cascade of gentle curls. Marsas noted the pair of daggers she wore on each hip. They weren’t ceremonial daggers and the hilts were worn. Marsas’ instincts screamed that this woman was all sorts of dangerous.
“Sir Marsas, I assume,” she said.
“Yes. Viker, I assume.”
She gave him an amused half-smile. “Follow me, please. You’ve got an obscene amount of nonsense to deal with today.”
“What nonsense?”
“Paperwork,” she said. “A lot of it, I’m afraid.”
Marsas sighed. “Paperwork makes me want to drink.”
“If you make it through the day without killing anyone, I’ll buy you a bottle of something good.”
© 2019 Eric Dontigney
